"The Littlest Apricot"

“The littlest apricots taste the sweetest,” as he used to say oh so long ago. 

"Mind the minors, plea-zzze!"

        Quite often, Rachel recalls with a grimace as she awkwardly steps out of her little Prius.  Environment or no, she will never get used to tiny cars.  She shuts the door, or rather slams it, and pushes out the wrinkles in her maroon dress.  It has taken Rachel the better part of thirty years to forget the past, but the damned anecdote about the apricots hasn’t left her.  Whatever.

        The past is past and the old bastard is dying now.  He’s owed her as much; the least she can do is meet him for dinner.  The restaurant is just up the street, a little Italian place called Giuseppes.  Rachel has never been here before, but Sis recommends it; as she has no plans to try it a second time Rachel does not worry whether the food will be good or the atmosphere pleasant.  Her heels click sharply on the pavement as she nears the doorway, an old fashioned green door that matches the wooden shutters and charming gilded sign above them. 

        Fuck atmosphere, Rachel reminds herself.  She’s come to see another piece of her life die.  She enters into a little vestibule, but does not recognize the young couple waiting on the bench.  Perhaps he won’t show, she half-hopes; with half-disappointment.  The place inside is nice and quiet and clean-looking, a real leave-the-kids-at-home-and-enjoy-yourselves establishment.  A green-vested hostess comes and greets Rachel warmly.  Does she wait in the vestibule?  She asks for a table for two and orders a long island to be brought up quickly.  As she sits into the narrow circular table {so cozy and familiar} the urge to get up and leave comes heavily.  But the urge is brief and the waitress brings a tall chilled glass of resolve to her, condensation teasingly dribbling down its outside.  The meeting is long overdue anyway, and what with the drink and all…  Rachel takes a long sip and notices for the first time the corny Sinatra music softly floating by in the background.  He was a big Rat Pack fan, she recalls distastefully.  She dwells on the past a few unhappy moments and sure enough, the past strolls up to the table.

        “Rachel?”  Rachel looks up from her drink with a start; she hadn’t expected to see him so suddenly, hadn’t had time to properly rehearse a nonchalant greeting.  Her old man is just that:  an old man, thin and looking the worse for years.  Definitely holding his end of the bargain, and fast.  On an impulse she stands and hugs him, she doesn’t know quite why.  He feels weak and fragile; she avoids looking at his haggard, beaming, teary face.  They sit down and talk the uneasy talk of the long departed.  His conversation is peppered with reminiscences and nostalgic feeling; hers is airy and aloof, and for this Rachel begins to feel ashamed.  How had they come to this?  She knows well enough, {little apricots} but still the question remains, unanswerable.

        They have dinner, two orders of vegetable lasagna.  “Meat doesn’t sit well with me,” he laughs miserably.  Shame.  She feels ashamed at being so vindictive, for not seeing him all these years.  She missed Ma’s funeral, just to avoid the past.  A lifetime of running from one’s troubles, a life that could have been; how does the expression go?  At the critical moment, that point where Rachel feels compelled to cry, to apologize, to open up and express love; at this moment he remarks how much he loved them all.  “Especially you, dear,” is how he puts it, with teary eyes and a pathetic, crooked smile.

        Especially you.  Has the bastard forgotten, or is he just fucking with her head, with her emotions?  The moment is lost, the shame forgotten completely.  Rachel fumes internally as he prattles on, thinking up a good rejoinder.  Something to really hurt him.  Tit for tat.  The waitress returns to collect their plates.  Dessert?  Dessert?  Rachel’s thoughts become muddled in the interruption, and suddenly it becomes clear again.  She orders apricot pie with a pointed enunciation; looks him right in the eyes as she does it.  {Remember, you fucker.}  The restaurant serves no such dish, and her father continues to look at her fondly with his sickly, pathetic eyes.  Her barb was a miss.

        She asks for the check.  Dinner wraps up in a bit of a blur as they make their way to the door.  He suggests they should meet again sometime soon.  Rachel remains noncommittal; it’s all she can do to keep from telling him off, from really ripping him up good.  The old bastard is dying now, holding up his end of an old arrangement.  The least she can do is be civil.  Rachel steps out onto the pavement without a second glance back and walks to her car.  The clouds seem to be rolling back finally, she notices; and in them lie the promise of a better tomorrow.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

[I came up with the idea for this while working in Alaska; one of the older park rangers was talking about peaches and said the smallest ones tasted the sweetest.  It struck me as an odd thing to say, and the story sort of wrote itself.]