(2) That Wound the Apple Left

Summary: Three part drama that takes the title both figuratively and literally, with the first two parts focusing on the relational and generational conflict, and the last on the literal. The setting is modern and informal.

Quick Examples: The following are excerpts from the parts below:

Part 1- As time’s gone by, I’ve seen more of my mistakes. They’re hard to think about. They’re hard to admit. And they’re even harder to apologize for. But dad was right, and I regret not finding a small town to begin with. It’s not that cities are bad, they’re not a boogieman waiting to steal your wallet: no, that’s the taxes.

Part 2- She held the chalk out to me, I looked around for another piece, “Mr. Riley, I have a piece of chalk already, take it.” / “Afraid not ma’am.”/ She crossed her arms, “Why not?” / “I don’t want your cooties ma’am.” The class snickered. Jerry Hinderson-don’t you know him-Jerry let out a laugh. Mrs. Kettle stared him down. / “You’re 14, you know cooties don’t exist.” / “Oh, yes ma’am, I know they don’t exist in the city, but out here? I hear people don’t get their vaccinations.”

Part 3- A 67’ Volkswagen Beetle, black, rebuilt; four leather seats, with the driver’s pushed back a bit too far. The windows were dusty, the seats smelled, and the paint had begun to flake. It was taupe beneath, taupe and scarred metal. People used to smile and wave and say, ‘There goes the potato!’ Now they just smiled and waved, going back to their work, to their leisure, while looking a bit down.

Part 1

Harrison County, population 417; it’s a slice of someone’s Americana. A thick-wooded, brick building enclave 20 miles off the interstate. There’s a railroad track; but, more kids than train cars travel it. There’s a dock too; but it’s on a lake, and the beer cans threaten to outnumber the fish. My father told me, ‘One day you’ll hate the city life. One day you’ll wake up, see your wife, and know you want something different: for her, for your kid, for you. It’s a matter of time; but, you do what you think’s right for you. Go to the city, get your job, and just wait: the thought’ll get ya.’ It took a couple of decades, a second marriage, several jobs, but yeah, it got me.

I applied for several city jobs in different counties, so that’s how I got to Harrison if you’re wondering. It’s a nice county; the town itself closes on Sunday: I didn’t know places still did that. Threw me for a loop the first time. Went through town to church and thought the Rapture had happened; thus my son had said, ‘No point going to church then, the preacher will be gone; either that or he’ll have some explaining to do.’ Todd’s a good boy. Still trying to figure out the whole step-dad thing, especially with Jeremy-my, my other son, almost said real son there. See? Still getting used to it. They’re both good kids. I’d say Todd’s a bit more of a smart-aleck. Jeremy would’ve just nodded and echoed whatever his mom had said.

His mom, now there’s a lady, though ‘lady’ is a rather subjective word. Well, perhaps that’s unfair. As time’s gone by, I’ve seen more of my mistakes. They’re hard to think about. They’re hard to admit. And they’re even harder to apologize for. But dad was right, and I regret not finding a small town to begin with. It’s not that cities are bad, they’re not a boogieman waiting to steal your wallet: no, that’s the taxes. Cities, well, cities and me just don’t get along; or, maybe I should say, we get along too well. The isolation, the lack of neighborly pressure or consequence, the one-track minds of getting ahead, it encouraged all the worst parts of me, all the parts my father was probably ashamed of. Yet, as a dad, I’ve realized why, perhaps, he was so fearful; because he had been there, done that, and saw the same history in his son.

Part 2

12, 12 of us to a single class. It was harder to hide away in a corner here. It wasn’t impossible, ‘Ain’t nothin’ impossible,’ as Garf might say. Who’s Garf? What do you mean, ‘Who’s Garf?’ Don’t you know his dad owns the liquor store? Don’t you know he’s 4th chair tenor at church? Don’t you know he hunts every weekend? You can see him going out of town with his uncle, they drive that red truck. How don’t you know him? You must be new.

One second, I think the Mrs. Kettle said something, “Ma’am?”

“Mr. Riley, if you wouldn’t mind, please solve this equation.”

