The Tomato Jar

L.B. Stimson

 

Eva wove her way back through the gathering crowd in search of her parents, in her hands she tightly grasped a green candied apple, smoothly wrapped with sweet caramel. She proudly twirled the apple around by its slim, wooden stick for her three-person audience.

 

“Eva, where did you get that?” her mother inquired, knowing full well that her daughter had spent her precious few pennies on a batch of new hair ribbons.

 

“Oh, Mommy,” she replied. “A nice man near the apple stand said I was the prettiest girl at the fair and handed me the apple. Isn’t it delicious?” Eva was so excited with her special surprise that she failed to notice her mother’s struggle to retain a smile and even less able to notice her younger sister’s scowl.

 

Eva’s mother forced her attention back to the stage where her youngest daughter’s jar of canned tomatoes awaited its final judging. Clara stood between her parents, grasping both their hands in anticipation. The young girl shared both of her parents’ dusty, blond hair and blue eyes, but with her thick and sturdy waist and ankles, she more closely resembled her father in stature. The judge huddled down and slowly wrapped a golden string attached to a green ribbon around the lid of her jar. Clara had just earned an honorable mention for her carefully crafted canned tomatoes.

 

As the audience politely applauded, Clara shyly walked up the stairs to receive her recognition. Her parents beamed from below the stage, both were thrilled that the family recipe had earned Clara a ribbon in her very first fair entry. The girl retrieved her jar as the green ribbon twisted in the breeze. Clara was met at the bottom of the stairs by Eva, who was still gushing about her special treat. Clara glared at her older sister who shared their mother’s slender form, whilst crushing the ribbon in her sweaty palms. Once again, Eva had stolen a cherished moment.

 

Their father held that Eva was a miracle child. He firmly believed her dark hair and emerald-green eyes were a gift bestowed on her by God. Town folk speculated otherwise on the true origin of the the part-time pharmacist and full-time pastor’s “Miracle Child.” But for the pastor, Eva was a special blessing and he tried to love both daughters equally.

 

Clara’s mother gave her 12-year-old daughter a warm hug, thrilled her canning lessons and recipe had earned her an honorable and public recognition of her skills. Given Clara’s temperament and physical attributes, her mother knew building these special homemaking skills would give her a competitive edge and make her a good wife and mother one day.

 

Upon returning home from the fair, Eva’s mother showed symptoms of another nervous spell. Tiny beads of perspiration had started to form across her forehead before she reached the car. She rested her head on the open window frame on the drive home in hopes the air would provide her relief. As the car turned into the driveway, she sighed in relief as the engine shut down. She rushed to the front door and headed straight up the stairs. Her hands gripped the banister along the way as she searched for the safety of her bedroom.

 

Eva followed in quiet pursuit of her mother and when she heard the click of the door, she softly tiptoed up the stairs and sat down just outside the closed door. This time, she decided, she was determined to make sense of the inaudible mumblings her mother spoke whenever she suffered from a spell. The creaking of the rocker runners against the thin carpet drummed out her mother’s voice. Her incoherent mumblings matched the rhythmic motion of the rocker.

 

Seated in the chair, Eva’s mother repeatedly chanted, “I am a good wife. I am a good wife. I am a good mother. I am a good mother. I love my children. I love my children.”

 

Eva strained to hear her voice and make sense of the words.

 

“Eva!” her father called. “Leave your mother be.”

 

Reluctantly, but obediently, Eva left her place on the stairs and headed back down the staircase toward the kitchen where her father was pouring a glass of sherry for his wife. As a Baptist pastor, he frowned upon the use of alcohol but would afford his wife this one small comfort to ease her discomfort.

 

“Opens the door to the devil’s playground,” he always preached.

