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When the Pears Are Ripe By Rosalie Davis '79

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(Also read the winning story, "Characters All," by Gerald M. Carbone '82 and the 2nd runner-up, "The Big Light," by Nathan J. Fink '11G)

The Second Place Winner
UNH Magazine Spring 2010 Fiction Contest
(Contest judged by Alice McDermott '78G)
"When the Pears Are Ripe" seeks to say "something profound and complex about life, aging, grief and joy," says McDermott, "and I admire it most of all for being so ambitious." The story, one day in the life of a middle-aged woman, was written by Rosalie Davis '79, a freelance copy editor, who earned a bachelor's degree in English from UNH. A former editor and writer at Horticulture magazine, Davis has also written for The Old Farmer's Almanac Gardener's Companion, the UU World Magazine, Gardens Illustrated and The Wall Street Journal, among others. She and her husband, Scott Payette, and sons Pierre and Jack '09 live in Jamaica Plain, Mass. This is her first short story.

Dorothy awoke to the birds in the pear tree. Then she heard squirrels, shaking branches and chattering as they tried to leap back to the light-pole with the fruit, and dropping them on the sidewalk. By afternoon, she knew, middle school kids would be shaking them down too, and yellow-jackets would be on the bruised fruit.

An NPR correspondent was talking on the radio. More bombings, at a market in Afghanistan. Dorothy imagined pomegranates exploding, their bright red juice everywhere, the pity of people blown up while food shopping. She wished Uncle Boris wasn't going to Kabul for business. She doubted anyone would hire an architect there now. Ian and Edward were upset about it, naturally, but Dorothy knew it was worse when they were quiet; she hoped they might be opening up a little. It had been a nasty surprise when she had first learned 18-year-olds had to register for the Selective Service. She wasn't sure her boys would ever trust her information again.

Dorothy sat up. Rain might be on the way, the weather said, but the hurricane was heading out to sea. She must pick the pears today. Pears could rot on the tree, better to start when some were still green. Her feet touched the floor and she slowly stood. Since she turned 50, she was less sure-footed, and her feet hurt in the morning, too. The doctor said it was probably arthritis, but ordered cancer screenings anyway.

And all these things after Papa died, two years ago last Easter. When the lid of his coffin had closed, a swarm of ills had come out of hiding. Strange things that stunned and stung, like her sister Judith selling the land, the carpenter cutting up his hand fixing the roof, Edward getting hurt, Mama dying for no reason, the shooting at the Park last spring. It made her feel her age.

Her friend Nancy had told her grief brings grief, but eventually, the bereaved is flooded with happy memories of the lost. It signaled the end of mourning, a promise that life goes on. Nancy made it sound like a package you could track online. Dorothy was skeptical, but she admired Nancy's certainty, and it made her smile. Of course she would welcome a happy flood of something.

For a while, Dorothy had seen herself as that cripple in the pink dress in the Wyeth painting, lying on the ground looking at a distant home, faded and empty, an old crab-shell. Dorothy used to think Christina was crawling back. Now, she felt sure the woman was leaving, perhaps wondering why she had waited so long or if anyone missed her. If only these bad eggs would stop hatching and chewing away at what good was left, Dorothy thought, she could gather what it took to move forward. It wasn't healthy, identifying with that woman.

Mama always said, "If something bad happens, tell yourself, 'today isn't so different from yesterday, and I already made it through yesterday.'" Her mother had stopped believing in God near the end, Dorothy thought, had traded church for something else. Judith said, "No, her faith never wavered," and the subject remained closed. Dorothy stepped into her wool slippers, a splurge gift from Judith, who said it was the least she could do to make her feet feel better. It was the nature of faith, like a tree in a storm, to waver, Dorothy thought as she went downstairs.

There was no coffee. Allan must have bought a cup with his newspaper before he got on the Pike. He had left early to go Worcester, thought he would be back just after lunch. Dorothy interpreted that to mean before dinner. Allan was rarely on time, for her. But he worked hard and made great coffee. She filled the machine with four cups of water, then two scoops of grocery-store grounds and two scoops of gourmet, as he did. As she was alone, she sprinkled cinnamon in the coffee.

Dorothy opened a window. In the North Country, you looked outdoors while you washed dishes. In Boston, folks considered it a waste to put a sink in front of a window. She liked to keep a picture tacked up over the faucets--a European kitchen, a landscape, a still life. Allen might tolerate it for a while, but then take it down when he was cleaning. She wondered, did he tear them off, or did he get a spray bottle and a palette knife and pick away like a conservationist. Sometimes pieces of plaster came off the kitchen walls in humid weather; it reminded Dorothy of broken china. They seemed unable to tackle renovation, the disruption, the expense, choosing designs and colors. This room would never be done; they had wasted too much time deciding.

Dorothy scrubbed the pans until the copper bottoms shone. This set was their best wedding present. They used it every day, and it was still good as new. Only the stockpot was scratched, from that time she had sterilized the breast pump and then had fallen asleep nursing Ian. The smoke alarm had waked them, but not before the plastic parts had melted and stuck fast to the pan. She had scraped them off with a paring knife, but the irony remained. The marks looked like a wild gesture-drawing. She called it "Mother and Child Awaked."

She might put up a fresh picture today. Sticking it with school paste was particularly satisfying, as was writing a caption on the wall. It was childish and irked Allen, she knew. In return, it bothered her that he did not make time for a hobby. If he could get back to painting, he would surely ignore her little transgressions. Somewhere, Dorothy had a lovely picture of a mother nursing a baby in a quince orchard in Armenia. She wouldn't leave it up too long. She didn't want to irk Allen.

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