Mom wrapped the warm apple pie in her best kitchen towel before she placed it in the Chiquita banana box. The smell of apples and cinnamon filled the old station wagon. My mouth watered as visions of homemade vanilla ice cream over hot pie danced in my head.
My nose plastered against the window I watched until our house faded in the distance.
“How long before we get to Grandma’s?”
“Geez Mark, we just left,” I said. God little brothers can be so annoying.
“So.”
“Don’t start kids.” Dad caught my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Mark, it’s just a short drive. It won’t take long.” Mom said.
Distance and time are different to adults. Stuck in a car with a six-year-old little brother for even a short drive can seem like an eternity. But eventually Dad turned on to an old road and as if by magic an old farmhouse appeared.
“Oh, dear.” Mom said.
“Yeah, but she refuses to let me hire anyone to help.”
Dad cut the engine. The four of us sat in silence staring at peeling paint, and a sagging front porch. Cardboard covered one of the window panes to the right of the door.
Was this where my dad grew up? Where were the apple trees he used to climb? My head swiveled toward the barn or what was left of it, fence rails and posts lay on the ground. No cows or chickens ambled to greet us.
“Kids, be on your best behavior. Remember your grandmother is old and I expect you to be respectful. I don’t…
A loud bang interrupted Dad’s lecture. Mom jumped, her hand flew to her chest as if shot. The screen door slammed against the house as Grandma stepped through the doorway.
“You getting out or what?”
Nothing frail about the voice that boomed from the tiny gray-haired woman as she glared at us from the porch.
“Hi, Mom.” Dad waved as he stepped from the car.
Sawdust filled my mouth, no longer watering for the taste of apple pie and ice cream.
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