Reba can hear Billy tossing crates in the van. Please Billy stay in there a little longer. “What do you mean by wow?”
“Well, you know, trees and shit. I mean, this apple didn’t exist a year ago, then you grew it and here it is. In my hand. This amazing thing. It must be amazing to grow shit.”
“We don’t ‘grow shit.’ We grow apples. My family owns an orchard.” Reba rubs her nose with the back of her hand, hides it in a pocket.
“Your family?” The smile grows wider.
“Me and my brother. My folks are dead.” Just give him the facts. Don’t make a big deal about it.
“Sorry about your folks. But that’s nice. An orchard.”
“How would you know?”
“Well, I imagine it would have to be nice. To grow things. To live on a farm. Getting up every day at dawn. Milking the cows, feeding the chickens, gathering up the apples. Fresh air. You must be really healthy. Sunshine. Blue skies…”
“Sky’s blue here, too.” And so’s your eyes, but you’re just fooling with me. Buy or go.
“Not blue enough. Plus up there you got all that wildlife. Owls and deer and things like that.”
Reba smirks. “Deer suck.”
He picks up another apple and studies it. “I never thought about it that way, but you know, you’re right. Deer do suck.” He says it like he means it and tricks a smile out of her. Cocky smart-ass.
Reba swallows away her smirk as quickly as she’s let it slip out. “You buying that apple or just feeling it up?”
“Can I do that? Buy a single apple?”
It’s one thing to be nice to an old lady or to the men with bright flowing scarfs around their necks, the ones who call her “honey” and “sweetness,” the men Billy calls “faggots.” But Reba has no patience for some pretty-boy pulling her leg. Giving me a hard time for the fun of it. Teasing me. “You want it or not?” He looks like a movie star.
“Can I have a paper bag, please?” He passes the apple to Reba, but she doesn’t let him touch her fingers.
“For one apple?”
“Well, I want to save it for later. So I can savor it.”
As sudden as a thunderclap big Billy is standing next to Reba. He barks, “Closed for the day,” snatches the apple from Reba and flips it into its crate before turning his broad back on the shaggy-haired boy. “Let’s get the goods into the truck.”
The young man addresses Billy’s rude shoulders. “Hey.” Billy ignores him. “Excuse me. I want to buy that apple.”
Billy turns and faces the boy. He grins, lifting his chin slightly. “You do, do ya? And what else do you want to do?”
The guy doesn’t blink. “Eat it.”
Billy’s eyes go ten degrees colder. “Next week.”
The guy shows his teeth. “What a load of crap.”
A line forms on Billy’s brow, as if he’s trying to remember something, and in Reba’s brain a movie begins to play in which a massive fist hurtles through space and pummels a very pretty face. She sees bits of teeth flying, and still the fist moves, ramming the fruit down the almost feminine throat. Reba thinks he sees it, too.
The young man relaxes. “OK, OK, dude. Don’t get your balls in a bunch.” His eyes say, “Fuck you.”
Billy lurches forward and grabs a crate of Bosc pears. He hauls it up and away, just missing the guy’s knees. Blue Eyes doesn’t even have time to ball his fist. Tossing the crate onto his shoulder like a box of feathers, Billy turns his back on both of them and returns to the van.
Reba gathers the veggies into a waxed carton. Fifteen seconds pass before she dares to look up. The boy’s eyes are brimming with laughter, fearless. Now she’s sure the guy is nuts, or stupid, if he doesn’t realize that Billy would split his skull just for the exercise.
The boy shifts slightly toward her, and Reba freezes, transfixed by his lunatic beauty. He’s perfect, like an angel, like a painting in a museum. His skin is flawless. She wants to reach out and stroke his cheek, touch his hair. And then the apple
“Well, you know, trees and shit. I mean, this apple didn’t exist a year ago, then you grew it and here it is. In my hand. This amazing thing. It must be amazing to grow shit.”
“We don’t ‘grow shit.’ We grow apples. My family owns an orchard.” Reba rubs her nose with the back of her hand, hides it in a pocket.
“Your family?” The smile grows wider.
“Me and my brother. My folks are dead.” Just give him the facts. Don’t make a big deal about it.
“Sorry about your folks. But that’s nice. An orchard.”
“How would you know?”
“Well, I imagine it would have to be nice. To grow things. To live on a farm. Getting up every day at dawn. Milking the cows, feeding the chickens, gathering up the apples. Fresh air. You must be really healthy. Sunshine. Blue skies…”
“Sky’s blue here, too.” And so’s your eyes, but you’re just fooling with me. Buy or go.
“Not blue enough. Plus up there you got all that wildlife. Owls and deer and things like that.”
Reba smirks. “Deer suck.”
He picks up another apple and studies it. “I never thought about it that way, but you know, you’re right. Deer do suck.” He says it like he means it and tricks a smile out of her. Cocky smart-ass.
Reba swallows away her smirk as quickly as she’s let it slip out. “You buying that apple or just feeling it up?”
“Can I do that? Buy a single apple?”
It’s one thing to be nice to an old lady or to the men with bright flowing scarfs around their necks, the ones who call her “honey” and “sweetness,” the men Billy calls “faggots.” But Reba has no patience for some pretty-boy pulling her leg. Giving me a hard time for the fun of it. Teasing me. “You want it or not?” He looks like a movie star.
“Can I have a paper bag, please?” He passes the apple to Reba, but she doesn’t let him touch her fingers.
“For one apple?”
“Well, I want to save it for later. So I can savor it.”
As sudden as a thunderclap big Billy is standing next to Reba. He barks, “Closed for the day,” snatches the apple from Reba and flips it into its crate before turning his broad back on the shaggy-haired boy. “Let’s get the goods into the truck.”
The young man addresses Billy’s rude shoulders. “Hey.” Billy ignores him. “Excuse me. I want to buy that apple.”
Billy turns and faces the boy. He grins, lifting his chin slightly. “You do, do ya? And what else do you want to do?”
The guy doesn’t blink. “Eat it.”
Billy’s eyes go ten degrees colder. “Next week.”
The guy shows his teeth. “What a load of crap.”
A line forms on Billy’s brow, as if he’s trying to remember something, and in Reba’s brain a movie begins to play in which a massive fist hurtles through space and pummels a very pretty face. She sees bits of teeth flying, and still the fist moves, ramming the fruit down the almost feminine throat. Reba thinks he sees it, too.
The young man relaxes. “OK, OK, dude. Don’t get your balls in a bunch.” His eyes say, “Fuck you.”
Billy lurches forward and grabs a crate of Bosc pears. He hauls it up and away, just missing the guy’s knees. Blue Eyes doesn’t even have time to ball his fist. Tossing the crate onto his shoulder like a box of feathers, Billy turns his back on both of them and returns to the van.
Reba gathers the veggies into a waxed carton. Fifteen seconds pass before she dares to look up. The boy’s eyes are brimming with laughter, fearless. Now she’s sure the guy is nuts, or stupid, if he doesn’t realize that Billy would split his skull just for the exercise.
The boy shifts slightly toward her, and Reba freezes, transfixed by his lunatic beauty. He’s perfect, like an angel, like a painting in a museum. His skin is flawless. She wants to reach out and stroke his cheek, touch his hair. And then the apple
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