Apples in Winter

by Jennifer Fawcett

January 16, 2019

jennifer@workinggrouptheatre.org
(319) 594-9051

Michael Petrasek, The Talent House

(416) 960-9686
michael@talenthouse.ca

Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Fawcett

 Apples in Winter 2

DEVELOPMENT HISTORY

Apples in Winter was commissioned by a grant from the National New Play
Network, with funding from the Smith Prize for New Plays.

It was developed at the Banff Playwrights Colony (Colony Director, Brian Quirt).

Further development took place at InterAct Theatre Company (Philadelphia, PA)

with Bridget O’Leary directing, and a staged reading as part of the Women
Playwrights Series at Centenary Stage Company (Hackettstown, NJ), directed by
Mikaela Kafka.

Apples in Winter had a National New Play Network Rolling World Premiere at
Riverside Theatre (Iowa City, IA), directed by Beth Wood; at Centenary Stage
Company (Hackettstown, NJ) directed by Mikaela Kafka, and at Phoenix Theatre
(Indianapolis, IN), directed by Jolene Mentink Moffatt. It had a Regional
Premiere at Urbanite Theatre (Sarasota, FL) directed by Kirstin Franklin.
 Apples in Winter 3

CHARACTER

MIRIAM … A mother and pie-maker. 60’s +.

TIME & PLACE

A prison kitchen. Late winter.

There’s no need for the kitchen to be realistic, however the stove and fridge must
work. It’s important that the smell of the pie come into the theatre as it is baking.

The knife must be attached to the table with airplane wire.

There needs to be a clock somewhere on stage. Time is essential in this world.

PIE MAKING NOTE

Miriam should be making a 6” pie, which is much smaller than usual. This
enables it to be baked in the time allowed in the play.

See the recipe at the end for a list of ingredients and kitchen items.
 Apples in Winter 4

The stage is set up for baking: a long prep table

with bowls, bags of flour, sugar, etc. Most
important, three apples sit in a row on the
downstage side of the table.

MIRIAM enters. She goes to the table and looks at

what is spread out on top of it.

She picks up an apple, looks at it carefully, sniffs it,

sighs and puts it back on the table.

Silence.

She looks at the clock.

She looks away.

She looks at the clock.

MIRIAM
Oh, for goodness’ sake.

She bursts into action and puts on an apron.

Twenty-two bags of apples from five different stores and these are the best I could
get. It’s not the season.
He’ll understand.
He’ll have to.

She goes to the fridge and pulls out butter then

begins to cut it into 1-inch cubes, speaking while
she cuts.

Butter. That’s the trick.

Not lard, not vegetable shortening, butter.
And keeping it cold. Keep everything cold.
 Apples in Winter 5

I’d love to say that my mother or my grandmother taught me how to make a

perfect pie crust.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
Ha.
If my mother could buy it premade, she did, whether it was an apple pie or a
sandwich. And my grandmother? Her idea of dessert was a cigarette and a
bourbon.
(She measures the flour)
But in my house, we had dessert. I like to end with something sweet. The meal
just doesn’t feel like it’s over without it. I tried them all: puddings, cookies,
cakes, but pie, pie was the winner. Robert’s favorite is pie.
Apple pie.

My apple pie.

You have to allow the proper time to make a pie. There’s no rushing, no skipping
steps.
(She adds salt)
Everything is done for a reason, in order, for a particular amount of time. If you
follow the rules, you will get a perfect pie.
Well, maybe not perfect. There’s still some skill involved. But decent, you will
have a decent pie.
I like to think that my pies are more than decent.
(Mixing flour and salt)
Maybe it’s because they’re made with love. Does that sound stupid? It’s not.
I think it’s an important part.

She drops what she is doing and steps away.

Silence.

She looks at the clock.

Robert wants a piece of pie.

That’s it.
My son asked me to make him an apple pie. So, I’m going to make him one.
There’s still something I can give him.
Even in here.
 Apples in Winter 6

Even now.
He still needs me.
You know, when they’re little they need you for everything but once they get
older…
Once they stop asking…
They think they don’t need you, but they do.
I’m still his mother.

When Robert eats my pie, he closes his eyes.

