Making Piece

by Beth M. Howard

  I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that this urge to move forward coincided with the onset of spring. Spring is the season of fertility. Farmers are tilling their fields, getting ready to plant new seeds. After a dark and quiet winter of hibernating, allowing time for the vestiges of grief to fall away, I too am ready to plant new seeds. I am also waiting for the rhubarb to ripen so I can make pie. I have already inspected the progress of the budding red-and-green stalks in the garden of Bob, my eighty-year-old neighbor, who is quite a good pie baker himself.

  I still wrestle with the question of whether or not there’s life after death. Is it just a matter of lights out, it’s over? I was on a Grand Canyon river trip when I was thirty. After a five-hour, toenail-blackening hike to the bottom of the canyon to meet our raft and three days into our trip, we got enough distance from city life to settle into the rhythm of the river. As we floated downstream, I studied the striated rock walls of the canyon, carved out over millennia, and had a revelation that stuck with me ever since: our human species is going to be just another layer in the rock one day. We will eventually die out like every other species before us. Morose as it sounds, I found a strange yet overwhelming sense of peace at the thought.

  But since Marcus died, I’ve questioned the meaning of life and what happens afterward in ways I never have before. I hope my layer-in-the-rock theory isn’t completely accurate. Physically, we may end up as just another colored stripe in the Grand Canyon wall, but spiritually, I like to think there is something more. I like to believe that Marcus’s soul is alive and well, learning, growing, traveling, listening, watching, protecting, helping, loving.

  It’s 10:30 a.m. Central time, I’m just back from walking my dogs. I mostly walk these days, but I have started running again. Exercise was too difficult emotionally for a long time. Instead of endorphins released, a workout would tap into the residual grief, allowing it to escape from the safety of its deep well of storage, and I would end up doubled over in tears in the middle of a run or bike ride. Believe me, this is not convenient when you’re several miles from home. Grief is a heavy load to carry. My cells will always hold a memory of the pain I felt that first year. I will not forget what it feels like to touch the void. But now when I run, instead of doubling over in sorrow, I feel strength returning to my heart. Jogging on the long, gravel country roads, finding my old stride, shows me my Lance Armstrong potential is still there. The heart, after all, is a muscle and mine just needs some conditioning. The healing power of pie has taken me this far. Now it’s time to add some fitness and some oxygen to the mix.

  Whether walking or running, sadness never accompanies me when I’m out with my dogs. It’s the opposite. They make me laugh as they sprint after an elusive critter, or pounce on a mole hole, thinking they are masters of their rural universe. Jack inevitably identifies a perfect stick, often a tree limb or log ten times the size of his little body, and he stands over it, barking, until he gets my attention. “Come throw this for me, Mom,” he shouts.

  “Are you crazy?” I reply. “This one is too big for you.” But he persists. He is stubborn—like Marcus—and barks until I relent and break the branch until it’s manageable enough for me to toss for him. I give it my best softball pitch and he comes bounding back, stick in mouth, victorious, the tautness of his compact, muscular frame conveying his pride. His hair blows back as he runs, his black nose turns up and I smile at the vision of him until my smile gives way to complete, gut-level laughter.

  Daisy is every bit as funny and, having logged several American addresses since being rescued from Mexico, has taken a liking to Midwestern living. Since we moved to Iowa, she has blossomed, expressing her gratitude and approval for our new landscape. Independent, adventurous and much braver than her German stepbrother (we got Jack as a puppy in Germany), Daisy leaves the security of the trail or the bike path and takes her own meandering, yet parallel way. I keep an eye out for glimpses of her curly, blond Mohawk and pear-shaped physique as she moves in and out of the prairie grass, the trees and the creek bed. She always rejoins us, her big brown eyes glistening as she sprints with joy toward our reunion. To see her run is the highlight of my day. Her gait is unusual and could be best described as a waddle, and her coat makes her look heavier than she is (“It’s all fur,” I say defensively when people suggest she needs to go on a diet). One cannot watch this odd, kinky-haired creature gallop without cracking up at the sight of her.

