Genuine Sweet (8 page)

She set her purse on the table and joined me. “I was excited to get your letter, Genuine.” Leaning in, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “See, I have a really big wish. I don't suppose you can do really big wishes?”

I wanted to be forthright, but I was also fairly desperate to make the trade, so I said, “Big or little, a wish is a wish, I'd think. But of course, if for some reason I can't do the job, I wouldn't expect you to pay me.”

She dipped her head. “Fair enough. Now. Since it's a very big wish, I'd think you'd deserve a right sizable payment. How would you feel about a bag of fresh veggies every week until the garden peters out, and then a box of canned after that?”

My eyes went wide. “For how long?”

“Let's say . . . a year.”

“That's a very generous offer, ma'am. Are you sure that seems quite fair?” I asked, feeling I had to inquire, even though a big part of me said to just hush up and accept the windfall.

“It
is
a very big wish,” Miz Tromp said.

“Well, all right. What is it?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder, but of course the only thing she could see behind her was the back of the booth.

“As you might know,” she said, still whispering, “Travis's father left us when Travis was seven. Truth be told, I wish he'd left sooner. That way, at least, Travis wouldn't remember him.” She squinted at the harshness of her own words. “I don't mean that Kip was a
bad
guy. He was just . . . a visionary. And he thought big dreams and small towns didn't mix.” She sighed. “Anyhow, Travis is pretty angry about his dad taking off—about everything, really.”

“I noticed,” I told her.

“It's not Travis's fault. It hurts to have your own father set you aside.”

“Yeah. I reckon so.” Not that I'd know much about that.

She shrugged. “And me, I'm pretty lonely. It's hard to be a mother and a woman on one's own.”

“Sure. Surely. Yes,” I agreed, trying to bring my thoughts back around to Miz Tromp's quandary.

“So, this is my wish,” Miz Tromp went on. “I wish for a good man. A husband for me and a father for Travis. As you well know, there are but a few single men in this town—” She made a face.

I couldn't help thinking that she was thinking of my father.

“—so I've long known my chances of finding Mister Right in Sass are pretty slim. Maybe he'd be a new customer or something. I'm not sure how it would work. That part I guess I'd leave up to you.” Miz Tromp paused. “Think you can do it?”

I took a deep breath. “There's only one way to find out.”

Reaching into my pack, I revealed one of the wish biscuits. “A fine husband for Miz Tromp and a good father to Travis,” I whispered to the baked good.

I waited a few seconds to let the magic sink in, then I slid the biscuit over to Travis's ma. She looked at it, apparently a mite confused.

“You have to eat it,” I told her.

“Now?” she asked.

“The sooner the better, if you want your man.”

She gave a little laugh, then took the biscuit in hand. When she bit into it, her eyes brightened. “Dog my cats, Genuine! This is muh-muh-muh!” That last word was muddled by her chewing.

“Glad you like it.” I smiled. “Now, I expect things
could
start happening pretty soon, but be patient, all right? I'm still figuring out how this works. It might take some time for the stars to arrange things like traffic detours and whatnot, to get your man here.”

“I've been patient this long,” she conceded.

A certain tightness that I hadn't noticed in her before suddenly loosened. As she was gathering up her keys and getting ready to go, she stopped and said, “It's probably not my place to say this, but . . . boys being how they are . . .”

“Ma'am?”

“My Travis is real fond of you—”

I held up my hand. “Miz Tromp, I like you very much. Enough to be honest with you, so here it is. Travis is as rude and contrary as they come. No girl in her right mind would put up with his
baby
s and
sugar
s. And the way he treats people—!” I didn't spell it out, for kindness' sake. She understood me. “But I am sorry that his daddy's leaving hurt him so much.”

Strangely, my words didn't seem to bother her at all. “You're a smart girl, Genuine Sweet. You let me know how that wish progresses, all right?”

Just as Miz Tromp was saying her thank-yous and farewells, Handyman Joe came strolling in. Not even troubling to sit, he offered me two full days of labor on the house—plus materials—provided I could locate an old army medal of his father's.

