Tomato Season by Marijean Oldham

To avoid canning, we ate the tomatoes as they ripened, in sandwiches, on pasta, in pie. We ate tomatoes until our tongues ached with the acid, and still we reached for more. The August heat was giving way to a cool promise of September, and we sunk our teeth into golden cherry tomatoes, the little bombs exploding in our mouths.

The canning set sat on the island gathering dust, unwashed mason jars lingering unused.

The final round of tomatoes taunted us on the counter and the window sills. Mom made a caprese salad with basil from the garden but after a few bites we both prodded with our forks, full of fruit as we were. In the fresh quiet of the evening, I did homework and Mom looked for a better paying job. We eased cautiously into enjoying the silence, into trusting that we would make it on our own.

The nicks and bruises fuzzed. Fruit flies materialized and multiplied. Mom gathered the last of the tomatoes in a basket and late that night as I readied for bed, called me to the car. We drove across town to the shabby one-bedroom and parked across the street. It wasn’t the first time. It was the place she’d said, “That’s where your father lives now.” To her credit, she never said why, but of course I knew what he’d done.

We got out, me in my pajamas, and her in the dress she’d worn to work, nylons with runs up the back, and stood in the yard with the basket of tomatoes.

She threw the first one, a satisfying splat landing on the clapboard siding. She threw the second, too, the split tomato exploding on impact, juice and seeds clinging to the house. I took up the task, pitching overhand, better than I’d had in any of the games my sixth-grade team played last season. We threw and threw, and when we were done, surveyed our work, a real mess we could see by the streetlight’s glow, the white siding plastered with skins, seeds, and overripe bits of red.

Mom put her arm around me and kissed the top of my head, as I wiped a few tears from my cheeks. “I guess that’s it, then,” she said, and we climbed back into the Pontiac to head home.

ABOUT:

Marijean Oldham is a public relations consultant and writer. In 2003, Marijean set a Guinness Book World Record for creating the largest bouquet of flowers. When not writing, Marijean is a pie enthusiast and competitive baker. Her most recent pie, a slow-roasted strawberry, might be her favorite. Find her work at www.marijeanoldham.com.

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: $quib - Tomato