Page 28 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
“Thank you for your business,” I said to a young shopper with a baby on her hip. I passed her three jars of canned goods—peaches,green beans, and pickles—along with a small bag of freshly shelled pecans, thanks to Annette’s generosity in letting me gather pecans from the library grounds.
Sweat beaded down my spine as I slid the money into the cashbox and served the next customer. Summer in Bent Oak was hotter than hot, but I no longer passed up an opportunity to be outside.
Moving from the cleaning crew to the assembly line had brought a pay raise, but not much. So I needed to think of low-profile ways to increase my income. The logical choice would have been to create art. But I didn’t dare risk showcasing my glasswork for fear of a piece—my style—being recognized.
There were weeks that my hands ached to create. Back in Mobile, I’d focused on beach-themed items ... sea creatures, shells, coral. Now I envisioned creating the regional flowers and creatures. A bowl shaped like an overlarge azalea blossom. Or a Carolina wren trapped in an orb.
And my pièce de résistance would be a twisted oak tree with the finest Spanish moss draped from the branches. I’d seen it in my mind so many times I felt like I could have created it with my eyes closed. Those projects had to stay locked away in my brain, however. I turned my artistic side to other creative ventures.
Like baking. I started by selling pound cakes and baked goods like my mother had taught me. Instead of donating them for charity events, now I sold them to put food on my own table.
Then canning. Libby showed me how to can my own preserves after we spent a day strawberry picking, Keith in tow eating more than he saved. I even made my own jars, as close as I could come to indulging in glassblowing. Those were big sellers.
I took pride in how often the ladies of the garden club showed up at my booth. Soon they began to place last-minute orders for times they just plumb ran out of time to bake. Even if it meant I stayed up past midnight, I filled those orders, desperate to pack the hours in my day and increase the money I’d hidden away in my tampon box under thebathroom sink. I’d yet to meet a man who would touch a container of feminine products.
How ironic, now that I could open my own checking account and even apply for a credit card, I didn’t dare risk the paper trail. Not even with my forged documents.
Especiallywith my forged documents.
Although one thing was certain. I was finding my way in the world. Not just at work and taking help, I was now in a position to give back, to assist others, and it felt good. Really good. Far better than any fundraiser I’d organized for the hospital where Phillip practiced medicine.
Libby and I had been assisting Annette in small ways. Bringing food. Picking up extra clothes from the thrift store for new folks on their way through. No one else stayed in Bent Oak, though, as Libby, Keith, and I had done seven years earlier.
And it turned out that seven was a magic number of sorts for me. The point at which Phillip declared me legally dead.
I stumbled on the answer while helping Annette scan back issues of magazines into microfiche. The monotony of it was mind numbing, but I owed Annette. I never said no.
Then I saw it.
In the society section ofBridesmagazine. A small article covered the wedding of the year—that of Phillip Curtis to a wealthy debutante. There had even been a short mention of the tragic death of his first wife in a drowning accident and how after seven years, she—I—had been declared legally dead.
Phillip had truly moved on.
My hands trembled then and now at the magnitude of that moment. Of knowing I was free. But also trapped, because now, there was no going back. While wonderful, there was so much unknown that came with freedom. That freedom also meant no more excuses to live in limbo.
I cleared my throat to thank Sylvie Tyler for her business. “I appreciate you. I’ll be sure to have those extra tomatoes for your husband.”
“Honey, I appreciateyou. He does love tomato sandwiches, just like our son.” She gathered up her three bags of honey-roasted pecans with a smile, stepping away for the last in line for the afternoon ...
Russell.
So handsome I couldn’t help but let my eyes linger, especially given my newfound freedom. We’d been friends for years. I’d cheered on his dirt track races and his wins. Any events within the safety of the county lines, of course.
But never more than that with Russell as time marched, fashions changing like the seasonal leaves on the trees. His bell-bottom jeans then, slimmed down now. His tie-dyed T-shirts now replaced with polyester button-downs with wide collars that showcased his strong neck. Most importantly, the ways that we were different didn’t turn as many heads as before.
Russell’s smile, though, stayed constant, radiating kindness and affection. “I hear you have the best preserves in the state of South Carolina.”
I reached under my table and pulled out a jar of strawberry jam. “I saved an extra for you as a thanks for fixing my car the other day.”
Yes, I had purchased my own vehicle. With cash. A ten-year-old green Dodge Dart that I had affectionately named Olive.
He scooped up the jar. “She still has plenty of life left in her.”
“Would you like to go on a picnic sometime?” I blurted, but I didn’t regret the impulsive invitation one bit.
For seven years I’d held back, not daring to take a single step beyond friendship. And to be fair, the time had given me a chance to heal. All the while, I kept thinking my infatuation with him would pass with a sharpened perspective. I treasured his friendship—and his grandmother’s—too much to risk it.
Except my attraction to Russell had grown with every day, month, year. Over time I learned all those nuances that too often got lost when relationships progressed at a fast pace, rushing to connect rather than savoring each layer of the person.
