I heard a crashing sound of breaking plates over my head and then a child sobbing as a woman started screaming. I cringed wondering what we had moved into. Jim and I, recently retired, had sold our big suburban house and moved to a small condo where we could be nearer our daughter, Lisa, and her family.
It had been hard moving from the older
Colonial home where we had raised our two children but Jim wanted the freedom
to travel and I, of course, wanted to be as near as possible to our grandchildren.
It was a good solution all
around. We still hadn’t met any of our
neighbors who lived in the two story, stucco covered complex. There must have been 50 separate condos,
varying in size with studios and one to two bedroom units. We had a two bedroom so stacked above our
head was another just like it. I knew a
young mother and father lived there with a little boy about three who was cute
as the dickens, and I guess he also was a dickens of a hand full. Both parents worked—I saw them leave in the
morning and come home in the evening.
They seemed to take turns taking Andy to day care. I didn’t know the parents’ names but I
certainly knew Andy’s. When they were
home it was a constant litany of “Andy, no.”
“Andy, don’t do that.” “Oh, Andy,
what have you done now?”
He seemed to be a perfect little boy
with reddish brown hair, green eyes, and a sprinkle of freckles across his
chubby cheeks. And as most perfect boys,
mischievous. The parents were probably
good parents, just overstressed as most young people seemed to be
nowadays. I know, I know. I sound like
an old fogy.
When the noise above started, I was
concerned. “Oh, dear, I wonder if I
should go up and see if there is something I can do.”
Jim looked up from his paper and just shook
his head. “Now Martha, it’s none of our business and I haven’t seen any bruises
on the kid, so it’s probably OK up there.”
Jim tended to be more laid back than I was.
I didn’t do anything and the noises
eventually stopped. But I worried about
it. I read all the stories about child
abuse and my heart ached for the little ones who were hurt. I didn’t think Andy was being abused. It was more like an overworked mother
forgetting to smell the roses and enjoy her young son as much as she could. If there was just something I could do to
help--without interfering of course.
The next day, a beautiful, October Sunday,
Lisa and her husband Mark with their two daughters picked me up to go apple
picking out in the country. Sophia, our
older granddaughter bustled in, herding younger Susan over to Grandpa Jim. They both begged him to go with them. He pretend scowled and said he had enough
apple-picking for a life time and he was going to stay home and enjoy a better
fall activity, watching his beloved Chicago Cubs. I knew it would be best if I wasn’t around to
hear his comments on their usual style of playing. The girls laughed and each
pulled on one of my hands to urge me out the door. I think Mark might have enjoyed watching the
game, too, but he knew he still had family responsibilities. So he played good daddy, maybe thinking of
the day when he too would be retired.
We had a wonderful outing and they
insisted I take home a bushel of red, sweet smelling apples. “What on earth are your father and I going to
do with all these apples?” I protested.
Lisa just smiled, her brown eyes sparkling, and said, “I know you love
to make pies so here’s a great opportunity.”
Mark seemed to perk up a bit at that thought.
While Lisa and the kids waited in
their SUV, he carried the basket into the condo and set the apples on the
kitchen floor near the oven. I guess he
thought that would be a good hint. He muttered a “Hi, Bye” to Jim as he rushed
back to his girls. I know he was
looking forward to watching the Cubs game on tape. He didn’t even want Jim to tell him how the
game had turned out.
I looked at the apples, sitting there
so innocently. “Oh, Jim, I don’t want to
make all these pies.” I ran my fingers
thru my short, salt and pepper hair. “I’m
sort of sick of making pies. Does that
make me a bad grandma?”“
You’re a great pie baker, but you
don’t have to bake if you don’t want to.”
Jim was in a good mood. The Cubs
had won and he really didn’t care what I did or didn’t do.
I knew there was no way we could eat
all those apples ourselves. As I got
into bed that night and flipped the calendar over to the next day, and saw the
date I could never forget, I also got an idea of how to get rid of the apples.
The next day, I drafted Jim to help me
wash and polish those apples until they shone.
