1
POLLY
It’salready one of those days.Andthe wall clock over the root vegetable display says it’s only 8:43 a.m.
AtleastIthink that’s what it says.It’shard to be precise when the big hand is shaped like a stick of celery and the little hand looks like a pickle.Oris it a zucchini?I’venever figured that out.Itamuses the customers though.
Theknot in my stomach tightens asIlook back down at the email from the shop’s new landlord saying the rent’s going up in a couple of months.Marginsare already tight enough around here, mainly becauseIinsist on paying local farmers a fair price for their produce.
Concernabout howI’mgoing to payCarlyat the end of the week is shattered by the sound of her voice from somewhere behind the back office.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she shouts as the door squeaks past the point where it sticks, and rattles shut.
Iclose the laptop and slide it onto the shelf under the counter.
“Morning,”Icall back, adjusting my ponytail.
“Seriously,Poll,” she yells. “Justget some oil or something andI’llfix the bastard.”
EventhoughIcan’t see her,Iknow for sure she’s yanking off her hat, unwinding yards of scarf, and hanging her patchwork coat on a hook behind the office door.
It’lltake more than a squirt of oil to fix a door that’s refused to shut with anything less than brute force for the last six months, and there’s no wayI’mgoing to ask this new money-grabbing landlord to fix it.I’mnot talking to him about anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Carlyemerges through the beaded curtain from our office/kitchen/storeroom/broom closet, her nose ring glinting in the flickering light from the fizzing bulb over the organicCortlandapples.Hersunflower tattoo peeks out of herV-neckT-shirt as she ties herPolly’sProduceapron around her back.
“So, did you grow the balls to talk to your mom about at least getting a walking cane?” she asks.
Mybest friend is like a second daughter to my mom, and a sister to me—sometimes a slightly annoying one who reminds me of the thingsI’mavoiding.
“Shesaid she didn’t feel as bad last night, soIdidn’t have the heart to bring it up.”Ishorten the right strap of my overalls to stop it falling off my shoulder.
“Jeez,Poll.”Themessy bun on top ofCarly’shead wobbles in time with her frustration. “She’llend up likeMrs.Bentleyif you don’t stop worrying about upsetting her.”
Shenods past me to the front door whereMrs.Bentley’sconcerned face, topped by a sparkly pink knitted hat, peers through the window.
Mrs.Bentleybroke her hip ice-skating a year ago.She’sseventy-five.Andshe’s only now starting to get around properly with a walker.Shecomes here every morning, as much for the exercise as our spectacular local fruit and veggies.Andmaybe even more for the company.
“Mymom has arthritis, not an irrational desire to pirouette on the frozen lake.Andshe’s only fifty-five.”
Carlynarrows her eyes as she peers atMrs.Bentley. “I’llgo grab the new potatoes from out back, and leaveMrs.Bto you.Shedoesn’t look happy.”
Carlydisappears with a clicky swish of the beaded curtain.
She’sright.Ratherthan the usual smile that crinkles her entire face, the only part ofMrs.Bentleythat’s crinkled this morning is her forehead.SinceI’mfairly sure that coming to see us is the only thing that gets her up and about in the mornings,Ishove my money worries to the back of my mind and slap on a smile.
Iflip the front door sign from “VeggieSorry,We’reClosed” to “ComeIn,LettuceServeYou!”
Theold brass bell jingles over my head asIopen the door. “Morning,Mrs.Bentley.”
“Oh, dearPolly.”Shelooks like she’s about to tell a small child their puppy’s died.
“Areyou okay?Youlook worried.Carly’sjust fetching some super cute baby new potatoes that might cheer you up.”
Sheker-clunks her walker a step closer to the doorway. “Potatoeswon’t cut it today.”
Ker-clunk.
“Lord, it must be bad.”Asfar asMrs.Bentley’sconcerned, potatoes might be the answer to world peace if only someone would give it a shot.
