Summer of a Thousand Pies

by Margaret Dilloway

  “Sit, Jacques!” Shell says in a no-nonsense tone, and Jacques sits, his tail wagging, doggie-grinning.

  “Go on, Cady. Get out and close the gate.” Shell gestures at the rusty latch. “Jacques’s young and kind of crazy. If he jumps, push him away and tell him to sit, like I did.” Shell nods at Julia, who waits calmly, her eyes darting from Shell to me. “Good girl, Julia.”

  I swallow, eyeing Jacques. His tail’s wagging so hard it makes his whole bottom half wiggle. I cautiously put my feet down, and Jacques stands.

  “Sit!” I say, too quietly, and Jacques bounds forward. “Sit, sit!” I yell, and his paws skitter to a halt. He plants his bottom on the ground, eyeing me. I pet Julia, then Jacques, who slobbers all over my hand. I’m surprised at how soft their fur is. Julia has a lot of it, too, but it’s silkier, like a seal’s. Then I finally close the squeaky gate, the dogs following me like I’m a famous person and they want my autograph.

  These dogs aren’t so bad. They’re just big. I pet Jacques on the head and Julia looks jealous so I have to pet both of them. “You’re kind of cute, but you could use a bath,” I tell them. Like me. Ha.

  Jacques woofs and bounds away. I get back in the truck and Shell slowly drives around a bend until a building comes into view. The house. There it is.

  It’s definitely not a castle or cave. It doesn’t look like my best friend Jenna’s house, which kind of reminds me of a spaceship taking off. This is much plainer. It’s two stories with windows that seem to be winking saltily, painted in a peeling creamy yellow. The upper windows stick out past the roofline. A sagging wraparound porch surrounds the lower portion, along with a yard that’s mostly dirt with some patchy areas of grass. In another area to the left of the house, chickens peck inside a wire fence. More trees shade the house. To the right and behind the house are neat rows of shorter trees, maybe only eight feet tall, that seem to stretch on for miles, with small fruits hanging from spidery branches.

  I want to oooh and ahhh, but I don’t want to get too happy about all this, in case things change again. Which they will. Things always change. Besides, I want Dad to come get me. I hug Bear.

  “This is my home,” Shell says, and I notice she doesn’t say our home, and my stomach cramps again. She takes the key out of the ignition. “Come on in.”

  I get out again, hauling my trash bag and Bear.

  Chapter 3

  The entrance hall is a covered porch that’s been walled off, lined with racks of shoes and dog leashes and coat hooks. Shell opens a screen door, then a wooden door, and we enter the living room.

  The inside of the house is dim and slightly musty smelling. The floorboards are spaced wide enough to drop quarters in between. It reminds me of the houses in Old Town, where we went on a field trip last year. All of them were built more than a hundred years ago. Maybe like this one.

  The house slopes, as if we’re on a ship that’s in rough water. If I put a ball on the floor, it would roll. I’m hoping it won’t bug me. Dad always says Mom was of hardy stock, which means she was tough. Like I want to be.

  At the thought of Dad, my heart squeezes. I hope he’s okay. I’m sure he is. I imagine him lying in a warm bed, covered with white sheets, getting the rest that he needs. I don’t really know if that’s true, though, because I’m not a hundred percent sure where my father is.

  “You’re going to be just fine.” Those were his last words before they took him. “You’re a smart girl and your daddy loves you.”

  I stomp down that memory and take a deep, shaky breath. I need to focus on Shell. Do what she says. Within reason, anyway. Being here feels disloyal to Dad—he wouldn’t want me trusting Shell too much. Anyway, if she really cared about what happened to me, she would have shown up a long time ago.

  I concentrate on the house, its maze of rooms. I glimpse hallways and pieces of other spaces. It kind of feels like someone built one small house and then kept on adding random extra parts.

  I follow Shell through the living room, past overstuffed brown couches covered with quilts, bookshelves, and an ancient small TV. My stomach makes yet another weird noise, like it’s generally freaked out. I always say my stomach’s got a mind of its own, a little pet I carry around in my midsection.

  Shell hangs up her purse and keys, then turns to me with a tired sigh. We stand there in the living room for a second, looking at each other.

