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Authors: Vickie Hall
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glanced at her watch and frowned. “Well, let me check with Mr. Sutter.”
“Sutter? Of Johnson, Peck, and Sutter?”
“Junior,” Christine added and smiled. “Be right back.”
Bonnie let her eyes roam about the office with its dark paneled walls and paintings of
woodlands. A deep burgundy leather sofa graced one wall opposite Christine’s desk, and there was a
bookshelf filled with framed awards, statuettes, and musty books. The atmosphere, and surely the
pay, she thought, was superior to the noisy din of the exchange. Maybe I should go to secretarial school…
“All set,” Christine said, opening a drawer of her desk to retrieve her purse.
Christine led Bonnie along 16 th Street until they came to F. W. Woolworth. She opened the glass
door and turned to Bonnie. “The lunch counter is fast and cheap,” she said with a congenial laugh.
“And they make a good cup of coffee.”
Bonnie and Christine waded through the shoppers, past aisles of kitchen goods and bolts of
fabric, stationery, and children’s toys. The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air like a
scented trail leading to the luncheonette. The length of the lunch counter sparkled with chrome and
bright lighting. Christine spotted two empty chrome-backed stools and hurried forward before they
were taken. “We’re lucky,” she said, swiveling the stool and dropping her body onto it
unceremoniously. “Sometimes you have to wait.”
Bonnie sat beside her and reached for a menu tucked away behind the sugar and salt and pepper.
“I got an apartment,” she announced.
Christine smiled and opened her menu. “Good. Where’d you end up?”
“The Drake.”
“That’s pretty expensive, isn’t it?”
Bonnie couldn’t tip her hand about the money she’d brought with her from San Diego, and she
didn’t earn enough from the exchange job to warrant the expensive apartment. She ran her finger
over her earlobe. “Well, yes, but I have the money from Jimmy’s life insurance—”
Christine saw the waitress pause in front of them, her order pad in hand. “I’ll have a tuna
sandwich and a strawberry shake.”
Bonnie couldn’t abide the sight of a strawberry. Just the smell of them sent her stomach roiling.
She could still feel their sticky juice clinging to her fingers when she pinched the fruit too hard as it
was picked. For every strawberry she ruined, it was another strike against her, another excuse to feel
her father’s wrath.
Bonnie sat in the shade of the truck bed to escape the brutal heat. She held the hem of her dirty, ragged dress in
her fingers and manipulated the fabric until it resembled a make-believe doll. She hummed softly to herself, imagining
the doll imbued with curly hair, blinking eyes, and a chattering voice.
All around her, bent and aching bodies trudged up and down the endless rows of strawberries, picking and
packing the crimson fruit beneath the broiling California sun. She turned her head and saw her mother’sfrail frame
hovering over the plants of ripened fruit, her fingernails lined with dirt, her hair tied into a scarf and topped with a
wide-brimmed straw hat. She saw her mother pause a moment and drag her arm across her sweaty forehead, heave a
sigh, and return to the harvest.
Bonnie kept a wary eye peeled for her father. She knew that her stolen moment in the shade of the truck was a
danger, but she was exhausted and overheated. She’d worked all morning until her back ached so much she could
barely stand the pain. She wondered how her mother could continue for so many hours each day.
With her attention on her mother, Bonnie failed to see the set of boots land next to her. She jerked her head in
panic at the sound and pulled her legs up to her chest in a defensive posture. The man squatted in front of her, and
Bonnie smiled and relaxed. “Hi, Pablo.”
“Hola, Miss Bonnie.” He smiled. His dark eyes were friendly. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the grimy
sweat from his brow. “Should you be
“Sutter? Of Johnson, Peck, and Sutter?”
“Junior,” Christine added and smiled. “Be right back.”
Bonnie let her eyes roam about the office with its dark paneled walls and paintings of
woodlands. A deep burgundy leather sofa graced one wall opposite Christine’s desk, and there was a
bookshelf filled with framed awards, statuettes, and musty books. The atmosphere, and surely the
pay, she thought, was superior to the noisy din of the exchange. Maybe I should go to secretarial school…
“All set,” Christine said, opening a drawer of her desk to retrieve her purse.
Christine led Bonnie along 16 th Street until they came to F. W. Woolworth. She opened the glass
door and turned to Bonnie. “The lunch counter is fast and cheap,” she said with a congenial laugh.
“And they make a good cup of coffee.”
Bonnie and Christine waded through the shoppers, past aisles of kitchen goods and bolts of
fabric, stationery, and children’s toys. The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air like a
scented trail leading to the luncheonette. The length of the lunch counter sparkled with chrome and
bright lighting. Christine spotted two empty chrome-backed stools and hurried forward before they
were taken. “We’re lucky,” she said, swiveling the stool and dropping her body onto it
unceremoniously. “Sometimes you have to wait.”
Bonnie sat beside her and reached for a menu tucked away behind the sugar and salt and pepper.
“I got an apartment,” she announced.
Christine smiled and opened her menu. “Good. Where’d you end up?”
“The Drake.”
“That’s pretty expensive, isn’t it?”
Bonnie couldn’t tip her hand about the money she’d brought with her from San Diego, and she
didn’t earn enough from the exchange job to warrant the expensive apartment. She ran her finger
over her earlobe. “Well, yes, but I have the money from Jimmy’s life insurance—”
Christine saw the waitress pause in front of them, her order pad in hand. “I’ll have a tuna
sandwich and a strawberry shake.”
Bonnie couldn’t abide the sight of a strawberry. Just the smell of them sent her stomach roiling.
She could still feel their sticky juice clinging to her fingers when she pinched the fruit too hard as it
was picked. For every strawberry she ruined, it was another strike against her, another excuse to feel
her father’s wrath.
Bonnie sat in the shade of the truck bed to escape the brutal heat. She held the hem of her dirty, ragged dress in
her fingers and manipulated the fabric until it resembled a make-believe doll. She hummed softly to herself, imagining
the doll imbued with curly hair, blinking eyes, and a chattering voice.
All around her, bent and aching bodies trudged up and down the endless rows of strawberries, picking and
packing the crimson fruit beneath the broiling California sun. She turned her head and saw her mother’sfrail frame
hovering over the plants of ripened fruit, her fingernails lined with dirt, her hair tied into a scarf and topped with a
wide-brimmed straw hat. She saw her mother pause a moment and drag her arm across her sweaty forehead, heave a
sigh, and return to the harvest.
Bonnie kept a wary eye peeled for her father. She knew that her stolen moment in the shade of the truck was a
danger, but she was exhausted and overheated. She’d worked all morning until her back ached so much she could
barely stand the pain. She wondered how her mother could continue for so many hours each day.
With her attention on her mother, Bonnie failed to see the set of boots land next to her. She jerked her head in
panic at the sound and pulled her legs up to her chest in a defensive posture. The man squatted in front of her, and
Bonnie smiled and relaxed. “Hi, Pablo.”
“Hola, Miss Bonnie.” He smiled. His dark eyes were friendly. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the grimy
sweat from his brow. “Should you be
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