‘Orange’

Photographer Donna Faulkner is a poet and writer who is led awry by her curiosity . She came to the business of writing later on in life. She has been published in Windward Review, 300 Days of Sun, Bayou Review, Havik, Takahē: Hua/ Manu, New Myths, and others.Her debut poetry collection ‘In Silver Majesty’ was published by erbacce press (UK) in 2024. She was awarded second place for her nonfiction story ‘The Rag Doll Rider’ by Havik in 2023.

Orange

My mother is an orange tree. That’s what Dad always said anyway. He’d take me out back in the heat of summer when the big tree was bursting with oranges, and he’d say, “Sadie, when your mother left us, she transformed into this here orange tree.” He told a story about this man who always liked her, how he was jealous that she’d married Dad and chased her until Mom prayed so hard God turned her into an orange tree. Once, when I was six, I waltzed into elementary school and announced this story to the whole class. The teacher pulled me aside and told me gently that people don’t turn into plants, and then she and the principal had a talk with Dad. When I was sixteen I found a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses on the shelf, read it out of curiosity, and realized that Dad was a great big plagiarizing phony. 

When I was seventeen I decided it was time for Mom to start pulling her weight around here. I borrowed Old Man Norris’s pickup, the one he always called a Ford Rust, filled up the back with all the biggest oranges I could pick, and drove into town to sell them. 

“What’s all this then?” George Rungeon asked when I parked the truck at the edge of the gas station he managed. “You guys aren’t starting the farm back up, are you?”

“Naw,” I said, hopping up on the wheel well and leaning against the side of the bed, “This is just a bunch of fruit from our big tree out back. Can I set up shop over by the air hoses?”

“As long as you aren’t advertising them as an alternative fuel source, go ahead. Here, I’ll even buy one myself.”

After my first sale I pulled it round to where I’d asked. I had a sign I’d made, a wooden board with “Oranges: $1.00” painted on in blue. I was real proud of that sign. Wasn’t much, but it had kind of a farmer’s market feel. All authentic-like. I wasn’t really sure about the price. I couldn’t charge by the pound like the grocery store, and I hadn’t picked enough oranges to sell more than one or two per person. I was just trying to make some pocket change, anyhow. 

I had fairly steady business all day. We weren’t the biggest town in the world, but even out here people still need gas. And it helps when everyone knows you. In fact, so many people stopped by just to chat I had to remind them of the merchandise. By the end of four hours I was seriously regretting forgetting sunscreen. Enough oranges had sold anyway, and I needed to start cooking dinner, so I drove home. 

We lived in a big house next to a farm, but we didn’t work it. Years ago, maybe before I was born or at least when I was too young to remember, Dad had sold all the land except the house and a few fields to the neighbors. They would work the fields closest to them, and kept the rest mowed. I dunno why Dad had given up being a farmer. It was one of the things he didn’t talk about. These days he worked for the power company, and the only farming-related work he ever did was make sure the orange tree stayed healthy.

Dad arrived home just as the pork chops were coming out of the oven.

“Good timing,” I said. “Table’s set, food’s on.”

“I could smell it from down the road,” he said, “and figured that if you were cooking I’d better hurry home before you lit the kitchen on fire.”

“As if,” I said, swatting him with my oven mitt. 

“It looks delicious,” he said as we sat down. “Do anything interesting today?”

“I took some oranges from the tree and sold them in town. Made a pretty decent profit too.”

“What?” The tone of his voice was the same as when he learned I’d almost flunked math class. “Why would you do that?”

“Is it really a problem?”

“Why would you sell those oranges?”

“It’s not like we ever eat them all,” I protested. “We give a bunch to Bellows family as a gift every year. What’s the harm in making some money off them?”

Dad speared a pork chop with his fork and wiggled the handle back and forth. “Those aren’t yours to sell.” His voice had gone quiet. Then, so soft I could barely hear: “I can’t believe you would steal from your mother like that.”

Now it was my turn to be incredulous. “Excuse me? Seriously Dad?” You’re still on about Mom becoming a tree or whatever?”

“She—”

“She’s dead,” I said shoving my chair back, “I’m old enough to handle that, you know. You don’t have to keep pretending this fantasy you concocted. Which was never a very good one, by the way.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me young lady,” he said, stabbing a finger in my direction. “You don’t even begin to know the history of that tree and your mother.”

“Well maybe if you ever talked about her, the real her, I would.” I stood up, letting my napkin fall from my lap to the floor. “I’m sorry I took your precious oranges. I’m sorry everyone said they were delicious and they’d like more. And I’m especially sorry that you’re so emotionally stunted that rather than move on from Mom’s death, you’ve decided to marry a tree instead.” I stormed outside, Dad’s “Hold on” getting squashed by the slam of the door. 

I didn’t give any thought to where I was going. I walked through the fields, kicking pebbles and watching my shadow grow in the setting sun. By the time I looked up, I was near the neighbor’s farmhouse. And sitting in a rocking chair on their front porch was the old family matriarch, Evalyn Bellows. 

“Sadie!” She called out, “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Hi Mrs. Bellows,” I said walking closer. “I, uh, am just out for some air.”

