Valley Fever Read Online Free

year,” Anne said.
    That June, the peaches didn’t grow. The leaves of the peach trees wilted and curled and sprung pits with no flesh. There were no fruit flies, no infestations of worms. That year, the peaches had been stunted by water-stressed trees and a fungus nothing seemed to kill. “But we’re fine, you don’t want to hear about us,” Mother said. “Or do you want to hear?”
    â€œYes, we do,” I said.
    â€œYou know, those peaches they get from South America are grown in human shit,” Mother said.
    â€œWe know about the South American peaches,” I said. When I first moved to Los Angeles, the sewer in Howard’s backyard had exploded. Months later, in that patch of grass to the side of the house where the toilet paper and feces and old tampons had come up, tomatoes appeared so plentiful, the vines so tall and abundant, I thought for a week the tomatoes were bougainvillea. Seeds must have made their way through the disposal. The vines grew up the side of the house and over the fence shared with the cranky neighbor. Those tomatoes were more delicious even than the ones my grandmother had grown. They were more delicious than any fruit I had eaten in years.
    â€œDon’t get me started on the peaches from Georgia.”
    Anne said, “We know the peaches from Georgia, Mom.” The peaches grown in Georgia, like most of the peaches grown in California the years we could grow peaches, were grown for color and for cold-storage endurance. They tasted like nothing, like wood pulp. Dad’s peaches were yellowy orange and didn’t store very well, but they tasted the way a peach ought to taste, like sun and sugar, and Dad’s peaches were so juicy you had to eat them over a sink.
    â€œThe Georgia peaches are just not fruit. They’re barely drupe. You should see the commercials they’re running on television. Have you seen the commercials?”
    â€œAre there commercials?” I didn’t mention that this year, and for three years running, the California peaches were barely drupe. I really hadn’t seen the commercials.
    â€œThey’re running commercials with worms coming out of our peaches. We don’t even have worms this year.”
    Anne said, “You don’t even have peaches.”
    â€œYou can imagine your father. All those years with that bank, and now what they’ve done to him. You can imagine.”
    â€œYes,” Anne said.
    â€œBut you don’t want to hear about us. What can I make you to eat?” Mother said.
    Anne said, “She won’t eat.”
    â€œCan’t,” I said.
    â€œShe might have to see the doctor,” Anne said.
    â€œNo one sees a doctor over a breakup,” my mother said. “Do you mean a shrink? Do you have a fever?”
    â€œIngrid, if you don’t start eating, I’m going to take you to the hospital, but a bad hospital. With rats,” Anne said.
    â€œI want to go to the hospital.”
    â€œWe can find you a shrink, Ingrid,” Mother said. “I’m sure there must be some decent shrinks here in Fresno.”
    â€œI am not going to see some Fresno shrink,” I said. “I’m going to stay here for a few days and sleep.”
    â€œDo you want to talk about what happened?”
    â€œNo, Mother.”
    The kitchen window looked out to the yard, terraced down to the river. Each of the terraces indicated a year that peaches and grapes had done well. The tennis court for the year I was in fourth grade and peaches were forty dollars a box. The swimming pool the year I was in seventh and Dad put in the packing plant. The landscaping and floodlights along the river one of the years no one else could grow cabernet. This year, the grass on the terraces had gone brown from neglect and the untended swimming pool was green like the river and canals.
    â€œHow about a fried egg?” my mother said. “A fried egg will make you feel