Pie Town Page 5

  “It’s Wednesday, Oris,” she replied.

  He waited, not understanding her reference. “What? Nobody gets married on a Wednesday?” he finally asked.

  She made a humph and turned to Frank. “Can you fit me in?” she asked the mechanic.

  “Of course,” Frank replied. “Oris, always a pleasure,” he said as he nodded at his other customer. “You should get out of this heat,” he said to the older man, whose face was reddened by the sun. “It’s not good for white skin.”

  Oris wiped his forehead but stayed where he was. “I’ll see you at the birthday party,” he said, referring to Alex’s weekend party. “Hey, how about bringing me a soda from your cooler?” he asked. “A little service can go a long way with customer loyalty.”

  Frank grinned and walked over to Mary’s car and sat down in the driver’s side. The keys were still in the ignition, and he cranked the car and pulled it into the open garage bay.

  Oris stood at his car next to Mary Romero. “So you’re going to have to help me out here, Mary,” he said. “What happens on Wednesday?”

  “I go to Mass in the morning, and then I drive out to be with Clarence,” she replied, appearing as if she didn’t care to talk to the man questioning her.

  “Mary,” Oris responded, trying to sound sympathetic, “Clarence is dead.”

  “I know Clarence is dead!” she shouted, pulling her arms around her waist, her purse slamming against her hip. “I go to the cemetery and eat lunch with him every Wednesday,” she explained.

  “Somebody serves food at the cemetery?” he asked, appearing bewildered.

  She blew out a long breath and rolled her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I take my own lunch, an enchilada and some chips,” she said.

  “You take Clarence anything?” Oris asked. “Or do you just eat in front of him making him even more envious of the fact that he’s dead and can’t have lunch?”

  A young boy, a summer worker at Frank’s garage, came toward Oris and Mary with a couple of cans of soda. “Mr. Frank says you owe me two dollars.” He handed them the drinks.

  “Well, for God’s sake,” Oris complained. He pulled out his wallet and got two one-dollar bills. “You should find somewhere else to work, young man. Frank Twinhorse is a bad influence.”

  The boy shrugged and turned away, stuffing the bills into his pockets.

  Both Oris and Mary popped open their drinks and took long swallows.

  “So what were we talking about?” Oris asked. Before Mary answered, he recalled the conversation. “Oh, that’s right. You’re eating lunch at your husband’s grave, and you were getting ready to tell me what you take him to eat.”

  “He likes posole,” she answered.

  Oris smiled. “Well, now that’s the truth,” he noted. “Green chile on the side?” he asked.

  Mary turned to face the man. She seemed to soften. “Of course, green chile on the side. How else would I serve my loving husband?”

  Oris laughed.

  “You used to eat lunch together every week,” she said, recalling the friendship her husband had with Oris.

  He nodded. “At the café. Tuesday special. He’d get his posole and green chile. I’d have a burger.”

  “He used to tell me you were always trying to find somebody to pay for your meal.” She laughed and took another swallow.

  “That is not true. Clarence is the cheapest man I ever knew. I was always having to pick up the check for him.” He shook his head. “He said he never had any money because you spent it all on shoes.”

  They both glanced down at the woman’s shoes. They were dressy sandals, and they looked new.

  “I have my own money,” Mary said. “Always have. And besides, you’re the one who’s cheap,” she added. She glanced behind Oris. “Except for your cars, Oris Whitsett. When did you buy this one?” she asked.

  Oris looked behind him at his new Buick. “Got a nice trade-in a few weeks ago, down at the dealership in Albuquerque. She’s a beauty, isn’t she? You should see the size of that trunk.” He took a sip of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A man is only as good as the car he drives.”

  Mary shook her head. “Clarence said you wasted a lot of money buying so many cars and trading them in.”

  “Clarence drove a pickup truck that didn’t have a floorboard. He never bought a new car his whole life.”

  “Clarence liked tractors,” Mary commented, remembering her husband and how he spent his money.

  Oris nodded. “Well, yes, he did. Clarence did not mind forking over money for expensive farm equipment.” He turned to Mary. “He ever take you out in his tractor?” he asked.

  Mary rolled her eyes. “I wear high heels, Oris. I don’t ride in tractors.”

  Oris laughed, drinking some more of his soda.

  “I remember when the four of us used to go out. You always had to drive. Do you remember that?” she asked, but before he could answer she added, “Alice was so beautiful. She always got so dressed up for dinner.”

  Oris didn’t respond at first. He just nodded his head. “She was like you about that,” he noted. “Alice loved to get dressed up and go out.”

  Mary took a long swallow. She reached in her purse and took out a tissue, blotted her lips.

  “So, you waiting here for Frank to finish and then driving out to the cemetery?” he asked, glancing up at her.

  “Yes, I was planning to wait,” she replied.

  “Well, why don’t I drive you?” he asked. “Maybe I’ll stop and get a burger, and we can eat together and really piss Clarence off.” He smiled.

  Mary knew Alice was buried in the same cemetery. She guessed that Oris wanted to go so that he could visit his wife’s grave. “Did you take the driver’s test this year?” she asked, eyeing him closely.

