Free Apples

short story, originally published by Pile Press, 2024

A box of apples is placed on the street corner. Blocked darkly on the front is the word: FREE. The tree they used to belong to is still busy scenting the air out behind the house that the apples now temporarily reside in front of. It is September, yet the sun still lends enough warmth to the evening air to continue persuading that nostalgic fragrance into clouding heavily around the yard as the sky goes pink and gold at the edges. The tree sighs, the house sighs, the apples, in chorus, sigh.
This neighborhood used to be an orchard, they say. Apple, cherry, and plum trees interrupt most lawns, albeit some more gracefully than others. The best of them breathe reassurance, they were here before these roads, these homes, and they will perhaps be here after. It is possible to thrive through the changing times. The worst are gnarled, bent, agonizing. Pruned badly, if at all, ignored, eventually cut down and replaced with a raised garden bed. In the early spring, when the blossoms begin to bud, another batch of trees silently agree that the previous spring would be their last good showing. From here on out just a few spits of flowers will fizz on scattered branches, less and less each year, until finally some merciful chainsaw puts an end to things.
The apples in the box though, these come from a beloved tree, one with a string of lights decorating its branches. A sturdy wooden table is carted out of the shed and placed under it when the morning light begins to angle in that heart-breaking way it does in late spring, when it’s impossible to bear being indoors for one more moment. Thick, wrinkled linens are thrown over it, glass jars filled with masses of lilacs placed on it, apple blossoms sprinkle down all around it. A patient and expert hand tends to the pruning and care of it, hungry eyes count the fruit as they begin to form, but even the hardworking cook who sets to the boiling and measuring of sugar and spices is soon overrun by the sheer number holding heavy on its limbs. One house can only handle so many of these beautiful apples each year. Beautiful, yes. Red and blush streaked with gold and green. White as cream on the inside. Shatteringly crisp. Large enough to serve as a suitable companion on a long afternoon walk.
Golden air turns blue, windows begin to glow as lights are switched on within. The apples stay nestled together in their sturdy box for now, waiting for some after-dinner walker to spot them waiting there, just for them.
First, a man passes by without seeming to notice the apples. No problem, it’s getting to be quite dark now after all, it’s understandable. Second, two people are walking arm in arm across the street. A small noise of exclamation thrills the apples. Ah ha! Here they come. Upon reaching this side of the road one says to the other, I was just thinking about how much I was craving an apple. How many should we take? Oh, just one each, says the other, leave some for everybody else. The light doesn’t allow them to be too choosy, but there’s not a bad apple in the bunch anyway, so they’re both pleased with their selection.
Overnight, things are slow. The squirrels and racoons of this neighborhood must have had better things to snack on, as the apples went entirely untouched during those newly lengthened hours of darkness. Dawn brings a lovely haze, shimmering down from the treetops, to eventually rest on the whole of the neighborhood. The street signs look beautiful.
Morning sounds rise. Water boiling, coffee grinding, front doors clanging opening and banging shut, the bus shambling up the busy road that draws a line around the neighborhood. First, cars cough past, free apples clearly not enough of a draw to go to the trouble of parking and exiting the machine. Then, finally, mercifully, the walkers. Kids carrying stiff backpacks jammed with fresh notebooks and pencils and half-squashed lunches shuffle by, sleepy-eyes and rumpled hair, nervous and jangly and preoccupied. A few snag some apples, either to presumably supplement their breakfast or lunch with or to simply send soaring over the road to crash fantastically against the other sidewalk. The birds will eat those ones happily. The apples don’t fear this fate, they’ve only ever witnessed the small drop from limb to ground and have always wondered what it would be like to fly, even for just one glorious moment. Intermingling with the tide of school kids are the dog walkers, parents pushing children too young for school in strollers, and pedestrian commuters during their first walks of the day. These dogs snuffle and snoofle at the apples, their owners more often than not slipping one in their pocket. The parents seem to contemplate taking one. Two distinct categories of commuters form. The first, with their glazed over eyes and headphones on, take no extra pauses or steps outside of the requirements of their routine, they use this built-in buffer between home and work as a period of half-sleep, a solace they desperately promise to themselves when the alarm goes off in order to coax their way out of bed. The second seem to take to their daily journey with a certain relish, they wave at each other and smell flowers hanging over garden fences and take free apples which they then devour enthusiastically. Once down to the core and stem, they swing it merrily into the nearest overgrown shrub. The box of apples has diminished significantly.
After this, it’s low tide, the people become more distinct and infrequent. One peeks out from underneath her rock, a woman who works from home, she mentally schedules her daily walks to occur during these periods of quiet. A month ago this first walk of the day was already a sweltering one, but now, it’s early September after all, there is a distinct undercurrent of coolness. She drapes a cotton flannel over her shoulders, dons her sunglasses, and ventures out to soak in it. The free apples are a jolt of small pleasure to her as she rounds the corner where they are stationed. Two, maybe three, she thinks, enough to bake some small delight. Pie? No, too early for that. Maybe a cake. Something with honey. She selects three, the rosiest of the bunch, and balances them a little awkwardly in her arms. The typical thought, I really should bring a bag with me on these walks, this always happens, flits by and is swatted away.
Now, an elderly couple, the two who live in house only a block away and have done so for decades. Their neighborhood walks are nearly daily, though interruptions here and there keep it from being a definite thing, and they know by now which houses tend to put out the good things this time of year. If it is early September, they know that you can be sure to find the most delicious apples in the neighborhood in a box outside this particular house. Before they stoop to choose, they look up and search the windows of the house to see if they can spot the neighbor within, in order to wave cheerfully at them and give the little nod that is understood to mean, “we’ll have the usual shallots to repay you in the spring!” These two came prepared, a dozen or so apples go into the little basket they carry, and though the apple-neighbor was not in the window, the sentiment is understood all the same.
