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My mother used the special knife to cut melons. It was very sharp and I wasn't allowed to touch it.
But I was allowed to watch as she guided the long blade through the cantaloupe's golden-netted rind to the cutting board. With a gentle thump, the melon fell open, glistening orange.
Then my mother took a soup spoon, loosened the mass of cream-colored seeds that clung to the cavity and scooped them into the garbage pail. She used the same spoon to carve out a small crescent of the melon's flesh. Sometimes she made a faint sucking sound as she took the fruit between her lips.
I never knew what she was looking at, but it was something she had to squint to see beyond the yellow-flowered curtains at the kitchen window, something that lay beyond the swing set and the pin oak shading our view of the Listons' house. I did know that if those two little vertical lines between her eyebrows deepened, the unfortunate melon was destined for a fruit salad, all but lost in the chorus of green grapes and bananas, perhaps even subject to her ultimate insult: a lavish sprinkling of sugar.
Most often, she tilted her head and nodded lightly, lips pursed. That meant a wedge of cantaloupe for dessert, though if I consumed mine dutifully, I might be permitted a store-bought cookie besides.
But, once or twice a summer, she would stand there at the sink for the longest time, swaying a little, staring out at that unknown something. And then she would smile.
Those were the melons she served on the fancy white plates with the silver rims, a generous quarter pre-sliced along the rind so we had only to cut off chunks with our spoons. I preferred berries on shortcake with a big scoop of ice cream, but I had to admit those melons were sweet. Sweet as candy.
"Yes, this is a good one," my father would declare, taking quick bites. His slice was the largest, but he finished first, and my mother would touch her own chin, discreetly, to remind him to wipe the juice from his whiskers.
She took the smallest portion for herself, lingering over each tiny sliver of the fruit. On such evenings she sat taller in her chair, a faintly glamorous air about her, as if she had done something. It had to be a trick of the summer evening light, I thought, that she could be sitting right across the table yet seem so far away.
*****
By junior high, I had more important things to do than watch my mother commune with melons. And I certainly wouldn't have asked her advice if I hadn't learned from an article on smart dieting for teens that half a cantaloupe had a mere sixty calories.
"Here, try this one." My mother handed me a large, greenish cantaloupe.
It was cold and heavy in my hand. After a quick glance up and down the produce aisle to make sure none of my friends was passing by, I held the blossom end to my nose and took a deep breath.
"Nothing," I said.
"Nothing?"
I felt a flicker of doubt, but stood my ground. "Nothing."
She nodded. "Never take one that's mute." She handed me a smaller one. The rind had a golden tinge. I checked the dark navel for mold, probed it for a slight give, as she had taught me, then sniffed again.
It was there — the hint of nectar and tropical flowers — but distant, a little chilly, like a memory. "This one might be good," I murmured.
"Hmm, yes. I do think that one's a little shy, but it might be our best bet. It's hard to tell when they keep the fruit so cold. Always try at least four or five, if not more, and then you can be sure you've done your best."
Then she smiled at me, her gaze so warm I felt as if I'd suddenly stepped into full sunlight. I didn't want it to matter, that new glimmer of respect in her eyes. But it did.
*****
The other day, my lover told me, with the averted eyes and twitching smile of a man confessing sexual perversion, that he enjoys watching me choose fruit in the supermarket. He likes the way I tap the swelling around the stems of pears with my index finger, or hold a cantaloupe to my nose and inhale, my eyelids fluttering closed.
"Then you stand there and think. For a long time," he said. "Sometimes you're looking right at me, but you don't even see me."
It's a game we often play after making love. He asks me when I'm going to marry him and I tell him as soon as he gives me a good reason why I'm his ideal woman.
Because you have perfect toes, he once said. Because you can translate the menu in French restaurants. Because you hate Tom Cruise even more than I do.
Not good enough, I always reply, wrinkling my nose with a show of disdain.
But this time I said nothing, I only snuggled closer to him, too surprised to pretend I wasn't serious. I felt unsteady, as if I'd been cut open and a secret laid bare.
Of course, I was touched that he'd noticed, but I wasn't sure I was ready for a confession of my own.
Should I tell him that as I stand there in my half-daze, I do see him, but I'm looking for something else: a space not filled by lover or child or any one thing at all? And should I tell him that sometimes, as he sleeps beside me, I breathe in his scent, mild with a hint of musk and cumin, and I can tell he is good? Good enough. But not everything.
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