He closes his eyes and chews and swallows and opens his eyes again, takes
another bite and closes his eyes again…
Those flavors push everything else out. I’ve seen it.
Cinnamon, nutmeg, apples …
They can do what words can’t.
To watch your child eat is…
(A gesture)
To watch him eat something I’ve made for him, made with love, that’s…
It’s… Right.
It’s… Natural.

Natural.
That’s a tricky word.

What we usually mean when we say natural is that it feels right, just like what
feels wrong would be unnatural. But it’s more than that.
(She dumps the butter into the flour)
I think it is natural to want to feed your child but that doesn’t mean every mother
feels that way. Mine didn’t.
(Begins grinding the butter in, slowly)
It’s not like she starved me – it wasn’t on purpose, she would just… forget.
That’s how I learned to cook. Self-preservation!
My mother used to say she couldn’t wait for me to grow up because then I’d be
more interesting and I wouldn’t need so much from her. She almost forgot me at
the zoo and at the grocery store. She lost me at a parade for the better part of an
afternoon. She spent the time at a bar. I spent it desperately looking for her,
growing more hysterical by the hour. After, she told me she had just forgotten I
was with her.
 Apples in Winter 7

Stops grinding.

She was being true to her nature and I was being true to mine and those were not
the same thing. They usually weren’t for us.

I believe – my mother aside – I believe there is nothing more natural than a

mother and her child.
Robert and I are natural – we are good fit. We always have been, from the
moment he was born.
It’s … It’s symbiosis.
Surprised?
High school biology.
I may not remember much but I remember that.
(She resumes grinding)
I always liked that word. Symbiosis. Like a perfect circle.
I look after my child and in return, he loves me. That’s all I need.
Circle complete.

But if there isn’t love then it’s what?

A parasite.

She stops grinding.

What feels good, feels natural.

But is it natural to do what you feel like doing? Or is that just following your
impulses?
Robert followed his impulses…
But that wasn’t natural. That wasn’t him, I mean. That was the drugs.

She looks at the clock.

You just want to do it until it looks broken up, not mixed.

She grinds the butter into the flour.

The trick is chunks.

Grind, grind, grind.

 Apples in Winter 8

Natural. Unnatural. Symbiotic…

Grind, grind, grind.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

(Adding water by small spoonfuls)
I’m just talking to talk. That’s what my husband, Larry, used to say. “You’re just
talking to hear yourself talk.”
So? It’s better than silence.

Grind, grind, grind. Adding water if necessary.

“Just talking to talk…”

Continue mixing and adding water as necessary.

That looks right.

What I love about making a pie is how little you need.

(Forming two dough balls)
Flour, butter, water, sugar, salt, fruit, and a few spices. That’s it. Ingredients you
can find in any kitchen. I like to think of women one hundred, two hundred years
ago – more even - doing exactly what I’m doing. Like I’m part of something –
part of a tradition.

The last meal is a tradition too. Goes back centuries.

I guess, a long time ago, it was an act of compassion.
Or maybe it was superstition.
It wasn’t about the prisoner – it was for the executioner, like saying, “Please don’t
haunt me.”
(Wrapping the dough in plastic)
The corrections officers around here don’t strike me as the type to be worried
about that sort of thing but who am I to say? They certainly wouldn’t admit it.
(A bad impression)
“Duh… Please don’t haunt me. Here’s a burger.” Can you imagine? Some of
them, I swear. Dumb as fence posts.
(Laughing)
 Apples in Winter 9

There’s this one… Marty. Thinks he’s real tough. Robert can do this impression
that’s just… perfect. It’s just perfect.
(Doing a bad impression)
You had to be there I guess.

I never knew, before I mean, but he can do the most perfect impressions of just
about anyone. Famous people, the CO’s… I asked him to do me but he wouldn’t.
You got to get him when he’s in the right mood but boy oh boy…
It’s the one good thing, with him being in here, I mean. He’s clean and sober.
He’s thoughtful and funny and so smart. Well, he was always smart. But for a
while it was … cloudy.

I’m going to let these chill. Don’t skip this step. You will be tempted to. Don’t.

She puts the pastry in the fridge.

She disposes of the mixing bowl, spoons, etc.

They told me not to wash these. Feels odd.

(Shrugs)
Their kitchen, their rules.

She checks the clock.

She picks up the paring knife and realizes it is
attached to the table with airplane wire.
She adjusts, then begins peeling the first apple.

