Authors: Lynne Hinton
P
ie Town.” Trina woke from a deep sleep, whispering the name of the place from her dream, a name that brought her ease and delight, a name of a place that made her smile. She wiped her eyes, saying it again, “Pie Town,” and glanced around. She was in a strange house, waking to nothing that was familiar.
She could see that she had been sleeping on the floor of a small clapboard house, in the front room, a woodstove lit and burning. Trina sat up from her pallet of quilts and blankets. “Hello,” she said, hearing nothing from inside or outside of the cabin. She reached down and felt rags wrapped around her feet, stiffness in her thighs. That was when she recalled that she had left Tucson and had been walking for at least three, maybe four days. She lost track of the time after she left Globe and headed onto the San Carlos Indian Reservation. Her last memory of the walk was a truckload of men passing her alongside the road, Highway 60, she thought, seeing the brake lights, watching the vehicle as it stopped and began backing up.
She had jumped across a fence, run beyond the highway, out into the desert. And she had walked for miles, following only the stars and heading away from the faint sound of traffic. She must have collapsed, she thought, and wondered, as she looked around her at the walls of the rustic dwelling, the sparse furniture, the stacks of catalogs, and the worn planks in the floor, who had rescued her and what was going to be expected from her. Turning to her side, Trina noticed her backpack leaning against the wall. She reached for it and opened the top to see that nothing had been stolen. She looked inside the front pocket, pulled out her wallet, and counted her money. Not a penny was missing.
She pushed off the covers and stood. Her legs were wobbly, and she knew, without seeing, that the bindings had been wrapped around her feet because they were blistered and raw. It was painful, but she managed to walk toward an adjoining room, an old and well-used kitchen. An icebox had been pushed into one corner, a table with two chairs was in the other. There was a sink, a small stove, a kettle set on one eye, steam pouring from the spout, and a few cupboards, their doors latched.
Trina glanced out the window and saw an old woman not very far away, bent over, picking berries from a bush. High canyon walls loomed behind her. The woman turned and raised her head slightly just as Trina noticed her, just as if she had been waiting for her guest to wake up and call for her, and then she stood up. She smiled and nodded and turned to walk back to the house.
“Hi,” Trina said as the woman entered the kitchen.
She did not respond. She walked over to the stove, took the kettle from the eye, and dropped the berries into a cup. She poured water over them and handed the cup to Trina. She nodded, motioning the young woman to drink.
“Is this tea?” Trina asked and tipped the cup to her lips and took a sip.
“Tea,” the woman repeated.
Trina thought the taste was slight and bitter, but it warmed her. She took another sip.
The woman sat down at the table, and Trina followed, sitting across from her. The woman wore a thin gray braid of hair that circled the top of her head. She had dark brown skin and narrow eyes, broken yellow teeth, obvious when she grinned.
“Did you find me?” Trina asked. “Did you bring me here?”
The woman did not answer.
“I don’t remember what happened to me. I was walking from Tucson.”
“Tucson,” the woman repeated. “You walk from Tucson.”
Trina nodded. She remembered the phone conversation she overheard from the balcony at the Twilight Motel before she left, Conroe’s betrayal, the way a heart sounds when it breaks. She left without a fight, without an explanation, without hearing an excuse. She packed a few clothes in her backpack, took one hundred dollars from his wallet, a bottle of water, and a flashlight, and left the motel, left her life with the smooth-talking man from Abilene and started walking.
“Where am I?” Trina asked.
The woman lifted her chin, folded her hands as if she were holding a teacup, bringing them to her lips, motioning Trina to keep drinking. She wore bracelets on both arms, silver with large blue stones.
Trina followed the instructions and finished the tea. The warmth of the liquid, the unknown contents, seemed to calm her.
“Are you Indian?” she asked as she placed the cup on the table.
“Apache,” the woman answered.
“Am I in Arizona?” Trina asked, trying to remember the map she had read at her last stop, trying to remember what direction she was heading.
“Apache land” came the reply.
Trina recalled that out of Globe, she had started walking east on Highway 60, heading in the direction of New Mexico. From there, she was trying to get back to the last place she lived, get back to Texas. It had been dark, and then she remembered the truck and the group of men she had seen earlier that evening at the service station where she had stopped to eat a bowl of soup, how the brake lights on the truck flashed and how it moved in reverse, how the men smiled and rubbed their hands together when they saw it was her alone on the road.
