Apple of Discord

In a station wagon, I sat with my son, a son I'd never had. He appeared to be about ten years old, looking rather impish and precocious with his pale skin, big black saucers for eyes, dark brown tousled hair, and a whirly cowlick that almost resembled a widow's peak. The station wagon kept alternating between an old red Volvo 245 and an even older powder blue Ford LTD Country Squire with wood side-paneling.

We were driving out of my childhood subdivision, dressed in an outfit my mother would have worn – a jersey silk wrap dress and her yellow gold bangles. I vividly remember berating my son because he kept placing his paper bag lunch on the dashboard.

"You're going to spill your lunch and get the car dirty," I remember chiding him, "we just got it cleaned."

He refused to listen, clearly inheriting my stubborn and obstinate nature. It was a crisp Autumn day as we passed my childhood golf course – the one my father refused to golf on, deeming golf not a "real sport" and probably feeling too fresh off the boat to partake in such an activity.

By the golf course, there stood an apple tree next to a three-story brick neo-Georgian house. This house was familiar from my childhood, but the apple tree did not exist in real life. Nevertheless, my son insisted that we pluck apples from this tree. I warned him that we might be trespassing on our neighbor's property, and it would be in poor taste. He retorted, "they don't even pluck apples from it anyway."

He begged and pleaded, and eventually, I acquiesced. It was seven in the morning, and the people in the house were retirees with no work to commute to.

"Fine, but we're only here for six minutes," I said.

I parallel parked the station wagon by some condominiums, and we stepped out of the car to approach the neighbor's tree. It was an ancient tree with a thick, stout trunk and gray, scaly bark. Its leaves were egg-shaped and delicately toothed. While it was definitely apple-harvesting season, barely any apples grew on the tree. However, there were numerous apples on the ground – not overripe, but growing stem-up from the earth. You had to pluck them out. My son was somewhat confused, but he began placing apples in a teal wicker basket that appeared out of nowhere. I was equally perplexed.

As he picked apples, a moth fluttered by, catching his attention. He dropped the basket and started chasing it, laughing as he ran. All was placid until he froze in his tracks as the ground beneath us trembled violently.

I barely had time to react before a sinkhole yawned wide, its edges crumbling inward as a geyser’s deluge surged into the void. Apple cider thundered down, carrying with it clumps of soil, roots, and apple seeds. The ground beneath us gave way, and we were sucked into the maw of the earth. Our screams were drowned by the gurgling roar of the cider.

The house swayed perilously as its foundation was eroded by the unyielding flow of cider and seeds, and its structure groaned as it began to slide toward the sinkhole. Within seconds, the house was engulfed, collapsing inward as it was swallowed whole. Timber splintered, bricks scattered, and glass shattered, the debris carried into the depths by the current.

I then sat in a dimly lit kitchen, and I could tell it was X's kitchen, or rather, it belonged to the Painter, though shadows enveloped us. The solitary island of light was the candle-lit dinner table, which was decoupaged with old newspaper articles. X, with his shoes and trilby hat, appeared as if he was about to depart.

The acacia ladderback chairs, especially his, creaked. X leaned back slightly, his legs comfortably spread. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he brandished a giant leek, almost resembling a wizard.

"Here you go," X slid a modestly sized glass jar across the table, "I got you some honey. This honey is special. It helps with your fertility."

The honey, a viscous, amber nectar, glistened in the candlelight.

"Uhh, thank you. Is this because I'm twenty-six now? Never mind," I said, "I'll put this in my tea."