This is a terrible knife.

I miss my knife.
At least it’s a small pie.

I am very specific about what I cook when.

Apple pie is for September, apple-harvesting season.
Then pumpkin pie.
In December, it’s gingerbread. I make shortbread too – you can just smell the
butter. I make peppermint pinwheels and sugar cookies but the most important is
the gingerbread.
In the winter, I bake bread. Baked bread with soup, baked bread with stew.
Those smells fill the house.
 Apples in Winter 10

(She peels the second apple)

In April, more green is starting to show and by May it has come full bloom:
asparagus, mint, pale green lettuces. Then the berries start.
Strawberries are first in June, then the raspberries. Peaches in July.
Raspberry tarts, strawberry jam, and by the time we get to August, the blueberries
are out. So much sweetness in the summer.
And then we are back to apples.
(She peels the third apple)
To make a good pie, you need crisp apples – that mix of sharp and sweet they
only have when they’re just picked. These are ...
Well they’re fine but they’re not right.

He’ll understand.
Of course he will. It’s not the time for apples.

Our apples, well they went straight from the tree to the dough. They were perfect.
Though they didn’t start out that way.
(She cores and slices the apples)
The year after Larry and I were married, we bought our house. We moved in in
June. I was three months pregnant. There was no garden in the backyard but there
was this little apple tree. It wasn’t much more than a bunch of scraggly branches
so I didn’t pay much attention to it but then later in the summer I saw that it was
trying to grow a few small apples. They were lumpy and small and didn’t look
like any apple I’d seen before. I tried one but it was so sour I spat it out. I waited
another month and picked another but it had a worm in it. I decided to ignore it
but then the apples ripened and fell and began to rot around the base of the tree.
The stink. And the waste. I cannot stand seeing food wasted.
Robert was born in December. We had so much snow that year. I went to the
library and got a book about how to prune apple trees. I sat with him in my arms,
reading that book…
For hours.
In the spring, I fertilized the tree and trimmed the branches and sprayed this
vinegar concoction to stop the worms. And lo and behold, these tiny buds of fruit
appeared. I thinned them and I kept pruning all summer and that fall I ate the first
apple from our little tree.

I kept trimming and fertilizing and fighting the damned worms and the year
Robert started school, the little tree produced its first full crop of apples.
 Apples in Winter 11

I measure time in my kitchen.

Well, not here – this isn’t my kitchen.
They wouldn’t let me make this in my kitchen. What if I put something in the pie
and cheated the state of their ritual?

I’ve thought about it but…

Well. I can’t, so…
So, I can’t.

She looks at the clock.

But I’ve thought about it.

Adding the sugar and spices to a bowl.

Add sugar
Flour
A pinch of salt
Cinnamon
All spice
Nutmeg

Time changes on death row. There is just the time before, and now. And the
monotony of the now makes it seem like time isn’t passing at all. There are no
landmarks. And then the summons comes and you realize that time has
disappeared behind you.

At first, I tried to mark the different visits so Robert could distinguish one from
another.
I wore something different each time. I’d say:
“Remember, I wore my blue sweater, the one with the buttons you like.”
Or “That was the time I wore my new green pants.”
But he never remembered.
And he told me to stop. Stop trying to mark time. It doesn’t work in here, he
said. The only way to deal with it is to try to ignore it.
But I can’t ignore it. I keep track. I need to keep track.
This is what I have now.
 Apples in Winter 12

She dumps the spice mixture on the apples and stirs.

I’m going to let these sit for a little.

On our Christmas visit, we talked about whether it was better to have a green
Christmas or a white one. Robert doesn’t like the snow, I do. On our New Year’s
visit, we talked about something he’d heard in the news. The week after that was
a tough one. He was… well, his mind was somewhere else. Then, the week after,
we talked about Jared’s new job. Jared is Robert’s cousin, or his cousin
Melanie’s son, which makes him a second cousin or cousin once removed or… I
don’t really know.

Mellie, that’s what Robert called her when they were little. Mellie and Robbie.
They were a pair, those two. They were born only a few weeks apart – people
thought they were fraternal twins they were so close. It doesn’t seem that long
ago that I could hold them both in my lap.

Melanie didn’t believe that he’d done it. Even after the trial, after all the details
came out, she refused to believe. She said he couldn’t have killed those kids
because she still loved him and she could never love someone who’d done that…

I let her keep loving him.

