Twisted Beyond Recognition Box Set Page 4

  "Out of the question," said Chuck, propping his feet on the coffee table.

  But Wendy had her ammunition ready. She swiped the remote, muted the television, and handed the apple to her husband.

  "Mom!" moaned her children.

  "Quiet you two, or I'm sending you outside." Wendy turned to her husband. "Now tell me that's not the best apple you've ever tasted."

  Chuck took a deep, crunching bite and licked the juice from his lips.

  "Yep, it is," he said. "But we're still not buying that contraption."

  "Well you bought this monstrosity," said Wendy nodding at their television set. "Without consulting me, I might add. And what good has it done us? I'm talking about investing in our family's health!"

  "You want fresh apples so bad? We'll buy a tree this afternoon. Twenty bucks, a hole, and in a few years we'll have enough apples to feed the whole neighborhood."

  "Yeah? And who's gonna water it? Spray it for bugs? Don't I already have enough to do around here?"

  Chuck threw his hands up in a preemptive surrender, then pried himself from the couch. "Don't blow a gasket. I'll see if I can talk the price down."

  "I can handle it."

  With a blank check, her emergency savings, and eighty dollars in birthday money Grandma Kearns had sent the kids, Wendy flagged the old man down as he was closing the van's doors. "Wait! I've changed my mind."

  "I thought you would," the salesman said with a comfortable smile. "And I promise you, this machine will change your lives."

  * * * * *

  Wendy admired her new purchase. Its stainless steel canister and black trim matched her kitchen appliances perfectly. She tore off the last of the packing tape warning that removal of the lid would upset the ecosystem and void the warranty. Then she plugged the unit in. It hummed with the mystery of its botanical secrets, and exactly twenty-four hours later, it spat out a nice shiny apple just for her.

  By the end of the next week, her kids were eating fresh apple slices with each meal. The following week, a couple apples came out soft, but she just cut off those parts and made applesauce and apple pies for dessert. At month's end, the apples started tasting mealy. She dug around in her junk drawer until she came across the old man's business card. Wendy dialed the number and a voice not as cheerful as last time answered. "I'm sorry. This number has been disconnected."

  No need to panic. Maybe she could fix the hydroponics machine herself. Maybe it'd be something simple like a bulb needing replacement or a water reservoir filled. She unscrewed the lid, ignoring the warning labels. Inside there was no water reservoir, no light sockets, no grafted saplings for that matter – just a row of rotting apples in a winding dispenser tray with a timer mechanism attached. Wendy sat back on her haunches, heartbroken. She'd been scammed into buying a fancy seven-hundred dollar apple barrel. Chuck would never let her hear the end of it, not after the fit she'd thrown.

  But what if he didn't find out?

  Wendy snatched her keys and headed outside. Her kids were on the sidewalk, hard rubber wheels of their skateboards clacking against the cement as they preformed ollies and kickflips. They'd even up-righted their old ramp. "You kids behave yourselves. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  At the grocery store, she didn't bother to grab a cart. No time. Chuck would be home any minute from his Saturday morning jog, a part of his regimen now that the family had been on their health kick. She couldn't afford organic, so without deliberation, she grabbed two bags of bulk apples and slung one under each arm.

  Back home, Chuck came through the front door, sweaty and worn ragged, just as she screwed the lid back on. He smiled at Wendy when he saw her bent over the machine.

  "Got one for me, cutie?" he said, and on cue, Burt's Home Hydroponics produced another apple. Chuck grabbed it, kissed Wendy on the cheek, and took a bite.

  Wendy bit her lip, trying not to look guilty as Chuck chewed. "How is it, dear?" she asked, voice catching in her throat.

  "Mmmm ..." he said, mouth full of apple mash. "Tart, but tasty."

  Wendy smiled. Maybe this wasn't such a loss. Her family was eating more fruit than they ever had. Plus things weren't so bad in the bedroom now that Chuck had started exercising. Wendy gave her silver canister a love tap. She was willing to live this lie – this tiny lie – for the sake of her family. That swindler of a salesman had promised it would change their lives, and he was right about that.

