Golden Delicious (37 page)

At the end of the story, the Reader finished reading. Not great, you decided, but not bad, either.

The Reader straightened up and wiped her brow.

“Well?” Diane asked her.

The Reader looked down at the silent page and shook her head. “I don’t know. I thought—if we put these together—he’d come back, but—”

They all stared at the lump.

“Maybe he was dead too long,” the Memory of Johnny Appleseed said.

“My poor boy,” said Ralph.

“Ormaybewe​justhavent​foundtherigh​twordsyet,” said the Auctioneer.

Diane leaned down to the page. She made a few more sentences—the simplest, truest ones she could:

“You are good.”

“You are loved.”

“I have always loved you. I always will.” She planted them and pushed page over them.

Suddenly, I was pulled through the words without warning: back through letters and pages, back to the body of
—I found my fat stomach, my still feet, my cold brain, my dead thoughts, my closed eyes.

I heard my family’s words. “My poor boy.” and “You
were wonderful the way you were.” And, “I have always loved you. I always will.”

The words were breath in my lungs; I heard the story directly above me. I blinked. Where was the surface—the light and the air? Was I still
? Was I at all?

Standing over the pagegrave,
’s parents hear a sound—a flicker in the margin woods. They turn to see words, sprinting through the trees, across the worryfields, at breakneck speed: “I am sorry!” becomes “I am running and running!” and then “I am saving you!”

On the page above you, you hear the language, “I am.” hooing: “I am missed you!” “I am here now!”

You blink and cough page out of your mouth. You see a flash of light above and you claw for the surface.

“I am wanting you to breathe and live!” says the sentence. “I am you
will
live!”

Then Sentence breaks through the page, grabs hold of you with the teeth of his “I,” and pulls you up out of the page. “I am you
will
!” he says. “I am you
will
!”

The light fills your eyes. The sentence licks the page off your face. You squint in the sun. When you’re able to focus, you see them all: the Auctioneer speed-praying, the tears falling into your father’s glasses, the weary smile on your mother’s face. You
are
. You are home.

CHRISTOPHER BOUCHER
teaches writing and literature at Boston College, and is the managing editor of
Post Road
magazine. His debut novel,
How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive
(Melville House), was widely praised.
Golden Delicious
is his second novel. He lives with his wife and two children in Newton, Massachusetts.