“Yes ma’am.” Of course by solving it she didn’t mean I could just say the answer-oh no, heaven forbid that you lazy brat. Instead I’ve got to stand up, walk to the front, write on the chalk board, and wait for everybody to hear her explain my answer and process and how I got it wrong or, perhaps, right.

She held the chalk out to me, I looked around for another piece, “Mr. Riley, I have a piece of chalk already, take it.”

“Afraid not ma’am.”

She crossed her arms, “Why not?”

“I don’t want your cooties ma’am.” The class snickered. Jerry Hinderson-don’t you know him-Jerry let out a laugh. Mrs. Kettle stared him down.

“You’re 14, you know cooties don’t exist.”

“Oh, yes ma’am, I know they don’t exist in the city, but out here? I hear people don’t get their vaccinations.” The class snickered again, but Mrs. Kettle let her glasses down a bit: I saw her eyes, she had taken offense.

“You’ll see me after class.”

“But I need to go to work after class.”

“Then I’ll be calling your parents.”

“Can’t you just double my homework?” Honors classes, I used to take honors classes, but this school? I was astounded nobody showed up barefoot.

Mrs. Kettle went into a huff. I began to go back to my seat but she grabbed me by the collar, “I didn’t say you could sit down. Solve this problem.” She pulled me back to the board, forced the chalk into my hand, and stood over my shoulder. I felt that old biddy’s breathing as I looked over the problem. ‘ax+y=z.’ I quickly scribbled ‘x=(z-a)/y.’ Oley, the local quiz champion, raised his hand, a smile on his face, happy at the chance to prove himself smart.

Mrs. Kettle waved her hand down, “No Mr. Oley, Mr. Riley knows the correct answer.” She turned to me, “My. Riley, you will answer this question correctly. You will show your work; or,” she pushed up her glasses, “I will find a punishment you hate.” I glared at her. I didn’t have to be here. I could’ve asked to go to a charter school, but Stephen-my step-dad-he wanted me to stay local. Mom obliged him, like she always did; but-Mrs. Kettle was still staring at me. I erased my answer. Showed my work. Then stepped back. She nodded, “Thank you, Mr. Riley, you may sit down.” She let me return to my seat. There was no explanation of my answer. She simply let everyone take their notes, erased the problem, and moved on.

The bell rung, and the brief sense of freedom it used to give was quashed-a fancy term Oley might not know-was nullified by the reminder of work. It wasn’t just work though: I had to bike to it. Mom was busy at home. Dad was busy at work. And they both had smiled and handed me this nice, bright, shiny, tiresome two-speed bike. God, I’ve never prayed more before in whole my life! That something would give, that mom would drive me, dad would drive me, somebody-something, please, cause I hate this damn bike!

Clang! The bike slammed into the rack. I didn’t need to lock it. Everyone knew it was mine and everyone would keep their eye on it. That, however nice as it sounds, applied to too many other things. Want to sneak out? The cop will get ya. Want to drink two sodas at lunch? The lunch monitor will get ya. Want to play a gory game? The church will get ya. I went into Happy Harry’s Grocery, put on my smock, smacked on the nametag, ‘Hi, My Name Is: Todd Riley,’ and went to work. Three hours a day. Bagging groceries for moms and grannies and old geezers that’d poke fun at you. ‘They wouldn’t do it unless they liked you.’ ‘You’re lucky, Mr. Stevens doesn’t treat everyone like that.’ ‘Well, Mrs. Hughes, she just has a way about her.’ All excuses, or, should I say, ‘understandings,’ for odd behavior. I usually kept quiet when they tried to joke or poke me or tell me their secret bagging techniques. Some of them got the message and stayed quiet when they came back. Some just avoided my aisle. But some, some always came back, some made it a point to come back.

Old people, have they nothing better to do than try to refine a youth? Here though, here’s a lady I like, Mrs. Carpenter. Graying hair, 60’s (probably), a little hunch, a nice broad hat with alternating ribbons, and quiet, rarely says a word. She nods. She smiles. She’s my kind of customer. Today she’s got: a link of sausage, $2.98; nutmeg, $4.44; lemon juice, $2.48; and a $1.48, wet and crisp head of lettuce. She doesn’t narrate her coupons either, she doesn’t pull them out one by one, saying where and when she clipped each one, nor did she complain about her possible savings; rather, she pulled them out in a neat

stack, and let Ross sort them out. As Ross scanned the coupons, he asked in his nasally, flighty tone, “What’re you cookin’ today, Mrs. Carpenter?”