  Since I’ve never had an aunt or anyone auntlike, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Thank her? Hug her? No thanks. I’m not a huge hugger. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel like I might break apart. Like I’m giving them something that I need to keep for myself, something I need to survive. My friend Jenna will hug everyone and everything. I’ve seen her hug at least three library books and a potted plant.

  Shaking hands is okay, though, so I hold out mine. If my manners are really good, then Shell can’t say anything bad about me. “I would like to express my sincerest thanks for coming out today.”

  Shell looks down at my hand and her mouth twitches. She takes it and I shake it firmly, the way Dad taught me. So the other person knows you mean business. “No problem.” Her hand is twice as big as mine. Shell’s not a small lady and I’m not a small girl. I’m about the size of a fourteen-year-old, though I’m barely twelve.

  Shell’s thick black brows meet momentarily. “You do look like your mother.”

  I already knew that. I don’t look much like my dad, who’s got stick-skinny legs and a scarecrow kind of body. I stick my chin out. The proud Bennett chin, with a dimple in the middle. Dad says that Bennetts have dignified jaws. “Except for this.”

  “Yup. That’s definitely not a Sanchez chin. We tend to be a bit weak there.” She smiles as she says this, but then we’re both quiet again. I wonder if Shell’s normally a big talker and if she’s nervous too. But grown-ups aren’t supposed to be nervous, are they? Grown-ups aren’t supposed to be lots of things that they are.

  “I want to be just like her too,” I inform Shell. I want to do something with food when I grow up.

  Shell gives me a funny look, opens her mouth, then closes it. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.” She turns abruptly and goes to the back of the kitchen, up a flight of steep stairs, Jacques and Julia practically knocking me over with their overenthusiastic tails.

  The room’s the first one at the top. I follow Aunt Shell inside and set my bag down, taking it all in. The bed’s brass, not shiny but dull, with dark spots and a curlicue, swirly kind of thing on the headboard. The quilt’s made of all kinds of patterns and materials, cut into not-exact squares. A white nightstand with two drawers holds a lamp shaped like a fat purple urn. A brown wood dresser with six drawers sits against the wall. In a corner of the room, plastic boxes are stacked up to about half my height. The walls are paneled with white-painted horizontal boards.

  It’s amazing.

  I put Bear on the pillow and sit on the bed. It squeaks and I bounce experimentally. It’s a big bed, at least as big as the one in the motel room and bigger than the one at Jenna’s house. I’ve never had a whole room to myself. This is smaller than Jenna’s bedroom, which had a couch and a gaming system and a big TV, but it’s the right size for me. I can’t help comparing this house to Jenna’s because that’s the only other real house I’ve visited. Shell’s house isn’t as fancy, but it feels cozier somehow.

  I stare up at the pictures on the wall. A black silhouette of a lady in a big skirt getting her hand kissed by a man wearing a long suit jacket. A small oil painting of a mountain. A faded color photo of two young girls and an older couple.

  “This is my guest room,” Shell says. “Also known as the junk room, until yesterday. I cleaned out most of the stuff, but there are a few odds and ends left.” She opens the closet. Half of it’s filled with coats and more boxes. It’s a little musty smelling. “This half is yours. The dresser drawers are empty. Feel free to use them.”

  I bounce some more. “Okay.” I have enough stuff
for one drawer, maybe. I look around the room again, eyeing a spiderweb in the far corner. It’s not spooky, though—it’s kind of homey. “Was this my mom’s room?”

  “Yeah. This was our room.” Shell’s voice cracks.

  I try to imagine Shell and my mom as kids. What kinds of toys did they have? Did they draw a line down the middle like sisters in the movies do? Thinking about them makes my chest feel light. “Did you guys get along?”

  Shell frowns and glances away. Oops. She doesn’t want to talk about my mom. “Yeah. We did.” She clears her throat. “Cady.” The silence goes on and on. Awkward. There’s so much more I want to ask her. Where’s my dad? Is he going to be okay? What’s going to happen to me? But the way she reacted makes me clam up tight, and I’m back to being lonely. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk because she knows I’m not going to be here that long.

