“No, she’s long gone,” Nana Cole said. “You’re going to need to call tomorrow and have them send someone else.”
I couldn’t deal with that—seriously, she could use the telephone herself. I was trying to get a good look at Jasper Kaine. I’d only ever seen him from a distance. He was husky and dark with flinty eyes. I’d noticed that he didn’t bring a casserole when Nana had her stroke. I mentioned it to her once and she’d said, “Well, he’s a man. Men don’t do those things.”
I have to admit, I’d been relieved that I’d never have to make a casserole for anyone’s trauma.
Jasper stood up and shook my hand, saying, “Nice to meet you, Henry.”
Then he sat down again. He looked like he had a lot of muscles underneath his Polo shirt. I tried to focus on a spot above his eyebrows. Truth be told, he was exactly the sort of guy I used to let buy me drinks at Revolver. Sometimes I’d let them do more than that.
“You can call me Mooch,” I suggested. It had been my nickname since high school.
“Why would I do that?”
“Jasper is catching me up on the cherries,” Nana Cole said. “He says the Rainiers have come in strong this year.”
He nodded, saying, “It should be a good crop.”
I had no clue what a Rainier was. Obviously, it was some sort of cherry, but that was as far as I got.
“After you pick them, you’ll sell them on the side of the road?” I guessed. There were fruit stands here and there around the county. They were already selling rhubarb and asparagus. Though, how anyone made a living doing that, I had no clue.
He shook his head. “Our main client is a company outside of Detroit. They pit the cherries, bleach them, dye them and soak them in sugar to turn them into maraschinos. After that they’re either bottled or covered in chocolate and boxed.”
Hmmmm. I have to be honest. Growing up my experience of cherries was a bit scant. I would have them in Shirley Temples when my mother took me to singles bars in the afternoon—only when she was between boyfriends. I don’t remember it being a regular thing. I mean, I don’t remembereverything—
And of course, my mother didn’t cook. We either went out to eat or had take-out. There were cherries in the cans of fruit cocktail she sometimes bought me. I loved cherry cough drops and was always happy when I got sick enough to ask for them.
The thing is, I don’t remember ever having a real live actual cherry like the ones my grandmother grew. I had no idea what they really tasted like.
I wanted to go upstairs to my room. I needed an Oxy to get me through the long boring afternoon. I have to say, it had been lovely while my grandmother was in the rehabilitation center. I’d go see her for a couple hours in the morning and then I was free to do whatever in the afternoon. Whatever was usually one or two 10s. Well, notusually. Every other day, maybe. I mean, I didn’t keep a chart or anything. I just didn’t do iteveryday. Addicts do drugs every day. I just like to have fun. Cue Cyndi Lauper.
My grandmother had introduced me to Dr. Blinski, who was an absolute treasure. All I had to do was show up every two weeks, pay him sixty dollars for an office visit, complain that my ankle was just not getting any better, and he’d write me a new prescription for thirty ten-milligram Oxycontin. Then I’d be off on my merry way.
“You also have two acres of Sweetheart cherries,” Jasper said directly to me.
That got my attention. “They’re notmyacres. They belong to my nana.”
He looked a little confused, like he knew something I didn’t. But—come on, there was no way my mother would keep the farm. She’d probably just give it to some guy she was dating. It was never coming tome.
Besides, what would I do with it?
“Well, things are looking good,” he continued. “We got through the frosts reasonably well. We’ve got a shot at a good harvest.”
“Let’s hope,” Nana said.
They both seemed nervous, but I didn’t get what the suspense was about. You plant trees, they sprout fruit, you pick it. Didn’t sound like rocket science to me.
Jasper stood up, making a scrapping noise with the chair. He reached out his hand to shake mine—again. I shook his hand, feeling the heft of it, the dry callouses. It was a man’s hand through and through.
“It was nice to meet you, Henry.”
“Yeah, you said that already.”
“Henry,” Nana Cole chided.
“Well, he did.”
This all made him chuckle in a way I didn’t quite get. Fortunately, he was out the door a moment later, leaving me alone with my grandmother.
