Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “Wait ‘til we sit down and you can open it.”

  We hauled our stuff to one of the picnic tables where I’d first cried over pecan pie, down by the trees and near the lake. The water stretched smooth and silver against the green landscape, mirroring streaky clouds in its shining surface.

  Adam put all his fishing gear on the table and sat down on the bench then started threading a lure on his line. Not looking up from his tackle box.

  I hesitated a minute then sat down next to him on the wooden bench and slipped off my sandals, scrubbing my bare toes through the still-cold spring grass. Christie sprawled out beside us, soaking up the sun.

  “So what is this? Can I open it?” I held up the envelope.

  Adam’s hand—the one with the scar across his knuckles—wavered on the fishing pole, and he finally put it down and turned to face me. “Go ahead.”

  I paused a minute at Adam’s expression, his eyes dancing like blue fire, bright and proud. And also … sad.

  “What?” I started to put the envelope down. “Why are you looking like that?”

  “Just read it.”

  I slipped my finger under the envelope flap as he reached down to pet Christie then glanced up suddenly. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Your EDEN LANDSCAPING sticker came off your truck again.”

  “Yeah.” Adam scratched his hair with his free hand and looked away. “I know.”

  “You’ve really got to get that thing fixed, you know?” I pulled a folded paper from the envelope and opened it, swinging my legs around the end of the bench. “It’s your logo. Your—”

  The words Internal Revenue Service stopped everything else that intended to flow from my tongue. I shut my mouth, eyes skimming the rows of black type.

  “This is a fax.” I raised my head briefly at Adam. I leaned forward to read it again, perched on the edge of the bench.

  “It is. Keep reading.”

  And then I saw my name. Everything around me started to wobble. Adam reached for me, but he wasn’t fast enough. I found myself facedown on the grass, Christie frantically licking my cheek.

  Chapter 42

  What is this?” I croaked, pushing myself up with my arm and wiping dog slobber off my cheeks. Clawing for the paper, which had fallen out of my hand and scudded in the wind.

  Adam grabbed for the fax and stuffed it back in my fingers. “It means what it says.” He swallowed hard. “Did you read … everything?”

  “That my back taxes are paid off?” My voice wobbled. “I don’t understand, Adam. Did you borrow some money or something?”

  He knelt down next to me, fending off Christie’s tongue with one arm and finally convincing her to lie down in the grass so he could rub her belly. “No. I didn’t borrow anything.”

  “Well, what did you do? You don’t have stocks, do you? Bonds? Or some secret stash I don’t know about? Did you win the lottery?”

  Adam, gambling? Of course not. But none of it made sense. I stared back down at the paper, straightening it in the breeze.

  “I sold my business.”

  “You WHAT?” I shrieked. So loud that Christie rolled over, ears pricked. “Adam, you didn’t!”

  “Gabe’s wanted to buy it for a while, and with that top-dollar project I’m supposed to do in July, I put the price up.” He brushed a hand through my hair, not meeting my eyes. “I called the project manager and told him I’d still do the plans like I agreed, but that Gabe would take over Eden Landscaping and be doing the actual work.”

  I sobbed. The long, loud kind where I could hardly breathe. Adam tucked me against his chest, and I stayed there, not hearing anything but the sound of my racking sobs.

  “It’s not that bad, Shiloh,” said Adam, his cheerfulness sounding forced. “The name still fits. Gabriel. The Garden of Eden had an angel, too, remember?” I felt his shoulders shrug. “True, maybe he was driving Adam and Eve out with a fiery sword, but it still fits. It’s not like his name is Nash … or … or Tyler. Then he’d have to change it completely.”

  I couldn’t even reply. Just thinking of those beautiful truck decals on somebody else’s dusty SUV made me feel like heaving.

  He played with a blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers. “That’s why I needed until this afternoon—a business day—to arrange everything. Oh, and there’s one more thing. I got a job.”

  “A job?” I bawled, face running. “What job?”

