Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  I checked the clock and pushed on the gas. “And then there’s my good friend Kyoko back in Japan, who ranks Christianity up there with suicide cults. If she finds out, she’ll think I’m loony. She’ll … well, I don’t know what she’ll do. You get it?”

  “Ya ain’t told her?”

  “Not exactly.” I played with Mom’s Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind keychain, a remnant from her life as a special-education teacher. “She knows something’s up, but not the whole story.”

  “I reckon you’ll jest have ta show her. An’ ev’rybody else.” Becky adjusted one of the box flaps.

  I sighed. “And love, Becky? I mean, your squeaky-clean kind of God-love? I don’t know anything about that.”

  “What’s there ta know? Ya jest let Him change ya, day by day.”

  “Right.” I turned the steering wheel slightly over a gentle rise. “But it’s more complicated than that. If I’m going to marry a Christian person, well, I’ve got a lot to learn. I don’t want to fight like Mom and Dad and end up with divorce and mental breakdowns, or hop from relationship to relationship like my old Cornell friends. I want something different. Something lasting. Something … What?”

  Becky had teared up again.

  “God’s gonna teach ya all ya need to know, my friend!” She slung an arm around my shoulders. “He’ll give ya the strength to tell yer friends the truth. Ain’t He done showed ya ev’rything else, right on schedule? Ya won’t know it all right off, but shucks—none a us do! He’s a good Daddy, Shah-loh. He won’t let ya down.”

  I wiped my eyes, still somewhat surprised at the sensation of tears. I hadn’t cried in years. Literally. Almost twenty—ever since my dad walked away one winter night. Only here in this peaceful Virginia valley, with God’s love pushing and prodding my shut-up heart into the sunlight, had I learned to feel again.

  “I have another confession to make,” I whispered. “My middle name’s not Pearl.”

  “But ya said …”

  “I lied. I’m sorry.” I let out my breath. “But I’m not going to lie anymore. I promise, Becky. We’re talking about a new Shiloh now.”

  “I believe ya.” Her eyes were rimmed with red.

  “Just don’t ask me my middle name. Please. I hate it.”

  “I don’t care if yer middle name’s Possum!” Becky shouted. “Ya love Jesus, an’ that’s all that matters!” She reached over and honked my horn, shouting out in wild excitement. I joined in, looking more like a redneck gone mad than the refined New York–Tokyo transplant I claimed to be.

  Becky suddenly grabbed the box. “Uh-oh,” she said, shushing me.

  “What? What’s uh-oh? And what’s in that box?”

  She tried to wrestle it away from me, but I grabbed one of the cardboard flaps and jerked it back. I let out a gasp.

  “It’s a serprise!” Becky cried, grabbing the box back. “Yer not s’posed to see it yet!”

  “Becky Donaldson!” I shrieked. “What have you done?”

  It took me the entire drive home, out of Staunton (pronounced STAN-ton, not STAWN-ton, for my fellow Yankees) and into the rural outskirts of tiny Churchville to come to grips with Becky’s gift. Which now yapped and whined inside the box. A cute little German shepherd puppy, all smoky black and brindle. Enormous liquid black eyes and pricked ears. Staring at me.

  She yipped and whined, poking tiny paws over the rim of the box.

  “Becky! We’ve got Faye coming over in twenty minutes, not knowing a thing, and what am I going to do with a dog?” I cried, grabbing my head in both hands.

  “Hiya, cutie! Ain’t ya gonna sleep some more?” Becky ignored me, massaging the puppy’s velvety fur behind the ears.

  “A dog?” I repeated stupidly. “You got me a dog? I’m leaving this town, Becky, as soon as I can find somebody to buy my house!” I waved my arms in the air. “I’m not a small-town girl! All I want to do is go back to Japan, and what am I going to do with a dog? I wouldn’t stay in Staunton forever if somebody paid me!”

  I shook my head and turned into Crawford Manor, Mom’s little redneck subdivision. Passing a horse and a double-wide trailer on one side and a house with six hounds on the other.

  “No offense, Becky. I love you and Tim and everybody, but I’m not settling down here. I’ve already stayed way longer than I planned.”

  “What, a couple a months?” Becky tried to cover a laugh but didn’t do a very good job.

