Free Poster Boy by Dede Crane Page A

groceries away?”
    â€œWe can do that after. Let’s go before it gets too late. Their stand closes at four, I think.”
    â€œYeah, sure.” I wasn’t doing anything and I’d only ever driven on the highway once before. It was sick to go that fast.
    After pulling out of the driveway, I gave the car that burst of gas for that rush of accelerating from a stop.
    A few minutes down the road, it dawned on me that whenever I hit the gas, I was pumping out a hit of carcinogens. I pulled up to a stoplight thinking how the guy on his bike beside us was inhaling my exhaust, and the kid on the corner being pushed in her stroller. Her little nose was happily sucking it all in.
    Man, I hated knowing this shit.
    I tried to ease off on the gas after that, take advantage of hills and coast as much as possible.
    â€œI read about this substance,” said Mom. “Oh, what’s its name? Something fruits and vegetables produce to fight off pests and molds. It’s found just under the skin and has cancer-fighting properties. Is even marketed as a cure.” She waved her hand, knocking the rearview mirror. She didn’t notice so I fixed it. “Sprayed produce doesn’t have to work to fight off pests so it doesn’t produce the substance. Or much of it. Oh, what’s it called…”
    Up ahead I could see the light turn yellow. Normally I’d race up to an intersection and more or less ram on the brakes, but I took my foot off the gas and let the car coast the rest of the way to what was now a red light.
    â€œI’m going to start cooking more,” Mom went on. “Not just dinner, but breakfast, too. Even your lunches. No more fast food.”
    We were going slug slow. If I timed it right, I might just get to the light as it turned green again and never actually come to a stop. The guy behind me laid on the horn and Mom jumped.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    â€œSome jerk wanting to hurry up and stop.”
    * * *
    Over the weathered roadside stand read a hand-carved sign: Produce That Makes You Happy . Were these people so old school they didn’t even know enough to call their stuff organic?
    It was real quiet. Maybe spring came earlier to the country, because there were pale green buds on bushes and trees, something I hadn’t noticed happening in town, and white snowdrops bloomed along the base of the produce stand.
    Built on a slope, the farm backed onto a wooded park where we used to go for family hikes when Maggie and I were little. There was a creek running down the west side that we used to dam with rocks. We’d make pretend boats out of sticks and race them to the dam. From the top of the park you could see all the way downtown.
    â€œLovely afternoon,” said the woman working the stand.
    â€œYes,” said Mom. “Yes, it is. Heard terrific things about your produce.”
    The woman just smiled. A thick mash of gray curls raged on her head like a small storm. She had these weird eyes, one brown and one pale blue, like a husky’s. Her gaze was steady as a dog’s, too. In contrast to the tense, jerky movements of my mother as she tested vegetables, this woman didn’t move a muscle. For a minute I imagined this was on purpose, to try and calm my mom down. It was strange watching them together.
    Being only March, there wasn’t that much to choose from: green leafy things I didn’t know the names of, chives, some squashes, onions, eggs, jars of jam, tomato sauce and various pickled things. There was a basket of muffins for a dollar each. At the end of the table were these doll-sized pillows. Above the pillows was a small sign that read Happy Valley Farm: Nacie and Milan Daskaloff . A small Help Wanted sign hung above that.
    â€œAnd you’re Nacie?” said Mom, pointing at the sign.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œAnd you grow all this yourself?”
    â€œWith my husband, Milan.”
    â€œMust be an