She unzipped her purse and pulled out a recipe, “Bratwurst.”

He stopped scanning, “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

I rolled my eyes; she answered, “Bratwurst. It’s German sausage. You season and grill it.”

“And the lettuce? Do you cut it up with it?”

She smiled and shook her head, “No, I just like lettuce.” Ross chuckled, told her the total, and took her money. I stood beside the loaded buggy, waiting for the next customer. She took the buggy and looked at me, “Thank you.” I nodded, and she began to leave. Ross ran around the cash register and offered to push her cart, “No, Mr. McGiggus, I can push it myself.” Ross looked angrily at me, and I just glued my eyes to the grocery bags for the rest of my shift.

The next day she came again. This was the third time I had seen her. The first was when my manager was training me; the second was that bratwurst visit. This time she had: a dozen eggs, $2.10; paprika, $2.98; minced onion, $2.44; and a jar of pickles with pickle relish mix right behind it, $2.32 and $2.00 respectively. The smell turned my stomach. Ross took her coupons and asked his question, “What’re you cookin’ today, Mrs. Carpenter?”

She adjusted her hat a bit, “Stuffed eggs.”

Ross looked blank for a second and then lit up, “Oh! You mean angel eggs!” I must’ve looked lost because Ross turned to me, scoffing a bit, “You probably know’em as deviled eggs.”

Mrs. Carpenter slapped the counter and Ross jumped, “Ross McGiggus, watch your tone.”

He looked sad for a moment, “Yes ma’am.” She pushed her empty buggy out of the lane and began to take the filled one; when, once again, Ross ran around and tried to push it for her, “Mr. Ross, I can handle my own buggy; but thank you for your kindness.” She looked to me, “Thank you too, Mr.-”

I pointed to my nametag. Ross glared at me again. I spoke, “Todd, ma’am.”

“Todd what?”

“Todd Riley.”

She extended her hand and I shook it, “Nice to meet you Mr. Todd Riley.” She smiled and left. With the next customer, Ross slid the groceries my way like we were playing air hockey. He calmed down when the lady barked at him after he rattled her eggs a little. She told us to stop playing around. He acted sad and said sorry. She muttered under her breath something about him being too old to act that way. Things were fine for the rest of the day.

The next day, however, Mrs. Kettle caught me as the bell rang, “Mr. Riley, come here please.”

I approached her desk, looking a bit sad in case this was trouble, “Yes ma’am?”

She slammed a notebook onto the desk. Algebra Fun Time 6; I read the title upside down. She flipped it around, pointing at it, “This is your homework.”

I picked it up and opened it, “Yes ma’am, what pages?”

She didn’t answer. I lowered the book. Mrs. Kettle looked me in the eyes, “All of them.”

I quickly opened the back of the book, “But there’s 34 pages!”

She folded her arms, “It’s due tomorrow.”

I slammed the book down, “Tomorrow! What the-” I caught myself: she looked disappointed. She wanted me to curse. To throw a tantrum. I picked the book back up, “I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

“Good, because that’s weighted for half your homework grade.” I clenched my hand and left. As I went down the hall, I looked in the back of the book, hoping she had forgotten about the answer section. She had torn it out. I crumpled the book and put it in my backpack. Mom would probably catch me if I tried looking up the answers on the family computer. Tonight was going to be a long night; and, dangit, and I had to work first.

Outside, Garf was riding my bike around the parking lot. I caught up to him, “Hey, uh, that’s my bike.”

He kept on riding, “I know.”

“Can I have it back? I need to get to work.”

He shrugged, “Maybe in a bit. I thought I’d break it in for you.”

“I’ve been riding it for a week. I think it’s fine.”

Garf rolled his tongue around his cheeks, “Yeah, you’d think that, but sis’ was rough ridin’ even after a month.”

