Pie Town Read online

  She sat back in her seat. “Fine, have it your way, Padre,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest. “But you’re not really thinking about putting me out to walk eight miles in this heat, are you?” she asked. She glanced out the window. “And I’m pretty sure it’s going to rain. Did you see those clouds? It’s trouble ahead, for sure.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She raised herself up, trying to make eye contact with the driver.

  “I mean, leaving a girl to fend for herself in a hundred degrees, all alone, without water or good walking shoes, that’s a bigger sin than sitting close to her, right?” She studied the man.

  He sighed, knowing he was beat, knowing he had no choice, and put the car into gear. He closed his eyes and crossed himself. “You need to put on your seat belt,” he instructed.

  She smiled, clapped her hands together, and reached beside her to pull the belt across her waist. It clicked, and he pulled onto the road.

  “You’re young to be a priest, aren’t you?” she asked as they drove along.

  “It’s my first parish,” he replied. “You’re young to be hitchhiking, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged again. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been hitching rides since before I learned to drive. It’s not such a big deal where I’m from,” she said. She pulled her legs up and placed her feet on the dashboard.

  “Texas?” Father George asked. He watched where she put her feet and considered saying something about the inappropriateness of it, but decided against it.

  “That’s right,” she responded, slapping her thighs, thinking about her home state, her hometown, deciding not to take the trip down memory lane. “So, you never told me where you’re headed,” she reminded him.

  “Pie Town too, I guess,” he answered. “It’s one of my three parishes, and I figured I would start there. It’s the one with a parish house.” He loosened up a bit as they drove down the highway.

  “You’ll live alone?” she asked.

  He nodded. “That’s usually the way it works. A few of the ladies in the church cook and clean, but unless there are sisters in the parish, nuns, I mean, then I live in the house alone.”

  “You get a whole house to yourself and a cook and a maid?” Trina asked, her tone one of surprise.

  Father George considered how his arrangement must sound to a layperson. “I guess that’s about the way of things,” he answered.

  “Damn,” Trina responded, without seeming even to notice that a curse word had just escaped her lips. “That’s pretty sweet. Last place I lived, there were three of us sharing a two-room apartment, and that’s the most space I’ve ever had. When I was kid, we always had a bunch of people staying around, sleeping on the floors, on the sofa, on the back porch. Then, in the foster homes, well, there were so many kids in those houses, you were lucky just to have a place to sit at the table to eat.”

  George didn’t answer. He just glanced over at his passenger, wondering about her upbringing, wondering from what circumstances she had emerged. “So, Trina, how old are you?” he asked, trying to sound fatherly, trying to erase the discomfort in his voice as well as in his thoughts. There was something about the girl that troubled him.

  “Twenty,” she answered. “Not that it really matters.”

  “Why wouldn’t it matter?” he responded.

  “I think age is just a way we use to judge people. You hear how old somebody is, and based on their answer, you decide that they must be a certain way. If we never knew the ages of each other, maybe we wouldn’t be so, I don’t know, critical.”

  “But sometimes the age of a person does tell us a lot about them. A twenty-year-old hasn’t had the same experiences as a forty-year-old. She hasn’t seen all the things that an older person has.” He turned to Trina, suddenly remembering himself at twenty, not so many years before, remembering parts of his youth he had tried to forget. He turned back to face the road.

  She studied the priest. “I figure I’ve seen more than most forty-year-olds. I figure I’ve seen more than most anybody.” She pulled at the seat belt stretched across her lap, lifting it away from her body.

  “Aren’t you going to be hot wearing that black outfit out here?” she asked, changing the subject.

  Father George glanced down at his shirt and pants. He hadn’t really thought about any alternatives to the orthodox attire he was given. Priests in Ohio, at his home parish and at seminary, wore only black pants and a black shirt. They had robes and other clothes for particular services and events, but on most days a priest wore his black. “I’m sure I will be comfortable where I reside and work,” he replied.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked. “What, the Midwest maybe, huh? You’re too pasty to have grown up in the desert. You got a snakebite kit and water bottles?” she asked. “Boots?”