  ###

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  A PEACH FARMER'S PREDICAMENT

  (or HOW STELLAR GOT HIS GROVE BACK)

  BY NICKY DRAYDEN

  First Published by Writer's Eye Magazine, 2009

  Marcus Stellar never claimed to be much good at interpersonal relations. His friends, if he'd had any, would label him as socially awkward. However, the salesman who currently found himself at the receiving end of Stellar's double-barreled shotgun would probably choose a different word. Peculiar. Eccentric. Psychopath, perhaps.

  "Didn't you see the sign?" said Stellar, watching a bead of sweat meander down the trespasser's cheek.

  "I did," said the man. "But I thought you'd make an exception on account that I–"

  "On account that you can't read? Sign clearly says ‘trespassers will be shot' and that goes double for salesmen. And triple for salesmen trying to sell peaches to a peach farmer. Honestly, I think I'd be doing you a favor."

  "As I said, sir, these aren't ordinary peaches. They're pitless peaches. Genetically enhanced to produce sweeter, more disease resistant fruit, and bigger harvests." The man pulled a peach from a satchel slung over his shoulder and presented it to Stellar. "Have a taste. See for yourself."

  "There's no way in hell I'm planting those mutant trees on my property."

  "They're perfectly safe, I can assure you. If you don't like them, I'll buy them back. I'll even dig them up myself."

  Stellar lifted an eyebrow, snatched the peach from the salesman's hand, and ran it under his nose. Smelled sweet, but the devil's temptations came in many forms. Stellar launched the peach into the air, and quick as a tick, cocked his shotgun and blew that piece of franken fruit to smithereens.

  The salesman cowered, hands clamped down over his ears.

  "That's what I think of your peach, and if you want to know what I think of you, why don't you stick around for another minute or two."

  Stellar was just about to cock his gun again when he heard the rumble of Missy Mae's Dodge Ram in the distance, kicking up a cloud of dust on the road that separated their properties. His forty acres of peach orchard served as a buffer between him and the rest of the world – a buffer Missy Mae was constantly overstepping.

  "Marcus!" she called, the top half of her nearly hanging out of the truck's cab. "Marcus, you put that gun down right now, and show this man a little courtesy."

  Stellar grumbled, and obliging, lowered his aim from the salesman's face to his kneecaps.

  Missy Mae hopped out of her truck and sashayed up Stellar's front porch, clutching her bonnet to her head, and hiking her sundress up to reveal sculpted calves. As prissy as she carried herself, Stellar knew Missy Mae wasn't foreign to a hard day's work.

  "You'll have to excuse Mr. Stellar, here," she said to the salesman, shaking her head slowly. "His mamma never taught him any manners. I'm Missy Mae Reynolds, I own the vineyard across the way. And you are ..."

  "None of your business," said Stellar, grimacing at his uninvited guests. "He was just leaving."

  The salesman, graciously taking his cue, stumbled down the porch stairs on rubbery legs and ran for the safety of his van.

  "Woman, you can't be coming over here unannounced like this," said Stellar, leaning his gun against the house and crossing his arms over his chest.

  "I've been putting up with having you as a neighbor going on seventeen years now, and I think that entitles me a free pass to come over here any time I damned please." She shifted her weight and propped her hand on her hip, daring him to talk back. Missy Mae's tongue w
as as sharp as a snake's, and Stellar doubted he could take her, even with a loaded shotgun.

  "You want something, or did you come over here just to harass me?"

  "As a matter of fact, I came to see if you were busy tonight. I noticed you'd finished bringing in your harvest the other day, and I thought you might finally have some free time on your hands. I could make you dinner."

  "Sorry, but I just threw some steaks on the grill," Stellar said, stretching for a believable excuse. Ever since her husband had passed, Missy Mae had been steadily after him to come over to her place. He knew it was hard for her, adjusting to life alone, but she'd get used to it. Just as he had.

  "Steaks? Great! I'll bring some wine and cheese," she said, a hint of feminine wiles in her eyes. Marcus Stellar didn't like it one bit. "Does six o'clock sound okay?"

