I take out the money Shell gave me, but Jay waves it away. “My mom’s treat.”
“No, this is from Shell.” I don’t want to depend on Jay, especially after I messed up, and besides, Jay’s mom doesn’t have a ton of extra.
Jay pays instead of answering. “You get the next one.”
Well. Jay’s mom must like me. I’ll have to thank her.
We sit at a wrought iron table and cut into the pie with plastic forks. It’s different from Shell’s. “They use shortening in the crust,” Jay says. “It’s crisper.”
I eat the pie. “It’s yummy, but I like Shell’s better.”
Jay asks to see the ingredients list and we study it. Yup, butter and shortening. “Interesting.” Jay strokes an invisible beard like a wise man.
I pretend to have a beard too. “Very, very interesting.”
Next we visit a pie shop that has a selling window opening right onto the sidewalk, catching a lot of the tourists as they wander by. People stand in a line down the street. Then we go into one that’s up a little alley. “Let’s try the pecan here,” Jay says. “Just for fun.”
An older man sits on the stoop, his bald head hidden by a cowboy hat, playing “Where the Streets Have No Name.” He belts out the words with his whole heart and lungs, like he’s in a stadium instead of in front of two kids. U2’s my dad’s favorite band. I remember his phone call from the other night—Dad really would like it here, I bet.
I take one of Shell’s dollars and put it into his guitar case. To my surprise, Jay starts dancing, swaying and moving his body to the beat. My face goes hot. I can’t believe he’s dancing in public.
“Come on, Cady.” Jay gestures to me. “Just move with it.”
For a second, I really want to join him. Jay hops around like he doesn’t care people are watching. But then my face heats up. “I’m good.” I run a few steps down the street. I wish I didn’t care what people thought about me, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon.
Jay leads me across the street after that, to Grandma’s Pies, which also has a long line. It’s making me sad that these other places have so much business while at Shell’s we barely get a dozen people all day. “How long have you been waiting?” I ask the man in front of me.
“About a half hour.”
“That’s nothing. On weekends people wait for an hour just to order, then another half hour for food,” Jay says. “For this place, we should come back when they first open. Beat the line. Come on.” He leads me to a bakery behind town hall. It’s small, with corrugated steel covering the walls. This place has bread and lots of other pastries as well as pies. They sell something called “chocolate bombs,” and I open my mouth as I look at them. Drool-worthy. “We’ll try one of those another day,” Jay says.
The little bakery has a patio for extra seating. Most places do, but not Shell’s. I wonder if that makes a difference.
We’re kind of stuffed, so we take our pie slices in to-go boxes and leave the shop. As we head up the street, Jay gestures. A wooden sign with a finger pointing to Shell’s. But there’s so much other stuff to look at, I didn’t notice it, and this isn’t the main road. “That sign is pretty much useless.”
The answer to what could help Shell’s seems like it’s on the tip of my tongue, like the title of a book I’ve forgotten. It feels like I should know. I stomp a foot in frustration. “There’s got to be more we could do. We just haven’t thought of it yet.”
“Maybe.” Jay sounds doubtful.
We decide to check out the schoolhouse, walking up the steep hill to it. Jay jumps over the steps onto the porch and disappears inside.
I climb the wooden steps more slowly, full of pie and candy. There’s a large open space with displays around the perimeter, a video playing on a monitor in the wall, and old school desks in the middle.
A sweet-looking older lady comes out of the back room, with steel-gray hair curled close to her head and dark brown skin. She’s wearing regular clothes, a blouse and elastic-waisted pants, unlike Mr. Miniver in his pioneer dress. “Jay! Who’s this?” She squints at me through her glasses, as if squinting will help her recognize me.
“Hi, Mrs. Showalter.” Jay hugs her. “This is my friend Cady. She moved here last month.”
Moved here? Like it’s permanent. My stomach does a flip-flop and I can’t tell if I’m excited or nervous at the thought. Maybe both. “I’m staying with my aunt Shell.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Mrs. Showalter makes a move to hug me, but I stick out my hand so she shakes it instead.