And me.
It’s better this way.

Melanie’s a good girl and Jared’s a good boy. He calls me Grandma Miriam, even
though I’m his grandmother’s sister. He says Great Aunt sounds too fancy. Jared
likes my pie too. I make him peach pie and strawberry rhubarb and cherry. He
always asks about Robert. He wanted to come visit him but …

When Jared was three, Mellie had to go away for work and she asked me if I
would take him overnight. This was about a year after… I planned everything we
would do. There was a new swing set in the park so we’d go there first. I went
and watched the kids use it and checked all of the swings and bars to make sure
nothing was loose. You never know. He loved peanut butter so we would make
peanut butter cookies and I would teach him how to press them with a fork. And
for supper, I made sure I had all his favorites: ravioli from a can, watermelon,
mint chocolate chip ice cream. I went to the library and got out books for bedtime
 Apples in Winter 13

stories and I bought him a pair of new pajamas with feet – Robert’s favorite kind
when he was that age – and a new toothbrush that he could leave at my house if
he came to stay again. It was all planned. It was going to be perfect. And half an
hour before Melanie was to bring him over, my sister arrived.
“You can’t take him,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

It was the first time she’d talked to me since the trial. The only time.

Silence.

It was nice though. It felt so normal, planning what we would do.

Melanie felt so bad about that but she shouldn’t have.

And she’s stayed in touch. We’ve just been… more careful.

My pie will be served at 5pm. 1700 hours, that’s what they use in here, military
time. I guess it’s more accurate. Accuracy is very important in here.
Or maybe it isn’t accuracy. It’s order.
Order to give the appearance of accuracy.

She flours the surface of the table.

I’m going to preheat the oven.

She turns on the oven then takes first dough ball out
of the fridge and begins to flatten it first with her
hands.

Accuracy is essential with baking. It’s combining separate things to make a

whole. It’s scientific. I didn’t know if the accuracy of the penitentiary system
applied to the oven though so I brought a thermometer.
(Rolling the dough)
Many prisoners can’t eat. The warden told me that. He said that when they order
the meal there’s still hope of a last-minute stay, there’s more than 24 hours to go,
but when it arrives there’s only seven more hours.

The warden told me that Robert is finishing his GED. He’s only got a few more
credits. I said, why didn’t Robert tell me himself but he said that it’s hard for the
 Apples in Winter 14

ones who didn’t finish high school. He said Robert had wanted to surprise me
with his diploma. They talk about books – the warden told me this. He said my
son has good insights.

No one ever tried to know him after it happened. Lots of people wanted to talk
about him, the journalists and nosey parkers, but they didn’t want to know him.
But the warden, he took the time. He seems like a fair man, maybe even a kind
man.

She looks at the clock.

Larry was always saying, “Robert, you’re a smart kid.”

(Putting the dough in the pie plate and trimming it)
Always telling him how he could do anything he wanted, be anything he wanted.
“You just got to go into the world and take it.” I’m not blaming. I’m telling you
so you know, so you can know Robert.
Larry used to say, “I grew up watching my old man apologize for everything –
‘Sorry I ain’t smart enough or fancy enough,’ and you know what all those sorrys
got him?” he’d say. “Nothing. I watched my father beg and grovel and I swore I
wasn’t going to do that and that’s why I got respect.”

She gets the second dough ball from the fridge and
begins to roll it out.

At suppertime, after he’d eaten, Larry would push the plate aside and lay his
hands on the table – big hands, fingers spread wide, and he’d say, “Now listen to
me, son. What are you going to do with your life?” Robert was seven! But I got
such a kick out of his answers – they were always changing. One month he
wanted to be astronaut. Then a fire fighter. Or an FBI agent, or a millionaire.
And Larry, he always said the same thing: “Don’t let anyone take anything from
you, kid. Don’t let anyone walk over you.”

We didn’t have much fancy stuff. We didn’t go out to restaurants or movies very
much. Our car was old and our clothes weren’t the latest fashions but we were
solid. The foundation was solid.

But we never said it would be easy. We never said it wouldn’t take work. Where
did that idea come from?
 Apples in Winter 15

An inspiration:

I’m going to do a woven top crust. It’s not the classic, but it’s so pretty.