 

But he also allowed himself an occasional glass of scotch. He secretly purchased the bottle of sherry one afternoon on his way back from the city in hopes it would help to calm his wife’s nervous spells. The pastor had stopped seeking the help of doctors for her condition when one of them suggested Eva may be the root cause. The pastor had been firmly declaring his belief in the miracle of Eva since the day of her birth. She was a blessing and no doctor’s explanation or speculation was needed. The doctors at the city hospital only shook their heads as he refused to listen to their failing attempts to explain to him the science of conception and the immense odds against two blue-eyed, sandy blond-hair parents creating a child like Eva. They could only stand and shake their heads as the pastor and his quiet wife took their daughter home several days later.

 

After nearly an hour or so, his wife returned to the living room and the company of her family to listen to the nightly radio report. The year was 1937, and on most nights the family gathered to listen to the anonymous announcer’s voice crackle as he spoke about events in Europe. The times were changing and Eva often heard her parents thank the Lord for having given them two daughters. It was usually after the pastor turned off the sturdy Truetone radio that he poured himself a tumbler of scotch and set to writing his weekly sermon.

 

He was concerned for his daughters’ futures, especially Clara’s. If the U.S. joined the war effort, the chances of finding her a husband would be limited. Eva, though, he could see the wild look of adventure and confidence gleaming from her emerald eyes. Eva would and could take care of herself.

 

As the years stretched out and the war in Europe continued, the pastor woke one morning to learn that the battle had finally reached the shores of America. A week after the attack in Hawaii, he held a special prayer vigil on a chilly, grey afternoon before watching many of the town’s young men depart to enlist in battles on far distant shores. The pastor’s congregation was beginning to transform–from an active community of families to groups of men too old to fight and their nagging and worried wives–to single young women and boys too young to enlist.

 

For the next two years, the pastor prayed and preached on Sunday. He visited the families of fallen sons in an attempt to offer a solace he couldn’t quite understand. There were times he felt this resentment at his presence–he had two girls, what did he know about the pain of losing a son? He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but sometimes he could feel such accusations from grief-stricken mothers. During this time he filled more requests for headache powders and found himself pouring more than one tumbler of scotch while he wrote his sermons. The pastor struggled with balancing the spiritual and medicinal needs of his congregation. Strangely though, with the war in full swing, his wife’s nervous spells disappeared. He continued to make sure though that she had a glass or two of the secret sherry a few times a week.

 

May 1943, was a turning point for the family. On this day, a stranger, dressed in the latest fashions from New York, pulled his ’41 Ford Coupe into the pastor’s driveway. He had first stopped at the mayor’s office to explain his journalistic hopes in covering the effects of the war on small-town America. The mayor decided it wouldn’t be politically prudent to gossip about the personal struggles of his constituents and suggested he contact the town’s pastor.

 

Hearing the hum of an engine that didn’t resemble her father’s outdated ’37 Oldsmobile, Eva hopped up from her reading to take a peek. She pulled back the dingy lace curtains to see a grand, creme and white coupe with dusty white walls and a crimson roof idling in the driveway. Eva tingled at the excitement of the modern car and watched as a man, dressed in pressed gray slacks, anchored with pale-blue suspenders, step out from behind the driver’s side door. Eva’s mother opened the screen door as the stranger started up the stairs. She listened as her mother explained that her husband would be home in an hour or so he was welcomed to wait and join the family for dinner.

 

Eva ran upstairs and passed Clara who was slicing potatoes in the kitchen. After a quick fix of her hair, she walked back into the kitchen in time to see Clara extending her starch covered hand in an awkward handshake. Clara quickly resumed the meal preparations as Eva approached. Eva slyly curtsied before offering her hand in a firm, but teasing handshake. The difference between the two sisters was not lost on the stranger.

 

The pastor attempted to hide his irritation upon returning home to find that a reporter from an east coast paper was joining his family for dinner. The reporter explained that he would only use names with permission and that he would also report in general terms about the war time struggles of America’s heartland families. The pastor invited him to Sunday services but he made no promises about anyone sharing their struggles, especially anyone in his weakening congregation.The pastor bristled at the arrogance of this man and his east coast readers. Personal struggles were just that–personal–not something to muse about in a newspaper.

