Mr. Applesauce went walking up and down the field one day. It was
rainy
outdoors, and I was concerned for him. So out I went across Turnip Bridge and
said �How do� to him civilly enough. He looked up to me with weary eyes and
greeted me back without much energy.
�What�s wrong?� I asked him, a bit frightened. Mr. Applesauce never
acted like this. He was always the cheerful, plump man in the lemon orchard
who gave you a glass of lemonade whenever you wanted it. I liked him. I had
never seen him so sad.
Mr. Applesauce gave a gusty sigh and gestured to the potato field. I
looked around and saw that nothing was growing yet, but it was only the
beginning of the season and one couldn�t expect to see any growth for some
time. I didn�t understand and told him so.
�There are no trees here.� He said, as if that explained everything. I
crossed my arms and waited for him to say more. �I have always worked either
out here in the potato field or in the lemon orchard. But I haven�t ever seen an
apple tree anywhere. I can�t say I�ve ever traveled world wide, but I have been
around. I�ve seen the corn stalks in Maise, the grapes of Vineland, and even
bought some of the geese, straw, and the buffalo in Berry, but I�ve never ever
seen an apple tree since the day I was born.�
I took this chance to look at him. He wasn�t nearly as young as I
remembered. His firm skin that had seemed so young and fruitful a few months
ago now looked dangerously soft and squishy. It seemed as though his red and
green overalls took the shape of his wrinkled body as if they were part of his
skin. I knew that he was going to die soon, and nodded understandingly at his
failed quest. I felt as if I couldn�t say anything, but I knew I had to.
�I hate to say this, Mr. Applesauce, but no one has ever seen a potato in
Root Country, or a peanut in Butterland either. I know this because I had a friend
a few years back. Her name was Jam and she lived in Vineland. She spent all
her life searching the nearby states and counties, but she never saw a hint of a
grape ever.�
Mr. Applesauce looked at me, amazed. �But, dearie, I�ve been to
Vineland and saw thousands of grapes. How could she of not seen them?�
The thought of not telling him this crossed over my mind for a second,
but I decided against it. It might hurt him even more not to tell him. �Um, Mr.
Applesauce�, I started, not knowing exactly how to word this. After all, I was
talking about the dearly departed. �Do you know what the majority of deaths in
Vineland are from?� Mr.
Applesauce snorted, annoyed at how dumb the question was. �Of course I
know it! A mature Vinelandian always disappears after it has passed puberty!
Why are you asking me such stupid questions?!�
I began to stare at the sky, noticing how all the clouds were
disappearing and the sun was coming out. Mr. Applesauce waved me on
impatiently.
�Did you ever pause to wonder where all the Vinelandians went?� I
continued.
�Not really.�
I smiled sadly and came out with it. �The occupants of Vineland are
taken from their homes and thrown into machines that drain the blood from them
for an evil poison which the murderers drink.�
�Do they die?�
�No. They get hysterical and have toxic visions of the lives they have
wasted.�
Mr. Applesauce had gotten considerably pale the last 30 seconds.
�The lives of the Vinelandians?� He half-asked, half-said, certain that the killers
had some remorse for their victims.
�No.� I answered, trying to control the shame from showing on my face,
�They feel sorry for themselves.�
Mr. Applesauce gasped, large, sweet-smelling tears filling his eyes.
�But how does this explain about the trees?�
I held up my hand as a sign for him to wait, and continued. �This
happens to all of your other neighbors too. The folks of Berry are eaten alive,
the people of Root Country boiled after their eyes have been cut off, and the
poor poor citizens of Maise roasted till they either explode, or slowly cooked until
impaled to make them easier to nibble.�
�That�s terrible.�
�I�m really sorry that I had to tell you these things first, Mr. Applesauce,
but I had to in order for what I have to say next to make sense. Now let me ask
you a question; Do you remember your mother, or your sisters and brothers?�
�Um, not really.�
�Would it surprise you know that you see them every day, or at least
could, if you wanted to?�
Mr. Applesauce looked as if he would either faint, or else burst with
anger. I could well see that our friendship was over. �Yes, it would!� He said,
frowning. I walked over quickly and patted him on the back in order to quiet him
so he could listen to what I would say.
