Twenty-First and Fifty -- by Jack Egan

Twenty-first and Fifty

by Jack Egan

Alma Brunston turned nervously toward the produce section. In her cart, her grandson, four year old Benj sat--no, stood--no, sat--no, stood...

"Benj! Sit!" she hissed, afraid of attracting attention. This was not her usual grocery store, but a supermall specialty food outlet almost three sunbus changes from the dense, aging suburban neighborhood her husband and she inhabited twenty miles outside of mid-twenty-first century Denver. "Now!"

"OK, Gramma," he said brightly and sat, interestedly watching the bins of colorful fresh fruits and vegetables go by. "Oooh! That ones are red!"

"That's a bell pepper. You know what a bell pepper is, and you don't like them." She grimaced at herself, ashamed of her short temper. "Honey."

It was just her nerves. Of course Benj was curious. This was a highly unusual trip for them. But it was also a very special day for her and Carl, the 16th of October. Their fiftieth anniversary. She had planned their dinner tonight, and the time after, for a long, long time. Yes, a long time.
The makings for it, the pasta and the beer and bread, had already been purchased back in their familiar neighborhood store yesterday. Except for one small item that she had despaired of ever obtaining.

And to get it, she had had to take a trip. And for a trip, she needed company, the kind that made her feel stronger and protective, ready to face the world.

She had seen the item advertised on T-Vid after the six PM news not two weeks before, and had caught her breath, astonished. Carl had seen it, too, wisecracking at first, just like the newsman, about "the gene-masters have gone too far," but finally casually remarking that he wished they could try one again. Overall, it hadn't seemed to affect him, though, as it did her. Probably because he hadn't been planning for so long...

But he had not entirely forgotten, for he had said, "Like old times. Do you remember Old Man Hayes' orchard, Alm?"

"Yes, sweetheart. How could I forget!"

Our first time.

It was so long ago now, fifty-three years.

Alma pried her fingers off the pushcart handle, trying to tell herself that she was doing nothing wrong, not in the larger social sense. Only in the restricted family budgetary sense.
Her rumpled and unstylish clothes might provide a mild offense to some of the other much better-dressed patrons, but, really, no one would be voicing a complaint. Probably. And what she was about to do was likely being done by a thousand other... no, well, maybe a few hundred other women, somewhere in the more advanced world right now.

"Pretty!" Benj's sigh snapped her head back. He was standing again, and this time had one of the red bell peppers in his hand.

"Your mother's reflexes." She looked back and was relieved to find the floor clear of rolling stock. He was developing a reach! Have to remember that.

Benj was a handsome, plump lad, with the well-fed look that was so common to people these days, thanks to the genetic organic revolution. Of course, this plenty he would eventually take for granted, like all the youngsters growing up in the midst of it today. Better he should enjoy the beauty now, before it got to be old hat.

But, beauty or not, there were certain grandmotherly duties.

"Of course it's pretty," she said, firmly removing the vegetable from his hand, using the age-old damage-minimizing lefthand-rigidify-righthand-pry-apart grip of mothers and grandmothers immemorial. "Can't turn my back for a minute. Didn't your mother teach you-?"

The pepper was a lustrous, perfectly symmetrical, perfectly formed example of its kind, like all the others in the bin, like all of the perfect fresh provisions lining the aisle, their riotous colors and pleasing patterns arranged by clerks no doubt carefully trained in the art of grooming the produce aisle. Above each bin, neatly printed beneath the name of the item, was a large green heart and the word in black-shadowed gold, "Organetic."

No different from the smaller and less well-appointed aisles in her own usual store. No different from any produce department, anywhere in the crowded world, these days.

But this was not the section where her interest lay, the reason for this long trip, and for the extra fifty dollars stuck deep down in the bowels of her wrinkled black purse.

"Sit."

Nervously, she shoved her purse under Benj's bottom for safekeeping, and, taking a deep breath, brought her cart to rest in front of the last turn to her intended target.

"Specialty Produce," the green-on-gold sign proclaimed. Banners everywhere. Garish! Why did they have to make it such a public spectacle for one to buy a little luxury?

Specialty produce indeed.

"I need to go potty, Gramma."

"No you don't," she knew Benj too well to be concerned. Besides, they'd come out of the restroom on the identical errand not five minutes before. "You need some chewing gum."

"Yes!" he agreed happily, accepting the external bladder controller.

Alma stared down the short aisle, under the fluttering canopy of pink and green ribbons, twisted in their curiously DNA-like helices, strung from the ceiling at various anchorages, all converging in colorful swoops and dips to a point above the central bin at the end of the aisle. She mentally rehearsed her moves.

