Sweet Water by Christina Baker Kline Page A

down, a loud noise suddenly blasted in. I looked out at the boy pushing the mower. He grinned and waved.
    “Jimmy Battesin. That boy’s headed for trouble,” Clyde muttered.
    “What do you mean?”
    She picked up the salt shaker and poured salt on the table in a little pile, then flattened it out with her finger. “Oh, he’s got big dreams. Nothing to hang them on. Never been anywhere in his life but thinks he’s something special.”
    Outside, the mower sputtered and died. Jimmy fiddled with it for a moment and then came up to the window, wiping sweat from his forehead and yanking off his earphones. “The reserve tank’s out of gas, Miz Clyde.”
    “There’s more in the shed,” she said. She turned to face him. “Jimmy, this is my granddaughter Cassandra from up north.”
    He smiled at me with renewed interest. “So you’re the one,” he said. “New Jersey. We seen the plates.”
    “Hi,” I said.
    He took his sunglasses off and squinted in at us. “Must seem real quiet down here.”
    “Not as quiet as I thought it would be. Those crickets are loud.”
    He laughed. “Gone into town yet? No crickets there. It’s
real
quiet.”
    “Almost done with the mowing?” Clyde asked.
    He stepped back from the window and put on his sunglasses. I could see the two of us reflected in them, small. “Almost. Got to get that gas. Nice to meet you,” he said, nodding at me. He put the earphones back on and went around the side of the house.
    Clyde sighed.
    “He doesn’t seem so bad,” I said.
    “If you don’t mind paying somebody to do a job and then holding their hand while they do it.”
    I ate in silence for a while, forcing the food down. When I finished, I got up to clear my plate.
    “Don’t bother with that,” Clyde said. “You run along and get dressed.”
    “I
am
dressed,” I said.
        The present was wrapped in tissue paper. I watched as she slowly peeled off each layer, smoothed it, and placed it in a neat, square pile on the table. When she was finished she looked at the bowl, turning it around.
    “You didn’t have to get me anything,” Clyde said. She touched the smooth blue glaze inside. She turned it over and read the bottom. “C. Simon.” She looked up. “You made this.”
    I nodded.
    “Is this what you do for a living?”
    “No. Not yet,” I said, laughing a little. “Maybe someday. I need to work at it.”
    “Oh.”
    “That’s part of why I came down here.”
    She ran both hands around the outside. “What is it, a fruit bowl?”
    “Sure, it can be. It can be whatever you want.”
    “Can it go in the dishwasher?”
    “I—I don’t think so.” Carefully, she set the bowl on the table. “It’s a little rustic for your taste,” I apologized. “You don’t have to display it. You could just use it for salads or …” I tried to think of other uses.
    “I like it.” She started to fold up the tissue paper. “Blue was your mother’s favorite color, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “Mine’s yellow, but blue is second.” She flattened the paper with her hand. “The couch in the living room is blue.”
    “I saw that.”
    “Maybe we can find a place for it in there.”
    “You could put potpourri in it or something,” I said.
    She got up and put the tissue paper away in a drawer. “That’s what Elaine would do. She’s got the stuff all over her house. I tell her it smells like cheap perfume, but she doesn’t listen to me.”
    “Well, you could put cards in it, then.”
    She crossed her arms and looked at me. “Do I have to put something in it? Why can’t I just leave it as it is?”
    “You’re right,” I said. “I don’t know why, but I always think I have to fill things up.”
    “I used to feel that way. Now I guess I like things empty.”
        “I’d really like to get out and see the house soon.” I finished drying the frying pan and put it away. “You could just point me in the right direction.”
    “I could, but it wouldn’t help you any.