Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Listen. I had to talk to you, princesa,” he said, suddenly standing so close that I had to twist my neck to look up at him. A whiff of his sweet-smelling cologne slipped past my nostrils on the cold wind, over the stench of gasoline and an overfilled trash can. “I count the minutes without you. My heart is empty.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Te necesito.”

  The same old Carlos, golden-tongued, that whisked my heart away two years ago. I don’t know if he practiced these lines in front of a mirror or something, but they worked.

  I stood motionless, like one of those sparkling ice statues at the snow festival in northern Japan. People carved them with chain saws, crystalline shards flying against white drifts.

  “Did you hear me, mi princesa? I love you. Will you think about us? Can we at least … talk? Please? Let me come home with you. I was just searching for the right road. See? It makes no sense to me. Look.” He pulled a printout map from his pocket, looking so pathetically helpless with his raised palms that for a fraction of a second my heart went out to him.

  A flicker of dead hope twinkled against my will.

  “Please, amor.” Carlos reached out and stroked his fingers through my hair, curling the strands behind my ear. Surveying my post-Green Tree knee boots, coat, tights, and wool winter dress with approval. “Do it for me. You look beautiful. Did I tell you that? Just look at you.” He kissed his fingertips and burst them open, like a blooming flower.

  I stared at him, not saying a word, and then heard a sickening thunk. I squeezed the gas nozzle, and it thunked again.

  “Oh no. I didn’t.” I spun around, dripping gas, to find the tank filled to the brim. At a total of more than sixty dollars. I let out a long groan. “I just … hold on a minute, Carlos. I’ve got to …”

  Eleven bucks. That summed up all my cash. I left him there and dug in the car for my checkbook, paging desperately through the stubs to check my balance. Exactly ninety-two dollars in my checking account. Which meant I’d have to use money from somewhere else to keep my light bill from going off this week before they drafted it out of my account, slapping me with a nasty overdraft charge. Did this gas station even accept checks? I stood on tiptoe in my boots, muttering to myself as I searched for a NO CHECKS sign.

  “You okay, princesa?” Carlos reached out and brushed my cheek. “Need something?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Can I follow you home? Please?”

  “Forget it.”

  I turned on my heel, halfway to the lighted gas station building, thinking of how I’d become a prude practically overnight after Adam’s old “what-would-the-neighbors-think” speech.

  Eliza Harrison’s down-turned face popped into my mind. The fiend.

  Or no. Maybe Adam was the fiend.

  “You know what? Fine,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Whatever. But just to talk.” I glared at Carlos. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  And I turned my back on him, pushing through the glass doors, which greeted my arrival with a tinkling bell, a rack of Slim Jim sausages, a mounted deer head, and a shelf full of NASCAR lottery tickets.

  Shiloh P. Jacobs. What on earth are you doing?

  The thought pulsed through me with almost palpable power, so strong I jerked my head up from my checkbook. The pen quivered in my fingers as I signed my name with a flourish. I deserved it; I’d argued a good five minutes with the frizzy-permed woman behind the counter before I thought to mention Earl Sprouse. She granted me approval on the spot. “He fixed my toilet once in the dead a winter an’ didn’t charge me nothin’,” she said. “We’ll take yer check.”

  So this is how people did business in Staunton, Virginia. Or somewhere between Staunton, Churchville, and Nowhere, because a couple of rickety barns and dilapidated farmhouses served as the only sign of civilization along this desolate road. One silo sported a chunk of an old Holiday Inn hotel sign to patch a hole.

  “Hey, yer that gal who went out with Shane the cop, ain’t ya?”

  My fingers stopped on the checkbook. “Excuse me?”

  “That Pendergrass boy. I know him.”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I said through my teeth. “It was blackmail.”

  I slapped the cap on my pen and waited for my receipt, staring angrily over cartons of glassed-in cigarettes and—with a shock of surprise—right at the woman’s faded “What Would Jesus Do?” sweatshirt.

  I closed my checkbook then leaned forward to rest my elbows on the greasy counter to massage the bridge of my nose, where a headache started to pulse.

  What would Jesus do, Shiloh? What would He want you to do?

