An Apple A Day

My grandma packed my grandfather’s lunch everyday, and mine when the time came for me to go to school. Usually, a turkey and cheese sandwich, his with mayo and mine without, a bag of potato chips, an apple and two quarters settled at the bottom. I bought a soda with those quarters on the first day of school of each school year to establish myself, set the tone. Most kids in school didn’t pack soda, mainly juice boxes or water, if their mom was a health freak. I was one of the only kids who had a soda. I would stop at the corner store on the walk to school, buy a can, and reveal it at the lunch table, you would think I pulled a bunny out of my hat based on the reactions.

The awe of soda lost its allure as I got older, so I would pocket the two quarters, which over time increased to three and then four, inflation, right? I figured all those loose coins, though small in value, would eventually amount to enough to buy something, nice or cool, or just mine.

By the time I was in high school a brown paper bag lunch wasn’t cool, kids my age brought their lunch or left campus to grab soggy fries from the nearest fast food restaurant. For some reason packing your lunch meant that your family didn’t have enough money for fine dining like McDonald’s. So a packed lunch in a brown paper bag made you especially poor, but my grandma wouldn’t listen to reason, she insisted on packing our lunches the same as always, only adding a cookie and an extra quarter for compromise. My grandpa didn’t mind the idea of a packed lunch, especially in a brown paper bag. He used to say, the dull presentation made for an unassuming package. An onlooker couldn’t tell if you were mysterious, poor or a drunk, when you walked into crowded spaces with a bag like that.

Most days I would eat my favorite parts of my lunch on the ride to school, pocket the change and toss the bag in the trash can at the entrance of the school. Years of collecting the quarters at the bottom of my lunch bag, had afforded me the luxury of paying for my school lunch or buying a burger for a dollar or two. I was always hungry after, but it was a small price to pay, to joy ride with the cool kids.

Every morning my grandfather and I grabbed our lunches, thanked grandma with a kiss and walked out of the door. Each evening I returned home empty handed, and my grandpa returned with his same paper bag folded over three or four times. He would place his bag on the kitchen counter and my grandma would open it, remove the remnants and toss the bag in the garbage can. I never thought anything of it, other than the fact that my grandfather hated apples and my grandmother firmly believed that an apple a day would keep the doctor away. But, no matter how often she packed them, he would never eat them, and that’s probably the only thing that survived his hunger everyday.

This afternoon, she was distracted, our neighbor had stopped over unexpectedly and was holding my grandma hostage on the living room sofa with neighborhood gossip. So when my grandpa discreetly placed his bag on the counter and retreated to his bedroom, I sauntered over to assume apple duty in my grandma’s stead. As I began to unfold the bag, my grandma shouted out jarringly “I’ll take care of that honey”. I was startled but quickly recovered smiling in her direction while still opening the bag, “I think I can manage”. Our neighbor chuckled simultaneously and immediately resumed her story telling. I turned my head to look down into the bag, expecting the traditional red sheen of an apple, instead I was staring down at something that slowly caused my smile to fade. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it, I couldn’t muster an explanation for it, or any questions to ask about it.

When I finally managed to shift my eyes away, they immediately met hers. Her eyes seemed glassy, not as warm as they typically were, but I could notice that behind them she was searching for a way to end her conversation without causing much of a scene. I refolded the bag, repeating the indentations made by my grandfather, slowly picked the bag up and cradled it in my arms. I walked briskly past her, even though I knew she wouldn’t stop me in front of her guest. Before I could reach my bedroom door, I contemplated stopping in to see my grandfather, but decided against it, they would have to come to me, they would have to explain themselves, I didn’t have the balls to question them. I quickly retreated to my room and sat quietly on my bed, the bag on my nightstand, anticipating a hesitant knock on my door.

~END