“I left the highway, started walking through the desert,” she said, not sure why she was explaining herself to the woman since it appeared she did not speak English. “I don’t know how far I walked.”
“Apache land,” the woman repeated. “White Mountains,” she added. And then she got up from the table and walked into the other room. She returned with an old map and opened it for Trina to examine. Standing next to Trina, she pointed to the Apache Reservation, along the southeast corner of Arizona, in the Natanas Plateau. Trina had walked to the Salt River Canyon.
She smiled and reached over to Trina and patted her on the belly. She spoke words that Trina did not understand, and Trina assumed her hostess was asking her if she was hungry.
“Breakfast,” Trina said. “Yes, I would like something to eat.”
The woman grinned. She walked over to the icebox and pulled out a plate of bread and grabbed a jar of honey from a cupboard. She placed them in front of Trina and nodded.
Although she was embarrassed to be eating in front of the woman, eating what was probably the only food in the house, Trina could not stop herself. She ate three pieces of bread before she felt full. The woman only watched, nodding in approval. “I was so hungry,” she said, shaking her head, surprised at her appetite, surprised at how good the morning meal tasted. “I have some money. I can pay you for the bread.”
The woman shook her head as if she understood. “I fix you shoes,” she said. “To keep walking.”
Trina didn’t respond. She remembered she was wearing sneakers when she left Tucson. The red ones with the narrow soles. She watched as the woman left the room again, returning with a pair of buckskin moccasins, old ones with magazine paper stuffed in the heels. The strings were made of dark leather. “You take these,” she said and placed them on Trina’s lap. “You take these shoes to Pie Town.”
Trina was surprised. “Pie Town. I dreamed about Pie Town,” she said. “I dreamed I was going to Pie Town, New Mexico. I saw it on the map at Globe. It’s straight east on Highway 60, the one I was walking on.” She studied the old woman. “How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know about my dream? How did you know that was where I was going?”
And without answering, the old woman clapped her hands together, the bracelets sliding down her arms, opened her mouth wide, and laughed out loud.
O
ris Whitsett pulled up in his driveway, parked, and opened the door on the driver’s side. He slid his legs over and stood up. He was wearing an old dress shirt and nothing else but socks. He licked a finger, held it up to calculate the direction of the wind, and then nodded, lifting his chin in the direction of his next-door neighbor, who was watching.
Millie Watson, a widow since the 1980s, was rolling her emptied trash can from the edge of the road to the back of her house. She stopped when she saw Oris pull in. They had been friends for as many years as they had been neighbors in Pie Town, and that had been about half a century. “Oris,” she said rather politely. She glanced over his head toward the mountains. “Wind’s picked up from the north. Means a change in weather. Likely we’ll have rain this week.” She waited. “You forget something?”
The old man looked down, shaking his head. “Got mud all over myself when I fell down in the cornfield out at Earl’s. He was irrigating. I couldn’t get dirt all over the seats, so I took off my britches. You know I haven’t even had this Buick a month.” He smiled. “Have I shown you the trunk?” he asked.
“About four times,” Millie answered.
“It’s big,” Oris noted.
Millie made a kind of clucking noise, shaking her head, as she steadied herself over the trash can. She usually walked with a walker. “You went way out to Lemitar this morning? You must have left before dawn.”
“Four o’clock,” he answered. “Before this wind picked up.”
“You get any corn?” she asked, sounding very matter-of-fact.
“A couple of bushels,” Oris answered. “He’s charging more this year. Said he needed a new tractor.” He scratched his chin. “You want yours now or you want me to shuck ’em for you?”
Millie studied her neighbor. “I’d prefer you put on some pants.” She turned back to face the direction she had been heading. “I can come for the corn after dinner.” She wheeled the can ahead, walked through the gate, and placed the garbage can by the back door. She went into the house, leaving Oris outside by himself.
He walked around to the other side of the car and was leaning inside, grabbing his pants and shoes from the floorboard when his daughter, Malene, drove past and skidded to a stop just beyond the front of his driveway. She threw the engine in reverse, made a hard turn to her left, and pulled in behind her father’s new Buick.
She flew out of her car, looking much younger than her fifty-plus years. “Jesus Christ, son of the Living God, Daddy, have you gone and lost your mind for good?” She hurried toward Oris, pulling off her sweater and, once she got beside him, throwing it around her father’s waist.