�Let me ask you another question; Imagine you are in room, and the
shelves are all covered with ordinary, gray, fist sized rocks, except one which is a
huge boulder with stripes and pink poka-dots. You had to go to one. Which one
would you choose?�
He just looked at me with his sad eyes. I felt horrible, but wanted his life
to make sense to him when he died. �You would choose the boulder. And
when focusing on that boulder, wouldn�t you forget about all the other plain gray
rocks in the room?�
�Yes.�
�That�s what its like with it here. You notice all the other different
people, but not the ones that you�ve seen again and again since the day you
were born. You just keep on looking at the different ones, and you fail to see
everyone else who looks the same as you because they see out of the same
eyes your looking out of. These people still pass by you every day, but
eventually fade out and turn invisible to you because you don�t see them. You
don�t see them because you don�t want to! But if you want to see your mother
and your father you have to look for the things you already are in full view of! Try
it!�
I glanced at Mr. Applesauce and saw him concentrate. �Don�t bother
looking for one thing.� I said, �Look at it all and see it all. You all ready see them,
just try to pick out the things that you�ve never noticed before.� I looked at the
old man and saw through his eyes then. I saw the vague shapes that were once
before shadows and dust morph into people, who now where beautiful and
different. And, standing besides him, I whispered in his ear to look up and we
both saw his mother and father. His mother stood tall, her million green and
brown arms dancing with the wind as his father shined down his all to feed his
mothers ever hungry belly.
I stood there and smiled as Mr. Applesauce�s eyes grew round with
amazement as he stared at his long forgotten parents. I looked at him and he
turned his eyes to me and I saw that he understood why I had to tell him all those
bad things. �I had know what death had in store for me before I could appreciate
and understand life.� He whispered to me. I nodded, and said goodbye to him,
and climbed down the apple tree feeling confused and tired.
I still felt shameful to be related to those killers who hurt Mr. Applesauce
and his kind, but felt special also. I knew still one thing that I hadn�t told Mr.
Applesauce, because I knew that he wouldn�t believe me: When he would die
and fall to the ground, from his remains would grow another being like his mom.
Mr. Applesauce was too nice and humble to believe he could spawn such a
god-like being as the apple tree. But I knew that if the seed did survive it would
grow the most beautiful apple tree out in the orchard.
�Sharie!� I glanced up, startled, to see my mother standing at the
bottom of the tree looking angry. �What?� I asked, looking confused.
�What do you mean, 'what'? I heard you talking to thin air! I�ve told you that
your imaginary friends don�t exist! You're 12 years old and you still believe in
talking pears and oranges!�
�It�s apples, mom.�
�Don�t talk back, Sharie!� My mom scolded me, and told me to go back
inside. I wandered slowly back across the yard and went indoors, disappointed
at how she couldn�t see some things either. She didn�t have enough
imagination. That was the key. You either had to have the ability to see
everything at once, or else imagine that you can so eventually you imagine
reality. My mom couldn�t do either one. It was sad. I shook my head and
walked upstairs to get ready for dinner.
* * * *
Outside her mom took hold of her basket and started picking fruit for
dessert.
�That girl....� She started, then faded off, as if unaware as what she
should say next. She pulled some of the apples off the tree and put them in her
basket. The garden was in full bloom right now, and it was almost time to start
planting the winter crop. She reached up and plucked off Mr. Applesauce, then
threw him away in disgust. That old thing wouldn�t even do for cider, she
thought, then headed over to the grapevines on the other side of the garden.
Mr. Applesauce's round, wrinkled body rolled away to a sunny spot just
behind the gooseberry bushes. While Sharie's mother walked away, the seeds
in Mr. Applesauce started their slow process of growing.
EPILOGUE
Sharie visited the farm occasionally, usually during the times when her
mother was away. Her father still seemed to be interested in her company,
though, and happy for the added help. Times were getting hard, again, and
because she was family she didn't get any wages while she was there. She
didn't mind.
All she asked was that she could, every day from noon to two, sit
underneath the apple tree besides the berry bushes and read or stare into
space. Often times her father caught her smiling merrily, as if someone had just
told her the funniest of jokes. But whenever he asked, Sharie simply changed
the subject, or else smiled at him in such a way that he forgot his aching back
and bruised sides for a moment and was happy.
Sharie got up from her spot under the tree and kissed him on the
cheek.
"What was that for?" He asked her, bemused.
"For not cutting down this tree when mother asked you to."
He grinned at her. "We didn't need that third bathroom anyway."
With that, he invited her inside for some cookies and hot apple cider.
Sharie looked as if she would protest, then followed him in, giving one last look
at the apple tree.
The End! Yay!