It’s good Larry’s not here for this.

He wouldn’t… This doesn’t… Fit into the picture.
Of course it doesn’t.

She dumps the apple mixture into the pie crust and
adds butter.

I add a few more chunks of butter on top.

(Weaving the dough lattice)
You lay the first piece near the center, then lay this next piece perpendicular to
that. Keep alternating going under and over…
(Weaving)
It’s strange to explain it. For me, this is muscle memory. How many times have I
done this? One pie blurs into another.
Except the first, of course, I remember that one.
I made my first pie the week that Robert started kindergarten.

It was a Friday. Lunchtime. I had just picked seven perfect apples from our tree to
make a pie, to celebrate Robert’s first week of school, and the phone rang. It was
the teacher asking me to come and pick him up. Something had happened with
some other kids. She wanted to talk to me about my son.
What did she know about my son? She’d only known him for a week.
I brought him home.
Didn’t say a word the whole time we’re in the car, then he goes into his room and
shuts the door. No tantrum, no tears, just silence.
I went in and he was lying on his bed just looking at the wall. He was so small. I
rubbed his back. I sang him lullabies. Nothing I did would get him to turn away
from the wall. At supper time I put the pie in the oven, hoping the smell would
bring him out, but he wouldn’t move.
Larry got angry. I put Robert’s food on a tray to take to his room but Larry threw
it into the garbage.
(Trimming and pinching the sides)
 Apples in Winter 16

After supper, when Larry was dozing in front of the TV, I cut a piece of pie and
put it on a pretty plate and I went into Robert’s room. I sat on the bed and put my
hand on his back and felt his little ribs rising and falling.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “I’ve brought you some pie.”
He didn’t move at first but then he sat up and rubbed his eyes. I cut a bite and
held the fork out and he opened his mouth and took it.
As he chewed, he closed his eyes. He chewed slowly and I could see - I could
actually see - how those flavors were moving through him and releasing his little
body from that pain.
When the pie was done, he lay down and put his head on my lap and fell asleep.
(Sprinkling sugar)
Sprinkle some sugar…

There. Perfect.

Every September since then I’ve made a pie for him from the apples on our tree.
It’s our little ritual.

She puts the pie in the oven and sets the timer.

And now we wait.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

This should be 2 minutes of silence.

 Apples in Winter 17

Rituals are a way of marking time.

Like buoys in open water.
People talk about milestones but milestones are for roads and roads are paths. In
open water there’s no set direction, nothing to follow. It’s just you floating in
something huge. So, rituals are my buoys – something to grab a hold of to mark
time.
Pruning the tree in the spring.
The apple pie in September.
Sundays.
Every Sunday is the same.
Sundays are visiting days.
Were.

Wake up at 5am, turn on the coffee, shower and dress while that’s brewing.
Breakfast is a hard-boiled egg and two pieces of toast. It’s always that. I had a
muffin once and the whole day was off. It just shows you.

I leave the house by 6am. I’m ready to go by 5:30, 5:40 at the latest but I make
myself wait until 6. I can’t do anything if I get there early so it’s best to stick to
the schedule.
I stop once on the way there and I -
Well, you’ll probably disapprove because it’s so frowned on now but I, uh, I
smoke a cigarette. It’s an old habit.
When Robert went inside, I still smoked. I quit years ago but I want some things
to stay the same for him. The rest of the world has changed. It bothers him. He
doesn’t talk about it but I know so …
(She shrugs)
I do what I can.
There’s a little gas station off exit 23. That’s my exit.
I stop there and I smoke my cigarette. It’s nice, to smoke again. It’s the only
time of the week that I do it.
That’s at 7:20, 7:25 if the weather has been bad.
I arrive at the penitentiary by 7:55.
Doors open for visitors at 8.
I’m through security by 8:15.
We have one hour.
 Apples in Winter 18

I know Robert’s routine too. On the other days, the ones that don’t matter, I
follow his routine. I get up at the same time as him. I eat at the same time, go to
bed at the same time. He said I didn’t need to do that but I want to. It feels right.

Felt right.

Silence.
She busies herself wiping the counter.

As I said, time is divided between before and now. I don’t remember before as
clearly. It was chaotic. Unpredictable. He’d disappear for months. Those long
stretches of silence, of not knowing if he was safe, if he was happy. I always left
the kitchen light on. I always left the backdoor unlocked.

