1. (2) That Woundthe Apple Left
Summary: Three part drama that takesthe title bothfigurativelyandliterally,withthe firsttwo
parts focusingonthe relational andgenerational conflict,andthe lastonthe literal. The settingis
modernandinformal.
Quick Examples:The followingare excerptsfromthe partsbelow:
 Part 1- As time’sgone by,I’ve seenmore of mymistakes.They’re hardtothinkabout.
They’re hardto admit.Andthey’re evenhardertoapologize for.Butdadwasright,and I
regretnot findingasmall towntobeginwith.It’snotthat citiesare bad,they’re nota
boogiemanwaitingtosteal yourwallet:no,that’sthe taxes.
 Part 2- She heldthe chalkout to me,I lookedaroundforanotherpiece,“Mr.Riley,I
have a piece of chalkalready,take it.”/ “Afraidnot ma’am.”/She crossedherarms,
“Why not?”/ “I don’twantyour cooties ma’am.”The classsnickered.JerryHinderson-
don’tyouknowhim-Jerryletouta laugh.Mrs. Kettle staredhimdown. /“You’re 14,
youknowcootiesdon’texist.”/“Oh,yes ma’am,I know theydon’texistinthe city,but
out here?Ihear people don’tgettheirvaccinations.”
 Part 3- A 67’ VolkswagenBeetle,black,rebuilt;fourleatherseats,withthe driver’s
pushedbacka bit toofar. The windowswere dusty, the seatssmelled,andthe painthad
begunto flake.Itwastaupe beneath,taupe andscarredmetal.People usedtosmile and
wave and say,‘There goesthe potato!’Now theyjustsmiledandwaved,goingbackto
theirwork,to theirleisure,while lookinga bitdown.
Part 1
HarrisonCounty,population417; it’sa slice of someone’sAmericana.A thick-wooded,brick
buildingenclave 20milesoff the interstate.There’sarailroadtrack;but, more kidsthan train cars travel
it.There’sa dock too;but it’son a lake,andthe beercans threatentooutnumberthe fish.Myfather
toldme,‘One dayyou’ll hate the citylife.One dayyou’ll wake up,see yourwife,andknow youwant
somethingdifferent:forher,foryourkid,foryou.It’s a matterof time;but,you do whatyou think’s
rightfor you.Go to the city,getyour job,andjust wait:the thought’ll getya.’Ittooka couple of
decades,asecondmarriage,several jobs,butyeah,itgotme.
I appliedforseveral cityjobsindifferentcounties,sothat’show I gotto Harrison if you’re
wondering.It’sanice county;the townitself closesonSunday:Ididn’tknow placesstill didthat.Threw
me for a loopthe firsttime.Wentthroughtownto church and thoughtthe Rapture had happened;thus
my sonhad said,‘Nopointgoingto church then,the preacherwill be gone;eitherthatorhe’ll have
some explainingtodo.’Todd’sagood boy.Still tryingtofigure outthe whole step-dadthing,especially
withJeremy-my,myotherson,almostsaidreal sonthere.See?Still gettingusedtoit.They’re bothgood
kids.I’dsay Todd’sa bitmore of a smart-aleck.Jeremywould’ve justnoddedandechoedwhateverhis
momhad said.

2. His mom,nowthere’salady,though‘lady’isa rather subjectiveword.Well,perhapsthat’s
unfair.Astime’sgone by,I’ve seenmore of mymistakes.They’rehardtothinkabout.They’re hardto
admit.Andthey’re evenhardertoapologize for.Butdadwasright,and I regretnot findingasmall town
to beginwith.It’snotthat citiesare bad,they’re nota boogiemanwaitingtosteal yourwallet:no,that’s
the taxes.Cities,well,citiesandme justdon’tgetalong;or,maybe I shouldsay,we getalongtoo well.
The isolation,the lackof neighborlypressure orconsequence,the one-trackmindsof gettingahead,it
encouragedall the worstparts of me,all the parts my fatherwasprobablyashamedof.Yet,as a dad,
I’ve realizedwhy,perhaps,he wassofearful;because he hadbeenthere,donethat,andsaw the same
historyinhisson.
