She pours me a tall glass. I start in on the chips. The dogs crowd around my side, drooling and whining softly. Tom watches me from the opposite chair, his pupils almost disappearing into his blue-violet eyes in the bright light. “Sorry, pooches. This is all mine.” I finish the last bit of my sandwich, patting the crumbs up with my fingertips and eating those, too.
“You were hungry,” Shell observes. She opens a white bakery box. “Do you have room for pie?”
Room for pie? Does the sun set in the west? Is my name Cady Madeline Bennett? “Yes, please,” I remember to say, and Shell puts another plate down in front of me.
The box says SHELL’S PIE. Shell’s Pie? I sit upright like a bolt of lightning hit my bottom. “You have a pie shop?” I try not to sound too impressed, but I don’t succeed. Because I definitely am.
Shell nods. “Yep. That’s my business.”
“What’s your business?” another voice says. A woman with short, wispy blond hair, and a tote bag over her shoulder, appears in the doorway.
“It’s your aunt Suzanne! I didn’t expect you until tonight.” Shell hugs her. Suzanne is only as tall as Shell’s armpit. She reminds me of some kind of woodland fairy.
“Today’s a bit different, yes? I’m here to help, so you can spend more time with Cady.” Suzanne’s brown eyes crinkle. “I’m so happy you’re here.” She extends her arms for a hug, and I hold out my hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.” I shake her hand as if we’re two businesspeople.
“Well. The pleasure’s all mine.” Suzanne’s eyebrows shoot up and she laughs. Her voice is high and lilting where Shell’s is low and earthy. “You have a most excellent handshake, Miss Cady.”
“Thanks,” I say modestly. I poke at the flaky buttery crust with my fork, then lean over it and sniff. “Cinnamon?” I’ve had cinnamon in oatmeal.
“Yes! And some nutmeg and a couple other things.” Suzanne claps her hands. “Oh, she’s good, Shell. Do you like to bake, Cady?”
Yes, I want to say. Yes, let’s make something right now. I look at the canisters of flour and sugar. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t actually done it.”
“Well.” Suzanne’s eyes sparkle. “We’ll have to remedy that, posthaste. We can start with cake. It’s easier than pie.”
I’d like that. Love that, actually. But I kind of shrug. “Maybe.” I figure Suzanne will forget about it anyway. I sink my fork into the pie and scoop a bite into my mouth. The butter and the pastry melt on my tongue. The sour apple goes just right with the cinnamon and nutmeg spices. Forgetting everything else, I shovel the pie in, not pausing between bites until I’m done. Then I gulp my milk. “Do you make other kinds, too?” Because I want to try them all, right now.
Shell takes the plate away. “We make a pretty mean apple cherry.”
“Two flavors? That’s it?” I haven’t been to that many bakeries, but even the doughnut shop’s got more varieties than that.
Suzanne laughs again, clapping her hand over her mouth. “See? I’ve been saying that forever. Listen to Cady, Shell. She’s got you pegged.”
“I do those two better than everyone else.” Shell’s mouth turns down and I stare at my plate. Have I offended her? But Suzanne’s still giggling, so it can’t be all that bad.
“Oh, you do those the best. But we should do more.” Suzanne raises her brows. “In fact, the bike shop next door is available. It would make a great extra space. It’s not too big.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re not ready for that.” Shell shoots me a tired smile. “Cady, why don’t you go out and play for a little while? Just be back when it starts getting dark.”
“Like at sunset?” I frown. I look out toward Shell’s vast property, stretching farther than I can see, and think of the bobcats and coyotes Shell mentioned. “Are there mountain lions and bears too?”
I’m only half-serious, but Shell cocks her head as she considers my question. “Some people saw a black bear a few years ago, so the answer is maybe on those. They’re not native to the county, but a few made their way here. Cougars and coyotes will be out after you come home. Bobcats pretty much leave you alone. You should watch out for rattlesnakes, though.”
“Rattlesnakes?” I hear the quiver in my voice. “What do those look like?”
“You know. They’re the ones with a rattle on their tails,” Shell says dryly. “I thought you grew up in San Diego.”
I blush, look at my feet. “I don’t go around in the great outdoors.”
