Peaches

feat.
    “I’ve renewed all the insurance stuff except for natural disaster.” She changed the subject. “That just came today.” She stared at Walter. No response. “But I’ll do that first thing tomorrow.”
    “Don’t bother. We won’t renew this year.”
    “Really?”
    Walter didn’t reply. Nobody spoke for several seconds, and in that time Birdie wolfed down several pieces of steak.
    Poopie looked from Birdie to him and back again and rolled her eyes. Poopie was a better communicator than either Birdie or her dad and had said many times that the two of them together were like two mimes talking, except she called them “mines.”
    This look encouraged Birdie to be bolder. “Daddy, I think you should renew the insurance. You can’t be too careful.”
    “It’ll be a miracle if we can afford to keep up what we have this summer.”
    Birdie swallowed. The farm’s financial situation had been bad for the last few years, but usually her dad tried to keep it quiet, as though neither of them noticed. Last year, to pay their taxes, Walter had sold two of their tractors and a vacant plot of land he’d bought several years ago, hoping to plant it. They’d hardly exchanged more than two words about it.
    “But if something happened to—”
    “Birdie, you’re just like your mother. If we had the money, I’d insure everything. Christ, we could insure the dogs. The porch. The rocking chairs.”
    Birdie stared down at her fork.
    “If this frost comes, they’ll be tearing up the floorboards from right under us. I wouldn’t worry about tornados.”
    Birdie’s stomach rolled over. “There’s a frost coming?”
    Walter didn’t bother to reply. He just kept chewing in silence. Which nearly drove Birdie over the edge. Peach trees were most vulnerable when they had their buds out, and watching over them those weeks was almost like watching the delicate, early stages of a pregnancy. But she also knew her dad thought that he had some innate sense of the weather and that he often spoke about weather patterns before anything was predicted. He kept track of cold fronts in Canada like some people kept track of the stock market.
    Birdie looked at Poopie. “When are they saying it might hit?”
    “They’re not,” Poopie said. “Your father is saying the end of next week.”
    Birdie calculated. Thinning would be wrapping up then.
    “No sense worrying over something that may not happen,” Poopie said.
    “You’re right,” Birdie muttered back. But her dad was good at what he did. He never spoke idly. The Darlingtons had field heaters they had bought years ago for the threat of late frost, but most of them were broken or too decrepit to do much good. Birdie had read about farmers setting fires to keep their trees warm, fighting a losing battle against Mother Nature. The universe wouldn’t be that cruel, would it?
    “Um, this steak’s really good,” Leeda offered. Birdie had always noticed the Cawley-Smiths liked to pretend nothing was wrong, ever.
    Poopie looked at her and sighed. “But you haven’t touched hardly a bite.”
    “Oh, you know, I’m not into A1 sauce,” Leeda said. “And I’m becoming vegetarian. Well, I’m trying to stop eating meat whenit’s rare.” Birdie looked down at her own bloody steak. She too had lost her appetite.
    “What are you up to for the summer, Leeda?” Poopie asked.
    “Well, hanging out with my friends. We’ll go on some trips, probably.” Leeda tucked a tiny forkful of green beans between her lips.
    “Birdie, why don’t you make friends like Leeda does?” Walter asked.
    Birdie looked at Leeda again, mortified. “Dad, I have friends.” She didn’t add they were Honey Babe and Majestic and Poopie.
    “Five calls to your mother a day doesn’t count as socializing.”
    Birdie put her fork down. “We don’t talk five times a day.”
    Walter eyed her. “I know she complains about me.”
    Birdie swallowed. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that complaints from her mother were nothing new. Cynthia had been complaining to her for years.
    “Walter, a girl as pretty as Leeda has got friends beating down her door,” Poopie interjected, as though this was a better direction to steer the conversation.
    Birdie scowled. Was that supposed to be defending her? Birdie stood up from the table and began clearing plates.
    “Poopie, I’ll help you wash up.”
    “You go for a nice walk with your cousin,” Poopie said, rubbing Birdie’s back and squeezing her