  “I did not,” he answered. “But I’ve been driving seventy years, and I’ve never even as much as run over a skunk or landed in a ditch.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Mary said.

  “Not in my new Buick,” he replied. “You’re safe as a Catholic schoolgirl at choir practice.”

  Mary smiled. “I’ll just go and tell Frank that I’ll be back to pick up the car.”

  Oris nodded and finished his soda. He crushed the can and tossed it in a garbage can near the building. He was back at his car not long before Mary. They both got in, and he started the engine and backed out of the driveway.

  After stopping at the diner for his lunch, Oris headed down Highway 60, toward the cemetery located about ten miles out of town. They had made the curve, just past the cutoff to the dirt road that meandered down to the creeks, just a couple of miles from their destination, when Oris swerved and slammed on his brakes. Another car, coming from the opposite direction, had suddenly veered into his lane and Oris almost hit it.

  The two of them, Oris and Mary, were so shaken by the near miss, so rattled by what almost happened and didn’t, that they never even noticed who was walking on the other side of the road. They never saw the girl who stood watching the entire event, the one standing in the dust, her thin arms wrapped around her belly, the girl who seemed to come out of nowhere. Neither of them saw her standing near the other car, the one that almost hit them, now stopped, which, just like the girl, had been heading right straight into the center of Pie Town.

  Chapter Eight

  Father George Morris was driving the car loaned to him by the Diocese of Western New Mexico. He didn’t have a vehicle of his own. This one was a clunker, an old station wagon given to the church by a woman on her deathbed. The parish priest in Gallup tried to give it back, knowing her husband or sons would need it, could sell it, or would certainly use it, but the woman insisted that the car belonged to the church.

  In turn, the priest gave it to the diocese and they also tried to return it to the rightful family. But once the dead woman’s decision had been made, no one, not her spouse or children or siblings, would take the car back. The
y claimed that the car was cursed and that it bore the spirits of the woman’s dead parents. The family claimed that she gave the car to the church not because she was charitable or wanting to show her gratitude, but because she was trying to save the rest of her family from the fate she had suffered. Nobody wanted anything to do with that car.

  Of course, no one at the diocese had given this information to young Father Morris. He thought the car was a perk, an added benefit for all new parish priests in New Mexico. He figured it was intended to be used for providing transportation to church members and for parish activities. He thought the car needed some work, a good cleaning, maybe a tune-up, but he was happy to have the vehicle and accepted it with humility and grace.

  Once he got on the road, he experienced some difficulty getting the hang of managing pedals and gears—he hadn’t driven a car for more than seven years—but after an hour he finally remembered how it was done. He turned on the radio, found a Catholic station, and rolled down the windows since the air conditioning was not working.

  Father George was hoping to make Mass on that Wednesday, his first day, but he had been held up at the diocese filling out some last-minute forms and had called to inform the older priest who was covering for him that he wouldn’t arrive until late that evening.

  It was just about lunchtime when he opened the map that the Monsignor had given him to see how far down Highway 60 he would travel before coming to his first parish and the rectory where he would live in Pie Town. He had made better time than he expected and was hopeful he could grab a bite to eat when he got into town. He glanced down just for an instant to study the map, but it was an instant almost too long. When he looked back up, he had drifted into the other lane, almost running into a brand-new silver Buick, the driver and the passenger screaming as he veered back into his lane. He was so shaken up by the experience that he pulled to the side of the road and stopped. In the rearview mirror he could see that the Buick hit the brakes as well, but then kept going in the opposite direction.

  He dropped his head on the steering wheel and prayed a short prayer of thanksgiving. When he raised his head a girl was standing right in front of his car, staring at him through the windshield. He watched as she walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Hey,” she said. “You okay?” She leaned down to see into the car.

  He nodded quickly, his white-knuckled fingers still clutching the steering wheel. “I looked away and almost hit that car,” he confessed. He glanced up at the young woman who was peering at him through the opened window and then quickly faced ahead. She appeared to be not much older than a teenager. She was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt, strange-looking moccasin shoes, and carrying a small but bulging backpack.

  “I know,” she responded. “I watched you.”

  Father Morris looked around. He didn’t know where this girl had come from.

  As if she understood his confusion, she explained. “I was walking. I was just behind over there.” She turned, casting her glance behind the car.

  Father George peered into the rearview mirror, as if he would find something marking where she meant. “I was trying to read the map,” he explained without making eye contact.

  She stood up. She dropped her backpack and stretched her arms above her head, and this time the priest was watching. Her shirt came up a bit, and he was sitting right beside her exposed midriff. He blushed, cleared his throat, stared straight ahead, wondering how he could make his exit.

  “So, are you lost?” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a tube of lip balm, rubbed her lips, put the tube back, and then bent down again, picking up the backpack and balancing it on her back.

  He fiddled with the map, without looking in her direction. “I think I’m okay,” he answered, noticing that she now smelled like cherries, like cherry gum he used to chew when he was a boy.

  “ ’Cause I’m a good navigator,” she explained. “I could get you where you’re heading. I’ve got experience in that kind of thing.”

