Page 68 of Salty Pickle

I wiggle in my seat with happiness. This is going well. It’s about time we had something good between us.

But then he asks a question that seems so simple but is anything but.

“So, how did you end up becoming a vegetarian?”

And suddenly, I’m not hungry.

20

COURT

The moment I ask the question, I know it’s the wrong one.

Lucy’s happy expression dissolves. She pokes at her food with her fork.

I decide to pivot. “Never mind. It’s fine. How’s Matilda holding up?”

Lucy bites her lip, but she answers. “She’s good. She likes the mist.”

I regret trying to make small talk. This is why I don’t have women over. Or anyone over. I’m shit at this.

The room rings with the sounds of our silverware stabbing the plates in the silence.

I scoot my chair back, planning to make an excuse to hole up in my bedroom.

But Lucy speaks, so low that I almost don’t hear her. “It was my Grandma BeeBee.”

I lean forward. “BeeBee?”

“Her real name was Beatrice, but I couldn’t pronounce that when I was little.”

“Cute.”

“She was my father’s mother. She had a small farm. It had been bigger, back when my grandfather was alive, but she’d sold off pieces of it every few years so she could pay the taxes on the part she lived on.”

Lucy’s face relaxes as she talks about this woman.

“She grew most everything she ate. She had goats.” Lucy’s smile grows wide as she remembers the good parts. “And a cow, also named Beatrice. Always. Lots of different cows I remember, and they were always Beatrice.”

“Her little joke?”

“She was very self-deprecating.” Lucy takes a long drink of water, and I’m mesmerized by the movements of her long, tender throat.

“You two were close?”

She nods. “I practically lived over there. We grew plants. Pickled and preserved everything from jam to radishes.”

“Was your dad not like her?”

Lucy shakes her head. “Not in the least. It’s like he tried to be the opposite. I was the only one in the family who felt the same as she did about the earth.”

“She sounds special.” I don’t want to ask if she’s around. It’s clear she’s not.

Lucy confirms it. “She was. She died while I was in college. My father had Beatrice the Eighth cut into steaks and put BeeBee’s farm on the market to be sold to a strip mall developer.”

I sit up. “He didn’t ask if you wanted it?”

“He’s a commercial real estate agent. BeeBee’s farm was probably a real feather in his cap.”

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