  “At UPS. You know. With the ugly brown shorts.” He laughed, and it sounded a little forced. “Some day work, but mostly evening duty, delivering packages and stuff. Who knows? Maybe I’ll show up here to deliver something from Japan.”

  I froze, hand sponging my wet face. “What did you just say?”

  “About Japan? I just mean that if—”

  “No. About evening duty. You’re going to school, Adam! You got accepted! You told me …” I backed away from him in horror, fresh tears forming in my eyes. “Please don’t tell me you …”

  Adam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. I saw it pass swiftly through his eyes like a kid with his leg gashed open, laughing over the pain that it doesn’t hurt a bit.

  While I still sat there bawling into my hands, Adam began fashioning his blade of grass into something. A deer, like those guys carved out of wood on hunting trips? Tim always drew bull’s-eyes on his. I called him sick.

  “Shiloh,” said Adam in a voice that sounded strained.

  I looked up, eyes streaming.

  The grass formed an O shape, a neat circle.

  “I know this isn’t what you deserve, but …”

  I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. It wasn’t a circle. It was a ring. There in his palm, green, smelling of fresh afternoons and sunlight and all the moments two people could share in a lifetime.

  My old days in Japan swirled like a kaleidoscope, flashing colors and memories like ripples on the lake. Circles spreading out and out, like a word that, once said, can never be taken back.

  Instead of steak and wine like my first proposal, I stared down at a feathered orange lure sticking out of the tackle box. And a rumpled, tear-stained fax.

  “Shiloh?” Adam held out the ring. “Would you maybe consider … well, me?”

  “You mean it?”

  “Marry me. Please.”

  Down in the ripples I saw our reflection: two faces together, shimmering against the sky as if we formed one single person.

  “I don’t know, Adam.” I gulped, tears stinging my eyes. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  “No, I mean … I’ve been engaged before, and had too many boyfriends, and …” I broke off, wiping my eyes. “I’m not like you, all clean and pure, waiting for the right person since I was a child. I’m afraid you’ll … I don’t know. Regret it.”

  Adam didn’t look away. “None of us are all clean and pure, Shiloh. And I didn’t ask you to be me. I’m asking you to be you and marry me. Regret it? No way.” He brushed his fingers through my windblown bangs. “Besides, what if you’re embarrassed to be with me? I’m young and poor. I don’t even have a college degree, and you’re halfway through your master’s. Didn’t you interview the prime minister of Japan? Your Cornell friends would eat me alive.”

  “Who cares about them?” I leaned into the curve of his neck and shoulder as he turned my head gently to brush his lips against my hair.

  “Then marry me.”

  As I murmured my yes and Adam leaned forward to slip the ring on my finger, the acceptance letter from Yomiuri Shimbun crackled under my jacket, in the pocket.

  “What’s that?” He wiped my moist cheek with his thumb.

  “Nothing,” I said, stuffing it back in my pocket. “Nothing that matters anymore.”

  I watched a leaf that had shimmered on the surface of the lake slip beneath the water, twinkling like my old dreams of Japan and fame, down … down … down … until I lost it beneath a shaft of sunlight.

  “Go forward,” Beulah had told me. �
�Don’t look back to Egypt.”

  And for the first time in my life, looking into the face of Adam J. Carter, I realized that I had finally found home.

  Chapter 43

  Tim and Becky threw such a commotion that I’m surprised someone didn’t call the police. Screeching into my driveway at breakneck speed, honking and hollering all the way. Lights flew on up and down the street, and a couple of people yelled back congratulations. Stella put on her Elvis records as loud as they would go, dancing on her front porch in her flowered nightgown until two a.m.

  When the commotion died down, I called Faye on her honeymoon, against protocol. Called Kyoko, who yelled at me for forty-five solid minutes.

  “Fishing?” she roared. “He asked you while you went fishing?”

  Fishing. Fish. Jesus and the miraculous catch. I slapped my forehead, staring at the Greek fish tile Adam had given me.

  “I love him, Kyoko,” I said. “I just … do.”

  And Kyoko promptly burst into tears.