Part 2
12, 12 of usto a single class.Itwasharderto hide awayin a cornerhere.It wasn’timpossible,
‘Ain’tnothin’impossible,’asGarf mightsay.Who’s Garf? What doyou mean,‘Who’sGarf?’Don’tyou
knowhisdad ownsthe liquorstore?Don’tyouknow he’s4th
chairtenorat church?Don’t youknowhe
huntseveryweekend?Youcansee himgoingout of townwithhisuncle,theydrive thatredtruck. How
don’tyouknowhim?You must be new.
One second,Ithinkthe Mrs. Kettle saidsomething,“Ma’am?”
“Mr. Riley,if youwouldn’tmind,please solve thisequation.”
“Yes ma’am.”Of course bysolvingitshe didn’tmeanIcouldjustsay the answer-ohno,heavenforbid
that youlazybrat. InsteadI’ve gotto stand up,walkto the front,write onthe chalk board,and waitfor
everybodytohearherexplainmyanswerandprocessandhow I got it wrongor, perhaps,right.
She heldthe chalkout to me,I lookedaroundforanotherpiece,“Mr.Riley,Ihave a piece of chalk
already,take it.”
“Afraidnotma’am.”
She crossedherarms, “Why not?”
“I don’twant yourcooties ma’am.”The class snickered.JerryHinderson-don’tyouknow him-Jerrylet
out a laugh.Mrs. Kettle staredhimdown.
“You’re 14, youknowcootiesdon’texist.”
“Oh, yesma’am,I knowtheydon’texistinthe city,but out here?Ihear people don’tgettheir
vaccinations.”The classsnickeredagain,butMrs.Kettle letherglassesdownabit:I saw hereyes,she
had takenoffense.
“You’ll see me afterclass.”
“But I needtogo to work afterclass.”

3. “ThenI’ll be calling yourparents.”
“Can’t youjustdouble myhomework?”Honorsclasses,Iusedtotake honorsclasses,butthisschool?I
was astoundednobodyshowedupbarefoot.
Mrs. Kettle wentintoahuff.I beganto go back to myseatbut she grabbedme by the collar,“I didn’tsay
youcouldsit down.Solve thisproblem.”She pulledme backtothe board, forcedthe chalkintomy
hand,and stoodovermy shoulder.Ifeltthatoldbiddy’sbreathingasI lookedoverthe problem.
‘ax+y=z.’I quicklyscribbled‘x=(z-a)/y.’Oley,the local quizchampion,raisedhishand,asmile onhisface,
happyat the chance to prove himself smart.
Mrs. Kettle wavedherhanddown,“NoMr. Oley,Mr.Rileyknowsthe correctanswer.”She turnedto
me,“My. Riley,youwill answerthisquestioncorrectly.Youwill show yourwork;or,”she pushedupher
glasses,“Iwill findapunishmentyouhate.”Iglaredat her.I didn’thave to be here.I could’ve askedto
go to a charter school,butStephen-mystep-dad-he wantedme tostaylocal.Mom obligedhim, like she
alwaysdid;but-Mrs.Kettle wasstill staringatme.I erasedmyanswer.Showedmywork.Thenstepped
back. She nodded,“Thankyou,Mr. Riley,youmaysitdown.”She letme returnto my seat.There was no
explanationof myanswer.She simplyleteveryone take theirnotes,erasedthe problem, andmovedon.
The bell rung,and the brief sense of freedomitusedtogive wasquashed-afancytermOley
mightnot know-wasnullifiedbythe reminderof work.Itwasn’tjustworkthough:I had to bike toit.
Mom was busyat home.Dad wasbusy at work.Andtheybothhad smiledandhandedme thisnice,
bright,shiny,tiresometwo-speedbike.God,I’ve neverprayedmore before inwhole mylife!That
somethingwouldgive,thatmomwoulddrive me,dadwoulddrive me,somebody-something,please,
cause I hate thisdamnbike!
Clang!The bike slammedintothe rack.I didn’tneedtolockit.Everyone knew itwasmine and
everyone wouldkeeptheireye onit.That,howevernice asitsounds,appliedtotoomanyotherthi ngs.