She checks the oven.

She looks at the clock.

When he was young, it was always, “You’re the best,” and “Take what’s yours.”
Maybe that’s what made him think it would be easy.
Made him think he deserved anything… everything.
And then he became a teenager and it wasn’t easy. And he couldn’t understand
what had changed.
Always an excuse, always someone to blame.
The teacher’s unfair. The coach is unfair.
And his father laying in to him. “You’re lazy,” “You’re a disappointment.”
The fights they’d have. Robert would leave.
First it was a night, then a week, then longer and longer.
He thought anything in the house was his for the taking. Money, jewelry, pills. It
was never enough. Never enough to make it easy.
Robert quit school. His father wouldn’t talk to him after that.
He’d get a job, then quit. Get another. Get fired. Disappear again.
Come back looking for money. “Just enough to get started,” he’d tell me. Enough
to get a new shirt for a job interview, or pay rent on a new apartment, or start a
night school course. So, I’d give him the money. How could I not? And he’d
make me promise not to tell Dad. He wanted to be a good boy, he wanted his
father to be proud of him, the way he’d been when he was young.
The big change was always just around the corner.
And after that it would be easy.
 Apples in Winter 19

Always just around the corner.

Years of this. Ten years.
Larry died. I thought it would change.
It got worse.

It was September.
Apple time.
I picked the apples and sorted them the way I always had.
I chose the seven best ones and left them on the table.
I was out and when I came home there he was, sitting in the kitchen holding an
apple in his palm.
And I said, “That’s for the pie.”
And he said he knew because it was perfect.
He sat and watched me make it, just like he used to do when he was little.
He told me he had lost his job at Dunkin Donuts.
He said he’d been passed over. Guys like him were always getting passed over.
I said he deserved a better job, he was over-qualified for that job, they were lucky
to have him in that job.
Sometimes that’s all you need, a little positivity.

We ate pie for supper. Robert had two pieces.

While he ate, he closed his eyes and chewed. After, he said it was the best pie I’d
ever made.
“I realized it was September,” he said. “So, I came home.”

He asked me for money. I would have given him some if I’d had it.
I made up his bed for him. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted but he
left in the middle of the night. He took the spare change out of my purse, a bottle
of my prescription painkillers and…
And.
Twenty-two years is enough time to think about every possibility, for every
possibility to become real and unreal and real again.

On September 28th, 1996, it was raining.

Robert was in my house. We ate pie and then he was gone.

No.
 Apples in Winter 20

On September 28th, 1996, it rained.

I went to sleep. He left. And then the phone rang.
And I could have answered it and told him to come back home. Told him I’d get
the money in the morning…

No.

That night, September 28th, 1996, it rained. It rained all night.

I went to sleep. He left. The phone rang.
Robert screaming into the answering machine:
“Mom? I need you. Something’s happened - -”

“I need you.” My son said that to me.

I could have answered.

I could have told him to run away and called the ambulance myself. They didn’t
die right away, those kids.
They could have lived and none of this …

Stop.

In my dreams, he’s trying to find his way home and I’ve changed things – little
things I didn’t even think about when they happened but our home has become
unrecognizable to him. I see him standing outside the house looking at it. He
looks confused and then he turns and walks away. I run out after him but he’s
gone. Every time.

When he bites into this pie he’ll know his home is still there.

She checks the pie.

The year after it happened, I got letters. Angry letters.

People I knew. People I didn’t.
People who thought they knew me because of what they’d read in the papers.
I read every letter. That seemed important. Like all that hate could … could do
something. Make me stop feeling or stop loving or … or… something.
Change something. Change me.
 Apples in Winter 21

When we were nearing the one-year anniversary, I got a letter from the boy’s
mother, Rita. It was a card, actually. It had a bouquet of flowers on the front. She
said she prayed for me – she didn’t say for what. For my salvation? My
damnation? But at least in her saying that I felt like she knew I was suffering. She
said she forgave me and she was working to forgive Robert. “My son is with God
now,” she wrote, “When I think of him with Jesus, I know that he must be happy
and this makes what I am feeling okay.”