  Sometimes we walk on the bike path and turn up the next road over to go see the neighbor’s horses. They have seven of them. If I have leftover apple cores, I take them with me as treats. The horses are picky though, they don’t like the peelings. I don’t blame them as the Granny Smith skin is tough and waxy. I pet their noses and run my fingers through their manes and promise myself I am going to ask their owner if I can ride them when the weather gets warmer. I haven’t forgotten—I still have a Spurs Award to win.

  Our favorite walk is in the neighbor’s soybean field, previously owned by Hollywood celebrities Tom Arnold and Roseanne Barr before they split up. (Word around Eldon has it that Roseanne did not take well to country living.) It could strike me as an ironic touchstone to my life in L.A., but there are so many more interesting, less stressful things to think about than overcrowded L.A.—and television. And for the record, I still don’t have a TV. The American Gothic House is wired for cable, but my high-speed Internet provides enough contact with the outside world for me.

  Following the tractor tracks that provide a makeshift trail, we climb the hill until we get a view of the Des Moines River along with the rooftops of distant farmhouses and sunsets of the deepest pink hues over the plowed pastures. During these outings we almost always see deer, huge majestic mammals with white tails so long and bushy they seem to belong to cats. The deer, in groups of six or eight or sometimes twelve, bound away and Team Terrier watches in awe, wondering what kind of large squirrels they have just missed chasing.

  For as much as making pie soothes my soul, I find my greatest solace in nature. Just as the Grand Canyon gave me that feeling of peace about the meaning of life, when I am walking in the soybean field, the world just seems to make more sense. My rubber farm boots firmly connecting with the ground, the views of the fields all the way to the horizon, flocks of geese flying overhead, the sound of nothing but prairie grass rustling in the wind, the cool air and sun on my face, breathing in the earthy scent of wet hay and moist soil—my surroundings serve as a spiritual connective tissue. Pie connects me with people, but nature connects me with God and with myself.

  I find myself laughing a lot more these days. And crying a lot less. The grief bursts still come, but they most often correspond with my menstrual cycle, when my hormones surge and act as a truth serum, heightening any suppressed emotion, causing an occasional need to purge. I understand it. And I can track it on the calendar. Therefore, I am able to manage my lingering sadness.

  At night I walk the dogs—without fear of rattlesnakes or tarantulas like in Terlingua—in a loop around the visitor center parking lot and the city’s public works facility, which consists of two metal-sided barns overflowing with heavy equipment. I leave the lights on in the American Gothic House and can look back at the glow coming from its windows—as if the house is keeping an eye on us during our walk, welcoming us back into its warmth when we return. I never get tired of the sight of it. The cottage looks as cute and huggable to me after six months as it did the first time I laid eyes on it. I look at the place lovingly, grateful I can call it home. It feels like home, a place I will live for a long time. I tell my dad he won’t have to get a new address book anytime soon.

  Each night I look up at the sky—dark, sometimes cloudy, sometimes clear with the brightest, twinkling stars—and I talk to Marcus. I always greet him first. “Hi, my love.” Then I add, “I miss you” or ask “How are you? I hope you are okay.” Sometimes I ask for his help and guidance, other times I just make comments about the dogs. “They love it here. I wish you cou
ld see them. I’m taking good care of them, I promise.” And I might add, “I’m taking good care of myself, too.”

  I know now that I did not kill my husband. I’ve had it drilled in my head too many times by too many experts (and endless Internet searches) that a ruptured aorta can only be caused mechanically, physically. It cannot be caused by emotion or stress—or by filing for divorce. Marcus had a heart condition. A bicuspid aortic valve. He was born with it. I will always live with the sadness that he is gone. But it wasn’t my fault. I did not kill him.