Want to sneakout?The cop will getya.Want to drinktwosodasat lunch?The lunchmonitorwill getya.
Want to playa gory game?The church will getya.I wentinto Happy Harry’sGrocery,puton my smock,
smackedonthe nametag,‘Hi,My Name Is:Todd Riley,’andwenttowork.Three hoursa day. Bagging
groceriesformomsand granniesandoldgeezersthat’dpoke funatyou.‘Theywouldn’tdoitunless
theylikedyou.’‘You’re lucky,Mr.Stevensdoesn’ttreateveryone like that.’‘Well,Mrs.Hughes,she just
has a way abouther.’All excuses,or,shouldIsay,‘understandings,’foroddbehavior.Iusuallykept
quietwhentheytriedtojoke orpoke me or tell me theirsecretbaggingtechniques.Some of themgot
the message andstayedquietwhentheycame back.Some justavoidedmyaisle.Butsome,some
alwayscame back, some made ita pointtocome back.
Oldpeople,have theynothingbettertodothantry to refine ayouth?Here though,here’sa ladyI like,
Mrs. Carpenter.Grayinghair,60’s (probably), alittlehunch,anice broadhat withalternatingribbons,
and quiet,rarelysaysaword. She nods.She smiles.She’smykindof customer.Todayshe’sgot:a linkof
sausage,$2.98; nutmeg,$4.44; lemonjuice,$2.48; and a $1.48, wetandcrisp headof lettuce.She
doesn’tnarrate hercouponseither,she doesn’tpullthemoutone byone,sayingwhere andwhenshe
clippedeachone,nordidshe complainaboutherpossible savings;rather,she pulledthemoutina neat

4. stack, andletRoss sort themout.AsRoss scannedthe coupons,he askedinhisnasally,flightytone,
“What’re you cookin’today,Mrs.Carpenter?”
She unzippedherpurse andpulledoutarecipe,“Bratwurst.”
He stoppedscanning,“I’msorry,whatdidyousay?”
I rolledmyeyes;she answered,“Bratwurst.It’sGermansausage.Youseasonandgrill it.”
“Andthe lettuce?Doyoucut it upwithit?”
She smiledandshookherhead,“No,I justlike lettuce.”Rosschuckled,toldherthe total,andtookher
money.Istoodbeside the loadedbuggy,waitingforthe nextcustomer.She tookthe buggyandlooked
at me,“Thank you.”I nodded,andshe beganto leave.Rossranaround the cash registerandofferedto
pushher cart, “No,Mr. McGiggus, I can pushit myself.”Rosslookedangrilyatme,andI justgluedmy
eyestothe grocerybags forthe rest of my shift.
The nextday she came again.This wasthe thirdtime Ihad seenher.The firstwas whenmymanager
was trainingme;the secondwasthat bratwurstvisit.Thistime she had:a dozeneggs,$2.10; paprika,
$2.98; mincedonion,$2.44; and a jar of pickleswithpickle relishmix rightbehindit,$2.32 and $2.00
respectively.The smell turnedmystomach.Rosstookhercouponsandaskedhisquestion,“What’re you
cookin’today,Mrs. Carpenter?”
She adjustedherhata bit,“Stuffedeggs.”
Ross lookedblankforasecondand thenlitup,“Oh! You meanangel eggs!”Imust’ve lookedlost
because Rossturnedto me,scoffingabit,“You probablyknow’emasdeviledeggs.”
Mrs. Carpenterslappedthe counterandRossjumped,“RossMcGiggus,watch yourtone.”
He lookedsadfora moment,“Yes ma’am.”She pushedheremptybuggyoutof the lane and beganto
take the filledone;when,once again,Rossranaroundand triedtopush itfor her,“Mr. Ross,I can
handle myownbuggy;but thankyou foryour kindness.”She lookedtome,“Thankyoutoo,Mr.-”
I pointedtomynametag.Ross glaredat me again.I spoke,“Todd, ma’am.”
“Todd what?”
“Todd Riley.”