  I need to be tough. “Yes, Aunt Shell?” I cross my arms. I should look her in the eye, the way my teacher told me to, but it’s easier to stare at her chin.

  “Get settled,” she says instead, “and come downstairs so you can have something to eat.” She turns and I hear the stairs creaking, the dogs’ nails clattering close behind.

  Yeah. Shell’s definitely not planning on having me here for long. That’s okay, though. We’re never in one place for more than a couple of days. This will be no different, except Dad’s not here.

  Besides, he left me alone a lot. He was always busy. Or not feeling well. Anyway, at least I can appreciate that this place is way nicer than where we usually stay.

  I open my black trash bag and dig out my stuff. A small photo album goes into the nightstand. I’ve got five spiral notebooks full of recipes I copied down from TV shows or the internet or even made up by myself. Mostly Italian food. Spaghetti with meatballs and marinara is my favorite. We used to eat that a lot when I was younger and Dad was still friends with people at the restaurant where he used to work. He’d bring me an aluminum pie tin full of it, flecked with fresh basil and garlic.

  I also have one notebook for dessert recipes. So far they’re for things that can be made either on a hot plate when we have a motel room or in a microwave. I can do a pretty good oatmeal-and-fruit kind of thing with canned peaches and instant oatmeal. Pudding is also no problem—I make one out of hot cocoa mix and cornstarch. The cooked kind that gets that delicious skin on top, which feels so fancy to me. I could eat just pudding skin forever and be happy.

  I write all these recipes down for two reasons. One, because my dad told me that’s what my mom used to do. She’d write them down and make up her own, too. And two, just in case. Just in case Dad and I really do get an apartment. Just in case I get to cook them all.

  It’s nice to think about both.

  I put the notebooks in one of the dresser drawers. My most prized possession, though, is probably my Culinary Arts Institute Encyclopedic Cookbook. It’s thicker than the Bible. Not only is it full of recipes—though a lot of them are bizarro 1950s recipes, like one for clear Jell-O with hotdogs floating in it—but it also has pages of cooking tips. Like it says what happens if you use too much sugar in a cake (it’ll either be heavy, fall, or crumble) or too little (be too pale or tough).

  Also, this book belonged to my mother, and to her mother before that. There are all kinds of notes written in the margins. Add more salt. Cook at 425, not 400. Things like that. Like that potions book Harry Potter had in The Half-Blood Prince. They’re tricks someone learned, and I can’t wait to see if they’ll work.

  My mom would have told me the tips herself if she was still around. Dad always says that Mom was the one who made him do stuff, who was the steady one. Without her, of course, he couldn’t handle anything, he’d said. Mom was our family glue.

  I put this in the drawer, too. It sticks when I try to close it, and I accidentally slam it.

  “Meowrrrr.”

  Under the bedspread, between the pillows, a big white cat head pokes out. It has flame-colored ears and bright blue-violet eyes. Slowly, it wriggles free, leaving a trail of snow-like fur in its wake, then yawns, squinting. Whoa. It’s easily the largest cat I’ve ever seen, the size of a bed pillow, with huge paws. “You are one big cat.”

  “Mawwww,” it whines crankily, and plods across the bed. It has an orange tail and some orange along its body, too. I sit down next to it and it rubs on me as if it knows me. “What’s your name, big cat?” I scratch the side of its head.

  “Meow.” It drools on my fingers. I wipe my hand on my pants.

  “That’s not a good name.” It’s got a collar on and I turn the tag over. Tom. “Tom? That’s a funny name for a cat.”

  “Mew-rawr.” The cat settles down, purring. I scratch Tom’s ears. All my life without any pets and suddenly I’m in a house with three. But Dad said since we stay in motels, pets wouldn’t work. “As soon as I get us set up, Cady,” he’d promised me. Everything was “as soon as.” I put my hand over Tom’s head—my palm barely covers his skull, and I’m pretty sure I’m already in love.

  I should write to Jenna. I can still feel her bony arms squeezed around me, see her splotchy face. When I left, her mom practically had to peel her off me with a crowbar. I get out a notebook and open it to a blank page.

  Dear Jenna,

  I hope you’re doing okay. I’m sorry I had to leave before the Reading Buddies party, but I’m sure Ms. Walker will make sure you have a good time. Maybe Anna-Tyler will even read to you, if she can climb down from her high horse! (Ha, ha, right!)