Several women, all young and fashionably dressed, were returning from the target area. They each gave her a curious once-over as they passed. Only one, she noticed, had actually purchased one herself.

But I am going to buy one! For Carl!

A very well-dressed young man stood a few feet beyond her, at the entry to the next aisle labeled "Organetic Dairy Products."

Dairy! Why there hadn't been a real dairy around in years. Everything was grown in vats, these days.

The young man did seem to be watching her. There was a large badge on his vest.

Of course, store police. They could afford such job positions in a place like this, an aisle like this.
He would not look away. Watching her pluck up her courage. Waiting for this thin little old woman, in her rumpled clothes, so clearly out of place here in this store, in this section, waiting for her to give up her silly notion and turn away. Or perhaps reveal some more sinister intent.

Not today.

Finally, courage plucked, Alma gave him a tight little smile and started her cart deliberately down the festooned way. She thought he winked at her.

"Oooh! Look!" Benj was halfway up again, staring at the shiny wide ribbons twisting in an artificially-stirred breeze up near the ceiling. "What is those for?"

This was no time for dawdling, for many reasons. For one thing, Benj's urge might not be as imagined as she imagined. She picked up her pace.

"Sit down, Benj! Don't touch anything!"

Wouldn't that be something, if he were to grab one of these treasures and drop it on the floor...
At the end of the aisle, almost without stopping, Alma whirled her cart one hundred and eighty degrees, having already snatched up a special bubblewrap bag from the handy gold foiled box beside the bin. Keeping Benj in the cart at a safe quarantine distance from all surfaces, she quickly scanned the exhibit. Which wasn't hard to do. There were only a dozen of the items on careful display, each nestled in a small bed of green scurly plastic, like soft grass...

Magically, the old tarnished mental image that she was matching against found its target.

That one!

She watched her right hand dart out, seizing one of the delicately arranged items with gratifying dexterity, and stuffing it into the pocket of the bubblewrapper.

"Gramma, what is-?"

"Sit!"

Alma jammed into high gear. Her little legs pistoned, her heels clacked, the cart rolled hissingly (all cart casters were always newly oiled in a store such as this one), and in less than five seconds she was turning the corner out of the bedazzling "Specialties" aisle, practically running down the well-groomed young store guard.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she apologized on the run.

"'S all right, ma'am," he smiled at her as she sped away. "Come back again."

Glancing back over her shoulder, she could see him shaking his head.

"Maybe I will."

At the checkout lane, the clerk gave her a strange look.

"This is all?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Sixty-five dollars."

She almost dropped her teeth. "What?"

"This is fifty dollars," he said with deepening concern. "Madam, one just does not pick up Specialty Produce without being prepared to pay--"

"I know it is fifty dollars," Alma said heatedly, feeling a flush creep up her neck and cheeks. "But why is it sixty-five?"

"There's a special tax on these."

"Oh." She felt her shoulders slump. "Of course." Any time there was something people really wanted, everybody had to get a piece of you.

For Carl...

She lifted her purse, dug out the carefully hidden fifty that had taken so long to accumulate, and then dug into her wallet to sacrifice next Sunday's pot pies.

"Here."

The deed was done.

On the chilly final bus change home, with Benj held squirmingly tight against her on her lap, she could feel the bulge of the bubblepack inside her coat, against her flank under her left breast. It felt strange to be returning so empty-handed from spending so much money. She wondered if her body heat would harm its condition. She would have to refrigerate it briefly, before she presented it to Carl tonight.

At the house, her daughter, Eva, appeared and spirited Benj off to home, on schedule, thankfully. She left behind a small bottle of champagne, which brought a tender smile to Alma's lips.

"For tonight, Mamma."

"Thank you for remembering, Evie."

"Happy Anniversary, Mamma."

When she had gone, Alma put the champagne into the fridge for tomorrow.

The dinner went very well. Candles smoked and winkled softly gold in the tiny diningroom. Their twinned lights made oddly sensuous shadows out of the window drapes' pleats. Carl's grey eyes misted even more than her own when he came home and saw her preparations.

They toasted each other with a clank of Coors cans, and he tore off the crusted bread in big chunks, just as he had on a day so long ago.

"Too bad we couldn't have a real picnic, like-"

"You'd freeze your buns," she laughed. "That was one thing about that day I could have done without."

"That wasn't what I meant, Alma," he gave her a soulful look.

"I know, dear."