She extendedherhandandIshookit, “Nice tomeetyouMr. Todd Riley.”She smiledandleft.Withthe
nextcustomer,Ross slidthe groceriesmywaylike we were playingairhockey. He calmeddownwhen
the ladybarkedat him afterhe rattledhereggsa little.She toldustostopplayingaround.He acted sad
and saidsorry.She mutteredunderherbreathsomethingabouthimbeingtoooldtoact that way.
Thingswere fine forthe restof the day.
The nextday,however,Mrs.Kettle caughtme as the bell rang,“Mr. Riley,come here please.”

5. I approachedherdesk,lookingabitsad incase thiswastrouble,“Yes ma’am?”
She slammedanotebookontothe desk. Algebra Fun Time 6; I read the title upside down.She flippedit
around,pointingatit,“This isyour homework.”
I pickeditup andopenedit,“Yes ma’am,what pages?”
She didn’tanswer.Iloweredthe book.Mrs.Kettle lookedme inthe eyes,“All of them.”
I quicklyopenedthe backof the book,“But there’s34 pages!”
She foldedherarms,“It’sdue tomorrow.”
I slammedthe bookdown,“Tomorrow!Whatthe-”I caught myself:she lookeddisappointed.She
wantedme to curse.To throwa tantrum.I pickedthe bookbackup, “I’ll have itdone bytomorrow.”
“Good, because that’sweightedforhalf yourhomeworkgrade.”Iclenchedmyhandandleft.AsI went
downthe hall,I lookedinthe backof the book,hopingshe hadforgottenaboutthe answersection.She
had torn itout. I crumpledthe bookandput itin mybackpack.Mom wouldprobablycatchme if I tried
lookingupthe answersonthe familycomputer.Tonightwasgoingtobe a longnight;and,dangit,andI
had to workfirst.
Outside,Garf wasridingmybike aroundthe parkinglot.I caught up to him, “Hey,uh,that’smy bike.”
He keptonriding,“I know.”
“Can I have it back?I needto getto work.”
He shrugged,“Maybe ina bit.I thought I’d breakitin foryou.”
“I’ve beenridingitfora week.Ithinkit’sfine.”
Garf rolledhistongue aroundhischeeks,“Yeah,you’dthinkthat,butsis’wasroughridin’evenaftera
month.”
I made a fistin mypocket,“You’re not expectingtoride mybike fora monthstraight,are you?”
“Maybe.” He lookedupand sawhismom waitingina car, “Whatever,here yougo.”He letmybike fall
ontothe ground.Hismom honkedthe car.He ran towardsher butshe loweredthe window and
shoutedsomethingathim.Garf turnedaroundand came back as I was gettingonmy bike,“Sorryabout
droppingyourbike.”
I lookedhimstraightinthe eyes,“Yeah,whatever,”androde off.
The road outside school wassmooth,the roadsinside townwere sortasmooth,the roadseverywhere
else?Maybe a mountainbike would’vebeenbettersuitedforthem.Poppingawheelie overaditchwas
fun,though,a bittoo much effortwhenyourhome’snot500ft away.While ridingIhearda truck behind
me.I sloweddown.Itsloweddown.Usuallytruckspassme.Usuallycarspass me.But thistruck stayed

6. behindme.Itriedto getfurtheroverand startedbouncingaroundlike popcornonall the junkbeside
the road. The truck suddenlyroared.Ijumpedoff mybike andheardlaughingastheyspedrightby me.I
pickedupmy bike,watchingthe truckgo downthe road.
I’mnot a paranoidperson. I figuredoutthe SantathingwhenI wasprettyyoung;but this?This
combinedwithGarf and Mrs. Kettle made me thinkthe whole townhatedme.Ididn’twanttobe
paranoid.Mom had beenthatway:yet-IpausedasI got on mybike-she hadbeenright.