I made a fist in my pocket, “You’re not expecting to ride my bike for a month straight, are you?”

“Maybe.” He looked up and saw his mom waiting in a car, “Whatever, here you go.” He let my bike fall onto the ground. His mom honked the car. He ran towards her but she lowered the window and shouted something at him. Garf turned around and came back as I was getting on my bike, “Sorry about dropping your bike.”

I looked him straight in the eyes, “Yeah, whatever,” and rode off.

The road outside school was smooth, the roads inside town were sorta smooth, the roads everywhere else? Maybe a mountain bike would’ve been better suited for them. Popping a wheelie over a ditch was fun, though, a bit too much effort when your home’s not 500ft away. While riding I heard a truck behind me. I slowed down. It slowed down. Usually trucks pass me. Usually cars pass me. But this truck stayed

behind me. I tried to get further over and started bouncing around like popcorn on all the junk beside the road. The truck suddenly roared. I jumped off my bike and heard laughing as they sped right by me. I picked up my bike, watching the truck go down the road.

I’m not a paranoid person . I figured out the Santa thing when I was pretty young; but this? This combined with Garf and Mrs. Kettle made me think the whole town hated me. I didn’t want to be paranoid. Mom had been that way: yet-I paused as I got on my bike-she had been right.

The groceries came slow, but nobody had grins or nickels or secret techniques to share with me; instead they watched me, told me I was doing it wrong, and had me figure out the right way through several tries. As my shift ended, Ross patted me on the shoulder, “Buck-up champ, maybe you just need to smile more.” I muttered agreement and went home for Algebra Fun. Which was not fun or exciting or enlightening; I scribbled through the sheets, writing down the answers with half-shown work. Stephen helped me with a bit of it, mom too, but I hazarded to tell them I had to do the whole thing. I didn’t want them to think I was in trouble; though, after the third or so assignment of the same kind, they soon figured it out. My teacher told them every smart remark I had made, and to my parents, that justified the whole thing. Home thus became another battlefield, another source of grief, at least my room was quiet, mostly.

The week went on. And I tried Ross’ advice, I tried to smile, I tried to say, ‘Thank you,’ and ‘Welcome;’ but, smiling didn’t help, nothing helped. The old people just threw it back at me or scoffed. Mrs. Carpenter came almost every day. She treated me the same as before. She was the only one. Each time she came it was a different recipe and I soon noticed something.

A man pushed a cart loaded with apples through the sliding doors. It was a weekly delivery; and, over that day and the next the apples were almost all sold. Mrs. Carpenter missed the first day and came the second. She didn’t buy any apples, and I suspected it was because all the good ones were taken. So, when the next week rolled around, I asked my mom what to look for in an apple, and got the best one I could find on delivery day. Ross quirked his head as I tried to purchase it, “What do you want with an apple?”

I put the money on the counter. I knew its price: $2.25 a pound. “I’m buying it for Mrs. Carpenter.” Ross paused. He looked at me. He looked at the apple.

He shook his head, “Well, one’s not gonna do. She can’t do nothin’ with one. Go back and get another.” I went back and got another. It was odd to see Ross helping me out. Maybe all the rough treatment I’ve been getting finally caused someone to take pity on me.

The next day Mrs. Carpenter came. She had a head of lettuce, $1.48; a tomato, $1.24; a cucumber, $1.38; and some ranch salad dressing, $3.88. I grinned: sliced apples would go great with a salad. When she came to take her cart, I pulled out the apples, “Here ma’am, I got these for you.” Her arms went rigid on the cart. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. She looked at the apples, her face twitching, like she was about to cry.

Seeing her like that. Seeing the one person that had been kind to me, that had smiled at me, honestly, seeing that I had caused her pain: I felt a tear run down my cheek. Then she looked me in the eye. I saw her tears, and I broke down. I dropped the apples and fell between the bag holders. I started to speak and I couldn’t stop; I told her all that had happened. The loads of dumb homework, the aggressive pickup trucks, Garf’s slack-jawed teasing, and all the rest, the bullying, the bruises, the papers, everything the past week had poured on me, I poured out to her. I cried and choked and begged that she’d forgive me.

She tilted my head up, “Who told you to buy me apples?”