Suzanne makes a tsking noise at Shell. “Okay,” Shell says, her tone gentler. “They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. But you still have to look out, because they’ll bite if they’re scared.” Shell sort of sighs and moves her neck so it cracks. “Now, Cady, I know you just got here, but I’m almost a one-woman operation. I have got to pay these invoices or there will be no pies tomorrow.”
Watching them pay bills doesn’t sound very exciting. “How far can I go?” I stick my hands into my armpits.
“As far as you can go and be back when the sun starts setting.” Shell keeps her head down.
As far as I can go. I have no idea what distance that might be.
Chapter 5
Jacques and Julia meet me in the yard, tails beating against each other. “I don’t have any treats. You might as well stay here,” I tell them, but they pant, their chocolate eyes shining, and I shrug and let them follow. Are they supposed to be on leashes? I guess not, since this is Shell’s property.
It’s cooling off, with a breeze whipping up that feels good but also makes me shiver a little. I decide to do a loop of the whole property, beginning with the chicken run. The chicken-wire fence is about eight feet high, with an entrance gate framed in wood at one end. A big coop sits at the other. The birds, in various shades of red or white and everything in between, squawk and run up to me on their spindly legs, like cotton candy balls teetering on toothpicks. They must think I have food, too. Once the chickens figure out I have nothing, they turn around and go back to pecking the dirt. “Hey, birds.”
Beyond the coop are several large garden beds, built on raised wood and covered in black netting, to keep out critters. I pop off a strawberry and put it in my mouth. The sweet tartness of it makes me tear up. I swipe at my eyes and eat another, and then three more. I could eat a whole bushel of these, but I’d better not. Shell might miss them.
I walk the perimeter of the boxes. They’re filled with rich black soil, not the dead brown dirt of the yard. Soaker hoses entwine the plants. Beans climb up poles, and purple-black eggplants and dark green cucumbers and zucchini hang off their bushes. Giant tomatoes, supported by cone-shaped wire cages almost as tall as I am. One box contains only herbs—I recognize basil, cilantro, and mint. Another’s filled with different types of lettuce, covered with a shade cloth. Six boxes in all.
Sitting on the herb-box ledge, I lean over, close my eyes, and inhale. I don’t know the names for all of these plants. I don’t even know whether I’ve eaten all of them. I just know they smell awfully good.
“Am I in heaven?” I ask the dogs, and they stop panting and look at me as if they’re seriously pondering my question. I wonder why I was ever afraid of them.
I wish Dad could see all this. Maybe he could come live here, too. He can’t hate Shell that much if he put her on my emergency form, can he? Maybe they made up and they forgot to tell me. That could be totally possible with Dad.
He could work in her pie shop. I can imagine him mixing dough, rolling out crusts. I bet Shell would let him. She seems, if not crazy rich, at least a little bit rich, with a house and a pie shop and all this land.
Where’s Dad now? The question I haven’t let myself think about for too long seeps into my head. I push it away again.
I stand up off the ground in Aunt Shell’s garden and take a deep, cleansing breath, exactly the way the PE teacher told us to when she taught us yoga. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Filling my lungs. I do this until the c
hurning, upset feeling I’ve stirred up settles, dirt at the bottom of a clear pool. “There’s no changing things,” Dad would tell me. “Onward and upward.” I stand completely still for a moment, my eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Bees buzz in the distance and birds trill their songs. The dogs pant and pace. I breathe deeply some more, until my lungs hurt.
“Ruff,” Julia barks. I open my eyes and she’s standing there wagging her tail. She bows down like she wants to play. “Woof!”
Jacques dances around her, nipping at her bottom. Julia returns the favor, and they wrestle for a second in an endless circle of fur and excited yips. I laugh—I’ve never seen dogs do this before. Then Julia breaks away and romps toward the orchard, Jacques following.
I follow them and explore that area next. The branches hang low, the beginnings of apples on them, tiny green nubs. Black soaker hoses touch the base of each, tracing the entire grove.
To the left of the orchard the land turns wild, a jumble of bushes and trees. I wonder where Aunt Shell’s property ends and if I’m supposed to go beyond the apple orchard. Nobody said. It must be fine. I head that way.