  I sighed and rubbed my eyes, probably smearing my mascara. The cheap stuff from Rite Aid, by the way. No more fancy cosmetics-counter Dior for me. Although to tell the truth, I really couldn’t tell much difference between the two. Which said a lot about the stuff I used to plunk my money down for so quickly back in Japan.

  “You okay, hon?”

  “Huh?” I stopped rubbing my forehead.

  “Y’all right?” She paused her gum chewing and leaned toward me, earrings jingling.

  I straightened up and stuffed my pen and checkbook back in my purse. “Sure.”

  “Sorry. Ya jest looked a little upset.”

  I took my receipt. “I’ll be fine. I just wish life were simpler.”

  “Don’t we all.” She patted my hand with be-ringed fingers, her short, ridged nails painted an ugly puke-rose color. “Jest lean upon the Savior, doll. He’ll he’p ya make it through.”

  I grasped her hand tightly as if reaching out for hope, for one sliver of solid sanity in my frazzled brain. And felt my throat choke up as she shook it firmly in hers, patting it with her other veiny one.

  The bell on the door tinkled, and I abruptly grabbed my purse and keys and marched toward the brightly lit gas pumps, pulling on my gloves as I went. A rusty Chevy truck pulled in front of Carlos’s car, blasting something by the Dixie Chicks.

  Pray. I need to pray. I managed to think something along the lines of, Please, Jesus, don’t let me mess up my life more than it already is, and then took a deep breath and plunged through the double doors.

  Chapter 17

  The dull parking lot lights glowed down on my car in coppery ribbons as I squeezed into a parking space. Carlos switched on a turn signal behind me and eased to a stop by a potted tree.

  I turned off the ignition and looked out over the shadowy parking lot in the quiet, remembering when I’d first met Adam standing over by that concrete divider, baseball cap pulled low in the summer sun. Me in my black funeral dress and Adam covered with mulch.

  I hadn’t known Jesus then. Hadn’t known Mom, or even cared to.

  Now the puffs of green on the tree Adam mulched had long since shriveled and vanished, leaving bare twigs. A few remnants of tattered leaves lingered, as if clinging to crumbly memories.

  A tap on the window startled me, and I quickly fumbled with my keys and grabbed my purse.

  Carlos hugged himself in the cold, raising an eyebrow in a look that—from the time I’d spent with him—meant annoyance. “What is this, princesa?” he asked, gesturing to the Best Western lobby, which glowed golden in the murky evening. “I thought … I mean, I thought you said you …”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. “Is that a Yomiuri Shimbun?” I stared at the newspaper under his arm with longing, my eyes following the news columns of Japanese kanji characters. Newsprint and words and Japanese phrases that used to roll in my head like music.

  “This?” He shook it. “You want it? I was going to throw it away. I can’t read those kanji anyway.”

  “Please.” I reached out greedily, and Carlos dropped it in my hands. The annoyed look increasing to a line between his brows. “Whatever. But can’t we go to your place?”

  “I changed my mind,” I said, avoiding his eyes as I ran my gloved fingers over the thick folds of newsprint. “I think you’ll be more comfortable here. They’ve got … uh … cof
feemakers in the room, and I only have instant. And they don’t have a dog.”

  “But I could have found this place myself.” He put two hands on either side of my cheeks in what I guessed was supposed to be a tender gesture. “It’s you I want to see. To talk to. I miss you.”

  “Then talk.” I broke away from his gaze and strode toward the lobby. “And let’s get you checked in while you say whatever it is you came to say.”

  The first person I saw when I pushed open the doors, Carlos trailing behind me in a sort of feet-dragging defiance, was none other than Shane Pendergrass. Leaning against the counter in full uniform, toothpick in his teeth, laughing and flirting with one of the front-desk clerks.

  He spun around when I marched up to the counter, glancing from me to Carlos and back again. Eyebrows lifting until they almost touched his buzz cut. Even the young blond desk clerk—whose name tag read JUDY—turned to stare at me.

  “Hi, Shane,” I finally said, lifting a hand in a friendly wave to cut the silence. “How’s it going?”

