Delta Girls by Gayle Brandeis

By Gayle Brandeis

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The work was slow, methodical, but it still scratched up my arms. ” asked Quinn later as we walked through the orchard to our car. ” “They just do,” I said. ” She touched a trunk as if it could tell her, and I realized I hadn’t really thought about it before. It was a remarkable feat of choreography, all the Bartletts in the orchard, in the whole region, burgeoning in sync. “Maybe they whisper to each other underground,” I said. ” I caught myself, knowing she didn’t know what that was like—calling friends, coordinating outfits—but she nodded as if she did.

A stacked washer/dryer in the shade of marigolds. The booth in the dinette set that opened into a bed combined all those colors into a nubby weave. The plastic shower liner was the same color as the stove, the toilet the same color as the laundry machines. Mr. Vieira checked the sinks to make sure they worked. “You probably don’t want to drink the water,” he said. ” The bedspread on the double bed in the back offered the only nod to the last couple of decades—a really nice bedspread, deep burgundy with eggplant piping.

It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. ” Quinn peered up at the tiny mouths of the bottles. When the glass caught the sun, I had to shield my eyes. ” Mr. Vieira ambled over. ” I asked. It seemed impossible that gravity would let the bottom of the fruit swell on top like that. He nodded and pointed out the intricate contraption around every bottle—netting and string connecting it to the branch above, gauze plugged loosely inside each neck to keep bugs away. They put the bottles over the baby pears right after the blossoms fall off.

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