  I even e-mailed Ashley, of all people, and she called me immediately—up with a late-night feeding. Giving me bleary, if not tepid, congratulations.

  “Have you called Dad?” she asked in her bossy tone of voice. “He misses you, you know. You ought to call him. It’s earlier in Cabo San Lucas. He’s on vacation. You could still catch him awake.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But I just sat there, staring at the phone.

  It took me days to come to terms with what Adam had done, especially after he cashed in his final payment from selling Eden Landscaping to buy me a simple silver band, stoneless, to replace the ring of grass.

  So I racked my brain for any possible way to find enough money for Adam to go to college in August. I prayed and clipped coupons. Ate cheap ramen noodles and carpooled with Meg for a while, leaving my car parked in an empty lot. Until somebody tried to jimmy the lock, scratching up my door, and I decided to drive myself.

  But no money came. Instead I found myself at the kitchen table, bent over a stack of forms, calculator, and checkbook, when I realized I’d forgotten to pick up the mail. The days popped with craziness—calling Tim Sr. and Jeanette and Beulah. Telling everyone at work and arranging days off. Trying to decide on a honeymoon spot that wouldn’t cost a fortune and haggling over dates. And breaking the news to Yomiuri Shimbun, bowing repeatedly as I apologized over the phone, tears in my eyes.

  I just hoped I could still keep my electricity on, so behind was I on bills and late fees from some of the newest collection agencies that had caught up with me.

  Besides bills, the rest of the table was crowded with steno pads, papers, and tapes of the local school board superintendent scandal, which had turned out to be a huge story.

  All of this in the middle of driving out to Craigsville and Augusta Springs to do crime stories about stolen tractors (really), marijuana plantings, and illegally poached deer, among other things.

  “Come on, Christie,” I said, putting down my pen and opening the front door into a glowing peach sunset. “Let’s see if God’s going to send us a million bucks.”

  I trudged through the grass and pulled open the mailbox door then drew out a thick padded envelope with something hard inside. I checked the return address, which I didn’t recognize, then sat down at the kitchen table and slit the envelope. Reached inside.

  And pulled out a book. WITH MY NAME ON IT.

  “What on earth is this?” I threw it on the table.

  I blinked and shook my head, but didn’t wake up; my name in curly script on glossy card stock and underneath, Mom’s. To Live and Die in Dixie read the spiral-bound cover. Decorated with a whimsical, artsy painting of a Rebel flag all made up of flowers and boots and things. My jaw dropped as I turned the pages, not prepared for what I saw.

  Inside, in a page-a-day format, unfurled “365 Days of Dixie”—starting on January 1 and ending on December 31. And under each day’s heading flowed something that looked astonishingly like my writing. Stuff about mullets and cowboy boots and the number of people named Travis. Complaints about belt buckles and fatback.

  Half of the entries weren’t mine, but they rang strikingly familiar, whispering deep down in my soul: “Even though the canes are bare, life stirs beneath the surface. How do I know? Because that’s what faith is. Belief in an unseen God. Belief in grace and second chances even when all else shouts otherwise… .”

  The other entries boasted humorous and interesting facts, such as the origin of root beer, the history of grits, some recipes, and curious items from Farmer’s Almanacs. All with whimsical, folkish drawings.

  I stood there like an idiot, staring, and then grabbed the envelope and scrutinized the return address again. Theodore Baxter. Theo. Kyoko.

  I flew into the library and dialed, not even bothering to sit down. “Kyoko, what have you done?” I shouted, still holding the book.

  “What are you talking about? The thing I sent couldn’t have gotten there yet, and besides, you didn’t tell me not to send anything weird or scary to you as a present. You just said not to send it to Tim and Becky.”

  My jaw wobbled, and I lost my train of thought. “You … sent something weird?”

  “Well, that’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

  “A book?”

  “No, not the book, the … What?” I heard her gasp audibly. “You got a book? Theo sent the galley already? Oh my goodness, Ro-chan—tell me!”

  “The what? Wait a second—you know about this?”

  “Well … um … a little something. Maybe,” she replied smugly.