“I don't know if it was stole or just lost, but if you could turn it up for me, I'd be real grateful,” he said. “It's all I have of him.”

I thought of a necklace I had that used to be my ma's, a gold chain with a charm, a star inside a star. If I ever lost it, I'd be heartbroken. Even in the worst, most empty-bellied days, I'd never once considered selling it.

I whispered to one of the wish biscuits and gave it to Joe.

“I get the medal and a biscuit, too?” he asked.

I gave him a professional sort of nod. “That's how it works, sir. You eat the biscuit, I fetch the wish.”

He patted my head and set a couple dollars on the table. “Chocolate milk's on me.”

 

I left the diner around suppertime, Gram's half-fritter in hand. I was crossing Main Street when I heard a car horn behind me and a voice calling, “Genuine Sweet!”

Chickenlady Snopes's pickup truck pulled up to the curb, a dozen chickens cackling in cages in the back.

“Evening, ma'am!” I greeted. “Howdy, chickens!”

Miz Snopes got out of the truck and wiped her brow. “I been tearing up the pea patch trying to get to you, girl.”

“Is something wrong?” Had Pa gotten himself into some kind of mess?

“No, no,” she replied. “I was just wondering if that wish trade was still on the table.”

“Sure is,” I said. “What'd you have in mind?”

There wasn't much to it, she told me. Her hen houses were old and real rundown, and she needed some new ones.

“I'll trade you eggs
only.
I don't hold with the eating of chickens.” She stood up on her toes as if she expected me to challenge her.

“Course not!” I pointed at the chickens. “They're your friends!”

“Exactly.” I think she was pleased, but a mite surprised, that I agreed with her.

I pulled the last biscuit from my bag, whispered over it, “New hen houses for Chickenlady Snopes,” and handed it to her.

“That's it?” she asked.

“Well, you have to eat it.”

“That works out real good. I ain't had no dinner yet.” She was about to climb back into her truck when she added, “You got any chickens of your own, Genuine?”

I shook my head.

“You ought to. They're good company.” She drove off.

 

Three wishes, three trades! Creation! What else might folks wish for and have to trade? I knew Gram needed someone to fix her glasses. Lately, they'd been hanging askew on her nose. And would somebody trade a job for Pa? I wasn't even sure who to ask.

There was one thing I needed to do for sure, though, and right away. I penned a letter to the energy company offering wishes in exchange for power. Then I sang down some starlight.

When I got back inside, I found Gram busy with her knitting.

“By the by,” I said as I stirred wish-biscuit dough, “you might expect some vegetables and house repairs to come our way afore long.”

“Really!” Smitten with excitement, Gram set down her yarn. “How'd you manage that?”

“A man for Miz Tromp and a medal for Handyman Joe,” I said.

Her smile slipped a little. “Well, you certainly are creative, child. But I thought you were gonna be more careful.”

“I'm being real careful!” I promised. “I was straight-up with all of them. Told 'em if I can't fetch their wishes, they don't have to pay me. And I said I was still learning, so they'd have to be patient.” I dribbled more starlight into my dough. “You do think the wishes are strong enough to find Miz Tromp a man, don't you?”

“Easy peasy,” Gram assured me.

“And Handyman Joe's medal?” I asked.

“He's probably already got it in hand.” She flumped down on one of the dining room chairs. “Ugh. I got as much get-up-and-go as a tortoise in a snowstorm.”

“Are you sick?” I asked.

“Just tired,” she replied. “Well, the bright side to those wish barters is nobody has to go without anything to get what they need. Handyman Joe gives a little time and gets rid of those spare parts he's always got lying around. And Mabel Tromp's extra vegetables might have gone to waste otherwise.” Gram fiddled with her glasses. “It does make you think about Travis, some. Poor boy.”

“What do you mean?” I opened the stove and touched a bit of starlight to the heating element. It glowed red.

“I guess life hasn't been easy for him.”

“He doesn't make himself easy to like,” I retorted. “He's snarky with everyone except me, and there, he's like something stuck to my shoes: unpleasant and hard to get away from.”