The ceiling is at least twenty feet high, but the room itself is fairly small. I can’t believe all the kids used to crowd into this one room. Mrs. Showalter explains that they made the high ceilings so the hot air would rise in the summer. “But it did get cold in the winter.” She points out a stove.
We check out the history of Julian in photographs. “Julian was founded by freed slaves and former Confederates after the Civil War,” Mrs. Showalter says. “People who had no place in the world came here to start new lives.” She shows us a photo of the Bailey brothers and their cousins, the Julian brothers, the ex–Confederate soldiers who came to California in 1869.
A freed slave found the first gold in 1870. Fred Coleman happened to be riding by a stream when he saw some gold glinting. That’s how the Julian gold rush started. But, Mrs. Showalter explains, in most California gold rush towns, once the gold ran out, everybody left. Here, people stayed and made a community.
“Did they get along?” I ask. “I mean, the Confederates were fighting to keep slaves, so how could they all work together?”
Mrs. Showalter bounces on her heels. “Great question, Cady! I don’t know the answer to that. But look.” She points to a picture of a building that reads HOTEL ROBINSON and a picture of a couple seated on its steps. “Albert and Margaret Robinson opened the first hotel here. Mr. Robinson had been a slave. Mrs. Robinson was renowned for her cooking and hospitality. In fact, it’s called the Julian Hotel now.” Mrs. Showalter taps the trees in the photo. “Those cedar and locust trees the Robinsons planted are still there, too.”
I recognize the modern photo. We passed it on Main Street.
Jay’s eyes light up. “Oh my gosh. That’s amazing! He went from being a slave to a hotel owner.”
Mrs. Showalter nods. “We also know that Julian didn’t have a sheriff. When you’ve been swinging a pickax all day in the mine, you don’t need one.”
“Because they were too tired to fight?” Jay asks.
“Or because they were all strong and nobody would win,” I say.
“Maybe a little of both.” Mrs. Showalter smiles. “Maybe hard work, done together, has a way of equalizing things. Everyone had to help each other.”
“We should go visit a mine too,” Jay says to me. “The tunnels are pretty cool.”
I look at the photos of the Julian brothers and Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. I wonder how they felt when they arrived. They must have been scared, but hopeful. Did they ever want to give up? Did they think this was their real home right away, or did they plan on moving on? How could they forget everything in their pasts to become successful?
Did they feel at all like I do right now?
“Come on,” Jay says. “I’m hungry for lunch.”
I cover my midsection with my hand. “You’re joking. Even I’m full.”
“Pie never counts.” Jay dashes out the door. I have no choice but to catch up.
Chapter 20
That evening, as we close up the shop, Shell says we’re not going home. “There’s a meeting at the town hall I have to go to. Come on.”
“What kind of meeting?” Every meeting I’ve been to, not that I’ve been to many, was extremely boring.
“Planning.” Shell notes my look of disgust. “People bring food,” she adds with a smile. She knows that’ll get me.
“In that case.” I pull on my jacket and wait at the door.
She puts the pies we didn’t se
ll that day into the back of her little sedan. I actually prefer the truck, but Shell says it’s not always practical to drive.
When we get there, there are already a couple dozen people sitting in folding chairs and eating snacks. Shell puts her pies down on a table with a bunch of other food, everything from deviled eggs to chips to one lone casserole covered in cheese, still piping hot. There are also chips, red Jell-O, salad (not the bitter kind, I’m glad to see), and glazed chicken wings.
My stomach gurgles. Shell nudges me toward the stack of paper plates at one end of the table. “Go ahead.”
Pretty soon I’m carrying two paper plates full of food. I know it’s rude, but you never know when you might get to eat again. Dad would tell me to cut it out, like he did when we went to Thanksgiving at the shelter downtown and I kept asking the volunteers for two scoops of everything. But Dad’s not here, and he’s not going to be, and I don’t care what he thinks anymore, anyway.