  Father George smiled. “I thought it didn’t matter where you’re from,” he teased. “I thought it only mattered where you’re going.”

  She nodded, enjoying the banter. “Well, that’s true, but if you’re not from here, there are things you have to learn pretty fast or you won’t make it.”

  “Yeah, and what are those things?” he asked.

  “Boots are better than shoes when it comes to stepping on rattlesnakes. It’s bread, not water, that takes the sting out of spicy food, and never give up your water rights or leave home without a gallon of it in your backseat.” She stretched her right arm out the car window.

  Father George turned to the young girl and thought about her instructions. “You learn all this from experience or did somebody teach you this information?”

  “A bit of both, I guess. I saw a boy get bit by a rattler right on the ankle. He had on some fancy ball shoes, trying to impress a girl riding by on a horse. His daddy whipped him raw when he found out he wasn’t wearing his boots out in the field. The doctor visit and medicines cost him more than he made all month.” She paused. “Boots cover your leg about as high as a snake can strike,” she noted.

  The priest didn’t respond.

  She continued. “The spicy food tip I learned on my own after taking a bet from one of my cousins that I could eat a jar of peppers, and the stuff about water I just heard the old folks talking.”

  Father George thought about her answer. He wasn’t sure if she was serious or not, but he did think her suggestion of keeping some water with him wasn’t a bad idea. He turned back to face the road just as they passed the sign that read, WELCOME TO PIE TOWN.

  “We’re here!” Trina said, sounding excited, sounding as if she had arrived at some point of safety, some destination of possibility.

  Father George wiped the line of sweat off of his top lip. He took in a deep breath, trying to calm his stomach as he felt it do a long, exaggerated flip.

  And just like that, the clouds broke and the rain fell.

  Chapter Nine

  Roger was at his usual table, the one in the center at Pie Town Diner, when the station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Alex was sitting across from him. They had just ordered lunch, and they were watching the storm as it rolled in. They ate most of their noon meals downtown at the diner, but they especially enjoyed eating there on Wednesdays. The Wednesday special was chicken and dumplings, and Alex loved chicken and dumplings. He never missed a Wednesday unless he was sick.

  “We have guests,” Alex reported as the car came to a stop in a space just by the front door. Like most of the residents, he knew everybody in Pie Town and what kind of car they drove, so he knew when there were travelers and strangers passing through. “You think they just stopped because of the rain or are they here for pie?” he asked Francine, the waitress who was still standing next to the table, and then grinned.

  Everybody in Pie Town was used to the tourists driving Highway 60 from Albuquerque to Phoenix who stopped at the diner and asked for pie. With a name like Pie Town, it was a reasonable expectation. The town got the name in the late 1920s when a man settled in the area, selling o
il and gas to the cowboys and travelers passing through the territory. He also started baking pies, selling coffee and other snacks, and finally decided to call the stop Pie Town. The next owner of the store added a post office, and with that addition, the name became official. For a very long time, the place was known for its baked goods, its chili con carne, and its fruit pies, but unfortunately, since Fred and Bea had taken over the store and café, now the Pie Town Diner, it no longer served very memorable desserts. Fred and Bea served great daily blue plate specials like dumplings and chicken-fried steak. Bea made the finest tortillas in the county and fixed a green chile stew that even folks in Socorro claimed was the best around. Both Fred and Bea were excellent cooks, but neither one of them was very good at making pies.

  When they bought the diner from the previous owners, two sisters from Santa Fe who thought they’d make a go of selling pies and baked goods, they tried to keep up the tasty tradition in addition to serving meals, but they just never seemed to get the hang of crusts and fillings. They gave up trying to load up the menu and the pastry counter with pies and just settled for cooking what they knew best. Nobody in town seemed to mind. Most everyone was sort of glad to get rid of the sisters and the bakery and have a real place to eat lunch.

