Charlie eased the old Chevy pickup truck over to the side of the highway and rolled into the gravel parking lot beside the gas station. The suspension groaned under the load as he parked the truck in his usual spot under the limbs of the pecan grove.

Lord, it was hot today. Ninety-eight degrees the weatherman at WZMR country radio had just said. Thanks for the reminder, Charlie thought as he switched off the ignition. He left the radio on as the familiar strains of Alan Jackson's latest hit started to play.

Bobby Lee's gas station was already up and running. The owner was Charlie's second cousin on his mother's side. Family ties meant a lot to folks here in Stony Creek. Although Charlie didn't have any real close family left hereabouts, he knew that Bobby Lee would always be the best kind of family.

That's how he had managed to get such a good space to sell his ripened peaches. Everybody loved his peaches down here. Sometimes it was as if he were a one man PR outfit for the Georgia state fruit. Maybe he should be getting a tax break for doing such a fine job.

Charlie had spent all winter worrying about a hard freeze coming on and ruining the crop. But the early months of the year had been mild even though the supposed experts down at the co-op had predicted different. Light snow had given over to early rains and mild temperatures making the trees bud in early March. And after that the fruit had come on like thunder. Why, he hadn't seen quantities like this in years.

His Daddy had been a peach grower, best in the county some said. Working dawn to dusk and beyond, the old man had put himself in an early grave worrying about the crop. Ain't gonna happen to me, Charlie thought. Even with Mom gone from the cancer that ate at her for years, Pop had managed to do right by his family. Charlie could never remember wanting for anything he really needed.

The pickers had arrived just in time this season, Charlie recalled. As always he let them set up camp in his large side yard for the week. The same Mexican families that had served his daddy still came in their campers and rusty pickups to his place every year. Hardest working people he'd ever seen. Charlie gave them firewood, food and the best pay around. In return he had the privilege of sitting by their campfires and listening to them play on their big boxy guitars while singing plaintive songs about old Mexico.

The buyers from Atlanta had visited him twice this year. Savvy businessmen in designer work shirts usually made him nervous with their fancy talk and chemical testing kits, but not this year. One look at his trees and they had bought the whole crop for their chain of grocery stores. The thought made Charlie smile; he liked the part where they gave him half the money up front and the balance upon delivery.

And now with the crop hauled off in huge trucks he had paid off the winter's debts, stashed some money in the bank and paid off his workers. Charlie was a free man once again. Time enough to enjoy the rest of the summer and sell the few peaches left in his private stock.

With the main orchards cleaned up Charlie should have taken a well deserved vacation. But if he went to the beach again he'd have to endure the endless questioning of every guy in town when he came back. Stony Creek was too small for him to go off somewhere and not have everybody find out. "See any pretty girls wearing those bikini bathing suits?" he'd be asked. Sure he saw lots of bikinis, and the women spilling their fleshy parts out all over the place. It wasn't that they weren't there; it was that he just didn't care to look at it. There was no way he could go around Stony Creek explaining his attitude about that to anyone.

He really liked it here; this is where his roots began. So Charlie spent his days sitting under an umbrella and watching the world go by on the Interstate. Old 16 was the east-west connector running right through the middle of Georgia. Most of those folks zooming by at seventy miles an hour were heading east to link up with the north-south race track known as Interstate 95.

Stony Creek was just in the right place too. The flow of tourist traffic looking to fill up their tanks at Bobby Lee's place was enough to give Charlie a brisk business most any day of the week. It was a good thing he'd held back a small grove of his trees, fruit was going fast. Adding to that demand were the Lady's Club pie bakers, the Little League fundraisers and the County Fair in August. It was a damn good thing he'd had a bumper crop this year.

The peach, a magnificent fruit, Charlie thought. He liked everything about the round fuzzy shape and the way the juice ran from the corners of his mouth when he bit into one. He was sure to have eaten a couple thousand of them in his life already. Life sure was grand when something so simple gave you such great pleasure.

"So come on Charles," Charlie said to no one in particular," you ain't gettin' any younger just sitting here staring out through that bug splattered windshield."

Charlie set up his table, which consisted of two sawhorses and six planks. Didn't pay to look too prosperous; folks wouldn't buy produce from a rich man. The faded umbrella went up before he started pulling the baskets of fruit off the back of the truck. This being a Wednesday morning he put up the ten dollars a bushel sign. Charlie always charged a little more on the weekends but lowered the price during the week to boost sales. He imagined that this year he could charge twenty dollars a bushel every day of the week if he wanted, the crop was that good.

It didn't matter what he charged, the tourists seemed to pay whatever he asked. And speaking of tourists, he noticed the lady in the cream colored station wagon leave the gas pumps and drive towards his stand. She had three young kids in the car and a beautiful collie dog. They all had to pile out and look at his peaches.

Charlie just sat on his folding chair under the umbrella and adjusted his straw hat. The hat was part of his image too. At six-foot two and strong as an ox, Charlie liked to project the image of a simple country man. He knew the tourists liked to think they were dealing with local country folk. Didn't matter that he had four thousand acres of trees back up Stony Creek Road, here he had to look the part of a poor man.

