I’m still in NYC, hammering away at the laptop. Our assignment this week was to write a short segment as a tribute to one of our favorite authors. I chose the holy grail of short stories, “A Christmas Memory” by Truman Capote.
“Buddy?”
Her fingers, bleached swollen branches, bent around the front curled edge of the chipped porcelain sink.
I had been doing nothing. Practiced at the skill, my nine-year-old eyes were dipped in a shiny finish just about as thick as this first frost outside our verandah window. It was late enough in the morning that everything within eyeshot was flimsy and two shades darker than it had been the day before.
“Buddy.” Always patient with my purposeless reverie, she nudged me, nonetheless. She wiped her hands on the flour sack and scraped the kitchen chair so loud Queenie got up and curled in the other direction.
Coming in close, right beside me, in her best kitchen conspiracy voice, she leaned in so I could smell the medicine on her breath. “Bet you two bits Gracie Sloane’s patch is nigh on ready.”
That first frost always sucked the air out of summer, leaving me flat. But she was right. Those pumpkin squash, shy behind huge leaf fans, would be exposed like private parts by now. “Go down and get us one, Buddy. Not too big, mind you. Not too small.” She winked at me. “You’ll know which one’s right.”
She pulled a shiny quarter from the patch pocket of her housecoat and laid it on the table, heads up. In my favorite voice, the one saved for confectionary collusion, she arched her brows in high triangles and smiled so wide I could see two of her three missing teeth, a wizened imitation of our endeavor.
“It’s Jack-O-Lantern time, Buddy.”