Apple Communion
My daughter Charlie walks over to me. I’m still lying in our hammock. When she reaches me, I slide over to sit in the hammock sideways, gesture with a head nod, wordlessly asking her if she wants to join me. She doesn’t. Such is how it always begins. She walks over, no words; I ask her to sit; she declines. Then she pulls the scarf from her head; her red hair falls around her neck and shoulders. She gestures like some vaudeville magician, carefully showing me both sides of her navy-blue silk scarf. Next, she dangles the scarf with two fingers while she uses two fingers from her other hand to grasp at the silk and pull it slowly through her fingers. She repeats this gesture. The subtext here is ‘look — there’s nothing contained within the folds of my scarf.’ Still part of the ritual. Next, she grasps the silk by two corners, shows me the front and back several times. Finally, she extends one hand under the silk and lets the material parachute, slowly settling over her little palm, her tiny fingers discernible through the silk. The other hand emerges, and she shows me both sides of it; while cheekily grinning at me. That hand then grasps one corner of the silk, and I feel my chest tighten as my eyes go wide. All of this is rapture for me. She quickly pulls the silk aside, and in the center of her tiny palm, where it has no logical reason being, is a red-delicious apple, a big juicy one, a little larger than the one she produced last time if my memory serves.
I notice I am again holding my breath as I balance on the razor’s edge between wanting her to perform flawlessly again and fearing she might slip up and not.
I gasp aloud. Always the ritual, but it always feels like the first time, and I’m always amazed. Initially, I spent a little time trying to figure out how Charlie did it. I even asked her about it once. I gradually decided I preferred not knowing. Especially since she was okay with repeating the miracle for me from time to time; the performances always come with uncannily good timing, when I need a boost, a pick me up. And she only does this trick for me, never for Victoria. Charlie loves her mother, of course. And for all I know, they probably have rituals of their own that are only theirs. I don’t ask. I hope they do, but I don’t ask. Still, I suspect Victoria gets a little jealous of our ‘apples.’ A husband can tell these things. I don’t ask or want to know about whatever they share between them. I might feel excluded from what was theirs.
“ … in the center of her little palm, where it has no logical reason or right for being, is a red delicious apple … “
The performance complete; Charlie shoves the silk into a back pocket of her overalls. She raises her arms, and I lift her and set her in the hammock to my right. Our ritual continues. My soul is soaring and bursting with happiness and love.
She hands me the apple; I rub it briskly with my shirtsleeve. Examine it, then rub it once more for good measure. My initial part of the ritual complete; I hand the apple back to Charlie.
She makes a “cheers” gesture with it and raises it to her mouth. Opening her mouth wide, she takes as big a bite as she can manage. She chews contentedly and passes the apple back to me. I ‘toast’ the apple to her in return (always just once and only during the first bite). I take a bite and savor the juice, taste, texture, and another personalized performance from my daughter, the master magician.
I pass the apple back to Charlie. She bites, chews, and returns it to me. Over and over, we repeat this until we’ve consumed the apple. When it gets smaller, we have to take careful little nibbles from the emerging apple core. I always strive to let her have the last bite. I don’t know why. We never discuss the ritual afterward.
The entire ceremony is usually ten minutes from start to finish. And, so far, I’ve never been able to find any ten-minute period of anything that makes me happier or enjoy more. I’ve searched; I still search, but now, I don’t look so hard.
When we finish with the apple, I carefully lower the core to the ground. Then we lean against the other and sway back and forth in the hammock with my arm draped over her bony little shoulder. No words. Always in the hammock and always spontaneous. Spontaneous from my perspective, that is. And I would never do anything so gauche as to ‘request’ a performance, yet somehow always delivered when I need it most.
Dozens of times, she’s performed her minor miracle for me. Each time I’m fooled and filled with love. I have no desire to uncover her mystery. The apples belong to her and me alone; I respect her far too much to try to dispel her illusion. It’s her illusion, not mine.
Well, if nothing else, dear daughter, considering her future job prospects, you can always work as a magician, I think.
She looks like she might produce an apple today. She does not produce an apple today. We sit quietly in our tiny hammock, not eating the apple that she did not produce. I thought she might have today, but she didn’t.
The next day, well, you know the rest, of course. I can never see an apple and not remember our time together in our little hammock.
Excerpted from my unpublished novel Rocket Man.
Originally published at http://storiesbyshawn.com on March 1, 2021.