  I also have gone back and read the last emails Marcus wrote to me in the days and weeks before his death—I indulge in them and look through all his pictures about once a month. I can read his letters with more clarity now, without the “It’s my fault” filter. He did want the divorce. He was sad about it, yes, but like me, he was tired of our struggle. He wrote to me on August 10, 2009, nine days before he died:

  Don’t worry, I am okay. I think you know me. I take comfort in knowing we fought hard for this. We didn’t squander it away. I had no idea how to make our personalities fit into a marriage without changing what and who you are—and I love who you are. Yes, the thought of filing the paperwork is strange. There’s tremendous sadness when I look back on our good moments and realize that this seems to be over. I know that there will be a time when I look back on those moments and they will fill me with happiness, because they are so special and no one can take them away from us. Our good moments were really special, you have to admit that! You probably have no idea how much tenderness and appreciation I feel when thinking about you, but also a quiet anger when I think about our marriage. Once all this administrative stuff is out of the way, I can again enjoy who you are without needing to make us fit into a marriage. That’s what keeps me going. This current phase is not pleasant, far from it, but beyond it lies the opportunity for us to respect and appreciate and enjoy each other.

  Love,

  Marcus

  I often wonder what my life would be like now if Marcus hadn’t died. Would I have found my way back to Iowa? Or would I have found my way back to my husband? He was—and always will be—my husband. Many of my friends who had seen us through our temporary separations, our near-divorce, said, “You two would have gotten back together.” I always liked hearing this, I still think it’s possible and I constantly tell Marcus so. Wherever he may be, convinced he can hear me, I say to him—er, to the earth’s atmosphere, “We’re going to be together again. I know we are. We’re going to find each other. And we’re going to get it right next time.”

  Until then, I sometimes feel like I am biding my time. As much as I appear to be embracing my new beginnings, to have found a healthy new home in Iowa, and to have found a purpose through pie, sometimes there is a sense that all of this is just temporary. And it is. Plain and simple: life is temporary. None of us knows how long we’ll be here. My dad was right when he said, “We all die someday.” (Though I still say he could have timed his comment better than during Marcus’s funeral.) I live with the notion that life is short, there’s not much time. Whatever it is you want to do, do it now. Don’t wait.

  I’m not waiting. I’m writing with a sense of urgency. Summer is coming and, along with the warm days, the tourists will return. They’ll be picnicking on the lawn, groups arriving by the busload will be posing for pictures, kids will scamper on my front porch, and in spite of the polite little “Private Residence” signs I’ve hung in the windows, many of them will be peering in through the lace curtains. They’ll be hungry for pie. And they won’t just want pie, they’ll expect it. The Pitchfork Pie Stand will be open soon. So I write faster and faster.

  My time pressure—self-inflicted, to use Marcus’s word—also comes from the idea I’ve carried with me since my husband died: my grief was so profound—some had even called it over the top—that it made me wish for death. In the months following Marcus’s passing I had wanted so intensely for my life to end—so I could go find him. With that kind of powerful thinking I have worried I might actually manifest a deadly disease. I wonder if I will get cancer. Or if I already have it. That headache I get once a month might be a brain tumor. That pimple thing on my forehead is surely melanoma. That side ache I feel every so often could be a malignant cyst. Whatever it is, doctors will tell me I have only three months to live. Oh, I can really get myself worked up. But as soon as I become aware of them, I swat those negative paranoid thoughts aside, the way I do with the bees when they swarm around my pies on the table outside.

  I’m still alive, I still have my health, I still keep living. I am breathing, walking my dogs, making pies, making new friends and making new memories in the American Gothic House. Eventually, over time, I will have another story to tell. I will write a new one, hopefully one that includes new love, one in which I can finally have my happy ending.

  I may not have Marcus, but I still have hope.

  EPILOGUE

  I thank pie. If my mom had never made my dad that banana cream pie, I never would have been born. If I had never been born, I never would have learned to make pie, never would have had that job in Malibu and thus never would have taken that road trip to Oregon where I met Marcus. If I had never met Marcus, I never would have spent seven and a half years with him, a time too short but one I feel very grateful and blessed to have had.

