versus vigilance and trots off. Three people have appeared from the newer of the two houses: a man in beige pants and a yellow polo-neck shirt, a woman in a light summer dress, and an older man in baggy jeans, a checkered shirt and a baseball cap. He seems to be in charge of the dog, because it bounds up to him and he pets it and tells it to sit by the house.
While the men loiter by the door, the woman comes forward, and for a crazy moment I feel like a European explorer making contact with a delegation of natives.
“Sorry ’bout that!” she shouts. And when she is in speaking distance she adds, “She’s only seven months old. We’re still training her.”
“That’s okay. No harm done. Hi, I’m Anna Lieberman.”
Up close she is a little older than I first guessed, in her mid-thirties and very lean, almost wiry. The flowery dress looks completely wrong on her. Why is she wearing clothes that suit her so little? Social convention? A concession to the prospective tenant? She introduces herself as Karen Walsh and takes me across the yard to meet the men.
Mr. Larsen, the Shaftsboro Realtor, has a muddy, paw-shaped smudge on his linen thigh and appears uncomfortable and out of place on a working farm. Howard Walsh, Sr., whose paunch is as substantial as Mr. Larsen’s but who looks strong as an ox, takes hardly any notice of me from under his cap but cannot very well avoid shaking my hand. I make a point of this, gripping his big, calloused hand for a fraction longer than he wants, and he briefly glances at me and actually takes off his cap. He has Paul Newman eyes and a handsome weather-beaten face.
“Well, ma’am, you better not get your hopes up too high,” he says. “Reckon our cabin ain’t what you’re looking for.”
“I’m very much looking forward to seeing it, sir.”
Seeing as I drove down from New York City today with that specific purpose.
“Go on in for a drink,” Karen Walsh says, and the men immediately turn and go back into the house.
Right. Drink and interview first. We sit around the massive kitchen table and Karen Walsh pours a dark golden-brown liquid from a big glass pitcher for all of us. It is so cold that the walls of my glass mist up, and a cautious sip reveals it to be extremely sweet black tea. Of course. Silly me. Welcome to the South. Unsure of protocol, I sip my tea, which is delicious in this hot weather, and answer the ritual questions about my trip down, the traffic around Washington, and whether I have ever visited these parts before. If this is an exam, I fail at least the last of these questions.
“Dr. Lieberman, if you’d like a cookie or a muffin?” Karen Walsh piles jugs and plates onto the table and finally sits down.
“Anna, please, if—if that’s okay.”
“What kind of a doctor are you, ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking?” The Paul Newman eyes look straight at me.
“Dr. Lieberman works at the Folly, Pop. Didn’t you hear Mr. Larsen say? These are blueberry and whole grain and these are chocolate chip.”
“Beats me why they wanna call their own business foolish,” Mr. Walsh observes deliberately. “I wouldn’t.”
“Thank you, they look delicious.” I smile up at Karen. “Actually, it’s a reference to an architectural—never mind. I’m in English literature.”
“So you’re a doctor in English literature from New York City, and now you want to live on a Piedmont tomato farm.” Mr. Walsh leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
“Y-Yes, sir, that about sums it up.”
He is much too reserved to ask why—let alone, as my big-city friends and relations did, why the hell?—I want to live on a tomato farm.
Why do I? I can’t really say, except that I knew right away that I am not interested in the Shaftsboro riverside lofts (“real popular with folk from your part of the country”) that Mr. Larsen made me look at on his website.
“And how long would you be planning on staying in the South, ma’am?”
I lean back in my chair and nerve myself to brave his subtle antagonism. “Three years at least, maybe six, maybe longer, if I get tenure.”
“What’s that thing my old father used to say?” Mr. Larsen turns to Mr. Walsh as if for information. “‘Yankees is like hemorrhoids—a pain when they come down and a relief when they go back up again.’”