 

Eva offered to be the reporter’s chaperone during the next two weeks. She was thrilled with hearing more about life in the city and she peppered him non-stop throughout dinner about food and fashion and other social norms. The pastor was uneasy about his daughter’s eagerness to help the man, but finally agreed as he helped himself to another scoop of Clara’s potato casserole. Clara had learned from his wife the importance of making comfort food to ease his mind. After dinner, Clara showed the reporter the family’s pantry of canned goods and explained to him the importance of being prudent with their meal options. Eva, bored with such a mundane topic of conversation, planned her outfit for the next day’s adventure.

 

Over the course of the next two weeks Eva enchanted the reporter with her exuberance for a life beyond the small town’s borders. Eva, with her warm smile and sense of confidence, helped to encourage families throughout the community to talk to the reporter about life in the heartland. Eva proved herself to be instrumental to the success of the story and the reporter offered her a job as his assistant for the next few months. The young woman could barely contain herself at the thought of traveling to New York City and beyond. The reporter explained to her parents that she would be paid a fair wage, all of her expenses would be covered, and that hotel accommodations would be separate. He was first a gentleman and committed only to his profession.

 

The pastor agreed to the arrangement but only after his wife’s surprisingly quick nod of approval to Eva’s pleas. He assumed his wife was looking out for Clara’s best interest, for if any eligible young men were to return home, they would probably have an eye for Eva. On May 14, 1943, Eva loaded two suitcases into the back of the flashy Ford coupe and with quick hugs and a wave, she was gone.

 

It was nearing the first week of September when the tattered postcard arrived at the pastor’s home. It was from Eva. She wrote that she had been offered an extension as the reporter’s assistant. She was leaving for the west coast to explore the world of the Japanese internment camps. But first, she was coming home for a brief visit. The pastor decided that Eva’s homecoming was the perfect excuse for a picnic. He couldn’t remember the last time he or his congregation had gathered for any type of celebration. It never seemed appropriate. But, his Eva was coming home and he intended to celebrate.

 

At the request of her father, Clara took charge of the menu. There would be ham and mustard finger sandwiches, sliced cucumbers, chilled honeydew, and apple-cheese crisp. She would also make macaroni with tomatoes, served alongside a whole baked ham, cold-fried chicken, and deviled eggs. Clara busied herself with the extensive menu preparation over the next few days and refused the help of any of the ladies from the church. The celebration of her sister’s return would be nothing less than perfect.

 

Eva whipped the deluxe Ford coupe into her parents’ driveway. It had been nearly five months since she had left and in returning home, she noticed that nothing appeared to have changed. A row of tomatoes from the season’s last harvest sat in a neat line along the front porch railing. She could hear the clanking of pans from the open kitchen window and figured that Clara must be busy preparing the afternoon meal.

 

With her neatly manicured hand she reached over and popped the door latch. Eva firmly planted her newly purchased, velvet-wedge heeled shoes atop the gravel driveway. For the first time ever she felt unsteady on her feet but quickly blamed her new shoes. She wanted to look extra nice for her return home but now, she was starting to question her choice of outfit. Eva walked to the trunk of the car where she had a suitcase and a box of gifts securely tucked away.

 

As she reached the trunk’s latch she heard the familiar creak of the front door, and with great relief, she saw her father striding towards her.

 

“My darling, Eva,” he said, as he gave her a warm and welcomed hug. “Your mother and sister are in the kitchen. Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll bring your things.” He reached into the trunk and was quickly reminded that her single suitcase meant this would be a short visit.

 

As Eva approached the house, the gentle wave of a blue and white-checkered table cloth caught her eye. Four picnic tables, lined up like pews in the church, were set in the backyard and neatly covered with the special poplin cloths that Clara had packed away at the start of the war. ‘It wouldn’t be proper,’ she remembered Clara saying, ‘having anything festive and imprudent covering our tables while soldiers are dying.’ Eva cast her attention back to the front door and followed the voices echoing from the kitchen.