“Now Sadie,” the old woman said, peering at me from behind her glasses, “I haven’t lived for eighty years on this earth without learning when someone is lying to me. I could tell something was wrong while you were still a speck on the horizon. So why don’t you hop up here next to me and tell me about it.” 

I sighed. There was no getting anything past Ma Bellows. So I took a seat and told the whole story of what happened with Dad.

“Ah,” she said when I was done, “I see.”

“Why does he care so much anyway?” I asked. “And why’s he clinging to that stupid story of Mom becoming a tree. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have gotten half as mad if he hadn’t brought that tall tale up again.”

Ma Bellows nodded. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I also understand where your father is coming from.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’m not sure if it’s my place.”

“Well, he isn’t going to give me anything any time soon.” 

She sighed. “No I suppose he isn’t. Tell me Sadie, do you know why he sold the farm to our family?”

I shrugged. “Couldn’t take care of the whole thing?”

She shook her head. “That was part of it. It wasn’t the main part.” She paused. “Let me start from the beginning. From when he and your mother planted that orange tree. The sapling was a gift. A wedding gift. They planted it together just before their honeymoon.” She chuckled. “They asked our family to watch the house while they were gone, and I remember they left a very particular list of instructions on how to care for it. But they would constantly be tending it together. It was their baby. Until, well, they had an actual baby, namely you. 

“It was all very happy over there, before your mother’s passing. I suppose you don’t remember much.”

I didn’t.

“Well, he doesn’t like to say it, but I think your father blamed that farm for her death. She was always helping him when she could, even after she got sick. He would insist she rest; she would insist she help. Once she was gone, I think he saw those fields as part of what did it. Hmph. Idiot. As if your mother could have been taken down by a few seed plantings. 

“Anyway, he lost his will to farm after that. Sold it off to us for a good price and went into electrical work. And the only crop he ever tended after was that tree. Sadie, your father doesn’t really believe that she became the orange tree. But he saw firsthand how much of her heart and soul she poured into growing that thing. It and you are the only things he has to remember her by.”

I sat back on the bench. The house faced west, and the porch was awash in orange and red. Funny, it had always been my favorite color. Right now though I was getting a little sick of it. 

“So, one more question,” I said. “When he first told me about Mom being the tree, he told a story ripped straight out of a Roman myth about her transforming into one to escape a guy chasing her. Where did that come from?”

“Oh, from the Roman myth I assume,” Ma Bellows said. “Your mother was a city girl, you know. She loved reading old books, and she made him read all her favorites. Perhaps a few of them became his favorites too.”

“So there’s not some big symbolic meaning?”

“Sadie, you’ve known your father for seventeen years. How often has he said anything that had symbolic meaning?”

“That’s true,” I giggled. “I suppose I oughta go apologize to him, huh?”

“You’re old enough you don’t need me telling you what’s right and wrong.”

“But also I should go apologize.”

“But also you should go apologize.”

“Right.” I stood up to go. “Thanks Mrs. Bellows.”

“Sadie, you’ll call me Ma Bellows like everyone else in this town or I’ll strip the bark from your mother’s tree and tan you with it.”

“Yes Ma’am!”

When I got back home, Dad was still in the kitchen. He’d brewed some coffee and was sitting with a cup steaming in front of him. It didn’t look like he’d drank any. 

“Hey,” he said when I entered. “I got out a mug for you.”

“Hi,” I said, pouring myself a cup. 

“So where’d you go?”

“The neighbor’s. I talked with Ma Bellows for a while. She, uh, told me some things. About you and Mom. And why you sold the farm.”

“Did she now?”

“Please don’t be mad at her.”

Dad laughed, a guffaw that rumbled up from his belly and rolled out his throat. “Sadie, this is Ma Bellows we’re talking about. If I tried to pick a bone with her, she’d sock me in the jaw and send me to bed without any supper.”

I laughed along with him, then leaned over and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken the oranges without asking. Or yelled at you.”

“Apology accepted. I’m sorry as well,” he said as he returned the hug. “I guess I’ve just always thought of that tree as ‘ours’. Your mom’s and mine, I mean. But that isn’t really true anymore. You’re a part of this family— heck, you’re half of this family at this point— you should get some say in these matters.”

“Thanks Dad.”

We finished our coffee in silence. Then Dad said,

“So are you going to sell some more tomorrow?”

My whole body perked up. “Really? You’re okay with it?”

“Well, you had a point that we waste a bunch every year. I should be glad that my daughter is doing something productive with her summer. So you’ll sell some more.”

I pumped a fist. “You know it!”

The next morning I went out to the tree again, burlap sack in hand. I had picked most of the best ones already, but I figured there should be a few passable fruit still left. And as I scanned the tree, there, on a branch that hung so low there was no way I could have missed it yesterday, was an orange as big and bright as any I’d taken yesterday. I reached up and plucked it, then looked up towards the upper branches swaying in the summer breeze.

“Thanks.”

Maybe my mother is an orange tree after all.  

Steven Daniel lives and works in St. Louis, MO. He has degrees in English and Classic from St. Olaf College, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University. His work has been published in Esoterica Magazine and Half and One.