  He shifted his weight and pushed himself taller, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m good, Shiloh. You?” The corner of his mouth still turned up in a smug grin of either contempt or curiosity at my obvious discomfort, or both. “Haven’t seen ya since our last date.” He leaned forward, emphasizing the last word.

  “Date?” Carlos and I said at the same time, spinning around.

  “It wasn’t a date.” My face blazed. “I told you that! It was … You made me … You …”

  Judy coughed, obviously holding back laughter, and disappeared into the back.

  “What’s that, Shiloh? Can’t hear ya.” Shane froze me with a merciless smile then looked over me at Carlos. “Hey, man, is she always like this?”

  “Her? Pretty much,” Carlos muttered, shaking his head.

  “Well, good luck.” Shane raised an eyebrow. “She’s a tough one.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  My cheeks pulsed livid red, and I turned my back on Shane. “Excuse me. I’ll just … How many nights again, Carlos?” I crossed my arms, shaking with fury.

  I felt like an idiot standing there while Carlos hemmed and hawed, obviously uncomfortable. “Come on, princesa. I don’t want to stay here. Let me go with you.” His voice hushed, touched with that unique Spanish slur that smacked of sultry Argentina, of tangos and kisses. He pulled off his gloves and draped his arm over my shoulder. “Please.” He stroked a warm hand through my hair. “It’s you I came to see.”

  I tried to pull away, aware of whispers between Shane and Judy, and also aware that Judy’s stares had shifted from me to Carlos. Who, yes, smelled heavenly, like cologne, coffee, and fresh wind. I took a step back to make sure his scent didn’t cloud my faculties.

  “No, Carlos. I’m sorry.” I stood my ground. “You can stay here, or there’s a Hampton Inn on the other side of town, and—”

  “Hampton Inn’s already booked fer the night,” Judy interjected a little too helpfully, flushing slightly as she smoothed her curling-iron-puffed bangs. Gaze still fixed on Carlos. “Ain’t nothin’ at the Holiday Inn neither.”

  “Look … all right. All right.” Carlos put his palms up. “One night. Okay?” He nodded at Judy. “No smoking, please. I can’t stand smoke.”

  “You’re leaving tomorrow?” I whispered, keeping my back to Shane and pulling Carlos out of Judy’s nosy earshot.

  “No. I … just want us to talk, and then we can decide where I stay. All right? It’s important to me, amor.” He gestured to his heart. “Just do this for me, please? It’ll be like old times. You’ll see.”

  “Do what for you?”

  Judy put her hand out for Carlos’s credit card, her fingers trembling slightly as she sneaked glances at him, color rising in her cheeks. Carlos sighed and fished it from his black leather wallet, his eyes piercing me with a pained, suffering gaze.

  Shane’s shoulders shook as he turned away with poorly concealed laughter.

  As soon as Carlos accepted his key, he put his hand on my shoulder and steered me gently toward the elevator. But for once in my life, even under Carlos’s spell, I didn’t move.

  “Let’s go, linda. Aren’t you coming?” His dark brows flicked irritation. “What’s wrong? I thought …”

  “It’s late, Carlos. I’ve been on the clock since eight this morning. I’m tired. I need to go home.” I rubbed my eyes, aware that Shane and Judy were still watching us, heads tipped toward each other at the front desk. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Amor.” Carlos actually sounded angry, flinging down his arms. “I came all this way. I need to talk now.”

  I sighed, rolling my eyes toward the ceiling. “Fine.” I crossed my arms, remembering—against my will—Adam standing there stubbornly on my front porch after nightfall, reminding me that Churchville was a small, small town. “Then we’ll do it in the lobby.”

  “In the lobby?” Carlos’s eyes flashed dark-brown fire. “Why are you going all prudish on me? This isn’t the 1950s. You didn’t used to be so … stiff.” He waved his hands.

  I flinched, aware that he’d slapped me with the exact same adjective Shane used to describe Adam.

  “Yeah, well, things are different. I’m different. Don’t you get it?” I raised my voice just a touch, irritated. “I’ll wait for you over there at that table.” I started to stride past him, my precious Yomiuri Shimbun cradled under my arm.