  If not for pie, I never would have gone to the Iowa State Fair to be a pie judge or taken that road trip to Ottumwa after the fair to visit my birthplace and eat lunch at the Canteen. If I had never taken that road trip, I never would have been on my way to the radio station in Fairfield. And if I had never gone to Fairfield, I never would have seen the highway sign for the American Gothic House. If I had never met Marcus due to a similar fork in the road, I never would have bothered to stop at the tourist attraction and thus never would have discovered the famous house was for rent, that it was affordable, that it was perfect for me.

  If I hadn’t moved back to Iowa, into the American Gothic House, I never would have discovered how kind and hospitable my neighbors could be, how it feels to be warmly welcomed into a community where I’m fed ham balls, farm-fresh eggs and the mayor’s own peach pie. I never would have known how healing it would be to return to my roots, how breathing in the scent of fertile soil and grass and snow would make me feel grounded, how the openness of the landscape would open my heart again.

  If not for pie, I never would have started the Pitchfork Pie Stand, making my handmade pies in my historic kitchen and selling them to tourists on the weekends, finding the balance between solitude and socializing.

  If not for pie, I never would have survived the grief and guilt from Marcus’s death, I never would have set forth on my pie quest and built the strength to forgive myself, or found the faith and the grace to keep living.

  If not for pie, I never would have made peace with myself.

  I’m glad my mom made my dad that banana cream pie. I love pie.

  RECIPES

  Beth’s Pie Crust

  (Makes a double crust)

  2½ cups flour (but have at least 3 and ½ cups on hand, as you’ll need extra flour to roll dough and to thicken filling)

  ½ cup butter

  ½ cup vegetable shortening

  Dash of salt

  Ice water (fill one cup, but use only enough to moisten dough)

  In a large bowl, work the butter and shortening into the flour with your hands until you see marble-size lumps form. Pour in ice water a little at a time, sort of “fluffing” the flour to mix in liquid. When the dough feels moist, do a “squeeze test” and if it holds together you’re done. Your dough should feel tacky, but not wet. (Do not overwork the dough! It takes very little time and you’ll be tempted to keep touching it, but don’t!) Divide the dough in 2 balls. Form each ball into a disk shape. Roll flat and thin to fit your pie dish. Sprinkle flour under and on top of your dough to keep it from sticking to your rolling surface. Trim excess dough around the edges with scissors so that it is abo
ut 1 inch wider than the dish edge.

  Mary Spellman’s Apple Pie

  (Made by Beth at Malibu Kitchen…and at the Pitchfork Pie Stand)

  CRUST:

  1 double crust (see Beth’s Pie Crust recipe on page 301)

  FILLING:

  7 large Granny Smith* apples (depending on size of apple and size of pie dish)

  ¾ cup sugar

  4 tbsp flour

  Dash of salt

  2 tsp cinnamon (or more, depending on how much you like)

  1 tbsp butter (to put on top of apples before covering with top crust)

  1 beaten egg (to brush top crust before putting in oven)

  Lay the prepared bottom crust into the pie dish. Slice half of the peeled apples directly into the pie, arranging and pressing them into the dish to remove extra space between slices. Cover with half of your other ingredients (sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt), then slice the remaining apples and cover with second half of ingredients. Add dollop of butter. Cover with top crust and crimp edges, then brush with the beaten egg (this gives the pie a nice golden brown shine). Use a knife to poke vent holes in the top crust (get creative here with a unique pattern if you want). Bake at 425 degrees for 20 minutes. Turn oven down to 375 degrees and bake for another 30 to 40 minutes or so, until juice bubbles. Poke with a knife to make sure apples have softened. Do not overbake or apples will turn mushy.

  Marie Howard’s Banana Cream Pie

  (The one that prompted her marriage proposal; the pie that is the reason I was born)

  CRUST:

  1 blind-baked single-crust pie shell (half of Beth’s Pie Crust recipe on page 301)

  FILLING:

  ¾ cup sugar

  ¼ cup cornstarch

  ¼ tsp salt