Old Fruit Stains

Alma, with everything she ever owned shuffling and bouncing in the back of her truck, chewed on the already sore part of her lip. Going 90 on the back road straight towards Texas where her ma and pa were waiting for her, probably sitting on the porch overlooking their family plot. Her daddy always had the idea they would fix their ranch up real nice but due to the limp in his left leg, he couldn’t tend to the land. Alma couldn’t have cared less about the land full of grass tall enough to tickle your elbows, or the old farm equipment so rusted it turned the color of brick, the barn with holes in its walls, and the cabin with peeling wallpaper. It was all she ever knew until she was fitted for her wedding dress at 17. 

As a child, Alma would scarf down handfuls of cherries as she ran through the property. She’d bite into the fruit and spit the seed wherever she pleased. She’d aimlessly wander, not caring to go anywhere but forward. The juice would drip down her mouth, off her chin, staining and coating her entire face and fingers a vibrant red. The soft tender breeze smelled raw of pollen all year round. She’d squeeze cherries in her hands, pretending to be a vampire. She’d hop through the field like a rabbit. She’d smell of old fruit and dirt, but it was a smell so warm it was nearly human. 

The Stetson boy, Henry, who lived on the ranch down the road, shot a coyote on Alma’s side of the land. He left it on their doorstep, saying he had killed it for Alma. The bullet blew its jaw clean off, drowning it in its own blood. She nearly hurled at the sight. She wanted to take it away and properly bury it in the field but her father skinned the thing and left its skull on the mantle of their fireplace.

As Alma grew older, her daddy began inviting Henry over every Sunday after church. His movements turned fluid, less careful in his way. He laughed with Henry, even getting up to throw around a football or two. Henry started lending a hand on the ranch, chopping down the grass, hauling the old farm equipment out, and flattening the entire plot like a big wave had cleared it out. Alma would watch from the porch, holding onto the hem of her shirt as she looked across the unfamiliar plain. 

After pumping gas halfway, an old man dressed in all white with a milky beard told Alma she should “take care of those flat tires. It ain't no good to drive on flats.” Alma looked to her truck, not even noticing the sinking rubber pooling on the asphalt. She drove another 15 miles before pulling over to inflate the tires. The truck used to be Henry’s but he smashed the radio with his fist after an argument and decided he didn’t want it anymore. 

She looked down the road where she’d drive another few hundred miles. In the distance she could see blurry black figures, cows scattered across the golden plains that looked like crumbs on a birch wood table. On the warm Sunday afternoon that Alma turned 17, she opened the front door to find Henry and her daddy laughing at the kitchen table. 

“Where were you off to?” Her daddy spoke. 

“Out,” Alma said, twirling her fingers around the ends of her braids. 

She lingered in the doorway until her daddy said, “Sit down, Alma. I’ve got somethin’ you.” He gestured to the open seat. Henry placed a ring atop the plastic-covered tablecloth, pushing it towards her. It was a simple silver band ring with no diamond or shine. It was dull, old, and worn. “You be good to Henry now. He’s a good man,” her pa said. Alma stared at the ring, her hands folded in her lap. 

“You give Henry an answer,” he bit. “Ain’t no use keepin’ him waitin’.”

“But daddy,” she said quietly. “I don’t know.”

“There ain’t nothin’ to know. You stay here, on this ranch, takin’ care of Henry.”

“But I…” she trailed off. “I want–”

“You don’t want nothin’,” he snapped. “There ain’t nothin’ in the cards for you but this. I know it and so does Henry. He’s been good to the church, to you, and the ranch. You ought to learn somethin’ from him.”

“We can get the ranch up and runnin’ by the end of the year. Once we’re married we got our own calf and cow operation,” Henry said. Alma stood up so fast the chair tipped on its back legs, slamming into the floor. 

Her daddy’s face turned sour, his fist striking the table making Alma jump. She lifted and placed the chair upright, sitting back down. “I won’t have the weddin’ be more than 2 weeks away.” Her daddy grabbed his cane, groaning as he lifted himself from the seat, and limped away into the dark hallway. Alma sat there, knees feeling weak, head a little too light, throat pinching like the walls were touching. She felt heavy. A crushing weight had fallen upon her shoulders, making her hunch down and hold onto herself as if she was going to disappear. 

She took the ring from the table and slid it down her finger. When she rested her hand at her side, it fell right off. On her wedding day, her pa gifted her the coyote skull, telling her it’s a reminder of Henry’s love. 

When Alma opened the back door of her truck, stuffed window to window with boxes, the same coyote skull tumbled out and landed by her feet. She picked it up and threw it into the irrigation ditch a few feet away. She pulled out her tire pump and knelt down to the flat. She had not one idea of how to fill a tire. It felt as if she hadn’t had an idea of her own in her entire life. She felt full of sand she could never claw out—like it was all pressing on the walls of her body. Everything was dug up, roots and all, yet too much a mess to bother with. 

She could hear a few ranch dogs muffled barking and distant plows collecting the last harvest. The harsh sun cast down an almost burning heat. She began pumping a tire, stepping back and looking at it, wondering if air was even filling it. Alma touched the small rip on the rubber, curiously running her fingers across it, before the force of its explosion knocked the rim straight into her, blowing off her ring finger and breaking her jaw. She landed on her back, falling onto the gravel—-gasping for air as she flung her arms side to side. 

Alma touched her face to see her hands covered in a deep vibrant red. She felt something warm and familiar drip down from her mouth, off her chin, and down the sides of her face. She felt as if she hadn’t left the farm at all. She’s still just a child, running through the dense field, picking ticks off her ankles and scratching her sunburned shoulders. She was mindlessly eating cherries, spitting seeds, and hoping a tree would grow. She felt—she knew that deep red color dripping down and across the contours of her face would never leave. It would spread across her entire body, staining her forever. 

The wind swooping down from the road blew her hair to the side. She inhaled the raw spring pollen as it brushed across her skin. And with a great sigh of relief, Alma’s breath left her like smoke from a blown-out candle. It floated above her, free and without strain, finally leaving her empty.