Tasting the Apple

by Sherilyn Decter

  Maggie hasn’t missed the inference of the word ‘caught’, implying that they expect that Tommy will cheat again.

  “To make sure there are no misunderstandings, Tommy is expected in class again Friday morning?”

  Mr. Harris clears his throat. “Yes. And think on what I’ve said, Mrs. Barnes. Boys like Thomas are not happy in school. You’re not required to keep him in school beyond the sixth grade, which is the year after next. And we can certainly arrange for a labor permit earlier under the right circumstances. Please, consider the option. He might be better suited to a trade.” He attempts a comforting smile, but unused facial muscles refuse to comply, resulting in a painful contortion. Poor Mrs. Harris.

  “Thank you, Principal Harris.” Maggie gathers her handbag. Mr. Harris comes round the desk to open the door for her.

  “Tommy.” She marches past her son and out the Administrative Office door. Tommy scrambles.

  Maggie’s back is ramrod straight, and her pace is brisk. She marches away from the school without a word.

  “Mother?” Tommy hurries to keep up.

  When they are out of sight of the school, Maggie stops and turns. “A cheater? Why would you do that, Tommy?”

  Before he can explain, she holds up her hand. “Wait. We’ll not do this on the street, young man, for all the world to see. We’ll discuss it when we get home. And the walk will give me time to think of a suitable punishment.”

  It’s a long, silent march home. Maggie’s fuming has Tommy keeping a safe distance.

  ‘Boys like him’. Harrumph. Leaving school. The nerve. I doubt that Mr. Harris is a fan of the proposed child labor laws. Wasn’t there that one boy from down the street, I think he was only eleven, who fell into a piece of machinery and crushed his hand? He lost two fingers. I remember the ladies in the neighborhood not mourning the loss of his fingers, but rather the loss of income that he’d not be bringing home to his mother. According to them that was the real harm, and no doubt Mr. Harris would feel the same way. The times we live in. Well, that’s not going to happen to my boy.

  Maggie’s hands are curled fists around the strap of her purse.

  A cheater. Not in my family. Where did that come from? Is it his friends? Are they a bad influence? Does he steal, too?

  Tommy chases after her.

  What will this mean for his chances at Boys’ Central High School if he’s ruined it with some bit of foolishness?

  Maggie mounts the front steps of the house, Tommy clambering after her. They hang their coats, and Maggie ties on her apron. Venting some of her frustration, Maggie gets supper’s ground beef browning with onions. Tommy’s grumbling stomach cuts through the silence.

  Relenting, Maggie puts a glass of milk and two cookies in front of him. “Now, I want an explanation, young man. I want to know why. And I want to know how.” She sits.

  Tommy gulps. First the test, then being caught, carrying the note home, pretending everything was fine at lunch, waiting outside the principal’s office after school, hearing his mother arrive, listening to their voices behind the closed door. Now the inquisition.

  “Today was the math test. I didn’t study. I found the test on the teacher’s desk when I came in. So, I wrote down the answers. Then, when I was writing the test, Mr. Stanwick saw me looking at the answers and called me on it, in front of the whole class. He took me to the principal’s office. They gave me the note to give you.” Tommy mumbles to the tabletop, his head hanging low.

  “Tommy, sit up and speak up. When you’ve been caught red-handed, don’t act like a whipped dog. Stand up for yourself. Take what’s coming like a man.”

  Tommy straightens, squares his shoulders, and looks at her. Anger and disappointment stare back. He slumps, face to the table again. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “Not as sorry as you will be, Tommy. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this when you came home at lunchtime. Saving that note until you were ready to return to school—keeping it from me is as bad as lying about it.”

  Tommy’s lower lip trembles.

  “Now, tell me why you decided you were going to cheat on the test and how you found the answers.”

  Tommy sits silently.

  “Tommy?”

  “I know you want me to go to that school, to Boys’ Central. And I know my marks aren’t good in Math. I took the answers so I’d do good on the test and you’d be happy.”

  “So, this is my fault? Is that your excuse? I made you do this?”

  “Yes. No. I mean—”

  Maggie holds up her hand. “I will say this once, so listen up. You are responsible for your actions, young man. Not your mother. It was you who decided not to study.” She points her finger at him. “You decided that it would be easier to cheat.” Another finger jab. “You decided. And now you must suffer the consequences. Do you understand?”

  Tommy slumps even more.

  “Tommy?”

  He straightens. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

  “Are you certain that’s how it happened?”

  Tommy looks around the kitchen. He won’t give up his friend Jimmy, who’d snuck into the teacher’s desk early before class. “I found them. They were just sitting there. In plain sight. No one else was around, so I just copied them. Quick.”

  Maggie detects the lie; lets it go. For now. She knows what time he left for school. He’d not have had time to sneak into an empty classroom before the bell, let alone copy answers.