The lady bought two bushels and Charlie pocketed the money. Tax free money it was too. No sense in giving any of this cash to Uncle Sam or the Governor, they would just waste it anyway. He loaded the baskets in the back of the wagon and gave the kids some dried peaches in a little baggie. They politely said, "Thank you, mister," which told him that momma was raising her kids the right way. He tipped his hat to the folks as they drove off and Charlie smiled at the collie looking back at him through the rear window. He wondered if he ought to get himself a dog like that.

Charlie settled back down in his chair and picked up the morning paper out of Atlanta. Baseball was in the headlines again. He wasn't a sports fan but the Braves had done pretty well so far this season. The economy wasn't doing all that well but the produce market was still strong. Guess he'd made the right decision to stay in the peach business, folks gotta eat.

A small story on the second page caught his eye. Another kid had gone missing in the Statesboro area. That made the third one this year, he recalled. The police seemed to think that all of them were runaways, mostly because they were teenage boys.

The small picture of the latest kid showed a sweet faced youth of fourteen or fifteen. Now what would make a kid like that up and run from home, Charlie wondered? With Statesboro so close to the Interstate it would be easy for a kid to stick out a thumb and disappear.

Charlie had hitch-hiked a bit when he was that age. Back in the sixties it was normal to see kids out looking for rides. But now? No, Charlie wouldn't recommend it to anyone now. Besides the cops didn't allow it much anymore. So how did those boys get away with it?

He made a hundred and sixty dollars by noon and it wasn't getting any cooler under the umbrella. He started thinking about walking down to Sally's place for lunch. A sandwich with a side order of fries and a tall glass of iced tea sounded mighty appealing. He didn't worry about leaving the stand by itself when he wandered off like that. Who would steal peaches?

Charlie was about to take off when he noticed a boy sitting across the road on the guard rail that ran down from the Interstate. Now where did that one come from? A hitchhiker, Charlie thought, looking at the backpack and rolled up sleeping bag. Maybe he was a runaway headed for Florida. They had a few of those come through Stony Creek every year. Usually the sheriff rousted them out from under a bridge and drove them down to the county line. Considering the reputation of most southern lawmen the strangers rarely came back.

Nice looking kid too, Charlie thought. Long blonde hair blowing out from under a baseball cap, the boy was mighty young to be out on the Interstate all alone. Charlie walked over to the edge of the road and ran across between the passing cars. The kid saw him coming and began to pick up his stuff. Charlie held up both hands and then motioned for the boy to come over. The kid hesitated.

"Hey," Charlie yelled over the traffic noise on the Interstate above. "You hungry?" The kid nodded an affirmative. "Well then come on, let's go eat, kiddo," Charlie said as he got closer to the boy.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. "Are you a deputy?"

"Me? I ain't no damn cop," Charlie stopped and laughed. "I'm just a hungry farmer who's willing to share the wealth with a starving kid like you. Are you coming or not?"'

The kid approached and they walked back across the road together. Charlie gave the kid a mental once over. Designer shirt, fancy jeans and those expensive sneakers, what have we got here? The boy locked his stuff up in the truck and they trudged down the road towards Sally's. The kid looked like he was sixteen but Charlie hoped he was older than that. Wouldn't do at all, the road had a way of eating up kids that young.

"I'm Charlie Banks, most folks just call me Charlie. What's your name?"

"Brad, Brad...."

"Brad will do," Charlie interrupted," I don't want to know your family tree. Been on the road long?"

"Five days," Brad said.

"Then you must be hungry. Can't imagine you've been staying in first class hotels and ordering room service."

Brad laughed at the thought. "I've slept under some pretty classy bridges though."

Charlie laughed back. "You can tell me about it if you want, but first I gotta have lunch."

When they reached the door Brad held it open for Charlie. Oh, the kid had some manners. Charlie led the way inside and gave a shiver at the blast of air conditioning. Damn, no matter how hot it was he didn't like artificial air, although he'd had it installed some years ago at the farm to ease his mother's last days.

Sally's was the most popular lunch spot around and for good reason. Sally Gordon had been the owner for almost thirty years and her husband, son and daughter-in-law ran the kitchen. You could damn near eat off her spotless floors, and the red leatherette booths were real comfortable to sit on. The classic stainless steel interior was right out of the Fifties, complete with a juke box station at every table.

They took a booth at the back and their waitress handed over a couple of plastic laminated menus. "What can I get you to drink, baby?" she asked.

"Come on, Louise, I ain't your baby and I never will be," Charlie said. "Sweet tea, if you please darling, and whatever the boy wants."

"I'll have the same," Brad said.

"You can order anything you like," Charlie said after she left to get their drinks.

"I don't have much money," Brad said.

"I said it was my treat, Brad. After all, the South is known for its hospitality and I wouldn't want a Yankee like you thinking any different. If you're really hungry then I suggest you order Sally's Ranch platter, enough food for an army."

The waitress came back with their tea and Brad got the platter while Charlie ordered a burger and fries. Once again they were alone.

"Where you headed?" Charlie asked.

"Florida. Someplace where it stays warm in winter," Brad said. "I come from New Hampshire."

