by Lynne Hinton
The two of them sat in silence a while.
“You should, Bernie,” Francine said, surprising herself that she would offer any advice to Bernie. “You should let Frank buy it and give it to Raymond. Maybe it would help if he had something of his own, something that could really take him out of town, give him some freedom, something he could drive other than that silly old bike. Maybe that’s just what he needs to be able to let go of what happened to him over there. Maybe if he has a new car, he’ll feel better about being home.”
Bernie didn’t answer. He thought about the suggestion. He shrugged. “I never drive it anyway.”
Francine smiled. She leaned against the seat. She thought it was a great idea.
“Maybe it’s time to let the past go. Maybe it’s time to live in the present, stop trying to hold on to the way things used to be.” He hit the steering wheel with his fist. “I think I’m going to do it. That boy deserves something special. As far as I’m concerned, he is this town’s hero, and I want to honor him. So, by golly, I’m going to do it. I’m going to sell ole Mattie to Frank so that he can give it to Raymond.” He turned to Francine. “You know, your kindness is only part of the reason I love you.”
Francine blushed. It was the first time he had used those words. She leaned over, and they kissed.
“Of course, maybe before I let ole Mattie go, we should give her a run for her money,” Bernie said.
“You mean rev up the engine and take her for a spin?” Francine asked. “I’d love to take a ride in Mattie with you.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bernie noted.
Francine appeared confused. She waited.
“I mean rev up your engine and take you for a spin,” he replied, the grin widening across his face.
“Bernie King,” she commented, her face reddening.
“Well . . .” was all he said.
“Aren’t we kind of old to be making out in the backseat of your parents’ car?” she asked.
“Why should we let the young people have all the fun?” he asked, with a wink. He reached over and placed his hand on Francine’s knee.
Francine laughed, and then together they opened up their doors, got out, and crawled into the backseat.
FIFTEEN
You got any pie?” The trucker flashed a smile. He was of medium height and build, wore his hair sort of long, had on a T-shirt and jeans and a pair of Tony Lama boots.
“Desserts are written up on the board,” Bea replied, turning and pointing toward the chalkboard near the counter where they kept a list of the daily specials and the types of desserts offered that day.
“I’m glad because I drove way out of my way to come for pie,” he responded.
Bea nodded. She had heard that sentiment before. The diner got a lot of tourist traffic. Seems everybody liked having pie in Pie Town. She didn’t complain, of course, since it was good for business. She was glad that Francine had started baking. It had always been disappointing before when she had to explain to tourists that they only had brownies.
“You driving that load of cars?” It was Oris who asked. He was still drinking coffee and chatting with Fred and Bea a couple of hours after having finished his breakfast.
“Yep, just got a new shipment from Denver, driving them over to Phoenix, then to Tucson. They’ll use them down at the border.” He studied the list of pies. “How’s the lemon?” he asked.
“Tart,” Oris answered for Bea. “Take the blueberry. It’s a couple of days old, but it’s sweet.”
The trucker chewed on the inside of his lips. “I don’t know. I like tart.” He grinned. “I’ll try the lemon.”
“Suit yourself, stranger,” Oris said. “Just don’t complain when you can’t get your mouth unpuckered.”
The truck driver nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bea headed behind the counter to get a slice of pie.
Oris watched the driver. “You from Colorado?” he asked.
The driver shook his head. “Texas,” he answered. “Abilene.”
Oris nodded. “And you drove way off Highway 25 just for a slice of pie?”
“It is Pie Town,” the trucker replied. “You’ve gotten kind of popular since you started that big pie festival in the fall. I read about your town in a trucker’s magazine I get. Plus they closed Highway 40 at Gallup yesterday. Wildfires,” he added.
Oris nodded. He had heard about the road closures.
“So I’ve been planning to drive over here for about a year anyway, figured I’d just take the back roads, miss the fires, and have some dessert even if it is still morning.”
“You were planning to drive way over here for Francine’s pie?” Oris asked.
The man stretched his legs under the table where he was sitting. “You saying it’s a waste of my time?”
“It is for the lemon,” Oris answered. “Chocolate maybe, blueberry, okay, but she doesn’t even use real lemon in that recipe. Gets the pudding from a box.”
“Oris Whitsett,” Bea called out as she brought the slice of pie to the customer. “The man drove all the way from Abilene to have pie, leave him be.”
Oris shrugged. “I’m just saying he could get that lemon pie at any truck stop in the country. If he drove all the way out here, he should have at least gotten the blueberry.”
Bea shook her head as she placed the dessert on the table in front of the trucker. “Don’t pay him any mind. We try to keep him out, but nowadays you got to serve everybody.”
The trucker smiled. “It’s fine. I meet all kinds of folks on the road,” he said, lifting his fork. “Anyway, I’m glad to be here. And, mister, since you seem to know a lot about things here, maybe you can help me out.”
Oris waited.
