Chapter 5: Strawberries Make It Better
Naomi expected the place to be a mess, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she noticed that, though cramped, the kitchen they stood in was tidy and clean.
“Please, sit,” Sammy’s mother said, waving her slotted spoon at a large table. Naomi sat on one of the table’s long benches. Sammy sat on the bench opposite her.
“Are you hungry?” his mother asked. “You must be hungry. I got a pot of paste here all ready. The other kids ate.”
Underneath one of the kitchen’s windows was a stove. On the stove sat a huge metal pot. Naomi figured someone could feed an army with a pot that big. Sammy’s mother reached into the pot with her slotted spoon and ladled a gooey wad of paste into a bowl.
She slid the bowl in front of Naomi. Then she ladled another wad of paste for Sammy.
“Thanks, ma,” Sammy said.
“Thank you, Mrs…” said Naomi.
“Fitzpatrick,” Sammy said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Naomi said.
Until now she had not realized exactly how hungry she was. She thought back to the morning and how she had crept out at dawn, leaving before she could eat her breakpaste. A terrible roar rose in her belly as she opened her mouth for a spoonful of hot paste.
When she was halfway through her meal, Sammy’s father came in the shack, dragging the worn chair behind him. He pulled the chair up to the end of the table and sat. Naomi felt his eyes on her. She looked up to see that Sammy and his parents were watching her very closely. A twinge of fear rose in her.
“Where did you get that?” Sammy’s father demanded. The paste in Naomi’s mouth turned to sawdust as she tried to swallow it.
Whack. Sammy’s mother brought the slotted spoon down on her husband’s head again, leaving speckles of paste in his hair.
“Dang, woman!” he cried.
“You’re scaring the wits from her,” said Sammy’s mother. “Look at her. She’s white as that paste.”
“Well, she should be!” Sammy’s father exclaimed. “It’s lucky Sammy brought her here. The other farmers are getting itchy to know who she is.” Then he asked, “Where’d you come by that horse-flavored T-shirt?”
Whack. Sammy’s mother hit him again.
“I told you not to scare her,” she said. And to Naomi, “Naomi, honey, you finish that paste. Pay no mind to my husband. Even though he has so many children he has no idea how to talk to them.”
“How many are there?” Naomi asked.
“There’s nine of us,” Sammy said.
“Eight,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.
“Yeah,” Sammy said. “My brother John was killed in the war with Oklahoma.”
“That’s terrible,” Naomi said.
“It is,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. He looked at his wife, who seemed like she was about to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Naomi said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick gathered herself and said, “It’s not your fault, Naomi.” As if to change the subject, she said, “Wish we had some strawberries to put in that paste. I’m sure you would like that.”
A little hesitantly, Naomi asked, “I’ve heard of strawberries, but I’ve never had one.”
“Ahh!” Sammy’s mother threw her arms into the air and exclaimed, “Will there be no end to this!” Her hands came to her face and her cheeks swelled like angry balloons. She flopped on the bench.
“What’d I say?” asked Naomi.
Sammy’s father used a softer tone. “You didn’t say anything,” he said. He squeezed his wife’s hand in his own. “Mrs. Fitzpatrick is just a little tired is all.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked at him, then stood back up. With her back turned to the table she said, “I’m not tired. I don’t want to lose sons in pointless wars. And I’m sick of living like this. Like refugees in our own town.”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Naomi said, “what is this place?”
Mr. Fitzpatrick sighed. “This is Farmer’s Market. This is where we’ve been ever since the horses went away.”
“Oh, my mom told me about this place,” she said. “Do you know where the horses went?”
Mr. Fitzpatrick glanced over to his wife. “No,” he said. “Ain’t nobody knows.”
“But why do you need the horses to harvest? Can’t you do it without them?” Naomi asked.
“I don’t know how much you know, seeing how young you are,” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “But the horses started disappearing and it became harder and harder to get water to the crops. We have wells and a river, but without the horses to pull the wagons around it was too hard to get the water barrels out into the fields. So, slowly, all the crops withered.”
“That’s horrible,” said Naomi.
Mr. Fitzpatrick nodded his consent. “The vegetable crop failed. So we tried to harvest our fruits and our berries. But we found all those withered on the vine. No water, no food. That’s when the factory started selling paste.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, “Fruit is like pure sugar from a plant, but sweeter. Strawberries look like little hearts and taste wonderful.”
Her husband nodded his agreement. “But they’re all gone now,” he said. “All that’s left is paste. After our crops failed, we farmers left our farms and moved here. This was where we sold our fruits and vegetables to townsfolk. Now we ain’t got nothing to sell. We can’t hardly afford the paste from that factory.”
“The factory was built and the horses disappeared. Then the food died because there was no way to get water, right?” Naomi said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fitzpatrick.
“Well, I’m going to find the horses.” When Naomi said it, she sounded more confident than she felt. She didn’t really know what she was doing. All she had to follow was an old T-shirt and a dream.
Mr. Fitzpatrick pointed to the T-shirt Naomi had in her lap. “Where you get that from?” he asked.
“This,” she said, “used to be my father’s.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick came to the table. She sat down and took Naomi’s hands in her own. “Do you know what that is?” she asked. “That purple is the color that the horses love. It’s the color the horse speakers wore when they called the horses and trained them to pull our farming machines.”
“What do you think happened to the horses after the paste factory was built?” Naomi asked with a lump in her throat.
“Nobody is really sure, but we all suspect the factory has something to do with it,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.
“I’m going to the factory and find out,” said Naomi.
“It isn’t safe for you to go there,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said.
“But I have to,” Naomi said.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick frowned. “How about we talk about it in the morning? I’ll get word to your mother that you’re here and you can stay here tonight. That sound alright to you?”
“I guess so,” she said, but only because she didn’t want to argue with Sammy’s mom.
“You can go with Sammy to the Pastery tonight, though. He needs to get our paste for tomorrow,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. “You take her with you, Sammy.”