Blaze

They arrived. The low blueberry bushes were in full fruit. Harry and Douglas Bluenote dropped the truck tailgates and everyone jumped down. The field had been divided into strips with white cloth pennants fluttering from low stakes. Another truck — older, bigger — pulled up. This one had high canvas sides. It was driven by a small black man named Sonny. Blaze never heard Sonny say a single word.

The Bluenotes gave their crew short, close-tined blueberry rakes. Only Blaze did not get one. “The rake is designed to take nothin but ripe berries,” Bluenote said. Behind him, Sonny got a fishing pole and creel out of the big truck. He clapped a straw hat on his head and started across the field toward a line of trees. He didn’t look back.

“But,” Bluenote said, raising a finger, “bein an invention of human hand, it ain’t perfect. It’ll get some leaves and greenies as well. Don’t let that worry you, or slow you down. We pick em over back at the barn. And you’ll be there, so don’t worry we’re shorting your wages. Got that?”

Brian and Toe-Jam, who would be inseparable pals by the end of the day, stood side by side, arms folded. They both nodded.

“Now, just so’s you know,” Bluenote went on. His strange pale eyes glittered. “I get twenty-six cents the quart. You get seven cents. Makes it sound like I’m makin nineteen cents a quart on the sweat of your brow, but it ain’t so. After all expenses, I make ten cents the quart. Three more’n you. That three cents is called capitalism. My field, my profit, you take a share.” He repeated: “Just so’s you know. Any objections?”

There were no objections. They seemed hypnotized in the hot morning sunshine.

“Okay. I got me a driver; that be you, Hoss. I need a counter. You, kid. What’s your name?”

“Uh, John. John Cheltzman.”

“Come over here.”

He helped Johnny up into the back of the truck with the canvas sides and explained what had to be done. There were stacks of galvanized steel pails. He was to run and hand one to anyone who called for a bucket. Each empty bucket had a blank strip of white adhesive tape on the side. Johnny had to print the picker’s name on each full bucket. Full buckets were tucked into a slotted frame that kept them from falling over and spilling while the truck was moving. There was also an ancient, dusty chalkboard to keep running totals on.

“Okay, son,” Bluenote said. “Get em to line up and give em their buckets.”

John went red, cleared his throat, and whispered for them to line up. Please. He looked as though he expected to be ganged-up on. Instead, they lined up. Some of the girls were putting on headscarves or tucking gum into their mouths. John handed them buckets, printing their names on the ID tapes in big black capital letters. The boys and girls chose their rows, and the day’s work began.

Blaze stood beside the truck and waited. There was a great, formless excitement in his chest. To drive had been an ambition of his for years. It was as if Bluenote had read the secret language of his heart. If he meant it.

Bluenote walked over. “What do they call you, son? Besides Hoss?”

“Blaze, sometimes. Sometimes Clay.”

“Okay, Blaze, c’mere.” Bluenote led him to the cab of the truck and got behind the wheel. “This is a three-speed International Harvester. That means it’s got three gears ahead and one for reverse. This here stickin up from the floor’s the gearshift. See it?”

Blaze nodded.

“This I got my left foot on is the clutch. See that?”

Blaze nodded.

“Push it in when you want to shift. When you got the gearshift where you want it, let the clutch out again. Let it out too slow and she’ll stall. Let it out too fast — pop it — and you’re apt to spill all the berries and knock your friend on his fanny into the bargain. Because she’ll jerk. You understand?”

Blaze nodded. The boys and girls had already worked a little distance up their first rows. Douglas Bluenote walked from one to the next, showing them the best way to handle the rake and avoid blisters. He also showed them the little wrist-twist at the end of each pull; that spilled out most of the leaves and little twigs.

The elder Bluenote hawked and spat. “Don’t worry about y’gears. To start with, all you need to worry about is reverse and low range. Now watch here and I’ll show you where those two are.”

Blaze watched. It had taken him years to get the hang of addition and subtraction (and carrying numbers had been a mystery to him until John told him to think of it like carrying water). He picked up all the basic driving skills in the course of one morning. He stalled the truck only twice. Bluenote later told his son that he had never seen anyone learn the delicate balance between clutch and accelerator so quickly. What he said to Blaze was, “You’re doin good. Keep the tires off the bushes.”