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"Olive Apple"
"Olive Apple"
"Olive Apple"
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"Olive Apple"

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Olive Apple, country club matron and loving wife, discovers that that her husband, Mr. Apple, has rotten core values. He has left her for a younger woman. Her saga is a year-in-the-life, with trouble and strife. But there is laughter and joy along the way as well, with her uppity daughter, her curious grandson, Cartwright, her eccentric friend, Mili and the dog called Frog. Everyone handles heartache in their own way. Olive's coping skills include karaoke, Pimm's Cup and gentlemen callers. Will Olive survive the devastating divorce from her bad Apple? Whatever the outcome, this 1930's style screw-ball comedy is a treat.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherAuthorHouse
Release dateJan 16, 2012
ISBN9781468540017
"Olive Apple"
Author

Jeanne VanDusen-Smith

I have been writing fiction since childhood. I am also a Licensed Professional Counselor. "Olive Apple" is my sixth completed manuscript. I have been writing all of my life and especially during my twenty-one years as a Certified Elementary School Counselor. I have published several non-fiction pieces over the years, as well. A native Californian, I married a United States Air Force Officer and have lived in ten of the United States as well as seven and one-half years in England and The Netherlands. My late husband was a fighter pilot and his last tour of duty brought us to The Pentagon. After thirty plus years of living in the Washington DC area, I moved to central Virginia in a cottage, on a hill, just steps from water's edge. An enchanting setting for a writer of fiction. I paint in oils;, love to read, listening to the Blues and musci from the forties, fifties, sixties. I have a little dog, two grown children and three grandchildren. Life is good.

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    Book preview

    "Olive Apple" - Jeanne VanDusen-Smith

    Olive Apple

    Jeanne VanDusen-Smith

    US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

    AuthorHouse™

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.authorhouse.com

    Phone: 1-800-839-8640

    © 2012 by Jeanne VanDusen-Smith. All rights reserved.

    No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

    First published by AuthorHouse 01/09/2012

    ISBN: 978-1-4685-4002-4 (sc)

    ISBN: 978-1-4685-4001-7 (ebk)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2012900337

    Printed in the United States of America

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

    and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Contents

    Prologue

    Strange Men

    Did I Tell You I Have a Grandson?

    Olive, In Search Of

    Polite Society

    Internally Yours

    La Belle Chignon

    Dancin’ Fool

    Lunch with Mr. Apple

    Dog’s Breath Inn

    Hair O’ the Dog

    All Hollers Eve

    Hellava Hayride

    Apple Pared

    The Contendeh

    Visitation Rites

    Tra-La-La-Looped

    The Mourning After

    Detox Taxi

    Talking Turkey

    Apple Core Values

    Group Gratitude

    Holidaze

    Rose Buds and Cat Gut

    Love At Last

    Changeling

    In Memorial

    Spring —

    An Old Man’s Fancy Woman

    Twisted Tryster

    Sandlot Shame

    Home Again

    Sticker Shock—Doggie Style

    Session 411

    Doggone

    La Mor La Bore

    Enter: The Work Farce

    Principal on Principle

    Party Boy-Blue

    After the Porn

    The Big Red Train

    Crisis Intervention

    Watch For The Birdie

    The Pregnant Grasshopper

    Geek Love

    Yowza, Yowza,

    This is My Night to Howl

    Prologue

    My name is Olive Apple. I know it’s the pits. I get that a lot. But I’m over it. Here’s the rub. Call me obtuse, but I hadn’t suspected that my husband, Mr. Apple, was cheating on me. I believed him when he said he was working late. So much so, that I went to his office to surprise him with my Hamburger Delight Casserole. He surprised me with his Strawberry Tart.

    I don’t know if you’ve ever seen something truly shocking in your life. I guess we all react differently. I was both horrified and fascinated. Here was Mr. Apple with his hairy back to me, boxers around his ankles, huffing and puffing. ‘Blew my house down. At first, all I could see of her were scrawny legs flailing out on either side of him. When she spied me, she screamed and wriggled out from under. He looked over his shoulder and his eyes got big and bulgy. I ran out, sloshing hot casserole on the carpet. But not before I got a good look at her. ‘Late twenties with plucked eyebrows and big red hair. She was built like a stick, with a grasshopper’s ass. I remember thinking that a man of his stature could have done better. It’s funny what runs though our mind at times like this. Funny peculiar.

