Sour Apples

TW domestic/emotional abuse

May spits the chunk of apple into the sink, grimacing. “No matter how ripe they look, they’re sour!” she mutters to herself, inspecting the fruit in her hand. Symmetrical and without a bruise in sight. Firm. Solid. Scarlet, all ‘round. And sour for the third year in a row.

“Are you gonna eat that or just stare at it?” comes a voice through the open front door, followed by a rather stout woman with a wide smile.

“Charlotte, you startled me!” May exclaims, sweeping anxious eyes from her friend to the orchard beyond her kitchen windows. “John’ll be home soon and I don’t want him seein’ you. I already have to tell him these damn apples are bad again.”

“Aw, May, I’ll only be a minute.” Charlotte grabs a red delicious from the basket on the table and sniffs it. “Are you sure these are bad? They smell pretty good.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” May replies, snatching the apple from her hand. “If it were any other fruit, it’d be alright. But apples are John’s favorite.” She chews her lip and tosses the offending fruit into the compost bin. Wearily eyeing a nearly full basket of apples picked only that morning, she sighs, “I just hate havin’ to disappoint him, ya know?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like he can blame ya for bad apples. You’re not God.” Charlotte’s smile fades as she watches her friend. Three years with John and her blonde curls have turned limp, her wide brown eyes dull. She notices that the table is set for one, and feels sure it’s not May who will be eating. “Why don’t you come over for dinner, May? Let that bastard pick his own apples for once.” Charlotte wiggles her eyebrows at her friend and grins.

“I can’t.” May replies shortly, then spotting her husband trudging towards the house, adds, “Leave. Now!” Charlotte sees the wide brim of John’s sun hat and moves through the open front door without protesting. They stare at each other through the screen for a moment, the two women speaking with their eyes. Charlotte’s a clear plea for caution, and May’s a weary steel. May turns away first, to survey the kitchen. She tries to ensure that there are no signs of Charlotte’s visit- checking that the chairs are pushed in, the table is clear save John’s dinner, the apples lie undisturbed in their wicker bed- before smoothing down her hair and adorning herself with a smile. She tries to settle her trembling hands by clasping them together just as the back door creaks open, but they begin to twist of their own accord. With hard eyes John glances up and down his wife and raises an eyebrow.

“What have you been doing all mornin’? You’re covered in dirt.” He wrinkles his sunburnt nose, licks thin pink lips with a fat tongue. Big hands, blue eyes, dark hair. All covered in dirt himself. But May doesn’t respond, and her hands twisting a knot between them make the only movement in the room. Better not to argue with him unless she has to, she thinks. Better not to make him mad when she already has bad news.

May turns away from her husband but is conscious of every move he makes. The “Hm!” in response to her silence- an everyday occurrence. The chair roughly scraping back- that’s normal. The loud sighs- those are normal too. The normal clatter of silverware, gulping of beer, swallowing of dinner. He would perhaps not be so mad at sour apples, the soiling of his favorite fruit. She turns tentatively toward him.

“John, dear. I have to tell you something…” she starts, and wills her hands to be still, “It’s the apples again. There’s something wrong with them. They’re sour.”

She watches John’s large hands place the silverware gently on his dinner plate. May tenses at the quiet chime of silver on porcelain and the form of her husband rising from his seat. She chooses a square of tile on the ground and stares at it, bracing herself, every one of her muscles tight. All is still but her hands. Twisting. 

“Ten fucking years, May. These apples were perfect until you moved in. Ten years of perfect fucking apples before you came.” He spits at her.

She focuses all of herself on the tile. A ceramic tile of blue and green patterns, precise and geometric. Beautiful tiles that she loves and chose herself. Calm, mesmerizing shades of teal, seafoam, mint. 

“How the hell do you manage to fuck up something so simple?” John yells, though his voice seems to be coming from far away. The tiles were the only thing John let her change in his house when they’d married three years before, and even then it was only because the old ones had broken with the shifting of the house’s foundation. 

“Are you even listening to me?” John’s voice echoes towards her. May’s hands twist in their frantic embrace. She keeps her eyes on the tiles, squints to see the colors blur into an ocean.

She doesn’t see John’s hand rise towards her, but she feels its impact. May feels like she’s trapped in an undercurrent as waves of pain crash through her head. Her twisting hands have finally come to rest. She hears pounding that she thinks is in her head before she sees Charlotte burst into the room and connects the sound with her friend’s heavy tread. She is underwater, drowning, and every sound is a perversion of language. Distorted. Better not to see, May thinks, and closes her eyes. Voices pulse through the water, trying to reach her. She swims away.

Charlotte is there when May awakes, but John is not. “He left,” she says simply.

But they both know that this is not the first time and may not be the last. Afterall, they were not the first sour apples. That night, as she lays awake in her friend’s guest room, May tries to formulate a plan, but all she can think of are the tiles. Her only mark on the house she’s lived in for three years. If she left now, she wonders, will there be any sign that she was there at all?

When May returns to her husband the next morning, she receives his hugs, his kiss, his apologies. She stands stiff in his arms and waits for his departure to the orchard, then heads for the shed out back. Out of his view, she finds the tools she’ll need and gets to work in the kitchen. The tiles come off in pieces, the ocean breaking apart around her. Hours later, she gathers the shards into a bag. A haze of dust floats in the kitchen that really has never been hers. Before May leaves, she grabs the basket of apples. She knows John will not eat them. When she bites into one on her way out, sweetness fills her mouth.