He was caught up in his bitterness as he walked. He didn’t care where he was going, so he let his feet take him where they wanted.
About fifteen minutes later, he walked by a sign that said, “Jeffersons Organics,” barely registering the name. After another minute, his attention was captured when he looked past the traditional split-rail farmers’ fence and saw green.
There is shit still growing here.
He stood and watched the greenery for a minute. He had to get a better look, so he jumped the small levy and climbed over the fence. He walked under the branches of trees and looked up at the green leaves swaying in the wind.
It was an orchard. Apple trees, he thought. Whatever they grew had been harvested, though.
He continued to walk deeper into the orchard. He was almost at its far end when he glanced to his left.
Q did a double take. Something was there.
He ran towards the object in a low crouch. He couldn’t believe his luck as he got to it.
It was a basket. Full of apples.
Q looked around but saw nobody. Satisfied, he sat down beside the basket, reached in, and extracted one. He rubbed it on his shirt a few times and took a bite. It was deliciously sweet. Q devoured the apple, and then had another one. The juices were dripping down his chin and onto his shirt, but he didn’t care.
He was so caught up in his enjoyment that he didn’t notice the woman approach.
“Fuck!” he yelled, jumping to his feet when he finally spotted her. She was within ten feet of him.
“Enjoying those apples?”
“Yeah. So?” Q answered defensively.
“So, didn’t your parents teach you between what’s right and what’s wrong?” the dark-skinned woman demanded.
“Hey, dude, I just took an apple. It’s not like I killed somebody!” Q responded belligerently.
That seemed to stun the woman.
“You’re right,” she said, after a long pause.
The anger seemed to drain from the woman, and her face went slack. Q thought that she looked more sad than angry now.
“You don’t know how right you are,” she added softly.
“Then... can I go?” Q asked.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Q gave her a suspicious look, which just made her smile. “It’s OK — you’re not in trouble.”
“I’m Q.”
“Um...Q. My name is Maddie. Those apples”—she pointed at the basket at Q’s feet—“are special.”
Q got defensive at that comment. “Yeah ... So?”
She tried a different tact. “Have you noticed how they’re not rotting, like almost all other fruits and vegetables are?”
Q considered it but did not respond.
She regarded Q for a moment and blew out a breath through her lips in exasperation. “You’re not an easy one, are you?”
Q frowned. He kind of got what she meant but wasn’t sure.
Maddie looked at Q for another moment. “All right. Just go, Q. Take a few more apples with you. Give them to your family, so you all can share in this gift.” She looked like she was going to say more but changed her mind and walked away.
Q wasn’t sure what to do. He sure as hell didn’t trust Maddie. He watched her until he lost sight of her. Then he got the hell out of there, leaving the basket of apples untouched.
“MADDIE! YES, THAT’S the Jeffersons’s daughter — the same person who gave Joe those apples,” Rachel stated excitedly. The whole room was abuzz for several minutes. Everybody was getting in on the conversation.
Slowly, in ones or twos, they stopped talking and faced Q again.
“What?” he said. Except it came out funny. Like a croak.
He stared at the others even as they stared back at him. Feeling something, he reached up to his face. It was only then that he realized that he was crying.
Nancy was out of her chair and had him wrapped up in a hug before he knew what was happening. Q let himself melt into her arms for a moment and really started to cry. Several seconds later, he was revulsed. He couldn’t stand to be confined by her fat bosom and chubby arms. It reminded him of a similar person, and a window. He remembered the look of betrayal and anger on Mrs. Randolph’s face as he shoved her towards her certain death. Q struggled and pushed her away violently.
Nancy looked shocked.
“S—Sorry. I was feeling claustrophobic.” The lie fell off his tongue easily, and she seemed to accept it.
“Tell us what’s wrong,” the sad-looking lady at the table said. “Sharing your story will make it easier. It will help.”
Q nodded. His eyes started to glisten once more as he spoke. “It’s just that ... I just realized that I could have taken some apples and given them to my parents. Instead they had to go through so much pain. And die. I could have saved them.”
His thoughts drifted a few days back. To when his life had changed forever.
ABOUT AN HOUR AND A half after leaving the Jeffersons’ farm, Q had found his bearings and headed home.
He left the shoulder of the secondary highway and sauntered down the perpendicular road, into the housing community where he lived. The road was flanked by two sets of large timbers, driven into the ground to various lengths. It created a formal entryway. The weathered wooden board mounted at the entrance once proudly sported bright green paint and silver lettering. “Verde Acres” was only legible these days if you squinted just right.
The view of simple, single-story buildings, all uniform in look and size, greeted him as he got closer. This housing estate had been thrown together by some developer to meet the needs of the surrounding farms. Namely, of migrant workers. The homes were built with the cheapest materials, and as quickly as possible, back in the heyday of farming in the area, about thirty years ago.
Q lived on a street called Shady Lane.
Shady Lane...
Every street in the community of Verde Acres had some comfortable-sounding name like that.
