Vivian Lawry writes everything from flash fiction to novels, memoir to magical realism. Her short works have appeared in more than fifty literary magazines and anthologies. She has written three novels (Dark Harbor and Tiger Heart, Chesapeake Bay Mysteries, and an historical novel, Nettie’s Books) Samples from these books as well as a complete list of her publications are available at vivianlawry.com
During part of their journey, the Lewis and Clark party subsisted for a time solely on
pawpaws, escaping starvation by eating them until they could reach a settlement some one
hundred fifty miles away. If they could do it, so can I.
I inspect the grayish-green oblong resting comfortably in my palm. It is a good eight
ounces. I squeeze gently and it gives a little, like a perfectly ripe peach. What color will the flesh
be? It could be anything from creamy, pale yellow to bright gold or orange. How will it taste?
Some taste like banana-mango, some more like pineapple-cantaloupe. Two things I can count on:
a wildwood tang and the slick smoothness of thick pudding.
My stomach rumbles. Ripping away the stem end with my thumbnails, I slurp the pulp of
a perfect pawpaw, not stopping until the skin is sucked dry and seven brown seeds the size of
lima beans lie at my feet.
Mama likes to tell the story of how my first food other than mother’s milk was when
Daddy poked his little finger into pawpaw pudding and put it in my baby-bird mouth. She says I
sucked hard, waving my arms and legs wildly and crying when it was gone. I have no reason to
doubt it. We had two pawpaw patches on the old home place, and every farm I ever visited had
at least one. I guess they’re still there. Every fall I waited impatiently for the fruit to ripen, and as
long as they lasted, we gorged.
I pick another, easily snapping the stem from the branch. This time I savor the flavor. I
roll the pulp around on my tongue and breathe deeply, the whiff of citrus enhancing the taste.
The pawpaws from this patch taste of banana and mango. One of the patches at the old home
place tasted like this.
Maybe that first taste of pawpaw marked me for life, for it’s always been my favorite
fruit. In school, when we had to write papers or research something, I almost always chose a
topic related to pawpaws. I read everything I could get my hands on.
Reaching for a third fruit, I check the position of the sun and realize that more than six
hours have passed since breakfast. I left as soon as his truck cleared the long, winding lane.
Going back now would probably be safe. I could probably do it, if I was to hurry, and get most
of the chores done. I could take pockets full of pawpaws, and he’d believe I couldn’t forego the
harvest. He hates pawpaws but knows that I love them. He wouldn’t like it but he’d never know I
intended to leave again.
Pawpaw goo has stuck my fingers together, so I kneel at the nearby creek, dipping my
hands into rippling water, every muscle stiff and sore. A patch of sunlit grass beckons me to rest.
A light autumn breeze lifts my hair. I listen for birds and insects, but none are discernible over
the sound of leaves rustling overhead. But then there wouldn’t be much to hear anyway because
most animals avoid pawpaw trees, put off by the fetid, rotting-meat scent of the flowers early on,
followed by the disagreeable-smelling leaves and toxic bark. Deer, rabbits, goats—all leave
pawpaw trees well enough alone—although I did see a mule eating pawpaw leaves in Maryland
that one time. Even loving pawpaws as I do, when they flower I only check on them from afar
On the other hand, pawpaw fruit is another matter entirely. Squirrels, raccoons,
opossums, rabbits, wolves, and black bears all feast on ripe pawpaws. It’s all a matter of the time
being right. If I’m still here after dark, maybe I’ll have some nocturnal visitors.
A shudder ripples down my back. I can do without the companionship of any of them.
The rustling leaves and burbling stream are peaceful and pulling me toward sleep. I’d had
none last night, tied to the kitchen chair till it was time to make breakfast. He’d untied me then
and handed me the list of what he expected me to do today. He’ll be furious if he comes home
and finds nothing on the table but the breakfast dishes.
Thinking of him, a shot of adrenaline yanks me to full consciousness. He said he loved
me. Back then, holding hands, feeling his arm drop across my shoulders as we walked around the town, I felt loved and protected. Probably he was just staking a claim, warning other men off. He still says he loves me. But when he puts his arm across my shoulders now, it’s to hold me back. He holds my hand to pull me in the direction I will walk.
I don’t mind not having running water or a refrigerator. Truly. But I hate that our only
vehicle is his truck. He says I can’t drive the flatbed and hides the keys for good measure. He
drives when we go to church, takes my elbow to guide me in, and sits close enough that our
thighs touch. When we go to town for flour, sugar, and such, he drives, pushes the cart, and pays
cash. The only money I have is change found around the couch cushions. Once he found $1.04 in
my stocking drawer and slapped me around a little—just enough to remind me who’s in charge
and warn me not to do it again. Now whenever I find a coin, I sew it into the pockets of my
I’m only ever alone at the house. How did he come to control every minute of my every
This time I won’t go back. I’ve left six times already, and he’s always fetched me back. But those times I went home to Mama, to my sisters’ houses, to my best friend from school. This time I won’t go to any of those places. Everybody likes him—always have, ever since he was the town football hero, ten years ahead of me in school. When they ask whether he’s a drunk or
stepping out with another woman, I have to say, “No.” And I never see any of them when I have
visible bruises. And I don’t tell them—too embarrassed to admit I’m a failure as a wife.
Now the time to leave is right. Getting up, I find loose bits of pawpaw bark and rub the
underside over my skin to ward off mosquitoes and bluebottle flies. I start walking west to where
I can follow Route 33. At the next pawpaw patch, I pluck another fruit, savoring the new flavor,
Between pick-up jobs waiting tables and pawpaws as I walk, there is nothing between me
and freedom but time and miles. Virginia, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois—all are good
pawpaw country. My steps feel lighter as I turn west.