I sit down in the front row with my bounty, balancing the plates on my knees. Shell’s up front, fiddling with the mic. She must be the sound person. She sees my plates and her eyebrows go up, but she just gives me a wry smile. “Get enough there, kiddo?”
I shovel mac and cheese into my face and nod. I’ve never had mac and cheese that wasn’t boxed, and it takes me a minute to get used to these textures, plus the bits of onion in it. But it’s good, even though it isn’t the same.
Then Shell leans into the mic. “Good evening. Thanks for coming. I’d like to bring this meeting to order.” Her voice is confident, full of authority, and she grips the sides of the podium. I bet she could pick the whole thing up and throw it if she wants.
I didn’t know she’s the meeting runner. I look around as people get back in their seats, all going quiet like Shell’s the president. Our school never got this quiet for the principal.
Then Shell looks at me. “Cady, can you please lead us in the Pledge of Allegiance?”
I almost choke on my mac and cheese. I nod mutely, putting my plates on the chair as I get up. I’m trying to remember how to do it, because I’ve never led it before. Come to think of it, I haven’t led anything. A great big ocean-sized swell of nervousness washes over me.
The flag’s in the corner behind Shell, so I angle my body to face it. “Place your right hand over your heart. Ready. Begin.”
My knees sag a bit. I did it. As we say it, I notice the older man next to me isn’t participating but sits with his head bowed, his hands clasped. I wonder if Shell will say something to him, because most of our teachers made everybody participate—but nobody says anything.
“Please be seated,” Shell says grandly, and everyone sits. She turns on a projector and a picture of a convenience store comes on the screen. “As you know, tonight we will discuss and vote on the Quickie Break market, part of a nationwide chain that would like to put a store in Julian.”
“No!” some lady behind us yells.
Shell’s brows knit only a little. “Please do not talk out of turn. We have the developers here tonight to tell us about it.”
Two men in suits get up and talk. The store will bring more jobs. Blah blah blah. I eat some more.
The man next to me leans over to whisper, “How’s the mac and cheese? Mrs. Moretti made it.” He’s pretty ancient, probably older than Mr. Miniver.
I give him a thumbs-up. Then I look at his cane and realize it’s probably hard for him to get food. “Want me to get you a plate?”
His eyes light up, but he shakes his head. “No, that’s okay.”
I leap up anyway, scurrying to the table, and plate some food for him. I decide to add some salad, just in case, and then I grab a few napkins and a fork and return.
“Thank you, my dear.” His gnarled hands reach for the plate, and I help him steady it.
Finally the men are done talking and Shell tells people they can ask questions. And boy, do they ever.
“All you big-time corporations are going to want to move in,” a lady says. It sounds like the same person who yelled earlier. “Then we’ll be nothing more than a mall.”
“That’s right!” the man next to me says. “It’s a slippery slope. Let’s keep our town locally owned!”
Everyone applauds. The two visiting men have frozen smiles on their faces. I almost feel bad for them, but not a hundred percent.
Then someone else stands. “Personally, I think the increase in jobs will make up for everything else. Plus, I’d like to get some cheaper foods in here. Everything’s so expensive.”
“We do live on a dang mountain,” the lady pipes up again. “What did you expect?”
Shell stands and the place goes quiet again. It’s crazy how she can do that. She really needs to come to school. “I have my reservations too. On the one hand, competition is a good thing. And as we get more tourists, maybe we could use another store like this.”
The crowd murmurs now.
“But on the other, Julian has a certain character. It’s our duty to be stewards of the town, for future generations. Like my niece, Cady, here.” Shell points at me just as I’m eating a piece of cornbread, the crumbs all over my cheeks, and I feel myself flush. “So I’m going to recommend a vote of no.”
The project fails in a vote. I hold up my hand for the “nays” even though I’m a kid and I’m not sure if my vote counts. It’s fun to participate.
After the meeting, Shell comes over and gestures to the man sitting next to me. “Cady, this is Mac Spencer. The oldest man in Julian.”
“People call me Mac and Cheese,” he says in a raspy tone. “That’s why I like it so much.”
