Jack shoots her a startled look, his heart hurrying in his chest, but if she meant anything by that last statement, there’s no telling it from her daffy smile and bright eyes. He picks through the seeds some more. Another envelope is marked “Rocket.” The doodle shows the tip of a missile sticking out of the ground.

“You can’t plant that either.”

“There’s rockets planted all over this country. Enough to kill everyone on the planet ten times over.”

The next envelope is marked “Mums.” The doodle shows a sunny golden flower with a smiling face peeking out of it. The flower wears a dress and holds a child’s hand.

“Twenty-five cents,” the old lady says. “Go on and grow yourself a mum. Grow yourself lots of ’em. All the mums you could ever need.”

“Come on, bud,” Beth says, carrying her purchase away in a brown paper bag, hugging it to her lovely bosom.

The old lady picks the envelope of mums out of the box and holds it out to him. “Prettiest mums you ever did see. Pretty and hardy. Give ’em something to drink, a little sun, a little love, and they’ll shoot up and love you right back, Jack.”

Jack’s shoulders jump in a nervous jerk of surprise. It alarms him to think she knows his name. But no—wait. She doesn’t (can’t) know it . . . she just liked the rhyme, “back” and “jack.” Any boy can be a bud or a mac or a jack.

He fishes a quarter out of the pocket of his bib overalls. She snatches it like a bird snapping a seed out of the dirt. She gazes avidly down at it, then turns it so he can see the raised image of President Washington.

“Why, it’s my portrait!” she caws. “A perfect likeness!”

“Jack!” Beth shouts. She’s at the truck, one foot on the running board. “Come on!”

Jack takes his envelope of mums and trots after her.

“Everything good must be paid for,” the old lady says. “And everything wicked, too . . . everything wicked, especially. Reaping time always comes round. The corn falls to the scythe, sure as water runs downhill! Ha-ha!” She claps her hands as if she has said something quite clever.

“Psycho bitch,” Beth says when the truck is moving again. “I ought to be glad she didn’t bite one of us.” She sees Jack turning the manila envelope over in one hand. “What’d you get? You buy yourself some flowers?”

“Dad said I could plant something for Bloom,” Jack says. He has taken to calling his mother by her first name, same as the others.

“Aw,” Beth says. “You are a darling. Can I help?”