  Francine looked out the window, saw the car with its wipers still moving, and stuck her pencil behind her ear. “If they’re here for the pie, they’ll be disappointed,” she said, answering Alex about the potential request for pie. “Fred made brownies for dessert.”

  “And they aren’t very good either.” Another customer, Bernie King, a rancher, piped in. He had finished his lunch and was just getting up from his seat at the counter.

  A couple of other customers sitting near him laughed.

  “I heard that,” Bea called out from the kitchen.

  “Good,” responded Bernie. “Maybe you should do the desserts from now on or get something from the bakery at the grocery store.”

  “You don’t have to eat here, Bernie.” Fred had now entered the conversation. He was yelling from the kitchen. Everybody in the diner could hear him.

  “Yeah, where else do I have to go?” he asked. He stood at the cash register and waited until Bea came out and took his money. She was wiping her hands on the bottom of her apron.

  “There’s always the vending machine at the gas station,” Roger noted, joining in the conversation. “The Twinkies are good.”

  Bernie turned to Roger. “Yeah, it looks like you should know about that,” he said, patting his belly. “Don’t you have a weight limit as sheriff? Aren’t you supposed to be able to run a few miles and do a hundred sit-ups or something?”

  “Just have to be able to shoot annoying ranchers,” Roger answered. “And so far, the Twinkies haven’t interfered with that.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Well, I reckon I need to hush then,” Bernie said as he handed Bea cash to pay for his lunch. “Alex, watch yourself,” he said to the young boy. “Don’t spend all of your time with your grandfather. He’s a bad influence, I don’t care what kind of badge he wears on his shirt.” He winked. “I’ll see you at the party. Hopefully, this storm will be done and gone by Saturday.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. King, I’m sure it will,” Alex said. “I look forward to seeing you too.”

  “By the way, who’s making the cake?” Bernie asked.

  Roger shrugged. “That’s on Malene’s list, not mine.”

  “It’s chocolate,” Alex said.

  Bernie smiled and nodded. “Sounds good already,” he responded.

  “You getting up the band?” Bea asked Roger.

  “That’s my assignment,” Roger replied.

  “Try not to play too much of that raunchy music you tend to be so fond of,” Bernie said. “I’d like to bring a date.” He got a toothpick from the dispenser by the cash register and stuck it in his mouth. He placed his cowboy hat on his head.

  “Bernie, if you bring a woman with you to Alex’s birthday party this weekend, I’ll make sure we play nothing but church music.” Roger knew the same thing that everybody in Pie Town knew about Bernie. He was a big talker, but he was way too shy to ask any woman out on a date. He was in his sixties and, as far as anybody knew, had never been out with a woman.

  “Why don’t you bring Ms. Francine?” Alex asked. He looked up at his waitress, still standing beside the table. “You’re coming to my party, aren’t you?”

  Francine appeared surprised to hear the question, and she blushed. “I, I am planning to attend your festivities,” she stammered. “But I will need to leave early because I have to drive to Albuquerque that evening to visit my sister.” She glanced up at the rancher, who quickly looked away.

  Everybody seemed to notice the awkward exchange, and there was a pause in the conversation.

  “Well then, Bernie,” Roger said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to get your hymns at church on Sunday. It’s raunchy music at the party Saturday night.” He smiled at Francine. He knew what nobody else in Pie Town knew. She was in love with Bernie and had been for a number of years.

  Francine smiled back at Roger. She had confided in him a few years ago when he had driven her home after her car broke down. He had promised his silence about the matter, and as far as she knew, he had kept his word. She doubted that Alex had made his suggestion because he knew anything about her feelings for Bernie or had heard anything from his grandfather.

