Tomatoes

It’s a late afternoon in late August. I’ve tied one of the garden hoses to the back of an old wooden chair. Its spray makes a puddle in the short grass. My brothers and sisters, three in their bathing suits, two in their underpants, shriek as they dash through the shower.

I stand in the driveway in my hot pink two-piece. This summer, I suddenly have cleavage and sneak downward glances when my siblings aren’t looking. I may join them in the water or I may just watch.  It can go either way this summer.

“Rory, stop pushing, wait your turn!”  I holler.

“Heather, pull up Tricia’s panties, they’re falling off.”

Despite their squabbling, their many messes, the necessity of sitting for them every Friday night, I see that my siblings are beautiful. Their skinny little bodies, shiny with wetness, their giggly joy in this game I’ve arranged, their patience with Dana, the youngest one, just out of diapers, bring sudden tears, love that surprises me.

I turn toward the house when the screen door slams and my mother comes out on the porch. She smiles at the sunshine, her many beds of flowers, my brothers and sisters playing in the yard, and me, hesitating in the driveway. She’s been starting supper and folding laundry: whites and darks, the two daily loads.

She comes down the stairs and heads for the vegetable garden, a lush jungle of green abundance. She’s tanned and barefoot and wears a sleeveless shirt and an old pair of cutoffs. Her hair is cropped and sprinkled with gray. In her small square hands she carries the salt shaker from the kitchen table and a white plastic colander she’s had for years. She beckons to me over her shoulder:

“Karen, come and help me.”  I’m pleased that my mother has asked me to help her, even though I’m already helping her by entertaining my siblings while she makes supper. I’m proud to be my mother’s “second set of hands.” I adore her – I want to be just like her when I’m a mother.

Once inside the chicken wire, my mother puts the colander down on the ground. She picks swiss chard to go with the meatloaf she’s made, while I pick cucumbers for the little ones.  Soon, my mother will go back in the house and finish making supper, kiss my father hello when he comes home from work, call us all in. She’ll help me get everyone dry before we sit down at the table. But first, my mother will eat tomatoes.

She searches for a perfect one and takes a small bite – not to be decorous, but just to get started. She needs a place to put the salt. She takes a larger bite and salts again. This is her rhythm: Bite.  Salt.  Bite.  Salt.  Seeds drip on the front of her shirt. She brushes them off and licks her fingers. She looks at me and sighs deeply.

I pick a red beauty, reach for the shaker. I’m slower, more careful – I don’t drip the seeds.  But I can’t hold back a murmur of pleasure, and receive, in return, my mother’s smile. So we each pick another tomato and start a new rhythm: when I bite mine, she salts hers; when she bites hers, I salt mine. Bite. Salt. Bite. Salt.  We pass the shaker, getting it sticky.