I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Spencer.”
“Mac. Please. Mr. Spencer’s my father.” He chuckles.
“Tell Cady how old you are, Mac.” Shell nods, watching my face.
“One hundred and two,” Mac says proudly.
“Really?” I can’t believe it. “And you’re still moving around?”
“Sort of.” Mac uses his cane to get up. He’s pretty much bent in half. “Thanks, Shell, for another great meeting. You make me sleep well at night.”
Shell flushes pink, then changes the subject. “There’s a ton of food left. Take some home.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Mac waves his hand.
But Shell grabs one of the aluminum foil chafing dishes that’s half-full of mac and cheese, then scoops up wings and some other food into the clear end. She crimps down the lid. “I’ll take this to your son’s car.”
Mac takes Shell’s hand and squeezes it. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Shell leans down. “I’m going to come check on you and your son next week. You need anything in the meantime, you call me.”
“Will do.” Mac wipes at his eyes.
A younger man—meaning about eighty—appears and helps Mac out of the town hall. Someone grabs the aluminum foil chafing pan and carries it out for them. Shell watches them leave and shakes her head. “I worry about them living alone. His son can hardly take care of himself. But Mac says he’ll only leave his home feetfirst.” She shrugs. “I guess I understand that.”
“He seems kind of stubborn,” I observe. “Kind of like you.”
Shell lets out a laugh. “Takes one to know one, missy.” She play punches me in the shoulder and I giggle. “Was that as boring as you thought it’d be?”
“It was okay.” I put my shoulders back. A satisfied kind of feeling wells up. I’m proud of my aunt. Everybody seems to respect her. She’s always helping people. I’m not used to all this niceness, but it’s good. “I still have to hit the dessert table.”
Chapter 21
I clean the counters and tables all over again. It’s two o’clock the day after the community meeting, and not a single person has been in since Mr. Miniver left at eleven. Not one. I keep stepping outside and looking down the street to make sure we didn’t time warp into another dimension where no customers exist.
I dust the windowsills. I scrub
the baseboards. I basically clean every nook and cranny until the place sparkles. The air conditioner groans and spits coldness into the silence.
Shell comes out of the back and observes the empty chairs. Her jaw twitches. “Nobody since the last time you checked,” I say.
She gives a terse nod. This can’t be good. Not at all. “This came for you.” She hands me a letter. “Who’s it from?”
I recognize Jenna’s shaky writing—just for my name. The rest her mom obviously wrote. “My reading buddy, Jenna.” I rip it open, pieces of envelope flying down like confetti. It’s typed, because Jenna’s handwriting’s pretty illegible.
Dear Cady,
Yay! Your aunt sounds nice. I miss you though. My new reading buddy is Ryan. The bread didn’t get in my mouth, so I’m okay.
Love,
Jenna
I smile, picturing her sitting at the computer, slowly pecking out the letters, and suddenly not seeing her gives me a homesick kind of feeling.
Just to have something to do, I take the little bit of trash we have to the Dumpster in the alley. I’ve never seen anyone go into the Realtor’s office, so there’s nothing up here but us, basically. We need something that people will walk up a hill for. Something they can’t get anywhere else. Like that one shop has those chocolate bombs. What about the Lady Baltimore Cake? But that icing’s too hard to make in bulk, I bet. I’ll have to come up with a better idea.
I toss the bag over the edge, watching it to make sure nothing extra falls out.
Chapter 22
Jay shows up at the bakery a little later. “Hey. Thought you might like to play ball instead of working.”
Working? Is what I do really work? I don’t think so. It’s more like playing. I mean, it is work, but I don’t mind. But Shell says, “That’s a good idea, Cady. Go play with Jay.”
Jay gives me another baseball mitt, worn and soft as a pillow, and we walk along the road through downtown, past the yellow Julian Hotel, under the trees that Mr. Robinson planted, all the way through the downtown area, passing the gas station that marks the entrance. Beyond this are some fields, and in the distance, large buildings. “Is that the school?”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 13
