October 12, 1956
R.I.P.

I ain’t much for religion, but even I know the story of the apple. It’s all about sin and temptation and how a snake talked Eve into eating one, even though God told her not to. It’s a good one, but I don’t need no fiction. I got my own story of the apple, and it’s a shameful one. It’s strange how one event can change a person. I used to eat an apple every day, just like that rhyme says. But I haven’t in nearly thirty years. Now, all I gotta do is see one and I nearly break down crying, thinking of that poor man, that day, and how bad a person I was. So I won’t touch the things, ‘cept the one I place at his stone every October. Always the same kind. Always on the twelfth of October. Least I can do.

I can’t forget the day, even though I’ve drunk enough to wash it away ten-times over. All these years and it’s still present, wedged in with the good and the bad, which there’s lots more of than I’d like. It’s always there, far clearer than the others. I wonder why that is, why the one memory you wish you could dig out and burn manages to stay put longer than any of the ones you’d like to hold tight all the way to the end. I suppose it’s cause of the guilt I’ve harnessed to it. It’s there to remind me that I am not a good woman, not then or now.

October 12, 1956. Gorgeous day. Fall colors against deep blue. Indian Summer in Maine, that final gift of the kinder season before the hellish one is heaped upon us. There was a hefty breeze, real warm and summery, coming up off the river, and we mill girls—the four of us— were making a ridiculous show of trying to control our skirts against it. Jane joked that we were just like Marilyn Monroes, and we truly thought we were, all giggly as if the wind was being naughty and we were mildly offended. Course we weren’t, strutting our legs down Depot Street, clutching our groceries with one hand and barely keeping our undies covered with the other. It was always us four: Jane, plain as her name, with straight dark hair and lips so thin and hard they could split wood; Wilma, who mighta been a beauty if only her ma had cared enough to teach her how to preen; and Fattie Lattie, as we used to fall her. She was my Johnny’s sister. Never liked me much. Always looked at me sideways like she didn’t trust me fully and was waiting for me to show my true colors. Lattie was smarter than she looked.

We’d just done our shopping at Johnson’s after a full day at the mill, so the clean warmth was nice against our bare legs. It swirled up and tickled at the dark and sweaty parts. In those days, the mill whistle blew at 3:30, and the women were let out a half-hour before the men so we’d be all cleaned-up and ready with dinner and such. It was all about the men and what they’d need after a long day—as if ours weren’t just as long. So we were walking fast and talking over each other like we always did on Fridays, laughing about another stupid girl who’d found herself up a stump without a husband. We weren’t being mean or nothing, just doing what we do in small towns to pass the time, gloating at our own good fortune at being married before the babies got in us.

We were half-way down Depot Street, nearly to Main, when we heard the horn blast and the brakes. If I live to a hundred, I won’t forget the sudden loudness of it. Shot right through the afternoon, it did. You don’t hear sounds like that here. Not in Riverton. Quiet place. Even horns don’t get worked ‘cept to scare a dog or a deer outa the way. So we and everybody within a mile musta known something bad had happened. And being the kinda girls we were—the kind to not miss nothing that might change the pace—we weren’t about to miss whatever it was. Our fast walk changed quick to a run, and we had to hug our bags tight so we wouldn’t lose nothing. Jane was in the lead with her huge thighs that came from horse riding. Wilma and Lattie next, so close to each other I thought Lattie would send Wilma flying with one bump of a hip. I lagged behind, cursing the weight of a pork roast I’d bought for Johnny. I was in the early days of wifery, trying to please a husband through his belly.

When I finally got to the corner, I couldn’t see much. Must have been twenty girls from the mill in front of me. I had to stand on tiptoes to peer over shoulders and around heads. But I was pretty skinny back then, compared to the typical Riverton girl, and I was able to squeeze between Natalie from the spool shop and her fleshy daughter, Grace. I pushed my way to the curb, and from that point, so close I could see everything, it was like a scene out of a newspaper. That’s how I remember that part: real detailed, and kinda black and white and still. Folks had come outa the restaurant, the post office, and even the Hogpenny Lounge where “lazy, useless men drink away their lives,” as Grammie used to say. All eyes on both sides, even the drunken ones, were on the center of the road, a few feet in front of Mr. Johnson’s delivery van.

That’s where the man was, splayed across the asphalt like something that fell outa the sky, one arm stretched toward a bag of groceries. Traffic, much as we get in Riverton, was stopped in both directions, and everything was quiet as if the volume of the day had been turned way down. Even the wind had quit, like it was holding its breath, like we all were.

Then, in the middle of all that stillness, something moved. It was an apple. One single apple. It tumbled out of the man’s fallen grocery bag, rolled and rolled, real slow, and stopped, just like that, inches from the man’s face. Strangest thing I’d ever seen. It was like it had purpose or something, like someone was calling it or pulling it with an invisible string.