“I need a part for the truck, a new headlight. Bulb blew last night. I figure that since I’m sidetracked, stopping for pie, I’ll still be driving at dark. Is there a garage or auto parts store around here?” He glanced up at Oris, who was watching him. He took a bite and smiled. He didn’t want to say so, but the old man had been right: it was tart. “Mmmmm,” he said, still smiling.
Oris grinned. He could see the pucker coming. “You’ll need to go to Frank’s,” he noted. “He has a place on your way out of town. I expect he’ll have what you need.”
The trucker nodded. He still hadn’t swallowed.
“Those government cars?” Oris asked. He had turned again to face the window and was peering at the truck loaded with cars parked outside in the lot.
The man nodded. He smacked his lips together and raised his eyebrows. Then he reached over and took a sip from his water. “Border patrol vehicles,” he answered.
“What a waste,” Oris commented. “New SUVs like that driving across the desert. Seems to me they’d do better just using old army jeeps from the war.”
“You’re talking about the waste of buying new cars?” Fred called out from the kitchen. He had stuck his head through the window. “Well, if that ain’t the skillet calling the kettle black, I don’t know what is.”
Oris jerked his head around to face Fred. “I pay cash for every vehicle I buy, return it to the dealership after fifty thousand miles, and get a nice trade-in. I keep my cars clean and running well and maintain a low mileage. Tell me a government agency that has bought its own vehicles and paid cash and I’ll wash dishes for a year.” He stopped. “In fact, now that I think about it, all the taxes I’ve mailed in over the years, I probably paid for one of them fancy cars on his carrier. I should just back one off the trailer and drive it home.”
“You pay taxes?” Bea asked. She was refilling the water in the trucker’s glass.
“Federal and state,” Oris answered, with a grin. “I write a check for at least ten dollars every April 15.”
“Well, one of those vehicles costs a little more than ten dollars,” the trucker noted. “Guess you’ll have to wait a couple of years.”
Oris nodded. “I ’spect so. And I’m a little partial to the Buick.”
/>
It was quiet in the diner for a few minutes. Bea had gone to the kitchen, and Fred joined her. Oris was watching the traffic outside, and the trucker finished his dessert. He glanced down at his watch and started making his way out of the booth where he was sitting.
“Well, I guess I better get to the highway,” the trucker announced as he made his way to the cash register. He turned to Oris. “Where’s that garage you mentioned?” He fished out a few bills from his wallet.
Bea came out and took the man’s money. “It’s just a mile or so up the road. Frank Twinhorse runs it,” she answered for Oris.
“ ’Cept the priest come and got him a little while ago, he might not be over there,” Oris chimed in. “But maybe Trina’s working,” he added.
The trucker returned his wallet and had just stuck a toothpick in his mouth. He pulled it out and turned to the man at his right. “Trina?” he asked, repeating the name he had just heard Oris call out.
Oris laughed. “I know it’s odd that a girl would want to be a mechanic. I never imagined that it would work out either. But she actually knows her way around an engine pretty good.”
“She’s been with Frank about a year. Trina Lockhart’s her name,” Bea noted.
Oris studied the trucker, sensing an interest. “ ’Course, I only let Frank touch my Buick.” He stopped, still noticing the response of the trucker. “What? You know her?” he asked.
The man stared at Oris for a minute and then shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I doubt I’d know a girl in Pie Town.”
“Oh, Trina ain’t from Pie Town,” Oris said. “She’s from your home state.” He grinned. “Maybe ya’ll have met.”
The trucker shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so,” he said. “Texas is a big place.” He took the coins Bea handed him and placed them in his front pocket, the expression on his face suddenly changed.
“I guess that’s right,” Bea responded. “And besides, I think Trina is from Amarillo, not Abilene.” She smiled.
“I think you’re right, Bea,” Oris noted.
They both watched the trucker, who had turned his head and was staring out the window.
“I sure hope you’ll come again,” Bea said.
And the man didn’t respond as he headed out the door.
Bea and Oris watched as the trucker climbed up in the cab, started the engine, and drove away in the opposite direction from where they had given directions to Frank’s garage.
“Well, that seemed an odd way of taking his leave after having been so talkative while he was eating,” Bea noted.
They watched as the dust kicked up behind the truck as he drove away.
“Told you that pie was too tart” was the only thing Oris had to say.
SIXTEEN
Oh, it’s already twelve o’clock.” Father George sighed. “How did that happen?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Just give me a minute and I’ll take care of this.” He stood up and noticed what he was wearing. He tucked his shirt into his pants and then tried to smooth out the wrinkles with his hands.
Malene and Frank glanced out the window where the priest was watching and saw the two cars that had pulled into the parking lot. Trina sat up to see what was going on and immediately noticed the squad car stopping in front of the church. She turned to Malene and started to get up from the sofa where she had been resting. “What’s he . . .” she started to ask.
“It’s just a premarital session,” Father George answered, realizing that Trina thought that the three of them had finally discounted her request and called law enforcement. “It’s Danny and Christine.”
Trina didn’t respond.