  “Tommy. You’ve been suspended from school for two days. Do you understand what that means?”

  “I don’t have to go to school?”

  “It means that, in addition to the black mark on your school transcript, you have two days to work around the house doing the heavy chores. And it means that you’ll need to get Jimmy to bring home the work you’re missing in class, and get all that school work done as well. And, finally, it means that you don’t get supper tonight.”

  “No supper?” Tears gather.

  “No supper. I want you to feel what it’s like to go to bed hungry. Because if you don’t get good grades and don’t go to Boys’ Central, you’ll be hungry a lot.”

  Maggie takes hold of Tommy’s chin, turning his head in line with her face. “Tommy, I am disappointed. And your father would be as well. We don’t have cheaters in this family.” She releases her grip and stands tall in front of him, her arms crossed. “Now, go to your room. I have dinner to get ready for the honest, hardworking members of this house.”

  Maggie stands with her back to Tommy, retying her apron. She is acutely aware of his chair being pushed back, the shudder in his breath, and the receding steps.

  Oh, Jack, I need you now.

  Chapter 8

  F or the lodgers in Maggie’s house, the dining room is the heart of the home. While they may come into the kitchen for a snack or to grab a coffee, it’s less familiar territory. In the kitchen, the dishes are cleared to the counter. Sometimes the lodgers help with washing up, but it is generally conceded that the room is Maggie’s and Tommy’s. Rarely do the lodgers sit in the living room. Their bedrooms are the private refuges they escape to: their personal domain. The dining room is the communal space, and the ritual of gathering around the table for a meal provides the sustenance they all need: good food and companionship. They may not be related by blood, but they are family.

  That sense of community is rattled at supper; Tommy’s empty chair creates a vacuum, drawing all eyes toward it. Archie Mansfield, a math teacher at Boys’ Central High School, is a fussy, slight fellow. He’s been living at Maggie’s since she first opened her home for lodgers. Joe Kelly has also been at Maggie’s since the beginning. He is a recently promoted sergeant with the Philadelphia police and a proud member of Colonel Butler’s crack squad, Enforcement Unit Number One.

  “Where’s the young lad at, Maggie?” Joe asks.

  “Tommy won’t be joining us for supper tonight. He’s being punished and is upstairs in his room.”

  Joe a
nd Archie shoot a glance at each other over the table.

  “Um, delicious dinner, Maggie,” Archie says. It doesn’t matter what size they are, boys can always detect a certain tone in a mother’s voice.

  The empty chair swallows the conversation. The table misses the noise and vitality Tommy usually brings into the room.

  “Joe,” says Maggie. Archie and Joe are pulled to attention. “How are your wedding plans coming along?”

  Archie, a confirmed bachelor, returns to his supper.

  “Swell, Maggie. Fanny and her mother have most of the arrangements done. I’ve got a couple of me pals from the police to give us an honor guard to walk under. And Colonel Butler himself has said that he and his missus will be there.”

  “Have you and Fanny decided to go on a honeymoon?”

  “No, we’re going to put the money we’d spend travelling toward a house. We’re looking at places this weekend. Small to start, but something with a yard, and room for a small garden.”

  “Don’t tell me, a white picket fence, too?” I’ll miss him when he goes. He’s like a brother to me.

  “If Fanny has her way. She’s a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “And how are things at work, Joe? Still keeping the city safe from evil?” Archie asks.

  “You joke, Arch. There’s enough crime out there to keep a dozen of me busy for a month of Sundays.”

  “I’ve been reading about it in the newspaper. It seems like things are happening and moving in the right direction, at least,” Maggie says.

  “Colonel Butler is committed to an all-out war against the bootleggers and Volstead violators. He’s calling them Prohibition profiteers.” Joe pauses to have another bite, and shrugs while he chews. “Although, we’d be able to make better progress if we had more of the element of surprise. Half the time, we arrive at a speakeasy only to find everyone in the joint sipping tea, and not a drop of illegal hooch to be found.”

  “The bartenders must have a good nose for trouble,” Archie says, smirking.

  “More like a good ear. They’re getting tipped off by our members.”

  “I’ve seen those headlines, too. ‘Philadelphia is corrupt and contented’.” Maggie says, quoting a recent headline in the Inquirer.

  “Which is the other front that Colonel Butler is fighting on. Trying to clean up the police department. We got word today that his forty-eight-hour corruption crackdown caught eight lieutenants. They’ll be disciplined for incompetence and neglect of duty.”

  “Only eight? I would have thought more,” Archie says.

  “It’s a start. There will be more crackdowns, although if you can catch eight loos in 48 hours, I’m not sure who or how many will be left after a sustained effort. And there will be more action to come. Rumor is that anyone found drunk on duty is going to be fired. And that’s not going over well in the ranks. Policing’s not a well-paying job to begin with, and, for a lot of the fellas, a steady supply of booze has been an important fringe benefit.”