“Do not drive up here using that kind of language, Missy,” he said, twisting to try to face her as she yanked the sweater sleeves into a knot behind him, his butt still uncovered. “Your mother will not have it.”
“What my mother will not have is your ass hanging out for the entire neighborhood to see.” She glanced around to notice who was watching. She shook her head. Fortunately, it appeared as if everyone who lived near her dad was away from home, everyone it seemed except Fedora Snow, who lived directly across the street and was clearly peeking out her front window. Malene smiled and waved, moving in front of Oris.
“I told you Fedora threatened to call the police on you the next time you did something crazy.” She rolled her eyes and faced her father. “I bet she’s calling Roger right now.”
Oris looked at the house across the street. As he peered in that direction, the curtains fell shut where his neighbor had been watching. “Fedora Snow didn’t pay her phone bill. She can’t call the sheriff because she doesn’t have a phone.” He flipped his third finger up, knowing he was still being watched.
“Jesus, Daddy!” Malene grabbed her father’s hand and pulled it down. “Am I going to have to get you a room in the Alzheimer’s unit?”
Oris yanked his hand away from his daughter and reached down, grabbing his pants. He stuffed the sweater, still tied around his waist, inside them as Malene tried to shield him. “You can’t put me in your fancy nursing home because I have it written in my will that if you try to put me away I’ll take back the land I gave you when you got married.”
“Daddy, that was thirty-five years ago that you gave me that land. I sold that parcel and the house we built on it after Roger became sheriff. You can’t get that land back because it’s a business zone and Frank has his garage there and Midford built the pool hall behind it. It’s gone. It’s been gone. And I’m tired of you threatening me with it.” She sighed, backing away from her fully dressed father. “Here,” she said, letting out a long breath, “let me help you with the corn.” She walked around to the rear of the car while he opened the trunk with his key, and she pulled out a basket. “Looks better this year,” she commented, steadying the container against the car and holding up an ear, studying it.
“Quite a trunk, right?” he asked.
Malene just rolled her eyes.
“Actually Earl’s brother from Socorro already got the best of it. I didn’t even know the corn was ready until Fred told me at the diner. By the time I got there, most of the ripe ears had been picked.” He stood behind his daughter and reached for another basket. He lifted it up, and the two of them walked toward the rear of the house. “But with the wind picking up, I guess it’s a good thing I went this morning.” They placed the baskets at the back door. Malene turned.
“What was it Mama used to say about early morning winds in summer?”
“Breeze before noon, storm coming soon,” Oris replied, quoting his wife.
Malene smiled and headed toward the car.
“Aren’t you staying?” he asked, surprised to see her leaving.
“I got to go to work, Daddy,” she explained. Her voice sounded tired, heavy. “I already had to split my shift. I was up all night with Alex. It’s his legs again.”
Oris glanced away. He knew about the continuous aches and pains of his great-grandson. The little boy had been born with spina bifida, and he had been in and out of the hospital for most of his ten years. Malene was a certified nursing assistant who worked at the local nursing home and had become the primary caregiver for both her grandson and her father. Angel, Alex’s mother and Malene’s daughter, had left Pie Town about a month after Alex was born. No one knew exactly where she was.
“You want me to go over there and keep him company?” Oris asked. Alex had around-the-clock care, services the state offered through its health care program, but Oris still stayed with the boy quite a bit. They were close.
“Frieda’s there until I get off work at seven.” Malene stopped and glanced back at her father. “Just you stay out of trouble, would you?” She shook her head. “Please, just keep your clothes on when you’re outside.” She turned and headed to her car. She opened the door and could see the sheriff’s car pulling around the corner. She yelled back at her father, “Looks like you’re wrong about Fedora paying her phone bill. I’m going to have to let you handle this with Roger. I’m already half an hour late.” She got in and cranked the engine. She backed out, waving at the sheriff who stopped his car on the street in front of the house.
Roger got out and nodded at Malene as she pulled away. He rested his hands on his hips and glanced over at Fedora Snow’s house. He could see her peeking out the window, and he raised his chin at her, waiting to see if she would come out of her house. When she didn’t open her door, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and headed up the driveway toward Oris. He could see the old man from the street. Oris had walked to his car and taken a third basket from the trunk and was heading to the back door. As Roger passed the Buick, he noticed a remaining small cardboard box of corn, and he grabbed it and closed the trunk.
