A Plate of Oranges
By Susan Mendelsohn
My grandfather lied to my grandmother. Not about the women—she knew all about those anyway—or about the money he routinely lost on the horses, but about the oranges.
She had this way of preparing them, peeling the skins and carefully removing the bitter pith, then cutting across the segments in even, quarter-inch slices. She served them every morning on a china plate, fanned out like flower petals.
“A little dose of sunshine, just for you,” said my grandmother, setting the plate on the breakfast table.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” said my grandfather. And he ate them all, first smiling at my grandmother, then chewing slowly with his eyes closed, looking for all the world like he was savouring every juicy bite.
My grandfather hated those oranges.
He confessed this one day as we worked together in my yard, stripping an old dresser that we would later stain a rich deep brown. It was his wedding gift to me and Juliet. He bent over the surface of the dresser, brushing on a thick layer of chemical stripper. For a guy nearing eighty, he was impressive. His old man’s paunch was visible through his greying undershirt, but his arms and shoulders were still muscled from his years moving furniture. He once told me he could climb five flights of stairs with a sofa strapped to his back and never stop to catch his breath. I believed him.
Taking a break from the dresser, he stood for a moment, arching his back. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead.
“Get us something cool to drink, would you?”
Glad to get out of the heat, I headed inside. I rummaged in the fridge and returned with two glasses of orange juice on ice. While I downed my glass in three great gulps, he took a tentative sniff from his and placed it on the ground. He rubbed a gloved finger along a small section of the dresser, testing to see if the paint was starting to loosen.
“I thought you were thirsty, Gramps.”
“I am, but not for that. Can’t stand the stuff, it messes with my stomach. Whole oranges are even worse.”
I stared at him, worried that this might be the first sign of dementia. As a kid, I’d often slept at my grandparents’ house on weekends, and I’d witnessed the morning orange ritual many times. The way he said thank you. The way he chewed with his eyes closed.
“What are you talking about? I’ve seen you eat oranges more times than I can count.”
He sighed, shook his head, looked off towards the back fence that needed repair.
“Here’s the thing, Will. I wasn’t a good husband. I did a lotta stuff I shouldn’t have. But those oranges, well, your grandmother thought I loved them. She took the time every day to make them look so pretty. If it made her happy to feed me oranges, who was I to turn up my nose?”
He had a funny expression on his face, somewhere between regret and a broken heart. I wondered if he was missing my grandmother, the way she used to be.
“Now your Juliet,” he went on, “she’s a sweet girl. Be good to her. Don’t ever lie about anything that matters. But if she puts a plate of worms in front of you and calls it a gourmet dinner, you just down those suckers like nothing ever tasted so good.”
And with that he picked up a scraper and began running it along the dresser. Gobs of old paint welled up as thick as mud, leaving behind a trail of bare wood glinting in the sun.
***
I told Juliet about it later that evening, over a beer on the porch. The air was still humid and warm. A few lazy mosquitoes buzzed around us.
“Seriously? He ate oranges every day, just to keep the peace? He must have had one huge guilty conscience. Oh, your poor grandmother. Was he really that bad?”
“Pretty bad, I think. Did I ever tell you he lost his furniture moving business in a card game?”
“Jesus,” said Juliet, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “I thought stuff like that only happened in movies. What kind of family am I marrying into?”
“Apparently the kind where men prove their loyalty by eating stuff they hate. Just don’t feed me a plate of worms,” I joked.
“Just don’t make any stupid bets at the poker table.”
Juliet lifted her ponytail and shook her head from side to side, trying to catch a breeze. I swatted away a mosquito, leaned over and kissed the back of her neck. I remembered the way my grandfather used to kiss my grandmother at random moments, usually when she was busy taking a cake out of the oven or pushing a wheelbarrow across the yard. He would come up behind her, wrapping those muscled arms around her waist and grazing his lips against her shoulder. Sometimes she scowled and shooed him away. Sometimes she laughed. She never knew when love might sneak up on her.
“How come you never ask me to go with you when you visit her?” Juliet asked suddenly.
“I don’t know,” I answered, realizing I’d never thought about it before. “I guess there just doesn’t seem to be much point. It’s not like she’ll have a conversation with you, or remember you after. I mean, I don’t even think she remembers my grandfather. It’s like there’s nothing in her head but a big blank sheet of paper. Sometimes she says stuff, but it never makes any sense.”
“So why do you go?”
“Mostly so my grandfather doesn’t have to go alone. It’s hard for him. She used to be so capable. She was always cooking, fixing up the house. Now she just kind of sits there.”
I pictured my grandmother, the current version, dressed in neatly pressed slacks like she was about to go out to tea. Staring out the window of the nursing home.
“Still,” said Juliet, “I’d like to meet the woman who could put up with your grandfather’s shit for all those years. She must be pretty tough.”
I wouldn’t have called her tough. But there must have been something that kept her with him, apparently happy, despite everything. Maybe she was just one of those people who forgives easily. Maybe instead of hurt and anger, she chose to hold onto the little things that made their lives nice, like a garden and a freshly baked cake and a pretty plate of oranges at breakfast.
Juliet stood and yawned, gathering up the beer glasses. “Next time, Will, I’m coming with you.”