I hear a rustle in the shrubs. A bird? A dog? I look down at Jacques and Julia to see if they’re alarmed—aren’t animals supposed to be protective or something? But they’re eyeing a squirrel. “Woof woof woof!”
Boom. They go after the squirrel, who of course is long gone by the time they get to it. They chase its scent anyway, heading out the orchard’s rear and disappearing into a grassy yellow field beyond.
“Come back!” What if they disappear, and Aunt Shell is really mad at me for losing her dogs? Not to mention, I like them. My stomach does a drumbeat of panic. “Jacques! Julia! Get back here!”
The grass is chest high and goes on for a long time. Beyond that, a forest studs a hill. I have to find the dogs. What if they run into a bear? I wonder if bears are afraid of dogs. I’ll have to look that up.
The grass makes me itchy. The wind moves the stalks, the seedpods on top making soft rattling noises. Is this grass or some kind of wheat? I sure don’t know. I hit the tops of the stalks with my hand. They crackle.
“Jacques! Julia!” I try to whistle, but I’m not good at it so it sounds like a weak balloon letting out air. I stand still, searching for the dogs in the meadow. The grass moves in a hollow wake, as if there’s an invisible boat on top of it. That’s where the dogs are. “Here, boy! Here, girl!” I call, but they keep going. “Come back at once!” I yell, trying to sound commanding, like Aunt Shell said, but still they ignore me. I run blindly through the grass toward them.
I feel it before I hear it. My foot comes down on something solid and round. Something that’s not wood but has some give. Something kind of spongy, but harder than that.
Something alive. I freeze in place, my body knowing what to do even if my mind has no idea.
There’s a rattle, like the rattle of the grass. Only louder.
I look down and see a shiny tan hose covered in darker brown diamond shapes. Snake, my mind tells me. That’s a snake. I’ve heard about blood turning cold, and I’m pretty sure that’s what mine does.
What do I do? I can’t keep standing on it. Slowly I take my foot off the snake’s body and it coils itself into an S, its triangular head opening in a hiss as it rears back to strike.
Then something big bounds out of the grass, coming right at me. I scream.
Ooof! A hard blow hits my stomach and I fall backward, the wind knocked out of me. I open my mouth, gasping for air that won’t come. What just happened? I keep my eyes screwed tightly shut, in case it’s a bear. Play dead—that’s what you’re supposed to do, I think. I don’t actually know. Another thing to Google later, if I survive.
Then Jacques and Julia are licking my face—I hope it’s them, anyway; my eyes are still shut—and I hear a boy’s voice. “It’s only a gopher snake,” he says. “I thought it was a rattler too, for a second. Sorry I knocked you over.”
I reluctantly open my eyes. The sun seems too bright and the world spins for a moment before it mostly rights itself. I take a deep breath, the oxygen filling my lungs as if I’ve never breathed air before.
The boy sits next to me, casually petting the dogs. They lick his face and he scratches their chests, cooing at them. “Jacques and Julia, how are my puppies? What a good boy and girl.” He barks and the dogs bark back.
I shake my head to get rid of the rest of the dizziness, which makes it worse. “How . . . how do you know?” I ask. To my amazement, my voice doesn’t quaver as much as I think it will.
“Glossy body. Head not triangular.” He points at the snake slithering out of our sight, only the end of its tail visible.
“That head was definitely a triangle.” I squint at the animal, trying to remember.
“They imitate rattlers, so they puff their heads out. Believe me, if you saw them next to each other, you’d be able to tell the difference. But better to be safe than sorry.” The boy pushes his dark, curly hair back so it poofs out all over his head in a cloud. He shoots me a dimpled smile, showing white teeth in his bronzed face. “Mostly, though, I can tell it’s not a rattler because it has no rattle.”
I feel dumber than I did when I forgot how to simplify mixed fractions. “It rattled!”
“It pretended because you scared it. You’re lucky it didn’t bite you. It’s not poisonous, but man, it still hurts. Believe me, I know.” He holds up a shorts-clad leg. “One got me in the calf right there.” He points.
I squint. His skin is smooth. “There’s not even a scar. What are you showing me?”