“I have an appointment to meet with them at twelve,” George added. He walked around the sofa and placed his hand on Trina’s shoulder. “It’s a standing appointment,” he explained. “Just lay low,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I’ll make something up and reschedule.” He hurried out the front door of the rectory before anybody could respond.
The three inside the pastor’s house watched as he greeted the couple and began a conversation. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was smiling and seemed apologetic, shaking his head and apparently offering some explanation about why he couldn’t meet with them at the arranged time.
Christine seemed disappointed or frustrated, it was hard to tell. She kept checking her watch while folding and unfolding her arms across her chest. She shifted her weight from side to side as if she were bored.
Frank noticed the deputy glancing around the church while George talked, probably making a mental note of Trina’s and Malene’s vehicles parked in the lot. He peered over the priest’s head, stopping his gaze in the direction of the rectory. Frank pulled Malene away from the window and over to the sofa to sit next to Trina.
Father George was back in just a few minutes, and not long after his return they watched Danny and Christine drive off.
“Well, I guess I better come up with the reason I needed to leave work and come to church,” Malene noted. She knew both Danny and Christine could recognize her car.
“I took care of that,” George responded.
Malene waited.
“I told them that an emergency had come up, that a woman and her children had been dropped off here by a family member, that she needed assistance, and that I had called you and Trina to help me find them some groceries and clothes. And then later I plan to drive them down to Socorro to the shelter.”
Trina studied George. She seemed better since Malene had washed the wounds and she had taken some nourishment. She was sipping water through a straw, trying to stay hydrated. “I thought priests didn’t lie,” she said, attempting to smile. She shifted her position gingerly. It was easy to see that she was still in some pain.
George rolled his eyes. “Creative situational management,” he said. “It’s not really a lie. That actually did happen.”
The three in the room waited for an explanation.
“Last week,” he said. He scratched his head.
The others kept staring.
“Of course, I didn’t call you or Trina.” He turned to Malene. “And it wasn’t a woman and her children.” He drew in his bottom lip, biting it.
“Wasn’t really even a person.” He cleared his throat. “It was a dog.”
He hesitated. “Okay, I lied.”
Malene laughed. “I think creative situational management is called upon from time to time.”
Trina reached over to try to punch the priest, who had sat down beside her. She missed and spilled some of her water, flinching a bit because of the pain her movement caused.
“I’m a klutz,” Trina acknowledged as Malene rushed over and cleaned up the spill. She glanced up and noticed Frank, who was still watching out the window. “Don’t look so serious. It’s going to be okay,” she said to him. “Frank,” she called out, trying to get his attention.
He kept staring out the window and shook his head. “I’m so sorry about this,” he said.
Father George sighed. He had already spent more than a couple of hours trying to reassure Frank that he wasn’t responsible for his son’s actions.
“Would you please stop beating yourself up?” Trina said. “You came when George asked you to come,” she noted. “You got Alexandria over to Frieda’s without spilling the beans to her. You went to the house and got me some clothes. You gave me that really awful tea that seems to have helped my pain a lot.”
She reached her hand out to him, but he didn’t come over to her. “Quit doing this to yourself. I wouldn’t have asked you here if I’d known you were going to be like this.”
Frank still had not faced anyone in the room.
“Frank, I’m okay. I’m sure Raymond is okay or we’d have heard something from somebody.” She had finally started to relax about her boyfriend, finally started to believe that he was fine or that they would have been contacted if he had been in a wreck or gotten hurt. “We’re going to find Raymond and get him some help from
the VA.”
Malene stood up and walked over to her friend. “She’s right, Frank. That was Danny, and he was on duty last night. If something had happened he would know, and he would have reported it, and Roger would have called us.”
She could see that nothing was getting through to her friend. “Frank, we can’t be held responsible for our children’s choices.” She rubbed her eyes. “Lord knows, I’ve had to learn that lesson more times than I care to say.”
Frank finally turned to Malene. He knew she was talking about her daughter Angel, who had struggled with a drug addiction for many years. He had thought the young woman was finally clean, that she had gotten help when her son died, but he understood that you never know with addicts and drunks. “One day at a time” was not just a bumper sticker they put on their cars. It was a way of life for them and everybody who loved them.
He nodded. “I know” was all he said.
Trina leaned against the pillow that had been placed behind her and set her drink on the table next to the sofa.
“I still think we should get a doctor to take a look at you.” George was watching her. He was concerned about her burns.
“I’ll be okay,” she replied. “I don’t feel so hot anymore, and I’ll keep taking the pills Malene gave me.”
“The tea,” Frank responded. “Keep drinking the tea,” he instructed.
Trina blew out a breath. “There’s more?” she asked.
Frank nodded. “A cup every two hours. George, you’ll make sure she takes it?”
Father George agreed. “You’ll stay here for the rest of the day,” he said to Trina. “I’ll take you to pick up Alexandria this evening when you’d normally be getting off work.”
“Where’s everybody else going?” Trina asked, understanding that it was starting to sound like a mass exit.
“I need to get back to Carebridge,” Malene answered. “If I clock in by twelve-thirty, I can still get my morning rounds in.”