From where I was standing, no more than a couple feet away, I could see that the man was watching it too. His eye, the one that wasn’t pressed into the road, followed it as it rolled right to him. And when it stopped in front of his face, he looked right at it. Stared into it, it seemed. That’s when I saw the kind of apple it was. It wasn’t any old apple. It was a real pretty one, the same as the ones I’d just bought, the real expensive kind I’d planned on baking with brown sugar and a little whiskey. Something special for Johnny.

I’d seen the recipe in Coronet Magazine. It was supposedly one of Grace Kelly’s, and everybody knows she’s got good taste. It called for these expensive varieties that I’d never heard of. Johnson’s had them, which surprised me, but I had to ask for them cause they kept them in a special place in the back. They’d cost me twenty cents a pound. I remember cause it was a lot to spend on apples in those days. I’d looked them all over, smelled them, felt for any bruises. I suppose I was trying to decide if Johnny and me was worth such pricey fruit. The girls were rushing me, telling me to “just buy the damn things.” So I finally did—bought four so we’d have em for Sunday, too. Turns out they never made it that far.

It occurred to me, as I stared at the expensive apple just lying there in the dirt of the road, that the man might have bought it for his supper too, maybe even a special supper for somebody. Or maybe it was something to snack on during a long drive to home. I could tell he wasn’t from around here. His suit and his shoes were nice, like something not out of a catalogue. And there was a hat that must have fallen off when the van hit him, and it was one of those straw ones—can’t remember what they’re called— and it had a pretty feather in it, not something a Riverton man would wear. No, I knew the man was a stranger in town.

I felt bad for Mr. Johnson. He’d been sitting in his van this whole time, probably in shock, not knowing what to do, maybe praying even. I could see his lips moving, and then he finally got out, came around to the front, and stood over the man, pleading with him to get up, asking if he was all right, which he obviously was not. I think Mr. Johnson was crying a little. He looked around at us. We were all being stupid, just standing there, staring like we were watching a play or something. “What should I do? Tell me what to do.” He’d always seemed like a weak man, but now he looked damn pathetic. I felt bad for him but I didn’t know what to do either. Never seen somebody hit by a car.

“I’ll ring up the sheriff.” It was Mrs. Abbott from the hotel. “Better not move him.”

Folks were leaning in, and I could feel Grace’s big sweaty boobs on my back, but I couldn’t move. I was already closer than I cared to be. And because of that closeness I think I saw things nobody else could’ve, not the way his head was, all twisted to the side. I could see his eye which was staring right into the apple. And then—and I swear it—the man grinned. Laying there, belly down and all bent, he smiled at the apple. It wasn’t a big one, but it was there.

I’m not a thinking person. Never was. In fact, I prefer not to do much of that, specially if it’s none of my immediate business. But that day, that moment, I was thinking a lot. It was cause I was so close to him, closer than anybody else. I think that’s why I had such a knowing of what was going through his mind. His thoughts—like I was right inside him or something—were all about apples. They truly were. He was remembering all the apples he’d ever had, some held to his mouth by somebody he loved, some picked with his ma and pa when he was a kid. He remembered a perfect one he’d given to a teacher once, a young and pretty thing he had a crush on when he was just a boy and hadn’t learned yet that apples won’t buy love or even better grades. But he thought, and I thought with him, about how the whole world can fit inside an apple, all the sweet and sour of this life, all the bright spots and darkness, can be found right there in one juicy bite. I could see it in his eye, the one I could not look away from no matter how much I wanted. I could see it all, his ma and pa and the teacher and somebody he loved enough to share a piece of fruit with. I could even see the inside of the apple, that whole world of sweet and sour life. And it’s because of what I saw in his eye that I have so much guilt. I sorta knew him for a minute, saw into his heart. And then I did him wrong. I did him so wrong.

In the next minute, the eye lost focus like it was pulled away from the apple and from all that world. It got dark, the smile went away, and there was no doubt he was gone.

Finally, somebody came. Too late, of course. Mr. Corson, who used his van as an ambulance whenever we needed one, drove up with his horn blasting. His son was with him, and they gently loaded the man in. Then Sheriff Wilson was there telling us to stay back while he directed the van away, down Route 27 toward the hospital in Farmington. After it left, he held traffic back so we could all cross Main Street and be on our way. The whole event, from horn blast to the man’s death, couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but it seemed so much longer. It had made me tired all of a sudden, all that thinking about the man and what I know I saw in his eye. I couldn’t get myself to move yet. I waved the girls on, and I sat down on the curb right near where the man had let out his final breath.