    Strange Men

    Mr. Apple always handled the house repairs. Now that we’re separated, that’s up to me. Downstairs, in the bathroom, rests a heavy-set, middle-aged man, straddling my toilet.

    He has heavy stubble and a half-lighted cigar attached to his fat lower lip. Tell your husband to don’t never take this ol’ Standard brand commode out. You got some real powerful flush action with this baby. More water ’n the new one, too, damn the E.P.A.

    I considered telling him that I no longer have a husband, but I found the crack in his buttocks to be off-putting.

    The phone rang. Millie Wolfson. As she started to speak, I got a mental image of her. Her hair is jet-black from monthly dye jobs. Her wrinkled puss is plumped-up with some faded movie star’s revolutionary face putty. She lines her lips with a brown pencil, then fills it in with luminous pink lipstick. Her eyes are made-up with Chocolate-Chocolate liner and buffed with Berry shadow. I know all this because they’re Millie’s trademark looks. Okay, I was a little harsh. For penance then, I’ll describe myself. I’m a blonde, blue-eyed, fifty-four-year-old matron. I don’t wear make-up, which makes Millie and I look really weird when we go anywhere together. But at least I know who I am. Millie’s my age, but she thinks she’s thirty. Here’s an example.

    Girlfriend, she’ll say. They’s a bunch of lobbyists in the District of Columbia tonight. Let’s go out and get frisky with ’em!

    Millie, I sigh. I sigh a lot when I’m on the phone with Millie. I don’t think her hearing is good enough to hurt her feelings. You know I am not going to go to a bar—not at my age.

    What do you mean? she screeches, You’re six months younger than me.

    You’re too old to be there, too, I think, that’s my point. Besides that, if I want male companionship, all I have to do is call. If you must know, I’ve got a guy here right now.

    I hung up before she could ask any questions. I’m sure she was impressed. She has to go out for her men—her house is only two years old.

    Did I Tell You I Have a Grandson?

    His name is Cartwright. Cartwright Able Apple. He’s nearly five years old already. His mother, my daughter, has had a tiff with her hubby. Maybe it runs in the family. She’s decided to move in with me for awhile. She called me on her cell phone to tell me this.

    I’ll expect you to share the household expenses, I said.

    "In my own home, Mother?" She said this with drips of incredulity in her voice.

    "This isn’t your own home anymore, dear. You are thirty-

    four years old now. That means you are of chronological, if not emotional age to manage a home of your own. Your father just claimed his independence, you might do the same."

    Mother, I think that’s mean, she spewed. Just because Dad left you for a younger woman doesn’t mean that you should turn into a selfish old shrew. What are you making for dinner?

    Chicken fried round steak.

    Fine.

    I hadn’t hung up before I heard the key turning in the lock. Cell phones. She must have been calling from the curb. She burst inside, with Cartwright in tow, and two canvas tote bags over her shoulder. Her hair was perfectly coiffed; straight, high-lighted. Her outfit was stylish; a short skirt and fitted shirt. She looked great. Master Cartwright looked dazed and confused.

    Say hi to grammaw, Cartwright, she said.

    He’s such a beautiful boy, I thought. Will he be strong enough to carry that name? She told me once, why she’d named the boy Cartwright.

    You know, she’d explained, "when you and Dad were going through your marital ‘ice age’ I lost myself in the television. I spent hours staring at it—years, actually, before you finally split. Maybe you didn’t notice anything was wrong, but I did. I got into watching old reruns of that western show, Bonanza. I couldn’t decide which one of those Cartwright boys I loved the most. You do not know how much I idolized them. Just to be close to those great guys who always did the right thing. They were a solid family, and they loved each other. I named my son Cartwright Able in their honor, Mother, because I looked up to those men that much, I really did."

    I thought for a minute. Maybe if you wrote them a letter… any of them still alive? They might be so flattered they’d set your little cowboy up with a trust fund. Actors are egomaniacs. They might just set him up.

    Oh, Mother, she said, you know very well that they’re all gone to their great reward. She sighed. All I have are my memories.

    Cartwright found his bearings and hit the floor running.

    Come back and give your Grammaw a kiss I said. Cartwright, get out of that trash.

    I heard the crash coming from the kitchen but refrained from jumping up.

