String Beans

A dew-spattered Eden of furrowed loam and half-gnawed fenceposts: Toby Watkins, hoe in one hand, battered notebook in the other, mutters iambs to the crows while his uncle snorts at such impractical music. The horizon, flat as a pressed flower, disgorges no listeners; Toby therefore hitches to Sawbert, a whistle-stop stitched together by gossip, porch swings, and the weekly thud of the Clarion. He becomes a door-to-door apostle of newsprint, collecting coins and confessions, until he collides with Jean Morris—mayor’s daughter, library devourer, keeper of secrets that taste of honeysuckle. Their courtship is a cautious two-step on the depot platform, eyes lowered, shoes scuffed, hearts loud as typewriter bells. Into this hush swaggers Kendall Reeves, a promoter whose grin glints like patent leather, promising prosperity via a cathedral of conveyor belts devoted to the humble string bean. The mayor, dazzled by dreams of tax receipts, signs on; the Clarion’s dyspeptic editor, Zachary Bartrum, sniffs sulfur beneath the perfume. A rhetorical duel is set for the town hall: Reeves’ silk tongue versus Bartrum’s ink-stained skepticism. But the editor is felled by a stroke of fever, shoving the poisoned microphone toward stammering Toby. Jean’s presence in the third row liquefies his resolve; he bolts, leaving Reeves to harvest applause. The next dawn, Toby eavesdrops on Joe Farley—a scarred ghost from Reeves’ past—demanding hush money. Reeves, alerted, storms the mayor’s parlor, revolver in hand, extorting five grand. Toby, propelled by shame and sonnet, crashes through the door, fists flailing like exclamation marks. Reeves is trussed for the sheriff; the mayor, chastened, buries the hatchet with Bartrum; Jean and Toby stroll into a sunset that smells of fresh newsprint and flowering beans.