  Carlos’s lip curled in mild derision. “Amor. You are not so different as you think you are.” His words came staccato and soft, piercing through every single layer of hurt, anger, and defensiveness I’d wrapped around my heart. So powerful that I paused in midstep, purse still swinging.

  I turned back, one glance at his familiar face taking me back months. Years. To a time when nothing mattered except my own life, my own dreams. No need for religion or rules or clipping coupons.

  “But for you, I’ll do this.” Carlos didn’t smile. He put his hand on my shoulder and accompanied me over to the sofas gathered around a too-shiny coffee table, which the hotel staff had topped with ugly pink silk flowers and an advertisement for Doug’s Cable TV and Satellite Dishes.

  My watch showed nearly three in the morning when I finally pulled out of the Best Western parking lot, Carlos’s muscular physique cutting an angular shape against the golden glow of the lobby window.

  I switched between noisy music and talk-radio stations to keep myself awake then finally cut the sound altogether and drove in silence. Trying to push Carlos’s tears out of my mind. His apologies. His promises to love me, if only I would let him.

  And my promise to meet him again tomorrow when I got off work.

  My eyes shifted over to the folded Yomiuri Shimbun on my passenger’s seat, its black-and-white lines barely visible in the passing streetlights. Each kanji character crying out mystery. Adventure. Life beyond deer hunting and NASCAR and processed Cheez Whiz in a spray can.

  I thought of my stained Green Tree apron and felt exhaustion tugging at my already strained back.

  I stopped at a red light, mind wandering to the Greek-style fish tile Adam had given me. Reminding me of multiplied miracles and a miraculous catch. Jesus’ promise not to give a snake if I asked for a fish.

  Could Carlos really have come all the way here just for me?

  My brow wrinkled, uneasy, and I leaned the side of my head against my hand, my elbow resting on the window ledge. Recalling fragments from Sunday school and sermons: “Do not be unequally yoked with unbelievers… . Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not unto your own understanding… . Wait for the Lord, and He will deliver you… .”

  Wait … wait … wait …

  I was sick of waiting.

  Why in the world did Jesus make things so hard? If you read some of the gospel tracts out there, you’d think utopia dawned the moment you said yes—and everything after that swirled in butterflies and roses.

  Ha! I got nettles and wasps.

  The light t
urned green. I whispered another prayer, feeling as empty as the darkened Staunton streets around me.

  Chapter 18

  As it turned out, that gas station check was the last I’d write in a long, long time. When I dug in my mailbox back at home, eyes bleary from too-little sleep and mind racing into frantic dreams, there it lay: the warning letter from the IRS, giving me ten days before slapping a lien on my bank account. Since I had no stocks, no investments, and none of the thousands they wanted in back taxes.

  Well, help yourselves, I thought, sucking back tears. There might be enough in there to buy a cup of coffee.

  I thought of calling Tim the accountant and begging him for help, but he and Becky’d helped me already—both financially and with advice. I was sick of whining, sick of people’s pity.

  As I tossed and turned and tried unsuccessfully to sleep, I peeked out my bedroom curtains to find snow falling—an unexpected snow that surprised all the local weather commentators. Flakes sifting down over the brown and rust-colored land, gathering in hollows on tree trunks and in the curves of fallen leaves like my silent thoughts. Covering my front lawn with a thin coverlet of white, grass blades poking through.

  But nothing felt calm in my heart as I prepared myself for tomorrow’s talk with Carlos. I could see my car turning into the Best Western parking lot, the tall lights dimmed by flickering dots of snow shadows, and my heart stuck in my throat.

  “Where have you been, amor?” Carlos demanded, standing up from the sofa, tossing the magazine back on the coffee table. “You’re late. You said you’d be here at seven. I … Hold on.” His cell phone jingled in his pocket, and he turned his back to me, waving his arms as he spoke in Spanish. Work stuff, I figured.

  I cradled my injured hand in my other gloved one, still too tender to try to stuff it even into a mitten, and eased into the sofa. Grateful to rest my tired toes, which really hurt. Especially after I dropped a heavy serving bowl on my left foot.

  Carlos sat down next to me and leaned forward, laughing. Running his hands through his thick black hair as I caught snatches of words: Beautiful. Boca Juniors. Three seconds.