Squashed Read Online Free Page B

Mother, Nana could make anything grow, and she passed that on to me. Every flower that could root in Iowa soil was in her front yard. Come midspring people started driving by Nana’s house just to get a look at that garden. She had tulips, daffodils, and big, stocky snapdragons; a huge bed of bloodroots, marsh marigolds, roses, petunias, and lilies of the valley growing three deep along her stone path just waiting for elves to give them a shake. One year a whole busload of Japanese students on their way to Des Moines stopped and were squatting on the lawn, taking pictures. Nana made them old-fashioned limeade and served it on the porch in plastic cups.
    My father could make anything die just from passingby it. He didn’t have a sensitive grower’s soul, and the plants
knew.
I’ve seen petunias give up when they saw Dad coming. So growing pumpkins was a good bet for me living with a man like that. I wouldn’t think of laying in chervil or kale or sugar snap peas, because Dad’s vibes would dry them right up. I had wildflowers that a crazed hog couldn’t kill in big clumps around the house and a bumper crop of New Jersey tomatoes. When Dad watered the lawn I just let natural selection take over. Some tomatoes croaked, and some got tough. The true test of any vegetable is how it fares in the face of adversity.
    I wondered how Cyril’s pumpkin got so orange living as it did in that environment. I began to think that Dad’s vibrations were worse than I’d figured. Clearly, Max was at risk. It was going to take a lot of ice cream to keep Dad mellow.
    Richard said to talk to Mr. Greenpeace, Rock River High’s most sensitive teacher, who contemplated on weekends and taught beginning philosophy and track. He had an album of gentle sound effects like waterfalls and ocean waves that could reprogram Dad’s vibes. Mr. Greenpeace didn’t give a rip about protocol, so everyone took his classes, even track, and learned to become “one with the road.” He got tenure before he became sensitive, he often said, and everyone was glad about that, except the other teachers, the principal, and the members of the School Board.
    He let me borrow the album because he said he’d never seen anyone become as “one with the road” as me. Richard became one with his bat, glove, and ball and didn’t care much about what was below. Being a grower, I understood the ground and its virtues. I carried the album home, dimmed the lights, threw coconut, sugar,vanilla, and heavy cream into the ice cream maker, shoved a chicken with rosemary and lemon in the oven, and waited for my father.
    He was boiling when he came home, and I could feel Max shudder in response. I had read another article in
Seventeen
about parental tension and was prepared for any outburst. I found the “Waterfall/Soft” portion on the record, pointed the speakers in Dad’s direction, and let ’er rip.
    “Glad to see you, Dad,” I cooed. “Welcome home.” The article said not to ask too many questions or make any demands upon a parent’s entrance. Really throw him.
    “Well,” he grumbled, surprised, “you’re the first person today who’s been glad to see me.”
    “Oh?” I said. This is the open invitation to talk, but it is in the parent’s court. Open, caring, not pushy.
    He slumped in his chair away from the speakers, which I now repositioned with my foot. “It was like a bad dream,” he groused. “Frederika double-scheduled me for the second time this
month.
I had to cancel with Iowa Federal, and they were furious, of course.”
    “Of course…” I agreed, building camaraderie.
    “You would think that after all these years, she would have learned!” He rose and walked to the window, glaring out at nothing, but Max was in his view and growing paler. Bad, bad vibes. I steered him back to his chair as “Waterfall/Soft” gave way to “Waves II.”
    “I have this sudden impulse,” he muttered, “to get near water, Ellie…I—”
    “Just relax,