  "No, I've got plans already." He needed a better lie, and there happened to be one parked in his own driveway – that salesman fumbling to get his keys in the ignition. The only thing that scared Stellar more than mutant trees was the thought of him and Missy Mae alone together. Especially if there was wine involved.

  Stellar swallowed back the lump in his throat, carefully slid past Missy Mae, then ambled after the salesman on worn knees, waving the van down as it pulled back out onto the road. "I've got a row of trees that need planting," he called back to Missy Mae. "And I've got to do it tonight."

  "In the dark?"

  "I've got a flashlight."

  Missy Mae bit her lip, and she had both hands on her hips now. "If I didn't know better, Marcus Stellar, I'd think you were trying to get rid of me."

  That night, Stellar dragged his new trees out to the northwest corner of his property, a flashlight and an old transistor radio his only company. He could see Missy Mae's house from here. The aroma of lemon herb chicken lingered in the air. Just like his late wife used to make. Missy Mae's lights were still on. In a solitary moment of weakness, Stellar considered going over there to apologize for how he'd acted earlier. But these trees needed planting, and he hadn't dropped an absurd fifty dollars per plant just to have their roots dry out. He hoped these peaches were worth it, because he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to afford dodging Missy Mae's advances.

  Stellar turned up his radio, letting his bleeding-heart love ballads numb his mind as he started to dig another hole.

  * * * * *

  There was something strange about those trees that Stellar couldn't quite put his finger on. In appearance, they were identical to the rest of his grove – squat trunks and branches reaching out like gnarled hands. But every time he walked past that solitary row, his arm hair prickled. Sometimes he would think of the secrets lurking in the green veins of their leaves, wondering what place Man had tinkering with Nature's creations.

  But as the salesman had promised, the next year's harvest was a bountiful one, even from these young trees. The pitless peaches were a hit at market, bringing in two and sometimes three times as much money per pound. He needed more plants for next season, and when the salesman came back to Stellar's peach grove, he greeted him with a smile instead of a gun.

  "I think it's time we talk real business," said Stellar, rocking out on his porch, chewing a sprig of mint between his teeth. "I want to convert half of my orchard over to pitless."

  "So I guess I won't be needing my shovel after all?" the salesman said.

  Stellar threw back his head and laughed. "You just try to take those trees from me! Seriously, I could use a thousand more. Can you manage that?"

  "Of course," said the salesman, rubbing his palms together. "There's just the matter of price. With my preferred customer discount, I can get those to you for two hundred dollars apiece, two-fifty installed."

  Stellar jumped out of his rocker, sending it crashing behind him. The salesman didn't flinch.

  "What are you trying to pull on me? There's no way I'm paying a quarter million dollars for those trees!"

  "Suit yourself. But it's only a matter of time before pit peaches are a thing of the past. Science is the future, and if you plan on keeping your grove running more than another ten years, I'd suggest you rethink your strategy."

  "Don't try to scare me with that scientific mumbo jumbo."

  "Mr. Stellar, did you know that every banana you've ever eaten – I mean ever eaten – has been a clone from the same tree? A tree that made a seedless, perfect fruit."

  "Get off my property!" said Stellar, inching up to this no-good swindler and drilling his index finger into his chest. "I'll figure a way to breed those trees on my own. You'll see."

  The salesman huffed, turned on his heels, and headed back out to his van. Before he opened the door, he yelled over his shoulder, "I'll be paying you another visit, Mr. Stellar. And when I do, you'll be begging to throw that quarter of a million dollars at me."

  * * * * *

  For the next two months, Marcus Stellar spent nearly every waking hour researching reproduction methods. He could usually collect a few dozen pits to reseed the trees he'd lost to storms or disease, but this pitless variety didn't offer that option. He started grafting pitless branches onto mature plants, but the grafts didn't take the first time around. This time he was more careful, testing soil pH every other day, keeping the grafted joints moist and bandaged, and injecting growth stimulants directly into the root system.

