Katerina's Wish (20 page)

“That was before, when there was something to believe in.” “Before you gave up,” Aneshka insisted.

“What else am I supposed to do?” I said, my whisper sharp as annoyance rose in me. “There's nothing left!”

“Yes, there is,” Holena whispered.

Suddenly Aneshka was out of bed and pulling me up as well. “There is,” she said. “Come on, I'll show you.”

“Aneshka, go to sleep,” I said, but now Holena was up too, so I got out of bed myself before they woke our parents. Quietly we slipped out the front door and around the house to the back.

“See?” Aneshka said, pointing.

Across the garden, which should have been only bare earth or weeds, I could see a dark mass of leaves in the moonlight. Not the neat, orderly rows I had originally planted, but a sprawling expanse of luxurious growth. I stepped closer, to the very edge of the garden, but it was too dark to see properly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It's your cucumbers,” Aneshka said.

“We've been tending them for you,” Holena said.

“Because you won't,” Aneshka added.

I stared in disbelief. The tiny corner of cucumber plants that had been spared by Mr. Johnson seemed to have magically expanded to fill the desolation of the destroyed garden.
The ugly emptiness of the ruined rows had been replaced by a carpet of wide leaves and curling tendrils of vine. I bent over the plants and raked through the leaves with my fingers. I could feel several hard fruits sheltered beneath them.

“I don't believe it,” I said. “How could they have grown so much in such a short time?” I thought about it. “I suppose we have had some good rains.”

“It's not the rain; it's the
wish,”
Holena said, as if my suggestion was the silliest thing she'd ever heard.

I straightened. “It's not the wish. No matter how many cucumbers we get, they aren't going to get us a farm.”

“You could sell them.”

“We'd have to have acres of cucumbers to earn enough money for a farm,” I said, still looking at the patch before me. “But maybe we have enough to make pickles. Papa likes pickles with his meat. We'll have another look in the morning.”

I took both of my sisters by the hand and walked them back the way we'd come and into the house. I got them into bed, then slipped in beside them. Someone stirred across the room.

“Trina, is that you?” came my mother's sleepy voice.

“Yes, Momma.”

“How was the dance? Did you have a nice time?”

“Yes.”

“You are happy, then?”

“Yes, Momma,” I said softly. “Yes, I'm very happy.” It was true. I had had a wonderful evening with Mark, but there was more to it than that. My discovery of the unexpected cucumber plants seemed to have delighted me like nothing had in weeks.

“Good. Good night, then,” Momma said. The bedsprings squeaked as she settled back into her bed.

I lay still, listening to the soft breathing of my family and
looking up at the ceiling. Why had those plants made such a difference? I had told my sisters it wouldn't, and I had believed that when I said it. So why was I feeling so happy? I couldn't explain it, but I knew if I asked Holena, she would easily do so. She would say it was the wish, and she would be content in her innocent trust.

I closed my eyes, refusing to slip back into the foolishness.
It's not the wish,
I told myself.
Wishes and dreams are for fools.
But though I repeated it several times before falling asleep, I dreamed once again that night of fields of ripening wheat.

THE NEXT MORNING
was Sunday, so we had no chores. I got up early before church, and taking my basket with me, I went out to the garden to inspect it in the daylight, half expecting the sprawling cucumber vines to have been a dream. They were not, and by the time my mother called me in, I brought with me a full basket.

Momma looked at the basket in surprise. “Where on earth did you get those?”

“The garden, and there are more on the vine,” I said. I couldn't keep from grinning. “Do you think it's enough to make pickles?”

“Enough?” Momma said with a laugh. “I think we'll have enough pickles for the year.”

We went to church that morning, but all I was thinking about through the hot, airless service was getting home to the cucumbers.

After church I walked back up the hill toward home with
Mark and his father, going slowly so that Old Jan could keep up on his crutches. I told them of the cucumber vines as we walked.

“You see,” Mark said, “I told you it was only a minor setback. Your farm is back on its feet already.”

“A cucumber patch is hardly a farm!” I pointed out.

“But you can turn it into one,” he said. “As you get more chickens or other seeds, we can expand into our backyard, too. Maybe we could get a goat—or maybe even a cow, like Aneshka wanted. We'll be the richest folks in the coal camp.”

“But we'll still be in the coal camp,” I said.

“For now,” Old Jan said. “But you have your whole lives ahead of you to build your dreams. You've got to have dreams.”

I did not contradict him, but I knew better. It was better not to have dreams, and I wasn't going to be pulled into them again by a few cucumbers. Besides, I couldn't see how being the richest family in the coal camp was much to believe in anyway.