The apples that have been waiting patiently at the bottom of the box are free to gaze at the sky now, unobstructed at last. It is so blue. A man walks up to the telephone pole near the box and staples up a flier with four sharp snaps, moves to leave before pausing, turning. He fishes out a small apple from one of the corners before going on his way. A runner huffs and puffs up to the box, finds the largest apple within, and takes a bite so large that the apple nearly splits in two. Juice runs from her mouth and she wipes it hastily with the back of her sweaty hand.
The front door to the apple-house opens a little while later, a different large box is wrestled off the porch and onto the corner. This one is full of books. A thoughtful hum in response to the near emptiness of the apple box. A few minutes later, another, smaller batch of apples are placed gently in the nearly-empty apple box. A satisfied hum now before the front door closes.
Mid-day sun, the rooftops as hot as they will get today, which is to say, not all that hot. Not anymore. August days wait for us now far off in the latter half of next year. Not much of a lunch rush in a neighborhood like this, all the good cafes and sandwich shops are just beyond its borders, some of those who work from cramped home offices weave through to fetch some fresh motivation and, later, a few others walk their routine afternoon walks a little more emphatically than they did yesterday. Perhaps it’s because this September day is so golden, or because they feel the threat of grey, wet days looming a little closer now. Or because someone told them there was free apples in a box on the corner a few streets up. One carves a direct route from his back door to the apple box, maybe he’s one who walked by early in the morning and, for one reason or another, passed on the offer of a September apple. His mind is set on having one now, that much is clear. Maybe two. He lingers and tries to memorize the scene, the renewed apple box sitting next to a bulging box of sun-warmed books, tries to store it in his mind for the days he swims around this corner in blustering wind and rain. One apple is chosen and promptly bitten into. It’s perfect, so much so that he doesn’t dare endanger it with a second one. Better to have this one to wedge firmly in his mind, to break his heart in the spring remembering. The second could ruin it.
A cloud, a mere puff of a thing, has been cruising across the silkscreen blue sky for a good while now, soaring sweetly, patiently. It nears the sun, prepares to be illuminated. As it finally passes over it, the neighborhood below is dipped into brief shadow, the cloud exhales relief.
The sight and sensation of darkened windows, even if it was only for a moment or two, has caused a stir in a few of the neighbors. A handful burst from their doors, afraid of and half expecting to find that autumn had descended and swept it all away, right when they thought it was safe to blink. No, no, just a passing cloud. There is time yet. But, still better go for a stroll now, better not take it for granted again. These ones, individually, as they come upon the apples, delight in their discovery, they rummage through the books and their joy is compounded when they each find a title which they’ve been meaning to read for ages now! Two apples each, to set with the book next to a good reading spot (one actually places them all in a bag with a blanket, in anticipation of reading in the small park a few blocks over), a sparkling dessert to tempt them while they make dinner.
The school children begin to trickle back through, journeying home after a long day spent navigating the ever-changing rules and relationships of their school lives, with varying degrees of success. Two brothers pass, the taller one bends at the box and takes a long time choosing one for himself and one for his small brother, who wears a face that says his day wasn’t all that good. Hard to tell if the apple cheers his spirits at all. The taller brother says, you should pick one out to bring mom, and this is what makes the smaller brother finally smile. Okay, he says, I will! As he does so, a colorful book catches his eye in the neighboring box and he takes that too. School troubles are set aside for the day.
Another kid, one of those who launched an apple terrifically to explosion, approaches the box alone, remorse clinging to his shoulders. The thrill had faded, he felt guilty about the waste. If only we could tell him how the birds had enjoyed it. He takes methodical bites as he continues his walk home.
Another kid, walking with friends who don’t want to stop and look at stupid apples, says fine, go ahead then, I’m going to look at the books too. They pout, the bullying persuasion tactic having failed, but eventually leave her to it. She goes for the books first, sorting through the pile of unfamiliar names and titles until she finds one with four girls on the front, she pauses at this one, reads the back cover, decides to take a chance on it, it’s free after all, even though it’s called Little Women and she dreads to think about that word: women. Along with this goes four or five apples into her bag, and reader, we must silently cheer for her because she does not know what a treat she’s in for! She doesn’t know yet about Jo stashing herself away in the attic to read thick novels and eat bushels of apples, doesn’t know what a joy she’s just lined up for herself! Doesn’t know that September is a golden month to read a golden book, doesn’t know that she’s just created a moment of nostalgia that will last her whole life! Something about this month, this angle of sunlight, creates moments that crack a heart open for a lifetime.
Now, the old man from this morning, his wife at home napping this time, takes his afternoon walk and chooses the largest apple from the box to accompany him. The dozen from before are already chopped and spiced and sugared and wrapped up in rich pastry, cooling slowly in their pie tins on the kitchen counter. The couple will load all but one tin into the car later and deliver them to their children around town. But that is later. Now, this man cherishes this beautiful apple as he walks through the neighborhood that has served as the outer structure to his life for so many years, slowly, surely, gratefully. Ah, September.
Those who went off to work somewhere else are coming back now. A rush of apples slipped into pockets and bags and strollers, juggled in too-full hands and arms, as the sun slants down lower and lower, so early these days compared to July. Doors open and close, stoves turn on and pots start to boil. The evening light catches fire, sparks and catches on every frayed surface.
A door across the street opens decisively, a shoddy cardboard box is wrangled to the corner. Heaving dangerously at the sides, the front has the words PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TAKE SOME ZUCCHINI scrawled on it. The lone apple left in the apple box is content.