Every Tuesday, my neighbor Jenny comes over to drop off a basket of sweet, magnificent baked goods: pies, cookies, muffins, and even my favorite, fruit tarts.
They taste just like the ones my mother made so many years ago. The crimped textured crust is so brittle, it crumbles in your mouth and just melts into the tangy flavor of the thick yellow filling. The fruit was always cut into tiny triangles, aligning perfectly with each other to make a kind of fruity puzzle game. She'd ring the bell one time, then wait patiently by the door for me while I propped myself up from my recliner. I would reach over the nightstand for my glasses, and waddle down the empty hall toward the door, with my walker squeaking profusely from the front left the wheel.
"Jenny, honey, I'm so glad to see you," I would always exclaim as she walked passed me with a basket the size of a large Chihuahua, leaving trails of lemon meringue and warm chocolate cake in the air. She was one of the only friends I had, at this age. Not many of the good ones make it past eighty-nine. On my ninetieth birthday, I realized I had no one left, and every day I sulked in the water of my own elderly misery.
One day, years ago, little Jenny stumbled upon my house, selling her cookies and cakes door by door in the neighborhood. Her bright blonde hair and innocent red cheeks could make any old hag nicer. I bought seven cakes and invited her in. She came, at first, because she pitied me, I think. Every week we would talk; she would bring me samples of her creations, and I'd listen to her tell me about the new recipes she had tried. I honestly didn't know too much else about her, the conversation seemed to always be centered on dessert, but it didn't seem to matter.
Today, I sat in my recliner waiting for her, peering through the bedroom window, watching the neighborhood kids toss around a Frisbee until their mothers called them in for dinner. The house became quite dim as dusk approached. I turned on my bedside lamp and propped myself up for a quick trip toward the front door. I began to think maybe she had left the basket outside. I waddled all the way to the door only to find no strawberry pies, no chocolate chip muffins, and absolutely no fruit tarts. As dusk became night, I figured Jenny wasn't going to make it that day. Though she had rarely ever missed a week, only when her granddad passed and the day her sister got married in Reno. I adjusted the antennas on my television and quickly fell asleep upright in my recliner.
When I first awoke, I felt a stabbing pain in the side of my cheek. The leg of my faded red rectangular glasses had fallen on to my face, leaving me with a lovely line harshly imprinted on my cheek. Before I had even made my morning coffee, I grabbed my walker and waddled quickly to the home phone. I called Jenny over and over again, but she never picked up. I would call her sister, to see if she knew if Jenny was OK, but I didn't have her number. I searched through every Yellow Pages book I could find in my dusty closet full of old dictionaries and newspapers with little pieces clipped out. Right before I was about to give up, I saw it- a heading that read, "Terry's Fruit Tarts, 12510 Main St." Immediately my attention drifted to the tiny ink image of Terry, I assumed, biting into an apple while doing a cannonball into a pool of fruit tarts. "How clever is that," I thought. For a moment, I forgot about Jenny and waddled directly to the porch where my motor chair was waiting for me. I revved up the engine and raced down the sidewalk going full speed, bushy silver hair blowing freely in the wind.
I parked my motor chair outside the shop and cautiously approached the door, scanning the long, flat, busy street on either side of me, car horns blaring about half a mile down. The shops were all miniature, about the size of a handicapped bathroom, and I took up about half of that space. That's why I never bother going to Main Street- too loud, and too many small spaces. As soon as the door to Terry's Fruit Tart Shop, an overwhelming scent of sweet, warm air entered my nostrils. On one side, there were shelves lined with tarts, my greatest dream- berry tarts, apple tarts, and even pickled pear tarts. On the other side were baskets full of baked goods- pies, cookies, muffins, and even layered cakes. I shouted for an employee, eager to taste the sweet goods, but no one answered. After inspecting every item in the store, I decided to help myself to a little taste. I chose a fruit tart very similar to the one's Jenny makes, strawberry, blackberry, kiwi, and mango, cut into careful triangles and pasted together like a puzzle upon a bed of yellow pastry crème.
I took a hefty bite, feeling the sweet flakey crust crumbling gracefully in my mouth and melting together with strands of fresh fruit and crème. I finished it in a quick moment and moved on to another tart close by. I thought about my sweet friend Jenny, wondering where in the world she has gone. One thing led to another and soon enough, whole plates of fruit tarts, cakes, pies, and cookies were disappeared from the shelves of the shop. After thirty minutes or so after the binge had started, it was over. The only thing left in the story was the cash register. I felt so ashamed of my lack of self-control; I looked in my wallet for some cash, to try and pay back Terry for the damage I had caused. I rattled through my round red clutch, but I could only find two dollars and some dimes. I put it down next to the register and waddled shamefully back to my motor chair and I slowly drove back to my cottage in the bitter cold with a stomachache.
Two days had passed when I heard three consecutive knocks at the door. I was still feeling quite ill from the bakery mishap, and so I vowed to take a long break from sweets. I rushed to get up and walk over there as quickly as my shaky legs would take me. I heard no more knocks or sounds, so I figured it must've been the newspaperman. I open the door to find Jenny standing on my welcome mat with a basket the size of two large Chihuahuas. "Sorry I didn't come by the other day, it's finals week. I hope this makes up for it." I told her that it was OK and I was just glad that she was safe. She opened up the basket to show me one side filled with fruit tarts, just the same as always, with triangular fruit placed carefully on top. On the other half, there was a mountain of goods- pies, cookies, muffins, and even a layered chocolate cake. All of a sudden, I felt ill again. Then, unknowingly, she said, "I would've come by yesterday, but my mother's bakery was robbed; someone ate all of the fruit tarts while we were at lunch."
