The Simplicity of Cider

When her father bought his fancy new John Deere ATV to zoom around the orchard, he planned to sell the “old heap,” given that more often than not it wouldn’t start. Sanna staged a sit-in on the bed the day he wanted to bring it to the junkyard. Perhaps her tactic was a bit juvenile, but she had gotten what she wanted—the truck. Too many memories lived in it to let it go to scrap. She remembered picking apples while standing in the bed, cruising down the rows, bouncing as it hit exposed tree roots, and laying down mounds of blankets to watch the Fourth of July fireworks with her brother, seeing who could slurp from their gas station cherry slushie longest before the brain freeze hit—Sanna always won, still a point of pride.

She hoisted the heavy green hood, watching the engine chug and rumble. After all this time, he never let her down. Years of grease and dirt clung in the corners, but Sanna did her best to keep Elliot’s engine presentable. She did most of the repairs herself, since he was from a time when cars were a series of gears and belts, and not the confusing jumble of electronics like in newer vehicles. She shuddered at the idea of a car without an engine, without something she could take apart and understand. Sure, they might have safety features or good gas mileage, but she preferred working with hardware.

“Okay, Elliot, what’s making you cough?” she said.

“Does it ever answer back?” a deep voice said from behind her. There went her quiet time. Sanna turned to face Isaac.

“He’s not an it.” She walked around and turned off the engine, wary of this newcomer.

“He?” Isaac asked. “I assume he has a name as well, then?”

“Elliot.”

“He looks like an Elliot.”

They both stared at each other. Sanna didn’t like to make small talk. It’s why she avoided people as a general rule. She didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with inane chatter about weather and annoying tourists, so she didn’t. Maybe if she didn’t speak, he’d go away. She turned back to the engine and began checking fluid levels—meaningless, but it gave her something to do while she waited him out.

“Need some help?” Isaac stepped beside her.

“Know anything about trucks?”

“Not really, but I learn fast. In IT, you have to troubleshoot a lot.” He shrugged. “And I follow orders really well.”

Sanna sighed. He wasn’t going to go away. She could do the repairs tomorrow. She gently let the hood drop, letting gravity and the heavy metal do the work for her. A computer guy wouldn’t be much help with Elliot.

“I’m done for today. I need to order parts so there isn’t anything else I can do. What did you do in IT?”

“I’ve done everything from coding to design to management. Lately, I’m in the social media end of things—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, websites—that sort of thing. Companies hire me to help them streamline their online brands.”

He gave a little shrug at the end, as if to say “No biggie.” She nodded, yet Sanna couldn’t imagine working with things she couldn’t see or touch, something so removed from real life. Isaac came from a different world. She gave the muted green hood a pat and opened the door to climb in.

“I’ve got to check the Looms.” She meant it as a means of dismissing him.

“Really? Your dad mentioned them, but we didn’t get out there. Mind if I come with you?” So much for her dismissal.

Sanna looked at Isaac, standing on the other side of the door like a puppy, smiling like he was eager to jump in the passenger seat. She turned the ignition, and Elliot purred to life, smoother than he had done in months. She opened her mouth to say no, but the truck gave a little chug at exactly that moment, interrupting her.

Inwardly grumbling, but unable to take her eyes off his smile, she muttered, “Hop in.”

Isaac’s grin sparkled at her. Did his cheeks perpetually hurt from all his smiling? He jogged around the front of Elliot and slid into the passenger’s seat like he was meant to be there. When he firmly shut the door, the radio kicked on. It hadn’t worked in years and now it was playing Jewel’s “You Were Meant for Me,” of all things. He may have never let her down, but right now Elliot seemed to have a mind of his own.

Without a word, she smashed her foot on the clutch and shifted into first, rumbling down the nearest row of trees toward her favorite place in the orchard . . . maybe in the world. Elliot bounced over the bumpy ground to the northeast corner. As they went deeper, the tree bark grew more wrinkles, the branches stretched wider and thicker, and the trees were spaced farther apart to make room for their larger footprints. A thick carpet of grass and wildflowers blanketed the orchard floor, and the air tingled Sanna’s skin and sang in her ears like it always did.

“So, what exactly are the Looms?” Isaac asked, holding on to the roof handle over his window as they bounced over roots.

Sanna couldn’t help but smile a little, thinking about her special trees.

“They’re the heirloom trees, but we’ve always called them the Looms. You can tell you’re in them because the leaves aren’t as full as the younger, newer trees. They produce fewer, smaller, and weirder-shaped apples than the rest of our trees.”

They were why Sanna would never leave the orchard.

As a child, she had always been drawn to the oldest trees, the ones from her great-great-great-grandpa. The craggy branches whispered stories of the past as she had scrambled up the limbs, her bare legs scraping against the aging bark. She’d learned quickly that the bitter apples from the old trees didn’t make for good snacking, falling and rotting on the ground as the autumn turned colder. The lost harvest disappeared to hungry animals and time. Back then, she didn’t understand why they would even keep these trees. Why plant apples you can’t eat? But once she’d grown up and realized these bitter apples were meant for cider, she was determined to put them to use. She never wanted to give her father a reason to cut them down and plant new, fancy hybrid varieties that tourists would pay ridiculous amounts of money for.

Sanna stopped the truck and hopped out without waiting for Isaac, her face tilted to the sun, her hat slung around her neck. Insects buzzed around, a fat bumblebee hopped from flower to flower, and the grass already stretched up to her calves. They would need to mow soon, letting the clippings act as natural fertilizer. Even her unexpected company couldn’t disrupt the peace that thrummed to her bones.

“So, these are the Looms.” Though she wasn’t about to shush him, Isaac’s voice seemed louder than necessary. Whispered voices always felt more appropriate out here, as though it were an outdoor cathedral. “I thought there’d be more bees in the orchard.”

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