She brought out the little bubblepack, now swaddled with aluminum foil and decorated with an old pink garter. She held another piece of the past in her other hand, out of sight for the moment.

"What's this?" He took the peculiar package, his face lighting up when he finally recognized the identity of the beribboning. "Well, by God! By God, Alma!"

"Open it."

"I am, I am! Hold your horses." He shredded the foil, then almost dropped the apple as it fell like a huge garnet out of its protective pocket.

Alma saw it through a swimming blur of flickering light as he held it up, turning it this way and that.

Carl was awestruck. "Look at that. Would you just look at that? I'd swear it was the same one, Alma! Right down to the bruise where it fell-" he frowned, reached up a fingernail and peeled off a small round gold sticker. Stuck to the tip of his index finger, he tried tilting it to a more legible orientation. "Now what the hell does this say?"

"It says," she said quietly, "Natural."

He stared at her, then turned back to the fruit. "Well, I'll be. You mean, this has-"

"Try it, Carl." She brought her other hand up, unfolding her small fist to reveal a worn red-handled pocket knife. "I saved it all these years."

He picked it up from her hand in evident amazement.

"I thought I'd lost it," he swallowed. Their eyes met and held, smiles long and deep. The apple glowed. "Damn, you're an extravagant woman," he whispered hoarsely, finally breaking away. "This thing probably cost a fortune."

"A dollar a year," she challenged softly.

"Damn." He shook his head. "Cheap."

She smiled again. "Do it, darling."

"Impatient, too." He unfolded and tested the blade, having to lay the fruit down on the yellowed tablecloth to do so. Then he set to work peeling it, gratified to find the knife's edge keen enough for the task. "You sharpen it?" he asked as he worked, glancing over at her rapt face.

"No, dear."

"Hmh." Pleased, he got it all off in one scurly, sinuously serrated red ribbon, which he placed on the bread platter. "There."

He held it up, rotating the naked fruit slowly in the dim light. "One." A little more turning, tilting the stem end toward his critical eye. He moved on. And down to the other end. "Hah! Two! Better'n the real McCoy."

The sweet pungency of the apple filled the room, mixing with the faint musky smell of the unscented beeswax candles which Alma had carefully chosen.

Carl pulled the bread platter over and carved out the two wormholes, whittling down until he found the tiny, dainty greenish denizens, gently transferring the corings to the platter. Then, with a grinning flourish, he cut the apple in half at the equator. A seed popped out and lay on the tablecloth.

"Hey!"

They both looked at it, as if expecting it to exhibit the same minute wrigglies as the little vagabonds on the platter.

"I didn't think they'd have seeds. Nothin' else does these days."

Alma beamed. "It said, 'Natural.'"

"Shucks," Carl endeavored to pick up the tiny brown object. "We ought to plant this little sucker."

"Oh, Carl. I don't think they allow wild plants anymore. It probably won't grow."

"Oh? Well, they had to grow these somewheres, didn't they?" He motioned at the platter. "I feel like we ought to save those little beggars, too. Put 'em in the pickle jar or something, and save them for fifty years."

"Oh, Carl."

He grandly handed her half the apple. The bigger half, with the stem.

"Well, eat up, sweet lady. I can't hardly wait to see what else we got on this picnic."

She smiled happily over at him. It was perfect, everything she had hoped.

They each took a bite of apple. Tangy, full of memories, sourish but wonderful, tart and...

"Ugh!"

"What?"

"You didn't get them all!" she reached up and dug bits of mushed pulp out of her mouth. Sure enough, one or more of the bits were wiggling weakly. "Ugh! Carl!"

He spread his arms helplessly, laughing. "Hell, Alma. It's natural!"

She inspected the stem. "You saw that wormhole there!"

"I surely did," he admitted, chortling and grinning, grabbing her wrists and making her drop the whole thing on the floor.

"Why, you're meaner now than you ever were then!"

"I surely am," he stopped laughing, just gazing at her with quiet wonder. "But just as lucky."

Alma freed a hand, letting him lift her to her unsteady feet, but reaching down and grabbing the little red-handled knife.

"What're you gonna do with that," he chuckled. "Get your revenge?"

"I'm going to put it back where I've had it all this time," she said, leaning against him with a sigh, "and save it for the next fifty years."

"My, you are an optimist. And what about those guys?"

She didn't look. "Oh, I'll bet their cousins'll still be around."

"I think I'll save 'em for the boy." He hugged her close. "So, what do we do now, my little orchard girl?"

Leading him toward the bedroom door, she gave his waist a hard squeeze.

"Well, first, you mean old man, I'm going to brush my teeth."

The End