  Father George could easily see what she was asking. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat in a car with a young woman. The idea made him very uncomfortable, but before he could say anything, before he could explain that it wasn’t a good idea for them to travel together, she had walked around the car and was opening the passenger-side door.

  “I, I …” he stuttered, something he hadn’t done in months, a childhood malady that had disappeared with puberty but came back briefly while he was in his last year at seminary. “I, uh, don’t think I can let you ride with me.” He finally got the whole sentence out.

  The girl stood with the door opened and leaned in. “Why not?” she asked.

  The priest felt the line of sweat beading across his top lip. “I, I …” He stuttered again. “I don’t have insurance for riders.” He lied. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, he lied. He had told himself never again, and now, quick as taking his eyes off the road and almost wrecking the car, it had happened again.

  “Oh,” she said, standing up straight outside the car. “Well,” she paused, “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t care about that.” She took off the backpack, threw it behind the front seat, jumped in, and shut the door. “I’ll also put some air in your tires when we get to town. Your right front one is a little low.”

  Father George turned to the girl, trying to think of a way to get her out of the car. He could imagine the scandal he would cause upon his arrival at his first parish with a young woman, not much older than a teenager, seated next to him in his car. A young woman scantily clad. A young woman hitchhiking. A girl putting air in his tires. He turned a bright shade of red as he considered what the other priest would think when he drove into town with her in his car.

  “Trina,” she held out her hand to shake. “I’m Trina, and I’m going just up the road to Pie Town. You don’t mind giving me a lift, do you?”

  Father George inhaled, muttered a prayer under his breath. “I’m George,” he said, taking Trina’s hand. “Father George Morris,” he added.

  “Then, Father George Morris, we only got about ten minutes before we pull into Pie Town and likely never cross paths again.” She pulled her hand away and grabbed the map from the priest. “Now, where is it that you’re headed?” she asked. “And is it a wedding or a funeral?”

  He seemed not to understand the question. He glanced down at his clothes and suddenly realized she was asking because he was wearing his clergy collar and his black shirt and pants. She had obviously assumed he was on his way to officiate at some service.

  “Oh, neither,” he replied. “I’m just starting my new job.”

  “Fabulous,” she responded. “I plan to start a new job today too.” She smiled. “Or maybe tomorrow, since it’s a bit late now.” She noticed the clock on the dashboard. It was after one o’clock. “And where is your new job?” she asked. “Not that I would really know,” she said. “I’m from Texas.” She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. “God, it feels good to sit down,” she said. She looked over at the driver. “I’ve been walking for two days,” she added.

  “Where are you coming from?” he asked. He had not yet taken the car out of park, and the engine was still idling. He wondered where her family was, how long she had been traveling alone.

  Trina considered the question. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. She was from Texas, but had just come from Tucson, having left the man she thought had finally taken her away from everything bad in her life, everything broken and wrong. And then there was the Indian woman in Apache land who was part of the reason she was moving east and slightly to the north.

  “Well, that’s not as important as where I’m going.” She reached up and placed her hands behind her head. “Don’t you think it’s where you’re going that’s more important than where you’ve been?”

  The priest considered the question. He finally let go of the steering wheel. “I guess you could have a point,” he r
esponded. “So then, why are you going to Pie Town?” he asked, not sure why he was engaging in conversation with the talkative young woman. He mostly wanted to figure out a way to get her out of his car.

  “I just heard about Pie Town, New Mexico, and decided it was a town I needed to visit. Just sounds friendly, don’t you think?” She closed her eyes, trying not to think about Tucson, trying not to think about her dreams and hopes all wrapped up in a smooth-talking man from Abilene.

  “Pie Town,” she repeated. “Sounds nice. I mean, who doesn’t like pie, right?” She decided not to mention the dream and the woman who read her mind. Trina turned to the priest, who wasn’t answering, and then began glancing around her, lifting her nose in the air. “This car smells funny, don’t you think?” she asked, sniffing.

  Father George sniffed as well. “I don’t smell anything,” he replied.

  Trina looked behind her. “It’s something,” she said. “Smells like a funeral parlor I was once in. Like fruit that’s too ripe.”

  Father George raised his nose and smelled again. He shook his head. “No, I don’t notice anything.”

  The two of them sat in silence for a few moments.

  “So, Father George Morris, are you going to put her in gear and get back on the highway, or are we going to sit here on the side of the road while everyone passes and stares, thinking we’re up to no good.” She winked at the priest. She liked knowing she made him uneasy.

  He blushed. “I’m not comfortable driving,” he explained. “It’s been a while since I drove.”

  She shrugged and leaned in his direction. “Oh well, that’s okay. You want to scoot over and let me?” she asked, sitting up, holding on to the steering wheel as if she expected him to slide under her. “I’m a good driver,” she commented. “I started driving a truck with my granddaddy when I was eleven. I even helped drive a big rig across Highway 10.”

  “No, no … what?” He was confused and tried pushing her away. “I’m not scooting over,” he acknowledged, sounding very shocked by the suggestion.