    "Kaitlin, let’s talk. ‘I don’t like him calling me Grammaw’. It’s… old bat… passé. Grandmothers are too hip to be called Grammaws these days. They go line dancing and smoke cigars, if they please. And single grandmothers must continually reinvent themselves. No man wants to think he’s dating a woman who can no longer bear children. His seed can be shot to hell, but that doesn’t count."

    She looked perturbed. Are you trying to tell me that you smoke cigars now, Mother? You cannot possibly be thinking of dating. Cartwright! Get off that sink!

    "I don’t smoke, but I may want to try my luck at on-line dating. Although I realize that sooner or later they expect to actually meet you…"

    She darted down the hall to save her child, or preserve my kitchen, whichever came first. I heard a shuffling sound and glasses rattling. She yelled back. So what is he supposed to call you then?

    I waited for full impact. Boom-Boom.

    She came running back, dragging Cartwright. "Boom-

    Boom? Have you gone out of your mind, mother?"

    I casually threw one leg over the arm of the chair. Not at all. Boom-Boom’s easy for him to say. Plus it will add credibility to the story of my life—the nouvelle version. I plan to put it on the net. It’s something your dad would do. I aspire to be as bad as your dad.

    "So you want strange men with numbers behind their names, to think you’re a former stripper?"

    No. I’m going to say I got my nickname while I was working on a Texas oil rig in the seventies.

    Oh… my… God… in… heaven. No wonder I’m so screwed up. Watch Cartwright while I bring in the rest of our stuff. She placed the child in my care and went outside. I grabbed him and expected him to try to wriggle out of my grasp, but he didn’t. He held still and we just studied each other. We both had to deal with Kaitlin; that kind of sealed our bond. I sometimes wonder if Mr. Apple and I could have spent more time with our grandchild—would it have saved our marriage? No, probably not. I pulled Cartwright’s legs over my bare knees, his mini-jeans rubbing against my skin. I surveyed his calm, flawlessly handsome little face; curly blonde hair, aqua, almond-shaped eyes, a turned-up nose, cupid lips. He checked me out, too, and laughed. I seem to have that effect on men; old Olive, always good for a laugh.

    Olive, In Search Of

    My friend Millie brought over a bottle of Chianti. Correction, it’s Mili, now. She decided to affect a European derivative of her name to give me flare. She pronounces it Mee-Lee, with the emphasis on the Mee. Anyway, she placed her hands where her hips should be and said, What am I goin’ to do with you? You won’t go to bars; you don’t even drink, to speak of. How do you expect to get anything goin’ on with the opposite sex?

    "You mean the opposing sex. Maybe I don’t, I said, mulling over the statement. It had a degree of credibility. Maybe I plan to lead an ascetic life, pure and chaste."

    With a nick-name like Boom-Boom?

    I’d be the first in my family to lead a selfless life. And, by the way, only Wonder Woman can get away with that stance. You aren’t even wearing twin cuffs.

    Mili threw up her hands in disgust and crumpled-up into a barrel chair. You’re next to impossible Olive Apple. But get over here. We’re going to read some of these ads out of the ISO columns. Here’s one already: ‘Guy, 55, great shape, up for lovin’. ISO slender, disciplined, blonde woman with skills—somebody who believes in the Aryan race. You’re wantin’ to get in shape. That Nazi’d probably be having you run along side his pick-up truck.

    I sighed to her face. "Okay, let me look. Surely I have a clearer idea of who I might go for."

    "Okay but, when you go through each ad, mull it over like fine wine. See what kinda taste you get in your mouth. Do his chosen words have a feel a truth to ’em? Do they show you a piece a his soul? That’s what I’m talkin’ about."

    Oh, here, this guy. He’s 64, says he’s looking for an intellectual, spiritual, emotional equal, but she’s got to be a size 2 and no older than thirty. Now Mili was breathing down my neck, reading over my shoulder.

    Oh, here’s one for the books, I said. Ballroom dancer, 58, 5'9, 175 pounds, looking to tangle to the tango. Dance ability, friendship, and maybe more on your dance card."

    I knew she’d never leave until I agreed to call and touch at least one lonely man’s cholesterol-sodden heart. Okay, this one. I starred the ad and held it up for Mili to see. How do I do this?

    Oh, boy, Mili said, excitedly. Now, just relax. Romeo and Juliet wasn’t dead in one day. Turn it to the other page. It gives you all the numbers there. See, to place an ad, call that number. To answer an ad, call this one. It’s not that hard. I got a hundred and eighty dollar phone bill last month doin’ this.

