867–5309
I’d finished my fourth apple of the day, excited because this one had eight seeds. Fujis were Mom’s favorite. Mine is SweeTango, because of the name. I’ve heard there are 2,500 varieties in the U.S. alone, but I doubt I’ll sample them all. I finished my toast and folded the seeds into a damp napkin I’d set out on the counter at the bus stop diner, when a 20-something sat next to me.
After striking up a conversation, he asked for my name and number. When I turned 16, Mom gave me the best earworm response ever to pick-up lines, so I had the perfect answer.
“Jenny. 867–5309.”
He chuckled, said he knew the song, then asked, “Would you like my seeds?”
That got my attention. I nodded and asked if he collected them, too. He didn’t answer, just walked away.
One of the worst things about being on the road is the coffee. I miss Mom’s. That’s the one thing she never showed me how to make. I bake a mean apple pie, though.
I downed the java sludge, walked outside, around back of Crossroads Café and planted two seeds. Hopefully one will take. I like working the earth, getting my hands dirty. Plus, the pungent smell takes hold in the back of my throat and slides all the way down, like mulled cider.
After that, I got on the bus, took a seat in the back and closed my eyes for a catnap.
He jolted me out of a sound sleep. “May I sit with you?” The gentle timbre of his voice and the sorrow in his eyes invited me to trust him.
The rude awakening pissed me off, though, so I said, “It’s a free country. Go ahead.” I hadn’t noticed how cute he was at the café. I guess the bus had better lighting.
I learned a lot about him on the way to the next rest stop, and he shared why he’d started. “My brother wanted to be a conservationist, but got killed in Afghanistan, so I took on the role of Johnny ‘Appleseed’ Chapman.”
After I imparted condolences, he stood, grabbed his backpack, and asked my reason.
“I do it because Mom was making apple pie when my stepdad shot her.” I pinched my nose, damming the river of emotion before it overflowed.
He deflated back down to the seat’s cracked vinyl. I composed myself and offered him a Cortland. “Ever had one? They’re like honey with a hint of lemon.”
While he took a bite, I asked, “Do you want to do this together?”
He hesitated a moment. “Before I answer, you should know I might not have long. I’ve been diagnosed with — “
I grazed his lips to taste the sweetness. “We deserve some joy.” I added, “I bet you know how many apple seeds I want to plant.”
We sang it together. “867–530 Nigh-ee-yigh-een.” He helped me up and tango-dipped me. I laughed so hard I peed a little in my pants.
