"I don't have any money," he told her. "But I thought you might have something to eat you could give me."
...
The woman came back to the platform.
"I give you an apple," she said.
"Oh, thanks."
...
The woman seated herself on the top step of the trailer.
"Sit down," she said hoarsely.
"Thanks."
He seated himself on the bottom step, at the same time raising the apple to his mouth. The hard red skin popped open, the sweet juice squirted out and his teeth sank into the firm white meat of the apple. It is like the act of love, he thought, as he ground the skin and pulp between his jaw teeth. His tongue rolled around the front of his mouth and savored the sweet-tasting juice. He licked the outside of his lips and felt them curving into a sensuous smile. The pulp dissolved in his mouth. He tried not swallowing it. Make it last longer, he thought. But it melted like snow between his grinding teeth. It all turned to liquid and flowed on down his throat. He couldn't stop it. It is like the act of love, he thought again. You try to make it last longer. Draw out the sweet final moment. But it can't be held at that point. It has to go over and down, it has to be finished. And then you feel cheated somehow.
"That was good," he said to the woman. "I never tasted an apple as good as that!"
"Maybe it tasted good because you was hungry", she said.
"Yes. Maybe".
...
He looked at her again. He had to say something to keep his lips from spreding into a senseless grin.
"What time is it?"
The woman grunted vaguely.
He hitched at the belt of his trousers.
"Your man gone into town, has he?"
"Yeah. Him and my boy have gone into town to get drunk."
She laughed shortly.
...
"What are you going to do?" he asked her again.
"Me? I'm going to make supper."
"What have you got for supper?"
"Meat."
"A big piece?"
"Yes. A pretty big piece."
"Enough for two people?"
"Naw, I don't know," she said. "I ought to save some for my boy."
"He'll probably get some in town."
"Naw, I don't know."
He smiled and narrowed his eyes but she looked away. She fixed her eyes on the round orange ball of the sun. It was now sending up wide beams of pale orange light between the feathery masses of pale grey cloud. Very pretty. It made him think of a dress his sister had worn one Easter Sunday. Streets paved with gold. Oh, yes. The black rails. Fire escape? No. Tracks of the viaduct. And the train screaming by. His mother. How clear her voice!-Irma, don't stand by the window like that. The soot flying in. Confirmation. The five colored eggs in one corner. Pale blue and pink and yellow and green. Hardboiled eggs. He wondered if he had eaten them afterwards. Eggs were good hardboiled. The white coming loose from the yellow center. The yellow a round ball, rich and grainy, forming a paste in the mouth and sticking to the teeth so that the taste remained for a long time afterwards. Mmmm. He'd like to be eating some hardboiled eggs right now.
"I'm still kind of hungry," he told her.
She suddenly stirred. Lifted her hand from her lap and placed it on the back of his head. Ran the fingers down his neck and under the collar of his shirt.
Inwardly he recoiled from the touch but he kept his eyes on her face.
"You got nice skin like a girl's."
"Thanks."
"How old are you, huh?"
"Nineteen."
"Umph!"
She grunted as if she had just been stuck with a pin. Got up from the steps and gave him a slight, playful kick with the toe of her dusty slipper.
"Go on," she said. "You're too young!"
"How do you mean, too young?"
"Nineteen is just how old my own boy is! You better go ´way!"
He looked up at her and saw it was no use to argue. Big, heavy and dark she stood in the door of the trailer, her face set in a slight frown looking out at the sun. An old dago slut she was. Such women make little rules for themselves, more sacred than Holy Law. If he had said twenty-one or even said twenty, it might have been okay with her, but not nineteen because that was the age of her boy...
Oh, well.
...
His eyes went down once more to the trailer's peaked roof. He saw a thin curl of smoke rising up from the tin stovepipe and heard the rattle of pans. The old woman was in there like a catfish caught in a bottle. She was making herself some supper. She would eat it alone. Fat elbows planted on either side of the tin plate and her shoulders crouched way over. Wheezing a little. Washing it down with scalding black coffee. The rich, oily meat. A big piece. The old bitch. Oh, well. She would die some day. Some ugly disease like cancer. It might be already started inside her dark flesh. Just as well. A stingy old bitch like that...
He went on down the road. The air was fresh. A wind was coming up. He saw ahead of him, dimly, white frame buildings spotted with faint yellow light.
He could still taste the apple that he had eaten. The inside of his mouth was fresh and sweet with that taste. Maybe it was better that way, just having that taste in his mouth, the clean white teaste of the apple.
