“Divine Beings” by Michelle Lawrence, page 4
Max squinted at me, clearly annoyed with my lecturing. He didn’t say anything, so I picked up my bag and went back to the bedroom. Most evenings Max was too busy sketching and carving to come to bed on time; I kept waking up in the morning to find him asleep on the couch, a throw over his shoulders and shavings stuck in his hair. I’d taken to grading in bed, now, since nothing else happened there in favor of babying the seedlings and carving the molds. He used the want ads I’d leave on the kitchen counter to catch the dust and curls that would drop when he gently blew the molds clean.
By the end of June he produced his first small crop: four zephyr squash, the bottoms a bright alien green and the tops a sunny yellow. Each looked like a crude Voodoo doll and when he deemed them not Jesus-y enough, I chopped them in the food processor, imagining they were Ruth Ann. I poured the macerated squash into a plastic bowl, put a lid on it, and shoved it into the fridge. I made a mental note to ask one of our neighbors for her zucchini muffin recipe.
By the end of June he produced his first small crop: four zephyr squash, the bottoms a bright alien green and the tops a sunny yellow. Each looked like a crude Voodoo doll and when he deemed them not Jesus-y enough, I chopped them in the food processor, imagining Ruth Ann in their appearance. I poured the macerated squash into a plastic bowl. I made a mental note to ask one of our neighbors for her zucchini muffin recipe, put a lid on the bowl, and shoved it into the fridge.
By July he’d gotten it right. Each morning he would rotate the molds so that the sun could shine on a different section of the fruit, never letting them get too pale. Fifteen zucchini, each a good six inches long, came out of the molds and into Max’s eager hands looking more Jesus-like than I’d thought he could manage. He let out a cheer that I heard clear inside before he rushed in the back door, the fruit piled in his shirt like a pioneer woman carrying apples in her apron. He dumped them all onto the kitchen table and we rushed to catch them before they rolled off. I held one vertically, and looked at Max from the corner of my eye.
“Wow,” I said, both impressed and uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” he answered. A grin spread across his face. He took the Jesus from my hand and held it up to the ceiling light like an offering, gazing up at it in rapturous delight. “It’s perfect.”
By the following Saturday he secured a spot at the open-air farmer’s market in the parking lot of Wal-Mart and PetSmart. Surrounded by booths of local honey, home-baked breads and early sweet corn, Max displayed his Jesus Zucchini on a folding table he borrowed from his mother’s church. Ruth Ann had been happy to help by letting her son use the table in return for including pamphlets for the church with each purchase. The first day, Max sold ten zucchini at eight dollars each. They were organic, he argued, so he could charge more than those pears had sold for in China.
The Saturday after that, I stayed home, but word had gotten out, and he sold his entire supply of thirty by noon.
“You should’ve seen it, Lara!” he crowed, pride straining his voice, “people surrounded the table with cash in their hands!”
By the end of the month, Max’s inbox was full; people emailed requesting special orders. Others started calling, leaving messages until the voicemail was full, asking if Max could place Jesus in different positions, maybe one with His hands up in the air like that giant statue down the highway that had burned down after being struck by lightning.
Ruth Ann got Max to go to church with her on Sunday.
“You should have seen it, Lara!” he repeated. “The entire congregation prayed for the success of the business, and they’ve donated their own gardens and zucchinis for molding!”
“Zucchini,” I whispered, knowing this had gotten way out of hand, but at a loss for wrangling our lives back under control. “Are you going back next Sunday?” I asked, and he said yes.