Back at the house, Mark and Old Jan talked with Papa while Momma and I prepared Sunday dinner. Karel and Martina arrived with a pot of soup and dumplings. We dined outside, as if we were all one big family. Afterward the women gathered in the kitchen to talk of pickles while the men moved Martina's sparse possessions to Old Jan's house.

“The first thing we must do is make a brine,” Momma said. “We can do that today and get started in the washtub. In Bohemia, I had a pickle crock, but we will have to get a new one here, or jars. Here in America they use jars. See?” She flipped through the paper and showed me the advertisement for Mason jars at the mercantile in Trinidad. Momma did not know enough English to read the paper, but she was learning a little about America from the pictures in the ads and stories.

“With jars they can be shared more easily,” Martina said, a little nervously. “I would pay half on the jars and provide sugar and spices, in exchange for some of the pickles.”

“That's a fine idea,” Momma said.

We were a cheerful party that afternoon. The first stage of making the pickles only required a brine of hot water, salt, and a chunk of alum, all of which we had without a trip to the store. We could get sugar and jars later; the store was closed on Sunday. I enjoyed starting the pickles, but I dreaded the prospect of a trip to the store for jars. If Mr. Johnson really had been the one to destroy my garden and kill my chickens—and I was sure he was— what would he do when he found out that something had survived and that we were making pickles? Would we come home from a day of doing laundry to find our jars of pickles all smashed in the backyard?

I tried to convince Momma that Martina should buy the jars. But the next day was Monday, laundry day, and Martina was washing Old Jan's and Mark's clothes as well as Karel's these days. Momma admonished me and sent me off to the store. I couldn't explain why I didn't want to go, because I had not told Momma of Mr. Johnson's hatred for me. So I had no choice but to go obediently, though my dread grew with every step. To make matters worse, a wagon was hitched in front of the store. As I drew nearer, I saw that it was Mr. Torentino's supply wagon, the same one that had brought the plums. I had liked Mr. Torentino, and everyone had been happy to get his plums. But I didn't need another reminder of why Mr. Johnson had a grudge against me. My steps faltered and I considered coming back later.

“Trina!” The call came from the shaded porch, and I looked up to see Mark sitting there. “Come join me.”

Though his invitation was warm, his expression and the sag of his shoulders gave off heavy melancholy. I climbed the steps and sat down beside him. “I thought you were going back to work today,” I said.

He nodded. “So did I, but when I reported for my shift last night, they said they couldn't use me. They don't have much work, and what they have they aren't giving to a fellow with a bad foot.”

“Your foot's getting better,” I said, trying to sound hopeful for his sake.

He looked down at it and shook his head. “I don't think so. I don't think it will ever be right again.”

I didn't know what to say. I understood his desire to work and his fears about the future, but I felt relieved that he wouldn't be returning to the mine just yet. I sat beside him in a heavy silence for a long moment, searching for the right words.

The door swung open, and Mr. Torentino stomped across the porch to his wagon. I remembered then why I was there. Eager to end the awkward silence between us, I excused myself and hurried into the store, momentarily forgetting my fear of Mr. Johnson.

“I need jars,” I blurted out when he acknowledged me.

“Jars?”

“Pickle jars,” I swallowed, my fear coming back to me. “For making pickles.”

Several women in the store raised their eyes to me, curious.

“You're making pickles, are you? I suppose you'll be needing cucumbers, too, then,” Mr. Johnson said.

“No, thank you, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, and I felt a stab of satisfaction. He thought he had destroyed me, and now he was wondering.
Let
him wonder,
I thought.
Better yet, Let him know he hasn't beaten me entirely.

I raised my chin and my voice, so everyone in the store could hear. “They're from my garden.”

“Are they now,” he said, and there was a dangerous quiet in his voice that caused my defiance to wither as quickly as it had risen. “Well, I don't see any jars here, do you?”

I glanced around. “Can I order them, then?”

“Certainly.” He pulled a dog-eared Sears and Roebuck catalog from under the counter. “It will cost extra, of course. Postage is expensive way out here, and someone has to haul it up from Trinidad.” He was flipping through the catalog as he spoke, until he came to a page filled with pictures of jars of various sizes and shapes. I could see the price beside the picture of pickle jars—eighty-five cents a dozen.

“That will be four dollars,” Mr. Johnson said. “Paid in advance.”

“But—it says right there eighty-five cents,” I said, pointing at the picture.

He shrugged and slapped the catalog shut. “Shipping is expensive.”

“That's not a fair price!”

“Take it or leave it,” he said with a nasty smile.

I didn't want to do either. If I didn't buy jars, we couldn't preserve the cucumbers we had already begun pickling. If I did place the order, I was agreeing to a price that we both knew was highway robbery. He had gotten the best of me once before, and I couldn't let him do it again.