"Gift of an Apple", circa 1936.
...
The woman came back to the platform.
"I give you an apple," she said.
"Oh, thanks."
...
The woman seated herself on the top step of the trailer.
"Sit down," she said hoarsely.
"Thanks."
He seated himself on the bottom step, at the same time raising the apple to his mouth. The hard red skin popped open, the sweet juice squirted out and his teeth sank into the firm white meat of the apple. It is like the act of love, he thought, as he ground the skin and pulp between his jaw teeth. His tongue rolled around the front of his mouth and savored the sweet-tasting juice. He licked the outside of his lips and felt them curving into a sensuous smile. The pulp dissolved in his mouth. He tried not swallowing it. Make it last longer, he thought. But it melted like snow between his grinding teeth. It all turned to liquid and flowed on down his throat. He couldn't stop it. It is like the act of love, he thought again. You try to make it last longer. Draw out the sweet final moment. But it can't be held at that point. It has to go over and down, it has to be finished. And then you feel cheated somehow.
"That was good," he said to the woman. "I never tasted an apple as good as that!"
"Maybe it tasted good because you was hungry", she said.
"Yes. Maybe".
...
He looked at her again. He had to say something to keep his lips from spreding into a senseless grin.
"What time is it?"
The woman grunted vaguely.
He hitched at the belt of his trousers.
"Your man gone into town, has he?"
"Yeah. Him and my boy have gone into town to get drunk."
She laughed shortly.
...
"What are you going to do?" he asked her again.
"Me? I'm going to make supper."
"What have you got for supper?"
"Meat."
"A big piece?"
"Yes. A pretty big piece."
"Enough for two people?"
"Naw, I don't know," she said. "I ought to save some for my boy."
"He'll probably get some in town."
"Naw, I don't know."
He smiled and narrowed his eyes but she looked away. She fixed her eyes on the round orange ball of the sun. It was now sending up wide beams of pale orange light between the feathery masses of pale grey cloud. Very pretty. It made him think of a dress his sister had worn one Easter Sunday. Streets paved with gold. Oh, yes. The black rails. Fire escape? No. Tracks of the viaduct. And the train screaming by. His mother. How clear her voice!-Irma, don't stand by the window like that. The soot flying in. Confirmation. The five colored eggs in one corner. Pale blue and pink and yellow and green. Hardboiled eggs. He wondered if he had eaten them afterwards. Eggs were good hardboiled. The white coming loose from the yellow center. The yellow a round ball, rich and grainy, forming a paste in the mouth and sticking to the teeth so that the taste remained for a long time afterwards. Mmmm. He'd like to be eating some hardboiled eggs right now.
"I'm still kind of hungry," he told her.
She suddenly stirred. Lifted her hand from her lap and placed it on the back of his head. Ran the fingers down his neck and under the collar of his shirt.
Inwardly he recoiled from the touch but he kept his eyes on her face.
"You got nice skin like a girl's."
"Thanks."
"How old are you, huh?"
"Nineteen."
"Umph!"
She grunted as if she had just been stuck with a pin. Got up from the steps and gave him a slight, playful kick with the toe of her dusty slipper.
"Go on," she said. "You're too young!"
"How do you mean, too young?"
"Nineteen is just how old my own boy is! You better go ´way!"
He looked up at her and saw it was no use to argue. Big, heavy and dark she stood in the door of the trailer, her face set in a slight frown looking out at the sun. An old dago slut she was. Such women make little rules for themselves, more sacred than Holy Law. If he had said twenty-one or even said twenty, it might have been okay with her, but not nineteen because that was the age of her boy...
Oh, well.
...
His eyes went down once more to the trailer's peaked roof. He saw a thin curl of smoke rising up from the tin stovepipe and heard the rattle of pans. The old woman was in there like a catfish caught in a bottle. She was making herself some supper. She would eat it alone. Fat elbows planted on either side of the tin plate and her shoulders crouched way over. Wheezing a little. Washing it down with scalding black coffee. The rich, oily meat. A big piece. The old bitch. Oh, well. She would die some day. Some ugly disease like cancer. It might be already started inside her dark flesh. Just as well. A stingy old bitch like that...
He went on down the road. The air was fresh. A wind was coming up. He saw ahead of him, dimly, white frame buildings spotted with faint yellow light.
He could still taste the apple that he had eaten. The inside of his mouth was fresh and sweet with that taste. Maybe it was better that way, just having that taste in his mouth, the clean white teaste of the apple.
"Gift of an Apple", circa 1936.