  “June. July. I don’t know. Whenever I came.” I gestured with my free arm. “For … the funeral.”

  “Shucks. I jest thought ya might be lonely livin’ by yerself, Shah-loh.”

  “Lonely? Give it to Faye! After all, she’s the one we’re trying to …” I clicked on my turn signal, forcing my eyes away from the box. Because if I peeked, I’d be a sucker. Hooked. Quivery wimp that I was deep down. “Besides, what if Earl doesn’t like dogs? And then if he and Faye …”

  Becky glanced up at me. “Huh? Yer blabberin’, Shah-loh. An’ anyway, it ain’t a good idea for you to live out there all by yerself, ya know.”

  “My real-estate agent said I can’t have any pets. They leave hair and stuff that turns off potential buyers.”

  “Well, Lowell Schmole ain’t here, is he? He gonna tell ya what ta eat fer breakfast, too?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  I drove down the country road lined with starter homes just like mine, with cute mailboxes and front porches decorated with American flags, dry summer geraniums, and butter-yellow football mums. I crunched across gravel and parked in front of a wooden deck flanked by fading rose bushes. Then I reluctantly pulled down the cardboard flap on the box.

  “Here.” Becky shoved the whole box into my hands. “Ya don’t hafta keep her, but think about it, okay? I just happened ta see her at the SPCA, sorta … by accident … and couldn’t pass her up.”

  “What were you doing at the SPCA?” I cried.

  “Lookin’ fer a dog fer you.” Good old honest Becky. She got out and shut the door, leaving me there with the box.

  Two glistening velvet-black eyes peeked up at me, framed by little fawn-colored spots like puffy eyebrows. Tiny trembling whiskers.

  Something melted inside. Like sweet brown tonkatsu sauce poured over Japanese fried pork.

  “I can’t keep her, Becky! She’ll pee on my carpets!” I got out, trying not to jostle the puppy or drop the box. “She’ll ruin everything for Faye, after we got all this nice food ready, and …” I tried not to look inside the box again but couldn’t help myself.

  “Aw, quit whinin’, woman! Faye’ll love her! An’ hey, maybe it’ll give her some conversation with Earl, right?” Becky winked. “She don’t know he’s comin’ yet, does she?”

  “She’d better not! That’s the whole point!”

  Becky grinned as the puppy licked her chin, whining. Tail batting the sides of the box. “They said this’n’s pretty close ta housebroken. Probably had a family before. An’ German shepherds learn real quick!”

  “She’ll chew furniture! She’ll cry all night!”

  A quivery black nose appeared over the side of the box, followed by a curious ear.

  “She’ll be jest fine.”

  “It’s a she?”

  “Yep. You’ll thank me later.” Becky reached in to scratch her ears. “I got ya some toys jest in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “You decide to keep her.”

  I stared down into the box, not liking that tonkatsu-sauce feeling. Oozing out all over and turning my will of iron into mush. “Becky, I’m not even home during the day! You know that. I work all the time.”

  “You’re home more’n the SPCA volunteers.” Her voice held a sorrowful tone. “I’m shore she’d be grateful for any attention ya gave her. An’ … well, ya know when they cain’t find homes for ‘em, they …”

  I shoved the box back at Becky then stomped out to the mailbox, trying not to think of the colorful adjectives Lowell would use when
he saw that puppy. And then I spotted the fat envelope with my name in harsh block letters.

  I pulled it out of the mailbox, reading and rereading the return address with a sinking lurch.

  And I doubled over as if punched in the stomach.

  Chapter 2

  I blinked and jerked the envelope closer, turning it over in my hand to check the authenticity as my pulse pounded in my ears.

  Yep. The real thing all right. A coolish breeze blew my hair and snapped the flags on nearby houses while I slowly tore the envelope open, praying silently for the whole thing to be a mistake. A dream. Anything but this.

  As I pulled open the folded letter, printed and stamped on stark white paper, I felt my knees buckle.

  I grabbed the metal mailbox for support, trying to make the two houses across the lawn merge into one.

  Oh, God, no … please, no! Not now! Not when I’m trying so hard to sell the house and get out of here! I pressed a shaky hand to my forehead, mind whirling through a dozen crazy options of desperation. None of which solved my predicament in the least.

