Apple Brown Betty
"Girl, go fetch me some apples, from Bruchard's orchard!"
But Momma! That's stealin'! He'll whup me if I do that!""
"Do it quiet girl! And it's not wrong, if I leave him a nice pie after. He likes pie. I know! He's had my special pie before...."
Momma didn't say no more so I took the basket and went. Even though it's washday tomorrow and I got no proper dress to wear. Just my sundress and two sizes too small!
Momma says I'm two sizes too big is all. My parts did grow some since last year. A lot. I hope we earn enough at the stall to make a trip to JCPenney so's I can get another dress! Or maybe I'll make one from feed sacks, but they're scratchy.
Chilly at first, early mornin' isn't yet warm since Summer is really past, fall starin' us in the face.
Bruchard's is last house in town out Orchard Lane, not really a house, the first farm outside town but the house built right on this end.
The gate squeaked and I startled; did somebody hear? Real quiet. Trees keep the wind real low, and the birds come and gone this mornin', off to the lakeshore for grubs. Only sound is me.
Nobody in the yard, and the curtains all drawed close. Somebody home, the chimney leaking a little blue smoke, hick'ry, he burns that, cuts it back behind the barn, got a stand there.
Best apples for pie are behind the garden shed, long and low, used to be a farrowin' house for sows, so's I creep, still as a mouse, that far and nobody see me. After that, it'll be safe, nobody can see back there.
Apples ever'where! Fallin' unregarded, wasted. On the ground they get worms, bruise't, no good. And half on the ground already!
He's gettin' old, ol' Mr. Bruchard. Where's that lazy nephew of his, work needin' done!
"I'm right here."
Oh! I must have said that last bit aloud.
Dropped my basket, whirled around and there he was, sittin' in the doorway of the shed. Smokin' a pipe, rockin' like nowhere to go and nuthin' to do.
"You's oughta be somewhere else! Workin'! Not out here scarin' the sauce out of decent folk!"
He considered. "I oughta be here pickin' apples? Or somewhere else? Make up your mind!
"And what are you doin' here, exacly? Not workin', not rightly."
I blushed, though he can't see it through my pretty complexion. Brown, brown from
workin' outdoor all the day.
He did smile, and I saw, he saw my bare skin peekin' out the dress, where the sun waren't yet roasted me, pinkin' up.
"I'm workin'! Gettin' apples for my ma!"
"Not workin' rightly. Those are my apples!"
"Not your'en! Your Uncle owns those apples!"
"Well, sure'n I'm sittin' here smokin' they ain't yours."
"What's it to you! Anyway, I'm a bring a pie later, fair trade."
He lit up, like he's got a thought. All he's good for, apparently, thinkin' and talkin'. Momma says he's always gettin' some girl in trouble, with his tongue and his smart words.
"That's my name for you! Apple Brown Betty! Sweet, common, tasty. It fits, perfect."
I colored some more, mad now.
"My name ain't Betty! It's Bettina! Not common!"
He raised an eyebrow, gave an appeasing nod.
"So's you gonna?"
That got me. What's he on about.
"Gonna what?"
He took his time answerin', takin' a draw from that pipe, holdin' on to it, lettin' it fly.
"Gonna ask nice. For the apples. Like a not-common person would."
"Like I'm gonna ask you! For your uncle's apples!
"Anyway, I'm just gonna take the ground-fall, the ones no use for anythin' else but ..."
I was gonna say, Apple Brown Betty. That was Momma's special pie.
I took my basket, turned my back to him, started scroungin'. Pickin' up apples, lookin' for the worm, throwin' em over my shoulder if too soft or too much et by worms.
Not choosy about where I flung em! He complained.
"Hey! Wachit! Your gonna hit me with them squishy rotten apples."
I smiled to myself, kept at it.
Got half a basket, not enough, and I was gettin' tired. And hot, the sun was proper up now.
Set the basket down. One hand on my achin' back, I stood, looked back at him, lookin' at me.
"Whatcha so interested in?" He was staring.
"That dress. Your backside."
"Makes no sense. This dress? Old, too small. Was pretty once. Now, it's gonna be tore up for washrags.
"And who looks at backsides? Butts ain't pretty."
He looked to disagree. Which for some reason made me hotter. Sweat on my neck, drippin' down between my titties.
"You got a point. I warn't so much lookin' at the dress, as what's in it.
"Your frontside is almost as nice! Maybe more! If'n I could see more, I'd know for sure."
Not sure what he meant. Anyway, apples to pick. I picked up my basket.
"Tell you what."
He pulled on his pipe again, made me wait.
Made me mad! He's sittin' pretty, makin' me wait on him, an' work to do!
"You take that dress off, work like that, so's I got a better view."
My eyes widened, like two googly eyes, and my mouth dropped open.
"Whuffor I do that! Nekkid! Out in the open!"
"Whuffor? So's I don't holler for my uncle, tell him there's thievin' goin' on! In his orchard!"
That chilled me to the bone. Mr. Bruchard was famous for his shotgun, and for firin' it at anybody who's even trespassin'. Never mind stealin'!
"And nobody gone see you but me, back here. So, no problem, nekkid."
He had a point. I often worked in the back yard nekkid, like on washin' day, everythin' in the tub anyways.