And then we hustled them outside next to our building’s front door. Of course I made sure to tell him how big and
strong he was to help me carry all those apples. But I stopped short of telling him he “looked
like he’d been working out,” which I understand is a phrase young women use now
days to flatter men.
I unfolded a green and white lawn
chair so I could sit next to the apples with a big cardboard sign saying “Free
Apples”. It’s amazing what a free offer
will do to some people. Some were
suspicious, “Did management say you could do this?” “What do you really want, if I take an
apple?” But many people, especially with
children, were happily surprised. Some
even chatted with me for a few minutes, so I got to meet some neighbors. Of course, I was really hoping to see Andy
and his mom.
They finally came home. The little boy was red faced and tear
stained. His mother’s hair was mussed up
and her clothes twisted around as if she might have been wrestling with
him. Andy’s face lit up when he saw the
bushel of apples. He started to run over
to them, but his mother jerked him back.
“Mind your manners, Andy.” She
started to apologize to me, but I laughed and said, “Boys will be boys, and I
am giving them away. We got too many at
the apple picking place yesterday and I thought my neighbors might like them.”
“This is so nice of you to do
this. My husband, Justin, loves pie but
it seems like I never have time to do any baking.”
“It’s tough doing as much as moms have
to do nowadays.” I agreed. “Andy, if
it’s OK with your Mom why you don’t pick out three perfect apples for her and
your dad and yourself.”
He glanced up at her and she said,
“Sure, Andy. Just be careful and don’t
knock them out of the basket.” She
looked like him with her freckles and reddish hair and seemed more like his
older sister than his mother. She held
out her hand to shake mine. “I’m Linda
Cornell. It’s nice to meet you Mrs.….”
I smiled. “I guess I’m so busy giving away apples, I
forgot my own manners. I’m Mrs. Lewis but
just call me Martha.”
As Andy carefully rooted around in the
still half-filled basket, I chatted with Linda.
I hoped to make her feel better about her darling, but rambunctious son.
“He’s such a cute little boy. I bet he’s smart, too.”
She smiled, “He is smart. He was talking in sentences when he was only
18 months old. But he’s so active. It seems he never walked. He runs everywhere and climbs anything he
can.”
“But he’s a good boy. He looked at you for approval when I said he
could pick out some apples.”
She agreed, “Yes, most of the time he
is a good boy. It’s just that sometimes
I’m a little tired and can’t be as patient as I’d like.”
“It’s hard being a parent, but they
grow up so quick. One day they’re in
diapers and before you know it they’re walking down the aisle.”
“I know, I know,” she laughed. “When toilet training seemed to go on
forever, everyone told me that no one walked down the aisle wearing
diapers.” She paused, thinking. “You seem to know a lot about kids, do you
have some?”
“We raised two, a boy and a girl. Lisa and her family live nearby which is why
we moved here.”
“And where does your son live?”
I couldn’t help the tears that came
automatically to my eyes. “Luke died
many years ago overseas.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, what happened, if
you don’t mind talking about it?” She
put her hand to her mouth and glanced quickly over at Andy.
“It was during Desert Storm in 1991
and he was 19 years old.” I had told the
story so many times, I could do it without sobbing but it still was a painful
memory. “He and 27 other American
soldiers were killed when their barracks in Dhahran was destroyed by an Iraqi
Scud missile.”
She looked at me, her own tears
starting. “That must be the most horrible
thing in the world. A child dying.”
“Yes, it is.” I nodded, thinking of
the sorrow that had never completely left me.
“Luke would have been 40 years old today. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. But I try to remember the good times. How thrilled I was the day he was born. His hee-haw kind of laugh and his crazy
antics and I thank God I had him in my life for 20 blessed years.”
Linda looked over at Andy and
whispered, “I think I know what you mean.”
Andy turned to us with a big grin, his
hands together, carefully holding three beautiful apples. “Hey, apple lady, are
these OK to take?”
“Of course, they are, dear. And you know what, that’s what my son called
me too. The apple lady, because he loved
to eat my apple pies and I loved to make them for him.”
