Apple Core

Thirty Three: Hope Renewed

"This apple is awfully small," I said, not taking a bite yet.

"It's organic," he said, "better for you."

"Oh, no, Mr.Dale," I said, my expression changing immediately, "This must cost a fortune."

"Enough of that nonesense," he said, "I don't even do it for the money, anyway. I own one of those big companies in the city."

"Really?!" I exclaimed, "Why not move there, then?"

"And leave this beautiful place behind?" he shook his head, "besides, son, if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that you should always live humbly."

I didn't know what to say, so I took a bite of the apple. As I did, I got an idea, better than any other.

And as I ate the apple in silence, Mr.Dale (I couldn't help but wonder where I'd heard his last name before) excused himself and went back to watering the trees. When I reached the seeds of the apple not too much later, I put them all in my pocket.

My plan was simple: I'd plant an apple tree beside Ralph's grave.

But when I put them in my pocket they did something unexpected: instead of the seeds hitting fabric noiselessly, they made a sound like they hit cardboard. There was something in my pocket.

I pulled the thing out of my pocket, and my heart pounded as I remembered what it was. "You smoke?" said Mr.Dale, turning his attention away from his trees and to the pack of cigarettes I was holding.

"Well, I used to," I said, "I totally forgot about these. I haven't smoked in two weeks."

"They're not going to do you any good," he said, "You don't need them."

Just then, a girl around my age emerged from between the trees. She wore a long dress, something I haven't seen in a while, since the world switched to everyone wearing above-the-knee clothing. "Pa!" said the girl, "Pa, breakfast is-" she paused when she saw me.

"Sure thing, Catherine," said her father. "Clyde, would you care to join us for breakfast?"

I politely accepted. It was a long walk between the trees until we reached the house. It looked huge on the outside, and must have been huge on the inside, too. As we got closer to the dining room, the smell of food grew stronger. The hum of voices didn't hush for long after we entered. Four of Mr.Dale's five sons were seated around the table. There were several chairs to spare, despite the three eldest sons (I guessed) being accompanied by their wives, and of those, two had a child each.

"We've got one more for breakfast, honey!" said Mr.Dale.

"Well, Danny's not up yet," said his wife,"so I guess that person'll have to eat his share."

"Serves him right for sleeping in everyday." said the youngest brother seated, under his breath.

"Elliot!" said his mother, who somehow heard him.

"What?" said Elliot, "It's true!"

"Enough already." said Mr.Dale, and he took a seat. I sat down beside him, and his daughter Catherine sat on the other side of the table. As soon as I saw the person sitting in front of me, I remembered where I'd heard their last name before.

"Hey," I said, "You were our gardener!"

"You're that depressed kid!" replied Jacob Dale, Mr.Dale's son.

"You two know eachother?" asked Mr.Dale.

"Pa," said Jacob, "Remember when I told you I worked for that cranky old woman? The one with the depressed kid?"