The groceriescame slow,butnobodyhadgrins or nickelsorsecrettechniquestoshare withme;instead
theywatchedme,toldme I was doingitwrong,and hadme figure outthe rightway throughseveral
tries.Asmy shiftended,Rosspattedme onthe shoulder,“Buck-upchamp,maybe youjustneedto
smile more.”Imutteredagreementandwenthome for Algebra Fun.Whichwasnot funor excitingor
enlightening;Iscribbledthroughthe sheets,writingdownthe answerswithhalf-shownwork.Stephen
helpedme withabitof it,mom too,but I hazardedtotell themIhad to do the whole thing.Ididn’t
wantthemto thinkI was introuble;though,afterthe thirdor soassignmentof the same kind,theysoon
figureditout.My teachertoldthemeverysmartremark I hadmade,and to my parents,thatjustified
the whole thing.Home thusbecame anotherbattlefield,anothersource of grief,atleastmyroomwas
quiet,mostly.
The weekwenton.AndI triedRoss’advice,Itriedto smile,Itriedtosay,‘Thank you,’and‘Welcome;’
but,smilingdidn’thelp,nothinghelped.The oldpeople justthrew itbackat me or scoffed.Mrs.
Carpentercame almosteveryday.She treatedme the same as before.She wasthe onlyone.Eachtime
she came itwas a differentrecipeandIsoonnoticedsomething.
A man pushedacart loadedwithapplesthroughthe slidingdoors.Itwasa weeklydelivery;and,over
that day andthe nextthe appleswere almostall sold.Mrs.Carpentermissedthe firstdayandcame the
second.She didn’tbuyanyapples,andI suspecteditwasbecause all the goodoneswere taken.So,
whenthe nextweekrolledaround,Iaskedmymomwhat to lookforin an apple,andgotthe bestone I
couldfindondeliveryday.RossquirkedhisheadasItriedto purchase it,“What do youwant withan
apple?”
I put the moneyonthe counter.I knewitsprice:$2.25 a pound.“I’mbuyingitfor Mrs. Carpenter.”Ross
paused.He lookedatme.He lookedatthe apple.
He shookhishead,“Well,one’snotgonnado.She can’t donothin’withone.Goback and get another.”I
wentback andgot another.It wasodd to see Rosshelpingme out.Maybe all the roughtreatmentI’ve
beengettingfinallycausedsomeone totake pityonme.
The nextday Mrs. Carpentercame.She had a headof lettuce,$1.48; a tomato,$1.24; a cucumber,
$1.38; andsome ranch salad dressing,$3.88. I grinned:slicedappleswouldgogreatwitha salad.When
she came to take hercart, I pulledout the apples,“Here ma’am,Igotthese foryou.”Her arms went
rigidon the cart. Nobodymoved,nobodybreathed.She lookedatthe apples,herface twitching,likeshe
was aboutto cry.

7. Seeingherlike that.Seeingthe one personthathadbeenkindtome, that had smiledatme,
honestly,seeingthatIhadcausedher pain:I felta tearrun downmy cheek.Thenshe lookedme inthe
eye.Isaw hertears,and I broke down.I droppedthe applesandfell betweenthe bagholders.Istarted
to speak and I couldn’t stop;Itold her all that hadhappened.The loadsof dumbhomework,the
aggressive pickuptrucks,Garf’sslack-jawedteasing,andall the rest,the bullying,the bruises,the
papers,everythingthe pastweekhadpouredonme,I pouredoutto her.I criedand chokedandbegged
that she’dforgive me.
She tiltedmyheadup,“Who toldyou tobuy me apples?”
“No one, ma’am.I justthoughtyouwere neverable togethere intime for the goodones.So,so I got
youone.”I lookedtomy right,“But Rosstoldme to getyou two.That one wasn’tgoodenough.”
She tore the broadhat from herhead,itsribbonsslappingthe wood;herbackstraightened,andshe
pointedatRoss,her angerbarkingthroughtears,“Ross OliverMcGiggus!Whathave you done tothis
boy!?”He triedto bowand saysomethingbutshe grabbedhimbythe collar,“No excusesyou
McGiggus! I knowyourclan. Putyour mothertowork,didn’tyou?Got the rumor mill spunupoverone
boy,one city boy,andgot the whole of towntoact the fool abouthim!Great shame uponyou,Ross
Oliver,greatshame uponyouandyour mother!Yourfatherspinsinhisgrave at the soundof thisruckus
I imagine.Fromafamilyof deaconsto a dinof gossips,whatashame!”