  “I hear there are other ‘benefits’ and ‘incentives’ that make-up for the low pay,” Archie says.

  “Such as pride in protecting the streets, knowing that we all sleep better at night when you’re on the job, Joe.” Maggie says, rushing to Joe’s defense.

  Flushed from Archie’s remark, Joe smiles toward Maggie.

  “And when will we be getting to meet the new lodger, Maggie?” Archie asks.

  “Tomorrow. He’s moving in after he finishes work. His name is Clive Sessions, and he’s from Louisiana. He’s a clerk at the Atlantic Refining Company, where Fanny works. And he comes with excellent references.” Maggie nods to Joe. “His family will be joining him in Philadelphia at the end of the school year, when they’ll look for a house. But until then, he’ll be with us in Eugene’s old room off the kitchen.”

  “Maybe I can give him some pointers on what areas of the city to look in, and house prices,” says Joe.

  “Well, a Southerner. That will make things interesting,” Archie says.

  “I’m hoping for dull and boring,” Maggie says. She stands and starts gathering up dishes. “Could I talk to you privately in the kitchen, Archie?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me, Maggie. You and Archie can talk. I’ve got to head back to the precinct. I’m on duty tonight,” Joe says, pushing back his chair.

  * * * *

  Archie sits at the kitchen table while Maggie begins to wash the dishes.

  “What’s up, Maggie?”

  “Tommy was suspended from school today.”

  “Oh, that’s not good. What happened? Fighting?”

  “No. Not fighting,” Maggie says, offended that Archie would think Tommy would do such a thing. “He was caught cheating on a math test.”

  “Cheating. Now, that is serious. I’m surprised he cheated. I always thought he was a good kid.”

  “He still is a good kid, Archie. He’s just not doing very well at math, and he knows how much I want him to get good grades so he can go to Boys’ Central.”

  “Boys’ won’t take kindly to a suspension on his transcript, Maggie. It’s a tough school to get into. I get dozens of inquiries every year from parents who want their sons to attend.”

  “Well, surely Tommy isn’t the first boy to apply with a suspension on his transcript. They can’t all have been rejected.”

  “No, hardly. I could tell you a few stories from the boys in my own classroom. But they are legacy students, for the most part. Their fathers attended, and their fathers before them. And, quite likely, their families are also generous donors to the school. I’m afraid that Tommy is at a bit of a disadvantage on both those counts.”

  “You’re right. Jack didn’t go to Boys’, although he did have some high school. Legacy students. Hmm. My father could probably help there, but I won’t ask him. Getting into Boys’ is going to be tricky, but it’s a problem for another day. Today, we’ve got to figure out how to get those math marks up. Perhaps you could help, Archie?”

  “Of course I’d like to help, Maggie. What are you thinking?”

  “Well, would you consider tutoring Tommy in mathematics? In the evening after supper? You could also look over his homework if he were having any trouble. And you already know the expectations for Boys’ math curriculum. Oh, please say yes?”

  “Regular tutoring? Oh, I don’t know. I usually read in my room after supper. Are you thinking every day?”

  “Maybe only to start, until you get a sense of how big a job it will be. I would certainly pay you. Or I could give you a discount on your rent.”

  Maggie stands, dishtowel in hand, waiting for his answer. “Tommy’s future is at stake, Archie.”

  “I suppose I could do it for a little while. At least long enough to evaluate him. How much of a discount on the rent?”

  Chapter 9

  M aggie is dwarfed by the bank; it’s a solid stone temple to mammon. Thick pillars encircle it. A panel of ancient warriors battle along the top. To enter the building, Maggie will climb a broad set of stairs to reach the imposing, heavily paneled, gilt front doors.

  Now or never. You’ve done harder things, girl. Been in tougher spots. It’s not fair—Jack should be here. But he’s not, is he? I miss him. Forward march. That roof has got to get fixed.

  Maggie had chosen her clothes carefully this morning. Considerations were: dress up, maybe in one of Edith’s castoffs, and look like she didn’t need the money; dress down in something old, maybe patched, and look like she really needed the loan. In the end, she decided to appear as business-like as possible in a simple skirt and jacket, a man’s straight tie, and a vest. With her hat and gloves, she looks like the smart young women that hang around colleges and universities. Demure, brainy, bluestockings.

  And now it is time to take those stockings through the front door and meet the formidable Mr. McKim, the man who holds her future in his hands.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Barnes.” McKim rises from behind his desk. He sports the pencil mustache of all
movie villains, and his hair is slicked back, a razor-straight part through the middle. Critical. Precise. Maggie can’t imagine him mowing a lawn or playing ball with a son. He looks like a man who lives behind his desk day and night, counting the bank’s money. He could be Principal Harris’ brother.

  “Good morning, Mr. McKim. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Of course. Please, have a seat. How may I be of help?” The banker sits after Maggie takes her seat.