[In Brooklyn, "Candy Apples" are, or were, called "Jelly Apples." In the course of this story, they'll be faithfully referred to as Jelly Apples.]
Amidst the frosty glaze of winter, it burned like an ember and gleamed like a crimson pearl through eyes that perceived minutes as wondrously forever. A now faceless because forgotten little girl casually delighted in this fiery gem as she alternately raised it to and from her red-smeared lips. Not since the days of Eve in the Garden did an apple cause such lustful intoxication in anyone, as that pulsating within my covetous state of mind; indeed, a lust enhanced and an intoxication overpowering through the sorcery of this bewitching confection: a jelly apple.
As inevitably girl and unfortunately jelly apple disappeared around an inscrutable nearby corner, my silent desire was gradually and increasingly transformed into vocalized urgency. “Nana, Nana, I want a jelly apple,” rippled on the wind and into the ears of my grandmother, the unprepared and sorry companion of my present travels. She, as always, was probably in the middle of telling me an innocent fairy tale or innocent anecdote of some sort and hence was just as innocently unprepared within the wake of my sudden distraction.
That it was late afternoon in the middle of winter and that stores, even remotely concerned with jelly apples, had closed was completely lost on me…I had no patience with such technicalities. My initial and hesitant utterances of “Nana,” “Nana” grew more and more pronounced followed by even more whining: “I want a jelly apple” that rose to sobbing and heightened octaves against every cajolement from my grandmother.
As we made our way home, the shrieking word on the street and the noisome subject in the air was Jelly Apple. Not even Sputnik, launched the year before, made such an impression and gained such an audience in our apartment building as this obsession of mine. Throughout the hallway of our building, the doors and walls resounded with the wailing sounds of “Nana, I want a jelly apple,” while our faithful and curious neighbors quickly arrived at the scene of this unexpected drama unfolding before their eyes and ears.
The afternoon descending into night, my neighbors probably feared that I was that unique and fun-loving Linda Blair character from the “The Exorcist”…long before film and Linda Blair were known to the world. But these neighbors became exorcists of a kind in their own determined if futile ways. While my beleaguered parents and grandmother lingered in mortification, Mrs. Mazzoli from 2-A, high priestess of home remedies and mysterious elixirs, endeavored to pacify me with chocolate cakes that were sure to satisfy, she promised, with their sumptuousness. Mrs. Gradazzi from 4-B, professional gossip and rumor-monger, brought out her entire inventory of assorted candies to my rescue. Mrs. Amadaio from 3-C, eternally dressed in black mourning for twenty years over her late husband, while not bringing anything material promised to say a custom-made prayer along with lighting a carefully-chosen candle for me.
Of course, not even manna from heaven nor incense and peppermints could have quenched my appetite. I was in a jelly apple state of mind and would not be deterred from my particular goal by feeble albeit well-intentioned substitutes. As the night labored on, everyone sat in an inert yet periodically animated impasse: my mother promising this, my father offering that, Mrs. Mazzoli secretly concocting an elixir that would render me senseless, Mrs. Gradazzi compiling her notes for months of gossip regarding my newly-acquired talent as a lunatic, and Mrs. Amadaio planning a special audience with the Pope to deal with this sticky situation. Lastly, there I sat, moaning and sobbing, an object of speculation, contemplation and exasperation, stubbornly longing for my crimson pearl.
Just as I began to wonder why my grandmother appeared to be absent from this spirited gathering, there she was toting a small brown paper bag. She reached into the bag and out came the jelly apple that had consumed my entire soul in its obsessive embrace. Unknown to everyone, she had walked some two miles through the dead of night and cold of winter to some impossibly out-of-the-way store to buy this jelly apple. Taking it from her outstretched hand, a “thank you, nana” quickly came from my mouth that soon found its way into a first bite through the crackly glaze, revealing a jagged hole of the apple’s white flesh. As I quietly and attentively ate away, our group of visitors soon dispersed with frustrated waves and angry gestures. Suddenly the jelly apple didn’t appear that rich any longer; its gem-like appeal wearing thin as I munched at it, its intoxicating allure becoming rather delusive as it lost its glistening symmetry.
The desperately-sought, half-eaten jelly apple, its white pulp already turning brown, was tossed into the trash pail and the night itself dissolved into time, as would so many days and nights to come. As I grew older, girls possessing different kinds of gems would be of sweeter and more sensual interest to me: the red smear not of jelly but of lipstick in lustful intoxication; the crimson of carnal pearls which glowed with more ravenous fires. But in spite of all of that, I remember my grandmother holding out that now distant jelly apple before my eager, delightful eyes and remember it as the most precious of all…and sadly, least appreciated.
[This story was originally published on Authspot. Since it was merely collecting dust over there, I thought I'd bring it here to the EggCream where it could collect dust just as well and maybe better.]
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