Part of me enjoyedseeingRosssquirm.Myconfidence wascomingbackas I saw the blame
wasn’twithme.But,I must’ve smiled,because she thenturnedonme,“Andyou,ToddRiley,standup!”
I stoodup, “You aren’tguiltless!Youdon’tthinkIsaw the hate and bitternessinall yousaid?Youwant
othersto respectyou,correct?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Well howare othersgoingtorespectyouif you don’trespectthem?”
“I-”
“Isn’tthat logical?Totreat as othersas you’dlike tobe treated?Or are you sayingthata cityboy isn’t
logical?”
“I’m logical!And,yeah,I guessthat’sfair.”
“You guess?Do youwant otherstoguess?”
“No ma’am.It isfair.”
“Good, thenstart actingthat way.”She took herbuggyand leftthe store.Harry, the store owner,came
out of hisoffice a minute later.He tookRossback withhim first.Rossreturnedaboutthirtyminutes
later,beatdownand apathetic.He pointedtoHarry’sdoor,“He wants to see younext.”

8. I openedthe woodendoor.Itwasone of those thinwoodeddoorsthatfeelslike it’sgotairinit.It had
postersandnotices all overit.Harry letme lookitover. He evengotup and pulledoutachair, “Todd,
whydon’tyou take a seat.”
The chair creakedas I sat init, “AmI in trouble,sir?”
He shookhishead,“No,you’re notintrouble.”He shiftedsome thingsonhisdesk,“Hasanyone toldyou
aboutMrs. Carpenter?”
“No sir.”
He leanedback,“Ithoughtas much. Well,it’s,uh,it’s,”he keptfiddlingwithapenon hisdesk;he
frownedandsetitdown,lookingatme,“It’s hard to tell itto a kid,butyou’ve happenedonto it;so
that’s,that’swhat I’ll have todo.”
Part 3
Wednesday,October21st
,tacos.Mrs. Carpenterwalkedawayfromthe refrigeratorcalendar
and pulledthe recipe box outfrombesidethe stove.‘Tacos,tacos,fiestastyle,plain,tacosalad,taco
bowl.’ Hernailstappedthe counter.‘Tacos,justplaintacos.Meat and cheese.’She pulledoutthe
recipe.The teal fridge jerkedopen,‘Meat,meat,meat’stooold.I’ll getsome of that.Tortillastoo.’She
fannedthe fridge doorasher headwasinside,‘What aboutsourcream? Or lettuce?Ortomato?’She
closedthe door.Who wasshe smilingfor?The fridge’shumdieddown.The birdsoutsidefluttered
away.A car passedby.The ceilingfanwobbled.Mrs.Carpentergrabbedanotepadandbeganjotting
downa list.
A 67’ VolkswagenBeetle,black,rebuilt;fourleatherseats,withthe driver’spushedbacka bit
too far.The windowswere dusty,the seatssmelled,andthe painthadbegunto flake.Itwastaupe
beneath,taupe andscarredmetal.People usedtosmile andwave andsay,‘There goesthe potato!’Now
theyjustsmiledandwaved,goingbacktotheirwork,to theirleisure,whilelookingabitdown.
OldJohnsonRoadwentstraightintotown;but,there was a detourMrs. Carpentersometimes
took,a road that winded off andaroundthe side of the county,layingaboutthe edge of it, lettingyou
see all the pasturesandfieldsandapple trees. Everyone knew it’sname,butMrs.Carpenterrarelysaid
it.The road wentonand on.It bumpedanddroppedandalongthe side-Mrs.Carpenterstopped.The
phone pole wasgone.There wasjustthe fence,twowreathsonwhite crosses,androwsonrows of
apple trees.
She rememberedthe boyandcried.She fell down andcriedawhile more.Crawlingbacktoher
car, Mrs. Carpenterwiped herface,wentgroceryshopping,andaskedthe youngToddRiley,“Would
youmindpushingmycart forme?”