    I was getting impatient. Let me decipher this. 1-800-dah, dah, dah, why do they use the damned letters? What does that come out to? Do the last four.

    P-O-S-T, that’s 7-6-7-8. I know it by heart, she said.

    Why don’t they just print it that way, with just the numbers. Isn’t this whole damned experience daunting enough?

    What does that mean, daunting?

    Doesn’t matter. You never feel that way.

    You’re upset, Olive. Maybe you should wait ’til you calm down before you call. You’ll want to use your best voice. You know, kinda low and sexy. I put cheesecloth over my receiver when I do it. She dropped her voice an octave when said that. Remember, he can’t see you. Your pipes is all you got goin’ for ya.

    Thank God, I said.

    Now let’s rehearse. What are you goin’ to say to him? Don’t he say he’s a retired teacher? Don’t use no double negatives.

    Oh, dear God, I said. I’ll say I’m alone, you’re alone. Let’s get together.

    Mili looked at me with an evil eye. It was odd to have her holding me in contempt.

    What’s wrong with being direct? We’re old, for God’s sake. How much time do we have left for foreplay?

    Mili drained her wine glass and poured herself another. We need to be bold-face honest with the Tax man—nobody else.

    I suddenly lost my nerve. "Do I have to do this? When I think about it, I’m not really lonely, you know. I’m getting used to Mr. Apple being gone now that I have Kaitlin and Cartwright living here. I really don’t even have the time to…"

    "You think so… Grammaw?" She glared at me, knowing that name sucked the life out of me; at least one lung.

    Point taken.

    Listen Toots, Mili said, gaining confidence or maybe just getting drunk. You’ve lived over fifty years, yes, but this is a new millennium. You could easily live another thirty years or even more. Whatta ya gonna do with your life? Who ya gonna be doin’ it with? She suddenly looked stricken. I’ll have another look at that paper myself.

    Just let me get this call over with and you can sleep with it under your pillow tonight.

    Good girl. ‘Know what I noticed about your name? When you put a space between the o and the rest of it, what does that spell? Yeah, it spells O—l-i-v-e. Live, get it? Now what are you going to say, really?

    I still don’t know. I’ll wing it. I didn’t have a script with Mr. Apple and we lasted almost thirty years.

    You were barely twenty, then. At age fifty-four, you need a script.

    I topped-off my wine. Okay. He’ll say blah, blah, blah, then I’ll say, ‘This is Olive Apple. This is my number. Please give me a call and I’ll tell you my life story… if you want to hear it. Or maybe we can just go for coffee… regular… Dutch treat.

    "No, no, no. In the first place, you never, ever give out your last name. They can get that when you’re at the Justice of the Peace, getting the marriage license."

    While she was ranting, I grabbed a pad of paper.

    Give me that, she said, taking it from me. She touched the tip of the ball point pen to her Chocolate-Chocolate lips and muttered aloud as she wrote. Hello. My name is Olive, after the majestic arbors of the Eye-talian Alps. I hardly recognized her voice. She sounded like Eartha Kitt. Your message is very inviting indeedy. She pouched her lips. Kindly call 555-7063. She finished and smiled triumphantly.

    What a crock, I said. I’m not even Italian.

    Fine then, do it yer way. Let’s jest hope he’s a man o’ patience and high class. That way, he might at least give you a mercy call.

    You can be cruel, Millie.

    Mili!

    And your lipstick’s cracking. Give me that telephone.

    Five minutes of punching in numbers at four cents a minute and I finally hear the voice of #555925. He sounded a bit effeminate, but everybody’s voice shoots up a notch when they’re under duress. Hello (pause) My name is George. I like hiking and parasailing and long walks on the beach. How about you? I’m looking for a woman who eats right and has a good nature. She can be from age 26-55. She doesn’t smoke and she can’t be a religious nut. No game players need apply. If you think you fill my bill, please leave me a message and I’ll answer it. Good-bye, friend… this is George… signing off… wait for the tone to leave your remarks."

    I heard the screech of the answering machine and froze. Mili whispered, Go on, say something.

    I can’t do this, I said, forgetting that I was being recorded. I slammed down the phone.

    Mili sighed like I do when I’m disgusted with her. "Oh, Olive, you’re

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