  A rusty Mustang reverberated down the street in my direction, and before anyone could poke a head out the window and gape at me, still standing there with the envelope in my quivering hand, I slammed the mailbox lid shut. I trudged back to my small, rectangular country house where Becky waited with boxes, bags, and a squirming brown thing, which had begun to yap and whine.

  “You okay?” She peered at me as I fumbled for my keys. “Yer white as a sheet!”

  “Sure.” I tried to smile and shoved the envelope in my cute Kate Spade purse a little too forcefully—a purse which probably cost more than Mom’s whole house. Back, yeah, when I had money. Ironic that it was now slung over a shoulder stained with soda and red-pepper soup.

  “Don’t gimme that, woman! Ya done fessed up about Jesus. Might as well fess up ‘bout this, too.”

  I unlocked the door of Mom’s creamy-tan house and slipped off my shoes, Japan-style. Stepped into a pair of striped house slippers. Offered a pair to Becky, who by now knew the routine. At least it kept my floors clean now that I was trying to sell the house.

  “So ya ain’t gonna tell, huh? Well, no matter. Anyhow, yer gonna love havin’ a dog around here fer protection! ‘Specially with that murder out this way. Ya hear about it on the news? They think the guy killed her by—”

  “Cut it out!” I pushed my running shoes back by the door with the tip of my slipper.

  “Tim’s daddy said it ain’t good fer a single gal to live alone, ‘specially out in the sticks.”

  “What? Churchville isn’t the sticks.” I flung my hand toward the front window, where three people across the street stood in a clump, heads together. Probably discussing in great detail the contents of my envelope, and maybe even what I ate for lunch. “I’ve got gobs of neighbors with prying eyes galore!”

  For me, a city chick who’d never seen a live sheep until a few months ago, my new neighborhood put me in the furthest reaches of anything I could possibly imagine for myself. Crawford Manor harbored rednecks, boasted one resident in a purple house and another with truck parts adorning the front lawn, and reeked of country music. But … so far I wouldn’t call it the projects either. Not … exactly.

  Besides playing Hank Williams Jr. too loudly and riding their lawn mowers up and down the street, my neighbors didn’t bother me. Most of the time. When they weren’t squealing their jacked-up truck tires or getting into fistfights.

  I pushed the button on the answering machine, which blinked an angry red six. “I’m fine, Becky. And I didn’t say I’d keep her.”

  “Oh, ya will.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  Becky rolled her eyes.

  “Oh no. They did not.” I glared at the answering machine as message after message spilled out, all from Shifflet Septic Services. “I’ve told them to take my number off their list—how many times? Ten?” I fumed, punching buttons through the messages, all of which came courtesy of you-know-who.

  Becky snickered, and I whirled on her. “You think it’s funny? They’ve come here twice to install stuff I never asked for, and every day I get at least three or four messages. I hear their silly jingle in my sleep!”

  I slapped the answering machine off, knocking my purse on the floor and scattering the hateful envelope. Becky, stifling a laugh with difficulty, glanced up at me as I tossed it on the table.

  “That from them, too?”

  “No.” I turned away. “It’s a bill, okay?”

  “A bill? Fer what? I thought yer big spendin’ days were over.”

  As much as I loved Becky Donaldson, I couldn’t get the words IRS or back taxes out of my mouth. They stuck there like peanut butter, immobile.

  “They are over. No more credit cards like I used to rack up back in Japan. And I quit my online master’s, too, for a while. But … well, this one caught up with me,” I managed, hanging up my jacket. The envelope winked at me from the table, a sliver of spiteful white. “It’s from my Japan days—and before that, even when I studied at Cornell. It’s bad, Becky.”

  “How bad?”

  I swallowed hard, breath still shallow. “Mom’s house just has to sell. It has to.” I stared out the window at green leaves, tinged with dying gold. “If it doesn’t sell in a couple of months, then …”

  The words lose the house stuck in my throat like a chunk of sticky rice.

  “It’ll sell. We’re prayin’, Shah-loh. Hang in there.” Becky shoved the box at me. “Here. Play mama a bit. It’ll he’p ya.”