Not sure how long I was there, staring at the spot where he’d been, thinking about what I’d seen in his eye, or what I thought I’d seen. I was too shaky to stand, too full of his thoughts to have any of my own. I felt empty, but also full at the same time, if that makes any sense. I didn’t like the feeling, and I didn’t wanna move until I felt steady and back to myself. So I just sat there on that dirty old curb, all alone with that man’s memories in my brain. I musta been there quite a while, cause I didn’t snap out of it till the second mill-whistle blew, the one that tells the men to go home. It’d just be a few minutes before all them, including Johnny, would be hustling down Depot Street, making a beeline for the Hogpenny, getting their beer and shot of whiskey before heading home to their women.

I stood, shaking a little, grabbed up my groceries, and slapped the dirt off my ass. The apple was still in the road. It didn’t look bruised or nothing, and I thought to pick it up, being such a pricey piece of fruit. Didn’t take me a second to decide against that. It was in the road, after all. But truth be told, I didn’t wanna touch the thing after what I’d seen. It gave me the willies. So I gripped my bags real close to stop the shivers, and I started.

That’s when I saw the wallet, just a couple feet from the curb, partly hidden by the brim of that fancy hat. It was a deep red, nearly a match to the apple. I didn’t quite know what it was at first—so shiny and big, nothing like a wallet I’d seen before. More of a billfold, I guess you’d call it. I looked around, but the street was empty. The women were long gone at the point, and I could hear the sounds of men from way up on Depot, coming my way. Again, I didn’t pause long. The apple was one thing, but a wallet was something different. I balanced my groceries in one arm, snatched it up, and dropped it into a bag.

It’s nearly a mile from town to what was then our new home. I had lots of time during that walk to consider the man, the apple, and the billfold. When I was far enough away from houses, where there used to be a long stretch of nothing, I stopped, set down the bags, and pulled out the shiny leather wallet. It was still warm from the asphalt and, it occurred to me, maybe even from the man. His license was in it with his name, his address, and his birth date. It’s been so long now that I’ve forgotten most of that. I think his first name was Roger, but I couldn’t swear to it. It was the money that caught my eye and fouled up my already-rattled brain. There were six twenties, five tens, and a bunch of singles. I remember that well cause it was a lot of money then. Still is, I guess.

So I took the bills, folded them and shoved them deep into the pocket of my work skirt. Then, without a second thought, I threw the wallet as hard as I could into the woods. I’d be lying if I said it felt good to do that, to get rid of the thing and to feel all that money in my pocket. But it did not feel good, not at all. I started back down the road, but at some point I musta started crying, cause in a few yards I could hardly see through it. I had to put the damn bags down again and swipe the wet outa my eyes. I knew Johnny wouldn’t be far behind me and he’d be wondering why I wasn’t in the kitchen already. But when I bent to hoist up the bags again I could hardly lift em. Felt like one bag had gotten heavier. I knew right away it was the bag with the apples. So I fumbled around till I found all four, pulled my throwing arm back and heaved each one of em, with even more strength than I’d given the wallet, into the same woods. Hurt my shoulder a little but I kept throwing. They went high, all bright red and shiny in the afternoon, and then they got swallowed up by the dark. Each apple went a little deeper, as if my resolve got stronger. I stood there afterward, thinking about my actions and trying to understand them, but I eventually gave up on the thinking cause I’d had enough of that.

For years after, every spring before the underbrush got thick, I went back to that stretch of woodland. I spent hours combing through the brush and layers of packed dead leaves hoping to find the billfold. I suppose I was also hoping to relieve, in a small way, my guilt for the man’s grave. The town had found no identification—no one had come to claim him—so they’d buried him in Riverside Cemetery with a simple marker. “A Stranger” they’d called him, which was mostly the truth. I did try to remedy that, searched and searched but never found the billfold. Eventually, new homes were built in that stretch of woods, and I had to stop with the searching.

Of course the money had come in handy, but it didn’t last long. Never does. I bought a few things for the house, but nothing Johnny asked about or even noticed. None of it made me feel any better about what I done, but I didn’t feel so bad I needed to tell anybody. I guess that’s how you know that you’re a truly bad person, the fact you can live with it.

But I do place an apple on the man’s gravestone every October. That’s something, anyway. And it’s the most perfect one I can find, most expensive one too. Least I can do.

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Clif Travers is a visual artist and writer who has recently returned to his home town in Maine after spending much of his life and in Brooklyn, N.Y.  In 2017, he received his MFA in creative writing from Stonecoast, USM. He is working on a collection of short stories and novellas titled “The Stones of Riverton.” They are fictional tales inspired by the gravestones in a small town in Western Maine.

Photo: Kari Shea