Sunlight wakes me up to another cookie-cutter day of retirement. 

“Gosh darnit,” I mutter under my breath. Once again, I forgot to close the shades. I could try to fall back asleep, but knowing myself well enough, I roll out of bed. Tuesday. Two weeks and a day since I have slept long enough to be woken up by my alarm. I walk sorely down the stairs, toss pre-cut bread into the toaster and fiddle with the excessive number of knobs. I’ve had it since Christmas, but I have yet to “master the perfect piece of toast”—false advertising. I splash orange juice into my glass. The view from my window informs me that a mailman has left the paper on the curb again.

“Gosh darnit,” I mutter under my breath.

Settling into the padded stool at the kitchen counter, I sip my OJ. The only entertainment I have is the toaster’s digital video display counting down to zero; the only thing I have to look forward to is following my juice with a slightly burnt piece of toast and a look out the window. 

I’m fond of almost everything about Fern Street. Aside from its fernlessness the road is quiet, the people are nice, and houses have enough landscaping to disguise the barren suburbia. The best part of Fern Street is how little it has changed with the rest of the world. I am reminded of this as I push open my front door and breathe in the fresh springtime air filled with the smell of freshly-cut grass and my potted flowers. I start my saunter down the front porch. When I reach the sidewalk, the shadow of my house ends. I pick up the newspaper and grab the mail from the crooked mailbox barely standing at the edge of the grass. As I waddle back up the path to my door, I notice that my apple tree on the fence line is completely barren. Just yesterday it was bursting with fruit! I decided—greedily—to not pick the fruit just yet in an effort to achieve perfect ripeness. I peek over the fence and see spotless fallen fruit lying on my neighbors lawn. No squirrel has ever left a perfect piece of fruit without taking just one bite out of it—making the fruit inedible but letting the rightful owner know what they are missing out on—and scampering away. It must have been my gosh darn neighbor! I live alone in a house, disturbing nobody. And how does he repay me?

“Gosh darnit,” I mutter under my breath. I march up to my front door, shove it open and slam the stack of mail down on the counter. My heavy stomping crushes the neighbor’s dead grass beneath my feet. I kick over a for sale sign standing in my path.  

BOOM!

I slam the ornate knocker.

BOOM!

The two-story house towers over me. My face is red and my foot taps restlessly. If I was a cartoon character, steam would be shooting out of my ears. 

BOOM!

I look around for a doorbell. No luck. I cock back the knocker one more time, this time throwing my shoulder into it.

CLICK.

Right before the metals make angry contact, I hear the lock click and I freeze. The ridiculousness of my temper begins to flow over me as I stare at my neighbor holding the doorknob. His tired eyes stare at me, his eyebrows raise instead of asking what I need. I can feel the blood leaving my face, and I look down. I regulate my breathing, grateful that I realized how swept up in the moment I was. Maniacally accusing my wealthy neighbor of stealing my apples is not a good look. 

Before I can think of an excuse to explain my presence, I catch a fruit basket in the

corner of the living room. 

“Those are my apples, Blaine!” I holler. Blood returns to my head, rushing. I feel eyes glaze over like a villain in a comic book. “Why in the world—just why—would someone like you take my apples?”  My tone escalates. “I worked my ass off to grow those!” I march through the door frame. He doesn’t even look mad. Blaine just stands there watching my rage. The only thing he has moved since opening the door are his eyebrows, which now frame his eyes. I move past him to pick up an apple. 

“It took me months to craft these damn things! I turn around to pick up my baskets. Again, glimpse a sorry sight with the corner of my eye. 

“You are giving your kids—your kids—my fruit?” The steam is flying out so fast my ears might pop off. “Are you kidding me?” 

He still stands still at the door. I scoop up the basket brimming with apples and storm out of the living room. As I step through the front door, he finally speaks. I freeze and turn to him. His hand is still on the doorknob. His tone is the opposite of protesting.

“It won’t happen again. I promise. Have a good rest of your day.” 

Scoffing, I resume my storming-out. He carefully closes the door behind me. His house’s menacing shadow obstructs the slowly rising sun’s warmth from reaching me. A few apples fall out of my basket and find a home nested in the dead grass. 

—————

Lying on the counter, the unusually tall stack of mail greets me as I enter the kitchen. I flip through it, sorting it into piles. Insurance ad, trash. REI catalog, trash. I notice that some of the envelopes have the wrong address. The post man must have dumped next door's mail here by accident. I flip through the stack, sorting catalogs and ads into two piles by address. A fat, creased green envelope catches my attention. Underneath it is another envelope. The incorrect addresses graces the front of both of them in rapidly scribbled penmanship. I finally think for a second, calculating whose house this was supposed to. Blaine’s. I shouldn’t read his mail, but dammit, the man stole my apples! I pull open the drawer to the right of me and pull out a letter opener. Slipping it under the flap of the bottom envelope, I rip it open and pull out the contents. 

Mr. Blaine Fink,

We regret to inform you that your insurance does not cover the cost of your wife's medical bills due to the treatment being state-of-the-art and untested. We send our condolences for your loss. 

Harry Risling

Elevance Health Insurance

Below the note, the costs are listed. The total: twelve million dollars. Driven by curiosity, I pick up the second envelope, the pale green one. After a pause, I excavate its contents. A cheesy greeting card reads “There’s So Mushroom in my Heart for You.” Upon opening the card, a stack of one-hundred dollar bills fall onto the counter. Inside the greeting card is a note in the same cursive handwriting, but here more care has been taken to form graceful cursive loops and twists.  

Dear Blaine,

I am so sorry to be the one sending you this bill. We all knew it was coming though. I am also sorry I can’t get there till next week, but I will see you then for the funeral. By then I know you will have found a new place to stay and have a job and be back on your feet. Until then, use this money well—food and keeping a roof over your head. I hope the kids are doing okay. Let them know auntie says hi. I hope to see you soon. Lots of love.

—Martha

Dropping the paper, I stand up slowly. When the final piece clicks, I move for the door carrying Blaine’s mail. I pick up the baskets full of produce. 

“Gosh darnit,” I hesitate. Dropping the fruit at the door, I turn around and make my way up the stairs. I slam open the drawer next to my nightstand. Rummaging through it, I grab all of the cash I can find and a glue stick. Downstairs I restore the envelopes with their contents. To the pale green envelope, I gently place my thick stack of cash. I glue the flaps down meticulously and hold down hard to make sure they stay. I arrive at Blaine’s door with two baskets and two envelopes. 

I place it all down on his welcome mat. I stand back to observe my work. Uneasiness starts in my stomach and spreads throughout my body. Deep breath. I grab an apple from the basket and wipe it with the hem of my shirt. The sun is at its peak now. I take a bite out of the reddest part of the apple and step off the porch, into the sunlight.