And then, about a month after that, the girl’s father also wrote to me. I saved his
letter and Rita’s card. I couldn’t throw them out. How could I? I don’t look at
them anymore but I don’t need to. He wrote: “As her father, it was my
responsibility to protect my daughter from danger. I failed to do that and I hate
myself for it. And I hate that boy for having her in that parking lot where neither
of them had any need to be, but I hate you most of all – even more than your son.
Your son was an addict and I know people call that a disease but I don’t agree.
People become addicts because no one cares enough to stop them. It’s weakness
of character, pure and simple, and it comes from the home. Your home.”

I tried to write them back but I’d pick up the pen and all I could see were the
photos from the trial: the boy lying in the parking lot next to the car, the girl in the
passenger seat, slumped over.

Luis and Heather. I shouldn’t call them “the boy” and “the girl”.
Luis was eighteen. He wanted to be a teacher. He worked at the Dunkin Donuts
too. He was in his uniform because he’d been working earlier that night. He’d
just been promoted.

I made it my business to learn as much as I could about both of them. It doesn’t

change anything, I know, but it just seemed important.
What do the other families know about my son?
Do they know that he used to sing to himself when he was a boy? Little songs
he’d make up, quiet little songs.
Do they know that when he was seven, he won a prize for being able to recite all
the states and their capitals?
Do they know that he was afraid of storms? When he was in Boy Scouts they
learned about how to stay safe during a natural disaster and he built a little
survival area in the basement. He cleaned it out and made a list of everything
we’d need: blankets, batteries, water, canned food. He taped up garbage bags and
 Apples in Winter 22

put our old blankets over those. He drew pictures of his favorite superheroes and
taped them to the walls. He dragged in a camping mattress and a sleeping bag and
he’d hide in there for hours with his comics and his Hardy Boys books. Reading
by flashlight. He used to sneak his father’s Twinkies and eat them down there. He
didn’t know I knew but…

She shrugs.

When he was arrested and the journalists were camped out on my lawn and then
again during the trial, I stayed down there. No phone, no television. Those books
and comics were still down there. I read them all. The more I read the angrier I
got.
In those stories, the good guys always get what they deserve.
Well, the world don’t work that way.

She checks the pie again.

This oven runs hot. If this burns -

That is not going to happen. No, it’s not.

She adjusts the temperature.

The last time I saw him was a month ago. We talked about gardening. He wanted
to know what I was going to plant this spring. He asked me so many questions,
we spent the whole hour talking about it. He didn’t tell me it would be the last
time but he knew.
That whole hour and he knew.
His letter arrived two days after that visit. He said he wanted to tell me before I
heard it on the news.
I thought there would be more time. There was nothing but time, nothing but our
little rituals and then with no warning –
He asked me not to come again.
Robert and I don’t say goodbye. It’s one of those things. It’s not like we talked
about it, we just didn’t the first time and haven’t ever.
But it’s my ritual too so I came anyway.
For the past three Sundays, I did everything the same as I always did, except I
didn’t come in. I parked on the side of the road outside the property at 7:55 and I
 Apples in Winter 23

sat in my car. I watched the other cars passing me, those families with their
rituals keeping them alive.

In the visiting room, there are signs that say “No Touching”. One on every wall
so no matter which direction you face, there it is.

I want - -
More than anything -
I need - -
I’m his mother.

Once, all there was, was touch. Before I knew what he looked like, before he had
a smell, before I heard his voice, I felt him. And then he was born and I held him
and held him. I’d hold him all night. Larry said I was coddling him. He said it
would lead to problems later. A baby! But I tell you, it isn’t natural for a mother
to let her baby cry. I couldn’t do it. Are you going to tell me that’s spoiling him?
How can you spoil someone by being kind? You can’t. It isn’t possible. You
spoil someone by being cruel. I wasn’t cruel so how did he – where did this man
come from?
Do you think I’m some kind of a monster for creating someone who has done
what he has done?
You won’t say it to my face. Oh no. But you’ll say it to each other. You’ll think
it. You’ll avoid me. Oh, how you’ll avoid me. You will go to great lengths.
Twenty-two years. Twenty-two Christmases and birthdays and Thanksgivings.
And every single day in between and I have never, ever stopped loving my son
no matter what he did so if you think that makes me a bad mother I say
Fuck you.
You have no idea what a mother is.