***
When Juliet decides something, it’s best to go along with the plan. So a few weeks later, I drove the three of us to the nursing home. A young assistant in floral scrubs ushered us into the lounge, where the curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun. A few residents were scattered around the room, slumped in their chairs or turning pages in old magazines. A white-haired man was seated at a table with a half-completed jigsaw puzzle, a still life whose centrepiece was a shallow bowl of oranges and lemons. He clutched a fistful of pieces the way a starving man might hold onto his few remaining scraps of food.
My grandmother sat by the window, in a sea of empty chairs, head down at her chest. As we approached, I could hear she was humming softly. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. I had forgotten all about that song. She used to sing it when she worked in her garden.
“Mrs. Devine,” said the assistant, too loudly, “here’s your lovely family to see you.”
My grandmother didn’t even look up.
“She’s having a good day,” the assistant told us brightly. “She ate her whole lunch, Jell-O and all.” Tilting her head toward the white-haired man, she added, “I’m going to go help Mr. Chernov with his puzzle. You have a nice visit. I’ll be just over there if you need me.”
My grandfather waited until the assistant had retreated, then sat beside my grandmother and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. I crouched down in front of her, trying to get her to look at me.
“Gran, this is Juliet. She’s been wanting to meet you.”
My grandmother kept up her humming.
I tried again. “We’re getting married in a few months.”
Juliet stepped forward and took my grandmother’s hand.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” said Juliet, as if she were making friends at a cocktail party. Then she took a seat and leaned in, whispering in my grandmother’s ear.
At that, my grandmother stopped humming. She looked over at Mr. Chernov and his fruit bowl puzzle, then at Juliet.
“Sunshine,” she said.
“Sunshine,” replied Juliet.
It was the first thing I’d heard my grandmother say in a very long time that had any kind of logic to it. I looked from Juliet to my grandmother and back again. I waited to see if my grandmother would say anything more, if that blank page in her head might start to fill up with words. There was nothing.
“What did you say to her?” I asked Juliet.
A playful smile spread across Juliet’s face and she patted my grandmother’s hand. “That’s between me and your Gran. Just girl stuff.”
“No, really. What did you say to her?”
We were interrupted by my grandmother calling out like a sergeant issuing a command to the troops.
“Oranges!”
I had never heard her raise her voice that way. Juliet’s smile evaporated and her jaw went slack. My grandfather cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. And over at the table, Mr. Chernov yelled a string of what sounded like Russian curses, as hundreds of orange and yellow puzzle pieces exploded into the air and rained down like fireworks.
“Oh dear,” we heard the assistant trying to maintain order. “Let me help you clean up the mess. You want to finish your nice puzzle, don’t you?”
But Mr. Chernov had had enough of puzzles. He got up from his chair and was now heading towards us at a good clip, holding the cover of the jigsaw puzzle box like some kind of weapon, with the poor worried assistant trailing after him. Juliet looked over at me, eyes wide. My grandfather, sensing danger, stood and planted his feet, folding his hands into meaty fists, ready.
Mr. Chernov stopped short, locking eyes with my grandfather. After a minute, as if suddenly remembering why he had crossed the room, he held out the box to my grandfather.
No one was paying any attention to my grandmother until she raised her palms in the air and clapped them down firmly against the wooden arms of her chair.
“No no no no!” she cried.
Now we all turned to stare at her.
“Not for him,” she continued. “He hates oranges.”
Our corner of the room went still and silent. My head started buzzing. Had I heard that right? My grandmother hadn’t voiced a complete sentence in almost three years, and now this? I looked over at Juliet and she shook her head and shrugged. Whatever she had whispered in my grandmother’s ear had unlocked something. My grandmother’s declaration was no simple echo. She sounded just the way she once did, when her mind was still sharp. Somehow, the old version of her, the real version, had finally broken through the surface of all her tangled brain matter like a diver swimming up from the depths.
“Gran?”
I was hoping for some explanation, or at least some further proof, but she had already sunk back down to the bottom of the ocean. She lowered her head and resumed her humming. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. The brief moment of clarity, whatever it was, was over.
By this point, my grandfather was sitting back in his chair, shoulders heaving up and down. It took me a minute to realize he was laughing.
“She knew?” I asked him, incredulous.
At that, his laughter grew louder. It boomed off the walls and ceiling, startling the residents. The assistant, clearly unsure what was going on, tried desperately to avert disaster.
“Mr. Devine,” she urged, “please keep your voice down. We don’t want to agitate the residents.”
He nodded his head and wiped his eyes. He swallowed hard. His laughter subsided. The assistant took Mr. Chernov by the arm and led him back to the table. I waited for my grandfather to say something, but he was silent.
“She knew?” I asked again.
Still my grandfather said nothing. His hands rose up to cover his face. My grandmother's fingers began tapping and tapping against her lap, slow and rhythmic as a ticking clock, counting out all the ways we had underestimated her.
She knew, and she had served them anyway. Served them on purpose. All those plates of oranges. A daily dose of sunshine, just for him.
She knew.
THE END
Author Bio: Susan Mendelsohn retired from a long career in healthcare, and now writes short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and songs. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bywords, CommuterLit, Funicular, and Glassworks. She lives in Ottawa, Canada, and probably just got home from a skate (if it’s winter) or a bike ride (if it’s not).