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They were sitting on the steps of Mrs. Rothstien’s– Terri, she had told Grant to call her Terri– house and it was still daylight despite being past 5:30 PM in December. Grant had gotten used to the seasons in New York and it felt strange for the sun to still be out. It felt strange to be sitting here with his god-brother at his childhood home. If things had been different would he have come here as a kid? He could almost imagine himself as some snot-nosed brat following Al around during a winter break.
The sunlight dappled through the leaves of the orange tree that had apparently been planted when the Rothstiens moved in. It was tall enough that Grant would have assumed it was there longer. Maybe that was just his experience with moving so often. His mother, or foster mother, or whatever Katherine Emerson had been to him, had never bothered to plant anything. They would always be in another town in six months anyway.
The scent of citrus was so strong strong that Grant could smell it clearly even with his fucked up nose and with his mask on. The branches were heavy with fruit even with the full basket at Al’s feet. Al had filled it easily, not even having to increase his size past his normal seven and a half feet to collect a full basketful.
Grant hadn’t helped as much as he probably should have.
He knew that the Rothstiens probably didn’t actually want him here, intruding on their Hanukkah, but they must have felt obliged. He was Al Pratt’s son and Al was both Al Rothstien’s god-father and the man who raised Terri Rothstien from her middle school years on. And here Grant was, who had never met Al Pratt, who didn’t have his name like Al, who had never had his love. All Grant had ever done was be difficult to his god-brother, and he’d still invited him to his mother’s house when he had no reason to. Hell, Grant wasn’t even Jewish.
“Do you want one?” Al asked, pulling Grant out of the start of his spiral of self pity and self hate. Al gestured to the lonely few oranges left in the basket that Terri hadn’t taken for baking.
“I guess,” Grant rolled his shoulder in a shrug.
To his surprise, Al took one of the big navel oranges from the basket and started to peel it. It was dwarfed in Al’s huge hands, the skin giving easily under his nail. Grant couldn’t remember the last time someone else peeled his fruit for him. The rind fell in between Al’s boots. It was so casual, the way Al snitched one segment of the orange before tossing Grant the rest.
It was so casual, the way Al politely turned his head when Grant lifted his mask even when Grant reflexively held his hand up to hide the scarring of his face. Al looked up at the oranges near the top of the tree, stepping off the steps to increase his size just a tiny bit to collect them before they dropped. It conveniently put Al’s back to Grant.
The smell really was the strongest pleasant scent he's smelled since he had gotten his nose reconstructed.The first bite had juice exploding on his tongue, bright and tart and fuller than just about any fruit. It tingled on his tongue. There really was something to fresh oranges in the Florida sunset that lived up to all the hype. It was almost as good as having a peach you took off a neighbor’s tree on a Georgia summer day.
Grant swore in appreciation under his breath, wiping some of the juice that had dribbled down his lips with the back of his hand.
“They really are that good, right?” Al said smugly. He stole a glance back at Grant.
“Oh shut up,” Grant turned away from him.
“Aunt Mary-- your mom I mean-- loved oranges too,” Al said. Grant was surprised to hear him say it. Everyone talked about Al Pratt, but even Al and Terri barely mentioned Grant’s mother.
“Aunt Mary was, uh. She was a difficult woman to get along with, but she’s the reason Mom makes applesauce with orange juice in it at Hanukkah,” Al continued. “Because that’s what Aunt Mary did and some of the only times she and Mom got along were in the kitchen, weirdly enough.”
Grant sat, unsure what to say to that. What were you supposed to say when you found out your birth mother was a bit of a bitch too? Or maybe he was being over sensitive to whatever Al had meant by ‘difficult’. At least she apparently was a good cook.
“Wait, isn’t Terri making applesauce right now?” Grant asked with a dawning realization.
“Yeah?”
And Terri Rothstien made it the way Grant’s mother had. There was a family recipe, something of Grant’s parents that wasn’t just “Atom” Al Pratt and that legacy, a mask to fill that Grant had never asked for.
“Oh,” Grant said, feeling a faint smile pull at the scar tissue of his face.