I followed my nature.
It all felt so good. It was good.
It was natural.
I was a good mother so how…?
How am I here?
Just tell me. Somebody tell me. Look at it all – I’ll show you everything: the
photo albums, all the school projects and report cards I’ve saved - I’m not hiding
any secrets - look at all of it.
He’s in here and -
 Apples in Winter 24

I’m a part of this somehow and -

And now here I am. Part of the machine.
I feel sick.
I need to sit. There’s nowhere to sit. There’s nowhere to sit. This place is
unnatural. It’s inhumane.

She collapses on the floor.

Oh God.

Has he ever thought about what these years have cost me? I’ve lived this prison
sentence with him and now this. Now he has asked me to do this, to be a part of
this.

We’re not meant to be parasites. It’s not natural.

To live at the expense of someone else.

The boy – Luis – he fought back. If he had just given my son what he wanted -
I could have told him that - give him what he wants. He’ll take it anyway.
17 stab wounds.
To see my knife –
It was a wedding present. The knife I pared apples with. The knife I made food
with. To see it in an evidence bag.
I lied to you before. He didn’t just take the change and the painkillers. He took
the knife from the dish rack where I’d left it. After making his pie.

She goes to the oven, grabs the oven mitts and pulls
the unfinished pie out.

I can’t do this. Can’t do this. Can’t do this. Can’t do this.

(She goes to smash the pie)
Can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t can’t -

Silence.

She puts the pie down.

Your son has asked for a piece of your pie.

 Apples in Winter 25

Cinnamon, nutmeg, apples.

That’s how I’ll hold him when they strap him down.
Close your eyes, sweetheart, and taste those flavors in your mouth and know that I
am here. I will always be here. I’ll leave the light on and the backdoor open.

She puts the pie back in the oven.

I hope they give him the whole pie.

The warden said he might not eat it. A lot of the men don’t, he said.
Can’t. A lot of men can’t.
(A sudden panic)
I told him I was still harvesting our apples but I’m not. I let them fall to the
ground and rot.
I let the tree become overgrown.
I let the worms come back. I welcomed the worms.
And the apples became small and bitter again and when they rotted under the tree
I breathed in that stench.
He’s going to taste that I lied to him.

Gone now. All gone. Tree, apples, worms.

I told Jared to cut it down.
I told him to cut it down so I don’t even see the stump and to take every branch
and leaf away. Burn it, turn it into a million wood chips, I don’t care but let it be
gone when I come home from this.
And Jared is a good boy. Jared calls me Grandma. He calls on my birthday and
sends me flowers for Mother’s Day and doesn’t go for months at a time without a
word. Jared doesn’t waste his life by dropping out of school and becoming an
addict, becoming someone who steals and manipulates and lies and kills.

On September 28th, 1996, two teenagers sat in a car in an empty parking lot.
The rain on the windshield must have sounded nice.

I listened to it all night.

Yes.
On September 28th, 1996 ...
Robert was at my house and then he left.
And the phone rang but I didn’t answer it.
Yelling, screaming into the machine.
 Apples in Winter 26

Said he deserved what was his.

Said he needed me.
He demanded.
He begged.
I couldn’t.
I didn’t.
I locked the doors.
I turned off the lights.
He came back. He stood outside the house in the rain.
And I sat in the dark and I waited…
For it to be over.
Because he scares me. My own son.
My son.

Silence.
The oven timer goes off.
She puts on oven mitts and takes the pie out of the
oven, placing it on the prep table.

I’m done.

She takes the apron off and folds it carefully.

I’m done.

She looks at the audience as the lights fade.

End of play.
 Apples in Winter 27

Apple Pie Recipe (for a 6” pie)

from www.dessertfortwo.com with a few modifications

Crust
1 cup unbleached flour
pinch of salt
4 tbsp cold unsalted butter, diced
3-4 spoonfuls of ice water – add one spoon at a time and only as much as is
needed (amount will vary depending on humidity)

Filling
3 apples, peeled and cored
¼ tsp allspice
¼ tsp nutmeg
½ tsp cinnamon
¼ c sugar
½ tsp flour
pinch of salt

a few small cubes of butter for top

Bake at 425 for about 30 minutes.

In addition to the food, you will need:

6” pie plate
bowls
wooden spoon
knife, attached with a wire to the table
measuring cup
measuring spoons
plastic cutting board
pastry cutter
plastic wrap
hand towels
rags
oven thermometer