  The rancher suddenly seemed to be at a loss for words. He stood by the counter, shifting his weight from side to side. He slid his hands into his pockets. “Okay, I guess we’ll be seeing you all.” And he waved at everyone, grabbed his umbrella by the door, and headed out into the parking lot. He stopped and waited until the two strangers Alex had seen earlier were getting out of the car. He held up his umbrella near the door while the driver emerged. A man stood up next to Bernie, receiving the shelter from the rain while the passenger jumped out and ran to the door of the diner. She waited for the driver.

  “You think Bernie’s going to tell them to go somewhere else?” Alex asked.

  “Not if he wants to eat here again,” Bea replied, watching the two in the parking lot. She closed the register and headed back into the kitchen.

  Roger turned around to see the strangers. He watched the young woman as she stood near the door. She stretched her arms high above her head, her T-shirt rising, exposing her stomach. He glanced over at Francine, who looked down at him, lifting her eyebrows. Roger smiled and turned back to watch as the driver stepped out from under the umbrella. Because of the black shirt and the clerical collar, it was immediately clear he was a priest, and Roger and Francine looked at each other again, this time both of them raising an eyebrow. The priest shook hands with Bernie and headed toward the front door.

  “You think that’s the new guy?” Alex asked, referring to the priest. Everyone in town had expected him to arrive sometime that month.

  “I suspect so,” Roger replied.

  “Seems young,” Alex commented. “At least younger than Father Joseph.”

  “Honey, God is younger than Father Joseph,” Francine responded.

  Roger studied the two newcomers as they stood outside under the awning at the front door, the priest waving to Bernie. “You’re right, he does look green behind the ears, and he has a pretty young passenger traveling with him, don’t you think?” He turned back around and winked at the waitress, who was still watching the three people outside. “Wonder what Father Joseph would say about those two?” he asked.

  “Shoot, Father Joseph’s eyesight is so bad, he wouldn’t be able to tell which one was his replacement if they were standing right in front of him.” Francine shook her head. She glanced down at Alex. “You want a little cherry soda with your lemonade?”

  Alex smiled. “Yes, thank you,” he responded.

  Francine nodded and walked behind the counter to the beverage station. “Order up,” she called out to Fred as she placed the order at the counter that was the opening to t
he kitchen. “The sheriff’s grandson wants extra dumplings.”

  Fred walked over to pick up Francine’s order. “I got hot sopaipillas too, Alex,” he called out to his favorite customer.

  Alex backed up his wheelchair and turned around to face the restaurant owner. “Thank you, Fred,” he said. “You’re the best.”

  “You save a sopaipilla for me?” Roger asked.

  “You get tortillas like everybody else,” Fred replied. “I don’t want to be accused of trying to bribe the sheriff.”

  “Nobody has to know, Fred,” Roger replied.

  “I’ll know,” Alex chimed in. “And I will talk.”

  “Sorry, Roger,” Fred said. “Can’t afford to get busted. No sopaipillas.”

  Roger smiled as Alex readjusted his chair under the table. Francine brought over their drinks just as the priest and his passenger entered the diner, shaking the rain from their hair and wiping their feet.

  Roger watched his grandson as the boy followed the pair with his eyes. “It’s not polite to stare, son,” he noted.

  Alex kept watching the two.

  “Alex,” Roger called out his name, trying to get the boy to look away from the strangers.

  “She looks a little like Mom,” Alex said softly, as if he was talking to himself, as if he had been expecting someone, but just not her.

  Roger studied his grandson and then glanced over to take a closer look at the young woman he had seen in the parking lot. He turned back, watched his grandson, and took a drink from his glass of tea. “I don’t know, Alex.” He hesitated. “A little maybe,” he conceded.

  “No, she really does,” Alex insisted. “I mean, she’s smaller than Mom, but she has her smile, and she fidgets like her.” He kept eyeing them.

  Roger turned back at the door. The girl, smiling, pointed to a booth, and the priest joined her. He nodded and smiled nervously at Roger and Alex before taking his seat across from his companion. Roger returned the greeting.

  “The priest seems kind of anxious,” Roger noted to his grandson. “Maybe Bernie did tell him not to eat here.”