 

Her mother and Clara greeted her with timid hugs. Eva noticed Clara now wore her hair pulled up into a practical, but pretty bun. It suited her, as did the plain-cotton apron tied around her curved but solid waist. The pastor interrupted the awkward reunion by placing the box of gifts on the table. The edge of which knocked over the sugar cup; small grains of sweetness smattered across the freshly folded napkins.

 

“I’ve brought you all gifts.” Eva expounded on how she had carefully chosen each gift from a European boutique in New York City. “Here Mommy, you first, before the guests arrive.”

 

Eva handed her mother a slender box wrapped with a delicate, blue ribbon. Her mother’s trembling hands opened the box to reveal a cream-colored, silk scarf. Along its edges were intricately embroidered peacocks. The plumes were arrayed in various positions of grandeur and vivid, almost unnatural colors, clashed with the soft-cream background.

 

“Don’t you just love it! It’s from Paris!” Eva’s shrill voice echoed in her mother’s ears.

 

The pastor watched tears form in the creases of his wife’s eyes. Without a word, she tenderly hugged the scarf and left the room. It was then, with great resignation, as he watched his wife’s departure, that the pastor allowed himself to accept that Eva may have something to do with his wife’s spells. Eva hid her disappointment at her mother’s withdrawal and turned back to her father.

 

“Daddy, please! Open your gift next.”

 

The pastor’s concern for his wife was diverted back to Eva and the box she thrust into his hands. He removed the lid to reveal a tightly coiled black leather belt.

 

“It’s handcrafted leather!” Eva delighted in her own words and the pastor smiled at her impractical exuberance over a belt.

 

“Thank you, Eva,” he quietly replied, and then set about as to how he would wear such a belt with his modest Sunday suit.

 

Clara waited. Her eyes were focused on the square box just out of reach near Eva.

 

“Clara,” her sister remarked. “As soon as I saw this, I immediately thought of you.” Eva handed her sister the box.

 

It was heavy. Clara dared to fantasize it was a lead crystal vase or tumblers, something just as elegant as the belt and scarf. The gold box was wrapped with a shimmering crimson ribbon. Clara pinched the edges of the ribbon and swiftly pulled the bow apart. Using both her hands, her fingers gently lifted the box top to expose the round, golden lid of a jar.

 

“Go ahead,” Eva urged. “Take it out.”

 

Clara grasped the rounded edge and pulled out the jar. She firmly planted the jar between her sister and herself. The label read, “Sun-dried Tomatoes–Imported.”

 

Clara offered up a polite smile of gratitude, hoping it masked her disappointment. Both sisters sat quietly for an endless moment and then, Clara felt the sensation of her simmering taste buds slowly build within her. She quickly chastised herself for the thought of enjoying such an impractical delicacy. It was in this quiet moment though that Clara finely felt a connection to her sister. For the first time in twenty years, Clara saw life through Eva’s glimmering, vibrant-green eyes.

 

Clara leaned over and hugged her sister and politely excused herself. She took the jar and headed to her room. At the top of the stairs, she heard the familiar creak of her mother’s rocking chair. After all these years, the rhythmic melody still unnerved her. This time though, her mother’s voice was silent. There was no mumbling that her ears could strain to hear.

 

Clara retreated to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. After a firm twist, the lid gave way to a lively pop, she allowed herself to enjoy the wild, aromatic perfume of the contents. Clara plucked out one of the slices and placed it in her mouth. Her teeth gently tore into the thick flesh of the tender tomato. A slight trickle of olive oil escaped down her chin and glistened across her lips. Clara laid back on her bed, her head sinking into her pillow as she tightly curled her toes. She then offered up a quiet prayer thanking God for Eva.