Gram shrugged. “I reckon he feels that way about himself, too.”

Truth to tell, I didn't fully understand what she meant by that, so I moseyed on to a different topic.

“Where's Pa?” I couldn't help wondering, if I
did
manage to wish-trade a job for him, would he even bother to show up for it?

“Oh, I imagine he's off somewhere being snarky or hard to get away from,” Gram replied.

I rolled my eyes. She was probably right.

 

Let me tell you, that next Monday, the stars
really
started showing off.

A noise woke me early that morning—a banging sound that, at first, I feared was Pa on some kind of rampage. I put on my robe and rushed outside, index finger all poised to preach, but what I found was Gram standing on the porch, hands on her hips, smiling away as she watched Handyman Joe replace some time-and-termite-eaten boards on the side of our house.

Joe looked up from his work. “Well, if it isn't Genuine Sweet, genuine wish fetcher. You know what? My daddy's medal turned up last night.”

“It did?” My belly fluttered with the excitement of it. “Where?”

“My sister found it under the cushion of an old sofa I gave her some years back,” he replied. “She drove all the way from Ardenville to bring it to me. Said she had the strongest sense I might like to have it. Ha! That's some knack you ladies have.” He nodded my way and tilted his head respectfully in Gram's direction, too.

Also on the porch that morning was a basket of
three
dozen eggs! A note tucked inside it read:

 

Miss Genuine,

 

A detour sent me past the Beaks Chicken Ranch yesterday. There was a sign by the road: “Free hen houses—U haul 'em.” Mr. Beaks is trading it all in for a hacienda in Mexico! Bless you, Genuine. Your eggs are free for as long as I have hens.

 

—Caroline Snopes

 

Gram and I had fried eggs over miracle-flour toast that morning. No breakfast ever tasted so good!

Then, at school that day, we had pizza for lunch! I don't mean the soggy, soy-cheese variety we knew so well. The real, delivery kind, all the way from Pitney! Missus Forks told us the cafeteria oven had breathed its last, so we'd be eating takeout till the replacement came in! Between delicious bites, Jura told me she was working on the perfect plan for saving the world.

“Anytime you're ready,” she told me. “How are things going with the barter?”

I told her all about my barter buddies, the eggs, and the repairs on the house.

“Yes!”
She shot a fist into the air. “Genuine, I am
so
glad! I've been lying awake nights, worrying about you being hungry and cold.”

“You have?”

Jura's brow wrinkled. “You sound surprised!”

“Well, it's awful nice of you, but I guess I wonder why.”

“Why worry about you? That's a silly question. Because we're friends!”

Of course, I already knew that. But hearing it from Jura's own mouth, it warmed my heart—and gave me a certain pride. Down-home Genuine Sweet and fancy city-girl Jura Carver. Friends. Wasn't that a peach?

 

Now that the stars were doing their thing, I reckoned I could stop worrying about wish management for a while. I decided to use my study period to ready myself for our
Macbeth
test.

While I was reading—real absorbed, you know what I mean? When everything but the story disappears?—something bumped up against my elbow. It took me a minute to come out of my book, and by the time I looked around, no one was there. But sitting on the edge of my desk was a fine piece of chocolate wrapped in gold paper, with a note on it. It said,
I think you're sweet.

There was no signature, but it had to be from Sonny! Who else
could
it be? I'm sure my grin was about as dopey as a smile can be, but I couldn't help it. I squirreled the candy away in my pocket.

Later on, I tried to catch Sonny's eye to thank him, but he never seemed to look my way. I figured he was feeling shy. That was all right. I had proof of his esteem right there on my person.

But that wasn't the end of my mighty right day. Gram's glasses got mended without even having to trade a wish for it! Who would have known Mister Barker used to work for the Ardenville Eyeglassery? He happened to see how off-kilter Gram's frames were and fixed her right up. When I offered him a wish as payment, he said, “Don't talk bolliwog, Genuine. It weren't nothing at all.”