"I was wondering where you got that accent. New Hampshire, huh? How did you get this far off Interstate 95?"

"The guy I was riding with yesterday turned towards Atlanta without telling me. I had to backtrack down Interstate 16 and this is as far as I got," Brad said.

"Well, you're almost headed back to where you want to go. Is anyone after you?"

"After me? Oh, you mean like the cops? No way, I never break the law."

"Hitchhiking on the Interstate is against the law," Charlie said.

"That's why I stay on the ramp. State police just breeze by on the highway, I've seen lots of them the past few days. Only cops that hassle me are the locals and I hear they usually just give you a ride into the next county."

"Then what are you running from, Brad?" Charlie asked and then held up his hands." Don't have to tell me if you don't want. I'm just being nosey."

Brad looked down in his lap and then sighed. "I got no one left up there, Charlie. My folks died when I was younger and so I went to my uncle's house. He got shot during a holdup at his store and died three weeks ago. The cops said I was going to a foster home so I hit the road."

"Hmm, mighty sad story, boy. But if I was gonna lie I'd say it different. Say that your father passed away and your mom remarried. The step-father was an evil bastard who used to beat you when he got drunk. You two finally had a big fight and the guy threw you out so you hit the road."

Brad sat looking down at his glass of tea as Charlie asked.

"Did he abuse you, Brad?"

The boy slowly nodded and then looked up. "How did you know?"

"You're wearing some pretty expensive clothes and those sneakers cost at least a hundred fifty bucks a pair. You have several scars on the side of your head, wounds ain't that old either. The marks on your wrists tell me somebody has tied you up recently. It all adds up to abuse."

"It was my Uncle Dean. He took me in when I was ten. When my father died my mom just couldn't look after me well enough. I put up with six long years of shit from that man and I just couldn't take another minute."

"Did you hurt him back?" Charlie asked.

"I hit him with a baseball bat. They took him to the hospital and I ran."

Their food came and the conversation stopped while Brad put a dent in the steak and potatoes on his plate. Ten plus six equals sixteen, Charlie thought to himself. Damn, the kid was mighty young to be out by himself like this. But the story didn't ring true either. No, Brad was chowing down and didn't seem the least bit upset over what he had left behind.

"You always had a sixth-sense for nonsense," his mother had always told him. Charlie knew Brad was stretching the truth. But if the boy was going to lie to him there was nothing he could do about it. He didn't want to interrogate the boy, maybe if he had more time.

Charlie pushed his plate away and took another sip of tea. "You got folks in Florida?"

Brad shook his head to answer negative because his mouth was full of steak. This kid's problems weren't going to solve themselves alone. Brad was starting to look exhausted as he finished the meal. Too many days on the run, too much tension. The boy needed a bath and a soft bed to recover. Maybe then he'll tell me the truth, Charlie thought.

"How about you come home with me for a few days," Charlie said. "You need to clean up and rest. No pressure, I'm just making the offer."

"I don't know," Brad said. "I should keep going."

"Ok, just trying to help out. If you change your mind the next few days just come back to the gas station and ask Bobby Lee to call me. Everyone here knows Charlie."

He paid for the lunch and tipped the waitress three dollars. Brad followed him back up the road in silence until they got back to the truck. The boy slipped on his backpack and picked up the bedroll.

"Thanks, Charlie. It was a kind thing you did for me. Hope you sell all your peaches."

"You be careful out there, boy. Lot's of strange characters run up and down the Interstate. Have a safe trip and look me up if you ever come back this way." He shook Brad's hand and then settled back under his umbrella to watch.

The boy had just reached the ramp of the Interstate when Lyle pulled up under the bridge in his patrol car. Uh oh, Charlie thought, why did it have to be Lyle? Brad saw the sheriff's car and walked back across the road. Lyle got out and stood there waiting for the boy to approach. Instead Brad made a ninety degree turn and walked into Bobby Lee's station.

Lyle stood there for about five minutes waiting on the boy. Brad finally came out with a soda in his hand and walked right over to Charlie's truck.

"Guess I won't be hitching a ride today," Brad said, nodding his head towards the sheriff's car, "Does your offer still stand?"

"Cheating Lyle out of a bust will make my day," Charlie laughed. " Help me load up these peaches and we'll head on home."

"I don't want to stop your business. You need to sell these peaches, don't you?"

"You think I do this for a living?" Charlie snorted. "I do this for fun, Brad. Come on home with me and I'll show you why."

Brad and Charlie took down the signs and umbrella. As they loaded up the peaches Lyle got back in the patrol car and seemed to lose interest. With a spray of gravel he gunned the engine and took off up onto the Interstate. "Dumb hard headed son of a bitch, glad to see him go," Charlie said.

"You know that deputy?" Brad asked.

"We went to high school together," Charlie said. "I kicked his ass once upon a time. He can't do anything about it and that's all I can say about that."

"You kicked his ass?" Brad said. The look of awe on the boy's face changed to a smile. "Why did you do that?"

"Long story. Given time I might even tell you," Charlie said.



On to Chapter Two

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What a Peach is © 2005 - 2006 by Chris James.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.


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