| glass. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Not a big deal.” “You didn’t cut yourself.” “I did, actually.” “I know exactly what it was on those sheets. You can’t even look at me.” “It’s really none of your business. Live your life. I’m doing fine in mine.” “This can’t continue,” she said. “I will be calling her.” “Calling who? Okay, so what? I had a girl over last night. It’s someone from school. We hang out occasionally. It’s life. People have sex.” “It is life, you’re exactly right. And if I thought it was someone from school I wouldn’t be all that concerned, or even surprised. But I know damn well who it is, so we can just stop pretending. Listen, Augie, I’m not mad at you at all. You’ve done what probably every seventeen-year-old boy in the world would do if given the chance. The problem is not you. The problem is her. She’s closer to thirty than she is twenty. She does not need to be messing around with high schoolers. Not my son, anyway. You’re not playing on the same level. You may think you are, but you’re not. Trust me.” “What? You mean, you think it was Julie? Is that what you’re saying? You’re crazy.” “Stop it.” She stood, came to him, reaching for his hand. Her voice was soft now. “I’m not mad. I love you more than anything, and that’s why I have to step in here. It’s not right. It just really isn’t |
opened for the season. It was a small whitewashed plywood structure with a corrugated metal roof and awning. Behind a low counter were racks of jars: apple butter and strawberry-rhubarb jam, pickled asparagus and green beans and cucumbers. Shelves of baked goods, pies, and loaves of white bread. There were large plastic bins stacked for the eventual produce that wasn’t yet ready for harvest and a hand-lettered sign: SELF-SERVE. PUT CASH IN THE BOX. FOR FRYERS DRIVE TO COLONY. NO SUNDAY SALES. August stood considering the jars of jam and preserves. Chokecherry jam. He’d never seen that before. It was a warm day, and the pies seemed to glisten and sweat under the plastic wrap. He picked out a loaf of plain white and a loaf of sourdough and a jar of apple butter and a jar of the chokecherry. He was digging through his wallet for correct change when a Hutterite girl came up from the colony, towing a wheeled metal cart. From the cart she lifted a large box full of baked goods. She smiled at August and began restocking the shelves. August watched her, blond hair, a few tendrils escaping the polka-dot kerchief she wore over her head. A dark-green dress with a black apron, her feet bare, soles dirty as she raised up on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf. She was humming. “This chokecherry jam,” August said. His voice seemed loud, bouncing around under the tin roof of the shed. The girl turned, startled |