  “Maybe?” I howled. “Kyoko, there’s a book sitting here with my name on it! Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

  “Okay! I confess. I snooped. At … um … your house. I’m sorry, Ro. But it was unavoidable. Sort of.”

  “So you read my stuff when you came? And Mom’s journal?” I shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, okay, Ro-chan.” Kyoko’s voice lost its sarcastic edge. “It’s like this. You told me about your ‘Southern Speak’ notebook, and I couldn’t pass it up. You’re hilarious, Ro! Really.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Nope. I copied it at Kinko’s. Sorry.” She snickered sheepishly. “Then I found your mom’s journal lying out on the table. I swear, I thought it was yours at first, and you left it open, so I assumed you didn’t mind. I’m so sorry, Ro, if you think I’m invasive or anything. I can talk to Theo and it’ll be ancient history. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “After all, it’s just the preprint version, so we can scrap it if you want. But I had to try.”

  “No, no. It’s okay. I’m just …” I looked back down at the book in my shaking hands. “Wow. A book?”

  “Hey, if Boy George can sell memoirs, you can write a book. I rest my case.”

  I paged through the book, half listening. “Boy George? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Forget it, Ro.” Kyoko chuckled. “So, do you like it? If you do, it’s a go. You can look over this version and approve it, and we’ll finish the cover design, send it to printing. Publicity and all that. Theo says he’ll talk royalties with you. And payment of course. An advance. You are, after all, the author.”

  My knees felt weak, and I staggered into the chair.

  “Ro? Hello? Earth to Ro-chan?”

  “I’m here, Kyoko. I … Did you say payment?”

  “What, you think authors do their stuff for free?”

  “No, I just meant …” My heart suddenly sped up. “Kyoko, tell me something. Do you think I might get like … a couple thousand dollars?”

  “A couple thousand? Sure. I mean, you’re a new author and all, so Theo says if you sign the contract, they’ll probably start you off at—”

  “No. You don’t understand. I need it now. Right away.”

  Kyoko paused. “Well, that’s what an advance is,” she replied, as if I were exceptionally slow-witted.

  I bowed my
head onto the keyboard, typing rows of letters. “So I might be able to get it before August? Before Adam’s school starts?”

  “August?” Kyoko chuckled. “I can probably get it to you next week, if you want. Theo’s pretty into me, you know.”

  “What about Kaine?”

  “Kaine? Forget him. He has no taste in music. He called Siouxsie and the Banshees a ‘lame girl band.’ I’m quoting, Ro. Can you believe it?”

  I wanted, as usual, to ask Kyoko whom she was blabbing about, but she saved me. “Know what Theo sent me this week? A virtual Grubschmitter. It was amazing. He designed it himself.”

  Okay. Maybe she didn’t exactly save me. “A … a what?”

  “A Grubschmitter. Haven’t you ever played Doom before?”

  I raised a shaky hand to my head.

  “It’s this really creepy computer game, and they just released this new evil monster character that slays other creatures with a—”

  “Stop!” I shrieked, pressing my hands over my ears as Kyoko protested how there wasn’t anything wrong with it, and if I hadn’t ever played it I couldn’t pass judgment, and how it reminded her of this ‘80s band where the lead singer’s hair looked like an overgrown bush, and …

  “So you like the book?” Kyoko asked, from somewhere in the depths of her diatribe. “We started to call it Song of the South, but then I thought of the current title. Sort of a life-and-death theme, if you don’t mind me saying so. Since it’ll be a posthumous publication for your mom. She’s a really good writer, too, Ro. I never knew that. You must take after her.”

  “Life and death,” I murmured, remembering the grave on a green hill. Her final glorious moments. “It’s perfect.”

  I tried to thank Kyoko profusely, but she made gagging sounds and threatened to hang up. Started reading the Japanese phone book.

  “Kyoko, what’s the other thing you sent me?” I asked suddenly, remembering. “That thing you mentioned when I first called?”

  “Oh, listen!” she replied. “I think my cell phone’s ringing. Gotta go!” And she promptly hung up.