  Against my better judgment, I lifted out the little puppy and plopped her on the living-room floor. Legs still clumsy. Nose quivering. She wagged a stumpy tail and tottered across the carpet. Barked brightly. Sat and pricked her ears.

  Smiled at me. I could swear she did.

  “Oh my goodness, Becky,” I groaned, feeling like a traitor. To my bills. To Lowell. “She’s adorable!”

  “I know.” Becky squatted with her hand on her knee, looking like she might take her back if I hesitated even a second. “Don’t she make ya just wanna squeeze her? She’s had all her shots, too, an’ ev’rything. German shepherds make the best guard dogs and pets. Bunch a people told me so.”

  I cradled the puppy’s little warm body against my chest and felt her heart beat fast and quivery against mine. She squirmed and licked my cheek. Checkmate.

  “Well, she’s got to have a name,” I said reluctantly.

  “Told ya.” Becky smirked. “What kind a name ya want?”

  I hated to bring up the subject of names so soon after Becky miscarried her baby. I remembered her in the Barnes & Noble, baby-name book in hand. She loved names. But she put her chin up and didn’t cry.

  “Hmm.” I thought awhile, dragging a string across the carpet and watching the puppy pounce. “I suppose I ought to keep the current trend, don’t you think? NASCAR drivers. You and Adam both have dogs named after them.”

  “Yer funny, Shah-loh. She’s a girl!”

  “Who said women can’t drive for NASCAR?”

  She considered this. “Well, there’s been a couple. Sara Christian in 1949 bein’ the first.”

  “Appropriate name, then, don’t you think?”

  Becky’s head came up, and she went all blotchy again. “Ya can call her Christie,” she offered, sniffling.

  I picked up the wiggly little body, snatching her claws and teeth away from my tennis-shoe lace. “Christie it is. And thank you, Becky. I’ll just find some way to hide her from Lowell.”

  “Well, while yer dreamin’ up hidin’ places, we gotta get this place all ready fer the big event! Pronto!”

  Christie toddled around the newly painted and decorated kitchen while we threw on a lace tablecloth and lit two tall candles, all courtesy of Becky and Co. Set out gleaming china plates and crystal serving dishes, along with the makings of a fabulous meal. Roast chicken and green beans. Rosemary potatoes. We nuked everything in the microwave until it steamed. />
  And just as I started to call Trinity, my coworker, I saw her orange Volkswagen pull into my next-door-neighbor’s driveway as planned, disappearing behind Stella’s big school bus.

  “Here you go!” Trinity called through the screen door, coffee-brown skin gleaming in the porch light. “Delivery!”

  I put the gorgeous dessert tray from The Green Tree restaurant, my other part-time wage-payer, in the refrigerator. Poured Green Tree signature roasted red-pepper soup, still piping hot, into two crystal bowls. Filled the table with yellow marigolds and the season’s last roses from Mom’s flower bed, and scattered petals on the lace tablecloth.

  Becky and Trinity rushed around putting down silverware, unrolling cloth napkins, and pouring a cream garnish and little sprigs of fresh rosemary on the soup. We turned on some classical violin music and drizzled sparkling apple juice in glasses over ice.

  And then, just to make good to my word, I got out pliers and loosened the bathroom shower faucet so it dripped. “Told Earl it was leaking again,” I confessed. “Oops.”

  Then I shooed them out of the house and over to Stella’s yard, where they crouched in the bushes, waiting for Faye Clatterbaugh’s blue Escort to crunch up the driveway.

  First things first. No way I’d meet Faye in cheap black pants and coffee-spattered polo shirt, my normally straight brown hair sticking out of its elastic like splayed sticks in a Japanese fan.

  While Christie tugged on my house slipper with her teeth, I shook out my hair and ran a brush through it then smoothed my sideswept bangs. Stuck in a pretty clip. I untangled Christie from my feet and then the edge of the bedspread, dumped my soiled Barnes & Noble clothes in the washer, and pulled on dark blue jeans—the typical Tokyo preppy girl color. And a soft green sweater that matched the green flecks in my hazel eyes. I threw an ivory crocheted shawl around my shoulders just as headlights flickered on the curtains.