“No one, ma’am. I just thought you were never able to get here in time for the good ones. So, so I got you one.” I looked to my right, “But Ross told me to get you two. That one wasn’t good enough.”

She tore the broad hat from her head, its ribbons slapping the wood; her back straightened, and she pointed at Ross, her anger barking through tears, “Ross Oliver McGiggus! What have you done to this boy!?” He tried to bow and say something but she grabbed him by the collar, “No excuses you McGiggus! I know your clan. Put your mother to work, didn’t you? Got the rumor mill spun up over one boy, one city boy, and got the whole of town to act the fool about him! Great shame upon you, Ross Oliver, great shame upon you and your mother! Your father spins in his grave at the sound of this ruckus I imagine. From a family of deacons to a din of gossips, what a shame!”

Part of me enjoyed seeing Ross squirm. My confidence was coming back as I saw the blame wasn’t with me. But, I must’ve smiled, because she then turned on me, “And you, Todd Riley, stand up!” I stood up, “You aren’t guiltless! You don’t think I saw the hate and bitterness in all you said? You want others to respect you, correct?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well how are others going to respect you if you don’t respect them?”

“I-”

“Isn’t that logical? To treat as others as you’d like to be treated? Or are you saying that a city boy isn’t logical?”

“I’m logical! And, yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

“You guess? Do you want others to guess?”

“No ma’am. It is fair.”

“Good, then start acting that way.” She took her buggy and left the store. Harry, the store owner, came out of his office a minute later. He took Ross back with him first. Ross returned about thirty minutes later, beat down and apathetic. He pointed to Harry’s door, “He wants to see you next.”

I opened the wooden door. It was one of those thin wooded doors that feels like it’s got air in it. It had posters and notices all over it. Harry let me look it over. He even got up and pulled out a chair, “Todd, why don’t you take a seat.”

The chair creaked as I sat in it, “Am I in trouble, sir?”

He shook his head, “No, you’re not in trouble.” He shifted some things on his desk, “Has anyone told you about Mrs. Carpenter?”

“No sir.”

He leaned back, “I thought as much. Well, it’s, uh, it’s,” he kept fiddling with a pen on his desk; he frowned and set it down, looking at me, “It’s hard to tell it to a kid, but you’ve happened onto it; so that’s, that’s what I’ll have to do.”

Part 3

Wednesday, October 21st, tacos. Mrs. Carpenter walked away from the refrigerator calendar and pulled the recipe box out from beside the stove. ‘Tacos, tacos, fiesta style, plain, taco salad, taco bowl.’ Her nails tapped the counter. ‘Tacos, just plain tacos. Meat and cheese.’ She pulled out the recipe. The teal fridge jerked open, ‘Meat, meat, meat’s too old. I’ll get some of that. Tortillas too.’ She fanned the fridge door as her head was inside, ‘What about sour cream? Or lettuce? Or tomato?’ She closed the door. Who was she smiling for? The fridge’s hum died down. The birds outside fluttered away. A car passed by. The ceiling fan wobbled. Mrs. Carpenter grabbed a notepad and began jotting down a list.

A 67’ Volkswagen Beetle, black, rebuilt; four leather seats, with the driver’s pushed back a bit too far. The windows were dusty, the seats smelled, and the paint had begun to flake. It was taupe beneath, taupe and scarred metal. People used to smile and wave and say, ‘There goes the potato!’ Now they just smiled and waved, going back to their work, to their leisure, while looking a bit down.

Old Johnson Road went straight into town; but, there was a detour Mrs. Carpenter sometimes took, a road that winded off and around the side of the county, laying about the edge of it, letting you see all the pastures and fields and apple trees. Everyone knew it’s name, but Mrs. Carpenter rarely said it. The road went on and on. It bumped and dropped and along the side-Mrs. Carpenter stopped. The phone pole was gone. There was just the fence, two wreaths on white crosses, and rows on rows of apple trees.

She remembered the boy and cried. She fell down and cried a while more. Crawling back to her car, Mrs. Carpenter wiped her face, went grocery shopping, and asked the young Todd Riley, “Would you mind pushing my cart for me?”