Gourd News, Bad News

By Pamela Love

“Mr. Thompson left his house, truck, and bank account to you, Courtney. Kim, he left you his… catapult.” I gritted my teeth, bracing myself for the older sister’s understandable outrage. Dealing with this kind of reaction is the toughest part of my job.

But it was Courtney who sprang to her feet. “You got the catapult? Considering what you inherited from Mom, is that fair?”

Kim ran a hand through her graying curls. “I helped build it.”

“But I’ve been helping him with it every Pumpkin Destruction Day since. You never showed up. Do you even remember how to use it?” Courtney slapped my desk. Pens jumped.

Hoping to play peacemaker at this dispute’s unexpected turn, I grabbed the pens before they fell on the floor and changed the subject. “Pumpkin Destruction Day?” That sounded surprisingly savage in my normally calm office.

Courtney took a deep breath. “You must be new in town. Pumpkin Destruction Day is the first Saturday after Halloween. It’s exactly what it sounds like. At Strang Farm, people come from miles around with leftover jack-o’-lanterns to smash. The farm uses what’s left for compost. It’s so much fun—even if some people won’t make time for it.”

Scowling, Kim leaned forward. “If I can’t smash more pumpkins than you with the catapult, you can have it.”

Courtney folded her arms. “If you can, you can have Dad’s truck.”

Kim nodded. “It’s a bet. Mike, you should come.”

My weekends had been boring lately, and I’d been wanting to meet people in my new small-town surroundings. “Sure, why not?”

***

That Saturday was glorious—sunny, with a brisk wind riffling fall foliage surrounding a roped-off field. Stands selling produce, cider, and baked goods did a brisk business from a crowd of several hundred people. Many of them had indeed brought jack-o’-lanterns, which they heaped on a pile of assorted gourds provided by the farm.

When the Thompson sisters rolled up in Courtney’s truck, I jogged over to help with the catapult, but the women maneuvered it down the ramp with surprising ease themselves. “Fine piece of equipment,” I said. “Not that I’m any judge of medieval siege weaponry.”

Courtney gave it a pat. “Dad made this years ago to hurl pumpkins. Hey, there’s Mrs. Strang. Looks like we got here just in time.”

The farmer blew a whistle. Pumpkins were set on a table. People hurled fastballs, hit golf balls, and even flung a javelin through them. After they were replaced, some bowhunters demonstrated their skill. An instructor from a local karate class split a few with his foot. An ATV zoomed over a bunch. Mrs. Strang even led her mule over some. Misses were rare and messes frequent.

It was a symphony of squash in both senses of the word, and I was having more fun than I’d expected. Maybe next year I’ll join in, I thought, nibbling on a tasty pumpkin muffin.

At last, the Thompson sisters hauled the catapult to the launching line. Although greeted by cheers, their faces were grim. I headed toward them. Are they regretting that bet? Maybe I can get them to compromise.

Kim held up a hand. Silence fell. “Our father, David Thompson, built this catapult years ago. When he died, he left it to me, wanting me to be part of the Pumpkin Destruction Day tradition again.” She glanced at her sister.

Courtney stepped forward. “About fifteen minutes ago, whether out of malice or as a prank, someone cut its brand-new rope.” She held up the ends to a chorus of groans.

Kim stepped forward. “I’d planned to use my inheritance from my father today. Instead, I will use what my mother left me. Mike Hughes, you were a shot putter in college, right?” She must’ve seen the photo in my office. “Give me a hand.” She rapped a fifty-pound pumpkin with her knuckles. It shrank until it was the size and weight—sixteen pounds—of a shot. I wrapped my trembling fingers around it. Turns out, I hadn’t lost much of my form—but it was still just inches from my hand when it disappeared entirely. I swallowed hard, sweat rolling down my face despite the autumn chill.

Courtney set another pumpkin down a good twenty feet away. Clenching her fists, Kim glared at it. It exploded, sending unused pie filling six feet in every direction, including straight down, judging by the crater.

The crowd gasped. Some turned pale—I’m pretty sure I was one of them. Then Kim marched into the center of the field and tossed a small pumpkin straight up. Poof! Orange mist rained down on the grass—but not on her.

“Whoops! Looks like I’m out of pumpkins!” said Kim. What had been a substantial pile just moments before had now vanished. “But I’m still going strong. Hmm. What can I use instead?” Her gaze passed over the spectators, finally stopping on a young man who flinched. “Why, if it isn’t Jake Rogers. Worried our catapult would outshine your javelin?”

“Like last year?” added Courtney, hands on her hips.

“Wait!” He pulled out his phone. “Uh, how much to replace that rope?”

Kim Thompson drove a hard bargain. I wouldn’t want to face off against her in any financial negotiation.

Afterward, I helped roll the catapult back into the truck. Courtney held out the keys to her sister. “It’s yours now, Kim. I didn’t smash any pumpkins at all.”

Kim shrugged. “And I didn’t use the catapult. Dad just wanted me to be a part of all this again. I’ve been so busy with Mom’s, well, my work the past few years, I’d forgotten the good times the two of us used to have together. I’ve missed you.”

The pair hugged. I smiled. Jake Rogers may have broken the catapult, but he fixed a family bond.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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