He lowers his leg, looking embarrassed. “There is so a scar. I can see it. Just not in this light.”
I snort.
“I’m Jesús,” he says now. Hay-zeus. “But everyone calls me Jay. Jay Morales.”
Morales. I wonder if his grandpa is also from Mexico, like mine. I try to figure out what kind of kid he is. My school has a lot of Hispanic kids, some who wear fancy designer clothes whose parents drive Mercedes, and some who wear thrift store clothes and ride there on the bus. I can’t tell which group Jay’s in. Maybe he’s in neither group, like me. Just because kids look kind of the same doesn’t mean we’re automatically friends.
“I’m Cady Bennett. I’m, um, staying with my aunt Shell.”
“I know.” Jay squints at me from under his brows. “My mother works for her. We heard the whole story.”
My cheeks go hot and I really wish I were molten lava, so I could melt into the earth’s core and never be seen again. “Oh.”
Jay stands and offers me his hand. “I can show you around if you want.”
I almost don’t take his hand. I can stand up by myself, thanks very much. Instead, I don’t know why, I reach up. He grabs my hand and hauls me up as he steps backward. Suddenly I’m standing. “Thanks. What are we going to see?”
He grins. “How ’bout everything?” He turns and runs.
I follow, watching for snakes this time.
Chapter 6
We head under a canopy of tree branches and emerge into a different field. A couple of old dead trees stand guard nearby, with other old logs scattered around. Cows graze here, chewing with morose expressions. The dogs dart around, sniffing everything. “This is parkland,” Jay says. “Your aunt’s property is right against it. Basically there’s nothing but wilderness behind us.”
“So these cows aren’t hers?” I pant. I hope Jay doesn’t run all the time.
“Nah, they belong to other farmers who pay the park to let them graze.” He points vaguely to the east. “There’s a ranch that way, with a gate. The rancher opens it so the cows come out here.” The cows eye us warily. The closest one to us has black spots in a sort of U-shaped pattern and a brown calf under her. The dogs bark and Jacques pretends to rush at one, and they skitter back.
“Quiet! Lie down!” Jay commands them in a deeper-than-usual voice, and the dogs reluctantly settle to the ground. “They make the cows ner
vous.” Jay produces an apple from his pocket and squats. “Here, Ida. That’s what I call her. I don’t know if that’s her real name. She probably doesn’t have one.” He shrugs. “I’m pretty sure farmers don’t name their cows if they’re going to, you know, eat them later.”
Ida wobbles forward on her skinny calf legs. She takes the apple from Jay’s hand and nuzzles him. I hold out my hand. “I bet if the farmers have kids, the kids name all the animals.”
“Probably. But could you eat something you’d named?”
“If I were hungry enough, I guess.” I don’t tell him I’ve definitely been hungry enough.
“That’s a good point.” Jay nods.
Ida’s eyes are huge. I scratch under her chin. Suddenly Ida’s mother moos forcefully and steps forward. I automatically back off. “Why’s she making that sound?”
“You’re a stranger. She doesn’t trust you.” Jay hands me an apple. “Don’t worry. She will. Give her this.”
I hold out the apple. Who knew cows could be like people? Like my dad, who never trusts anyone. I remember the school principal asking me how long it had been like this. How long we had been sleeping in the van or in motels and with Dad “under the influence.”
Since I was five. Seven years.
He hadn’t always been like that. Back before my mom died, I remember my dad was somewhat normal. Sure, he slept a lot back then, too. But he’d had a job in a restaurant downtown, a pretty fancy place, doing prep work for the chef—mostly chopping vegetables, from the way he tells it. My mother had been the one on the rise, working her way from a busser to the rôtisseur—or roaster—the cook that prepares meats. Row-TIS-yeur. I like saying that word.
Dad told me stories of my mother and the wonderful meats she’d prepare for us. How I’m so big and strong because she fed me lots of delicious roasts while she was pregnant. And how the pastry chef, Mom’s friend, would send her home with lots of pies and cakes.
This explains why I like food so much. It runs in the family.
If Mom were alive, none of this would have happened. She’d be a chef at a fancy restaurant and we’d have a place to live and everything would be perfectly fine.
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 3
