From Watermelon Winter

Pearl placed the heavy cast-iron pot at the center of the table with a soft thud that nonetheless commanded attention. Steam rose from beneath the lid, carrying the scent of simmered chicken and herbs through the kitchen. Sunday dinner, as regular as church bells, gathered the scattered Hendersons under one roof each week. Today was no different, even with three feet of snow banked against the house and the mercury barely rising past fifteen degrees.

"That's a small bird for seven people," her father remarked, eyeing the pot as Pearl removed the lid. He didn't mean it unkindly—William Henderson simply cataloged the world as he saw it, like marking inventory in the store ledger.

"It'll stretch," Pearl answered. "We've got the dumplings, too, and plenty of gravy." She didn't mention that she'd paid for the chicken herself, using money she'd saved from mending Mrs. Patterson's linens. Her father's store credit at the butcher's had finally run dry last month.

Aunt Ida watched from her chair by the window, fingers working even now at her perpetual knitting. "In my day, we could feed ten on less than that. People now don't know what real scarcity looks like."

Pearl's brother Thomas snorted as he reached for the bread. "Tell that to the Burkes. Their youngest wears newspaper in his shoes."

"That's enough," Pearl's mother said softly. "It's Sunday."

They passed dishes in silence for a moment, the clink of serving spoons against pottery marking time. Pearl watched her youngest siblings, eleven-year-old twins Emma and Elijah, take modest portions without being told. They'd learned young what the rest had learned late: hunger was best managed in advance.

"I heard Miller's taking on two more at the factory," her cousin James said finally, reaching for the gravy. "Night shift."

Pearl's father looked up from his plate. "Who'd they hire?"

"Kowalski's oldest boy. And that fellow from Cincinnati—Taylor, I think his name is."

"The one staying at Reed's boarding house?" Pearl asked, too quickly. She felt her mother's eyes on her, assessing.

"That's the one," James nodded. "Educated type. Wears a tie to the diner."

"Strange choice for factory work," her father said, frowning.

"Strange times," Thomas countered. "War coming, government contracts piling up. They'll hire anyone with two hands."

"There's no war yet," Pearl's mother said firmly, as if she could hold it at bay with her denial. "And there won't be, if we have any sense."

The conversation lulled again. Outside, weak winter sunlight reflected off the snow, casting the kitchen in a strange, bright glow despite the early evening hour. Pearl rose to light the lamp, and as she struck the match, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window glass—cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She knew it wasn't from the kitchen's heat.

"Might get another delivery of those watermelons next week," her father said, changing the subject. "Baker says he can bring five more up from his root cellar."

"People still buying them?" James asked.

William nodded, something close to pride crossing his face. "Sold out by noon last time. Word's spreading. Even had a fellow from Piketon come up special to get one."

"It's the novelty," Aunt Ida said. "Watermelon in December. Like a magic trick."

"It's more than that," Pearl's mother said quietly. "It's hope, isn't it? A taste of summer when everything's frozen solid."

Pearl caught her mother's eye across the table and felt a current of understanding pass between them. They both knew what it meant to preserve something against its time—to hold back a portion of sweetness for the lean months. To make abundance last.

"The historian fellow came by the store yesterday," Pearl's father said, glancing her way. "Asking about the watermelons. Said he'd never heard of such a thing, storing them through winter."

Pearl kept her eyes on her plate. "Mr. Beaumont," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "He's documenting local practices for the Federal Writers' Project."

"Seems mighty interested in our little store," her father continued. "Asked a lot of questions."

"It's his job, Pa," Thomas said, reaching for more bread. "Government's paying him to be nosy."

"Well, he's welcome to write about the watermelons," her father conceded. "Might bring more customers. But I don't need any government men telling me how to run my business."

The twins exchanged glances. Emma, always bolder, spoke up. "Could we have watermelon for dessert next Sunday, instead of apple cake?"

"Watermelons are for selling, not eating," their father replied automatically. "That's how we pay for your new shoes."

"I saved the smallest one," Pearl said. "Put it aside last delivery. It wouldn't have brought much at the store."

Her father's eyebrows rose, but before he could object, her mother reached over and laid her hand on his. "What a fine idea," she said. "A watermelon winter, indeed."

Pearl watched her father's face soften at her mother's touch. For a moment, he looked younger, less worn by worry.

"Well," he said finally, "I suppose we should know if we're selling something worth having."

Outside, the early darkness of December settled over the snow-covered town, while inside, the family continued their meal, the conversation turning to other matters—Emma's schoolwork, the frozen pipes at the church, Thomas's thoughts of joining the Civilian Conservation Corps come spring. Pearl half-listened, her mind elsewhere, wondering if Mr. Beaumont—Daniel—was having his Sunday dinner alone at the boarding house, and what he would write in his notebook about a family that sold summer fruit in the depths of winter.