  Everything’s fine. My Aunt Shell (short for Michelle!) got me. She’s so nice! Her house is super cool even though it’s in the middle of nowhere. And she has lots of animals. Tom, Jacques, and Julia. Maybe more.

  Anyway, don’t worry about me. I’ll write again soon.

  Love, Cady

  I draw pictures of all the animals for good measure. I’m not the world’s best artist, but you can tell what they are, and that’s all that counts.

  There. I tear out the letter and fold it into thirds. Now I have to get an envelope from Shell and a stamp. Jenna’s mom says she’s too young to have an email account, but her mom did give me their home address before I left, and I promised Jenna I’d write. Besides, I’ve always wanted a pen pal.

  Chapter 4

  I head down to the kitchen, Tom trailing me. It’s straight through the living room. The room’s bright, with a whole wall of windows. The cupboards are white, old but clean. Yellow linoleum lines the floor and the countertops match. There’s a really wide stove top and a double wall oven. The appliances in here look way newer than anything else in the house.

  I lean against the doorway, not sure where I should sit. Shell is washing a pan at the sink. “You must be hungry.” She rinses the pan, puts it on a drying rack, then rubs her eye. “Want a sandwich to tide you over until dinner? Grilled cheese or ham?”

  My stomach makes another noise at sandwich, so I figure that’s what it wants. “Ham sandwich.” Jars of flour and sugar are lined up along the counter and I sort of gasp at how pretty they look. Maybe I can finally try making a cake, if Shell will let me. Or cookies. Or who knows what.

  The dogs rush up to the cat, rubbing his fur with their wet noses. Tom jumps onto a kitchen chair and cleans his fur where their noses touched, as if he’s highly offended. I can understand that. Getting dog snot on your fur probably feels gross.

  “I see you met Thomas Patrick Colicchio, the biggest cat in all of Julian. Well, except for the bobcats.” Shell gestures at the table, which is almost entirely covered in stacks of papers, and I sit at the one cleared spot. “Tom’s twenty-five pounds, and he stays inside. Too many coyotes.”

  “Tom—Colicchio?” The name sounds familiar. Then I remember it from an ad during my YouTube recipe watching. “That guy on Top Chef?”

  “You bet.” Shell’s mouth turns up. “Jacques and Julia are named after chefs, too—you might not know them. The names were my partner Suzanne’s idea. She’s a cook for a yacht charter company.
She’s coming back tonight.”

  “Suzanne?” This is interesting. I didn’t know there were two grown-ups in this deal. I wonder what Suzanne’s like.

  A plate clatters onto the table. Thick pieces of multigrain bread and slices of ham and cheese. Real ham, not lunch meat ham. “I hope you like tomato,” Shell says. “If you don’t, you’re wrong.”

  Who tells someone they’re wrong for not liking something? “Huh. It’s not my absolute favorite, but it’s okay.” I only like tomatoes in sauces. My mouth waters, though, when the tangy-sweet smell hits my nostrils. I forget about trying to argue and bite into the sandwich. This tomato tastes like the sun, if the sun had a taste and was also juicy. Not like tomatoes from the school cafeteria or on burgers. Mayo balances the saltiness of the ham and cheese. I try to chew slowly, but it’s difficult because I’m cramming it into my mouth as fast as I can.

  “Milk or water to drink?” She hands me a small package of plain potato chips.

  I suppose this means Dr Pepper’s not an option. “Milk.” My dad lets me have Dr Pepper. Sometimes a liter of soda is cheaper than a liter of bottled water, so then he’ll let me get some.

  Dad. My throat kind of closes for a second and I stare down at the table. It’s painted white wood, chipping on the top.

  “Ahem.” Shell looks at me expectantly from her post at the kitchen sink. “Manners?”

  I blink, still lost in thought about Dad. Then I figure out what Shell wants. “Milk, please,” I say finally. Dad doesn’t make me say “please.” When we eat together at a motel, we’re watching TV and eating out of bags. I guess I’ll have to treat Shell’s house like school. Ms. Walker does like a good please and thank you.