Christopher Boucher - Golden Delicious

“Oh, yes, you will,” said my mother, without looking up from her plate.

“I think she can decide what she wants to be called, Diane,” my Dad said.

My Mom glared at him.

“As long as it’s within reason,” my Dad said.

“How about dumbface?” I said.

“ ,” my Mom said.

My sister didn’t seem fazed. “From-this-day-forward,” she said, “I-shall-be-known-as-the-Auctioneer.”

“Auctioneer?” I laughed. “That’s so stupid.”

“ The . I-am -the- Auctioneer,” she said, and turned to me with eyes like arrows, “and-don’t-you-forget-it.”

I walked that sentence all over Appleseed — he was my true good friend. In the cold months, I’d just lead him out across the street to relieve himself in the margin, but in the spring and summer we’d zell all the way to the Town Green and back, or out to the Amphitheatre, or sometimes to Wolf Swamp. I even put a basket on the handlebars of the Bicycle Built for Two so “I am.” could ride with me and the Reader. I remember the way Sentence would rest his chin on the front of the basket so the wind would push back the serif on his “I.”

That was right after the blight, when everything changed in our house. My sister was consumed by her auctions and my father was always out trying to scrape together some meaning. And I hardly saw my mother either — she was training harder than ever. So I basically raised that sentence myself — I fed him and walked him. If his words were tired, I carried “I am.” in my coat pocket. I took him to school with me, and to the buildings after school, and to Oh Death for food — everywhere I was, “I am.” was, too.

Soon, Sentence was no longer a single subject and verb. He grew from “I am.” to “I am here .”, to “Am I here?”, to “I think I am here.”, to “I think, therefore, right here.”, to “ He therefores, thinks, and ams.” and on and on. The sentence was constantly revising — every day was a new iteration.

The point of this part of the story — of these sentences — though, is that “I am.” was there for me when no one else was. Looking back on it now, I can say—

It was like:

How do I put this into words?

Like, loneliness? It was like, sometimes I wasn’t. Wasn’t anything. Wasn’t anyone. I could stop being, and not be, and I didn’t know if anyone would notice. But at least I could turn that thought — that thought of loneliness, of unmeaning — into words, and say those words to Sentence. And “I am.” would just listen —he might fart or fall asleep, but he wouldn’t leave me or judge me. And I wouldn’t abandon him , either: senseless, smelly, whatever — I was just happy for the companionship.

Which isn’t to say that I was a pushover — I raised that language right. I always walked “I am.” on a leash — I had to, in accordance with Appleseed bylaws — and at night, Sentence slept in a cage in the basement. It’s very important to cage your language — otherwise, it can read in its sleep and havoc your whole house. My sentence was usually friendly, but a lot of language is vicious — quick-tempered, impulsive, violent. You know how, when you’re out in Appleseed late at night, you sometimes hear a mawing in the distance — like, a low vumble or a harl? That’s wild language, reading the city for food or a mate or fighting each other over territory.

As well-behaved as he was, “I am.” was wild as well. Sometimes he would run away. Once he disappeared for two days and showed up at the back door, his mouth covered in blood. Another time the Memory of Johnny Appleseed found Sentence wandering in a deadgrove. “I am.” had been gone for about twenty-four hours when the Memory of Johnny Appleseed rode over to my house on his treebike. “Are you?” said the Memory of Johnny Appleseed.

It had only been a month or two since the start of the blight, but Johnny had aged. Instead of wearing his trademark straw hat and overalls, he had on Converse hi-tops, gaudy parachute pants, and a stained green blazer. His eyes were weary.

“Am I — what?” I said.

“Are you?” he said.

“I don’t know what you’re asking me,” I said.

“You’re supposed to say ‘I am,’ ” said the Memory of Johnny Appleseed, taking the sentence out from underneath his blazer. “It’s a joke — get it?”

“ ‘I am.’!” I said. “Thank you so much, man.”

“You should train that rambunctious clause,” the Memory of Johnny Appleseed said, and then he put his foot on the wooden pedal, pushed off, and rode away.

To be honest, though, I liked that “I am.” had a wild streak — that he sometimes picked up the scent of language and pulled on the leash. I didn’t want to lose “I am.” but I always wanted him to be who he was — to follow his innate language animal instincts. Those instincts were often really helpful, actually. “I am.” could always tell if someone was wounded, for example; if I had a headache, Sentence would lead me to the sofa and sit beside me. And once, “I am.” and I got lost on a walk through Wolf Swamp and the wolves started jeering and throwing bottles. After leading us around the swamp in a circle, I asked Sentence to get us out of there. He sniffed the air with his “m” and forged forward; soon, I could see the edge of the parking lot.

Maybe two months into the blight, I was walking Sentence in the backyard one afternoon when he started pulling me toward the shed where my sister stored her items for auction. “I am.” was interested in a tarp-covered pile of junk outside the shed — he kept lunging for the blue vinyl. “What is it, buddy?” I said.

Then the door of the shed opened and my sister stepped out. “Hey,” said the Auctioneer.

“Sorry,” I said. “Sentence was just sniffing around. Is there time under there or something?”

“Don’t-think-so,” she said, and she pulled back the tarp. Underneath was a bunch of moldy old yellow pads of paper and clipboards of different sizes. I recognized them as the same pads my Dad was always writing notes and to-do lists on. “Those Dad’s?” I said.

The Auctioneer nodded. “A-stationery-store-went-out-of-business-and-gave-all-this-stuff-away. Want-one?”

“I am.” was spinning with excitement.

“Maybe just to calm him down,” I said.

My sister handed me a clipboard and a pad of paper. “What time does the auction start?”

“Three,” she said, and she stepped back into the shed.

I led Sentence down the hatchway and into the basement. I dropped the clipboard and pad on the ground and sat down with some chips. As soon as I opened the bag, though, “I am.” appeared next to me with the yellow pad of paper.

“What is it, ‘I am.’?” I said.

He put the pad in my lap and looked up at me. I put aside the bag of chips. “I am.” looked down at the yellow space — the blank page — as if he could see something I couldn’t.

I reached for a pen and wrote the words “I” and “am” on the page. “That’s your name,” I told him.

He looked at the letters. His eyes lit up. A thought in my mind said, “here,” and I transferred the words from that room in my brain to the pen to the page. “I am here ,” I wrote.

He looked at me, and back at the page.

“I’m not here,” I wrote.

“I am.” frowned.

“I wasn’t here,” I wrote.

“I wasn’t born here,” I wrote.