Chapter 1: The Day He Made My Children Carry His Apples
My neighbor stood at the fence and made my six-year-old carry apples across the yard to him, one armful at a time.
The tree is his.
About a third of it hangs over our fence, which means every August and September we get apples in our grass — in the flower bed, under the swing set, in the driveway.
I've raked them.
I've bagged them.
Two years ago one rotted into the paint on our shed and left a mark that's still there.
Last Sunday the kids were out back after lunch.
Maya's six, Leo's seven.
They'd found a soft one and were seeing how far it would come apart against the fence post.
Then Dale came out on his side.
He's fifty-eight.
He's lived there longer than we have.
He never opened the gate, never stepped onto our grass — he just stood at the fence with his arms folded and watched my children through the slats.
"Those are mine.
Bring them here."
Leo said, "What?"
"All of them.
Every one that came off my tree.
Bring them to the fence."
"They fell on our side."
"Doesn't matter where they land.
It's my tree."
And they did it.
That's the part I can't get out of my head.
My kids went around their own backyard picking apples out of the flower bed and out from under the swing set and walking them over to the fence in their arms, and he stood on his side and took them one load at a time and dropped them into a bag.
Maya couldn't carry more than three at a time.
She made four trips.
She kept looking up at the deck at me.
I said his name.
He didn't turn his head.
When they were done he pulled the bag shut, and then he looked up and saw me standing there, and he said:
"Nice.
Raising thieves young, are we?"
Maya cried.
Leo didn't, which was worse — he just stood in the middle of the yard with his hands dirty, looking at the ground, ears going red.
I got two photos through the deck rail.
I sent them to Rob at work with one line: *He stood at the fence and made them bring him every apple in our yard.*
He called me forty seconds later.
"Say it again."
I said it again.
"Send those photos to my personal email, not my work one.
And don't delete them off your phone."
"Rob."
"Sarah, I need you to not rake this year.
May you like
Not one.
Leave every single one exactly where it falls."