  He'd always considered his trees as his extended family. He talked to them as he worked, even though the trees weren't much good at holding up their end of the conversation. When his jaw got tired, he'd play music – Motown classics – to keep his spirits up. Secretly, he hoped somehow the rhythmic groove would work its way into these plants.

  "Looking good," he said, bent over one of the new grafts, inspecting the leaves for signs of cankers and roundworms. "Looking really good."

  "Thank you," said a voice. Stellar toppled backwards and thought himself to be going insane, but then he saw Missy Mae watching him from across the road. She smiled and held up a bottle of wine. "You look like you could use a break."

  Perhaps a little human companionship might be just what he needed, considering his mind had warped enough for him to think his peach trees were talking back to him. Stellar nodded. "I'll be right over."

  * * * * *

  Sitting on Missy Mae's flower print sofa, Stellar couldn't remember the last time he'd bothered to put on cologne. Missy Mae sat next to him, and suspiciously, the cut of her blouse had gotten lower, and the hem of her skirt higher.

  "It's the most peculiar thing," he said, pausing to sip from his wine glass. "The trees put up blossoms, but the bees don't go near ‘em."

  Missy Mae scooted closer, leaning in as he talked about the pitless peach trees. Naturally, he'd steered the conversation in this direction. It's all he thought about anymore.

  "My, that is peculiar." She gave him a saucy grin, gulped back a mouthful of wine, then started twirling her finger around a lock of hair.

  "So now I'm trying this grafting technique I read about. If I can get that to work, I could turn my whole grove to pitless without spending another dime."

  "Amazing," she said, voice softer than velvet. Then her hand was on his thigh, inching up his Wranglers. "It's sort of a shame though. It seems so impersonal. Sometimes things are better the good old fashioned way, don't you think?"

  "Huh?" said Stellar, his voice cracking.

  "Pollination, I mean."

  "Yes. Of course ..." He folded his hands across his lap. A moment of awkward silence passed, then Missy Mae leaned in, leading with puckered lips. Stellar recoiled. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm trying to kiss you. Someone's got to make a move, and I think it's obvious it isn't going to be you."

  "But Elliot–"

  "Elliot's been gone three years. I miss him every day of my life, but he's gone, and he's not coming back. And for you it's been, Lord, eight years now?" Missy Mae placed her hand on Stellar's shoulder. "I think she'd want you to move on."

  Stellar couldn't take
it. Missy Mae's touch was emotionally toxic, dredging up too many memories. "I think I should go."

  "Marcus Stellar, if you leave, you'll regret it!"

  Maybe. Probably. But he couldn't stay here with her stirring up things that had no business being stirred up. "I'm sorry, Missy Mae. Thanks for the wine." He grabbed a half-finished bottle and left her there, alone. Stellar stumbled down the sidewalk and over the dirt road that separated his life from hers. He heard her following behind him, but he didn't turn around.

  "Your heart's just as sterile as those trees of yours!" she shouted, her voice carrying in the moistened air. He heard her sniffling, crying, then the door slammed.

  Stellar returned to the safety of his property and the solace of his crop – never judging, always willing to lend a branch to lean on.

  "I think I really upset her this time," said Stellar, collapsing to his knees in front of one of his pitless peach trees. His chest heaved, throat so constricted that he could barely squeeze out his words. "But she just doesn't understand."

  Broad leaves fluttered in an almost non-existent breeze, brushing the tears from Stellar's cheeks. He would have thought the action was deliberate if he hadn't known better.

  His eyelids grew heavy. Stellar took a final tug from his bottle and let the rest of his wine spill upon the earth. It pooled in a shallow trough, then spread in opposite directions before falling to the mercy of thirsty roots. Stellar's face settled into the soil. He fumbled for the dial on his little radio and twisted until it clicked. Marvin Gaye's voice eased out "Let's Get It On" – a universal mating call sent up to the heavens.

  The fog of intoxication pressed over him like a thick blanket, and in his cottony dreams, his trees reached out, branches coiling around each other in a woody embrace. Leaves stroked leaves, as delicate as kisses. Loving. Tender. Stellar thought it odd that he was dreaming with his eyes open, so he let them drift closed and imagined himself in Missy Mae's bed.