“
Buenos días
, Oris,” Roger said as he got near him. “You’ve been out to Earl’s early,” he commented. “I didn’t even know it was picking time.”
“You didn’t know because you don’t pick corn, and anyway, just because you’re sheriff doesn’t mean you know everything.” Oris studied the younger man. “Fedora got you on her payroll like she does Stan Ortez? Funny, though, because it looks like he does all the yard work, so what’s she paying you for?”
“She claims you’re performing lewd and lascivious acts in your front yard.” Roger placed the box of corn next to the basket and pulled a toothpick from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth. He stood in front of Oris.
“Fedora wouldn’t know a lewd and lascivious act if she participated in it,” Oris responded.
“What’s that hanging out of your zipper?” Roger asked.
Oris glanced down. He had forgotten that he had put his pants on over his daughter’s sweater. He unbuttoned his pants, yanked off the sweater from around his waist, and threw it on the back of one of the patio chairs by the door. He then zipped up his pants and buttoned them, and then he sat down on the chair and pulled a basket of corn in front of him. “You gonna just stand there and write me a ticket, or you gonna sit and shuck?”
Roger smiled. He pulled the other chair around and sat down. He reached down and grabbed an ear of corn. “Malene didn’t look too happy,” he noted as he pulled the husk away from the ear.
“Malene doesn’t get enough sleep,” Oris responded. “She tries to do too much,” he added. “Thinks she can save the world, and yet she couldn’t even save her marriage.”
“That was a long time ago, Oris,” Roger said. “Why don’t you give her a break?”
“Because when a man and a woman promise before God and their witnesses to love each other until death they do part, I expect that they’re telling the truth.” He yanked the papery layers from the ear of corn he was shucking in one long pull, twisted them so that they came off when he got to the end, and threw the husk down on the ground in front of him. He slid his fingers along the ear, removing the silver threads, and then placed the new corn in the basket.
“She meant it when she said it,” Roger replied, leaning over and putting his clean ear of corn next to the one Oris had shucked.
“Well, meaning it and honoring it are two different things.” Oris reached for another piece of corn.
Roger slid his hands along the front of his pants and tapped his foot. He slid around a bit in his seat.
“You still trying to quit smoking?” Oris asked, having noticed the fidgety behavior of his visitor.
“I am not trying. I have quit,” Roger said in response.
“Still think about it, though, don’t you?” Oris grinned as he continued to yank and pull at husks. His hands worked like a machine.
“Yes, Oris, I do.”
“When I was a boy, we rolled up corn silk and smoked it.” He glanced over at Roger and winked. “You can have all that you want,” he said, pointing with his chin at the husks and threads piling up around his feet.
“Never quite got the taste for corn smoking,” Roger commented, recalling how his grandfather had let him inhale from a homemade cigarette when he was a boy. He had coughed the rest of the day from that one hit.
“Yeah, your generation is soft,” Oris said. “Can’t smoke corn. Can’t work a field. Can’t stay married.”
Roger smiled. He knew his former father-in-law would have to come back to his favorite topic. He was still upset about his daughter’s divorce. “You’re right, Oris. You’re always right.” He stood up from his chair and stretched. He reached in his front shirt pocket and pulled out a stick of gum. “I figure Malene already read you the riot act, so I’m not going to say anything about Fedora’s complaint.” He unwrapped the gum and stuck the piece in his mouth, wadding up the wrapper in his hand and sticking it his pocket. “But don’t make me have to drive out here again this week,” he noted. “I might just have to arrest you next time.”
“Tell Fedora Snow to mind her own business,” Oris responded.
“Don’t incite her, Oris,” Roger said, and he turned to walk to his car.
“You know Alex is hurting again,” Oris said.
Roger turned around. He looked down and nodded. “Yes, Oris, I know. I’m on my way over there now.” He faced the older man. “I suppose I’ll see you at the birthday party?”
“I’m making my famous hot buttermilk cornbread to go with the cowboy beans,” Oris replied. “And I bought Alex one of those new computer games he likes so much, ordered it off of the Internet over at the library in Silver City.”
Roger smiled. “He’ll like that.” He turned around. “Just make sure to wear pants,” he said, waving as he walked away.
Oris grinned, yanking the husk from another ear of corn. He watched in silence as the sheriff’s car pulled away from the front of his house and moved down the street.