by Lynne Hinton
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Raymond began. He stopped and turned to Father George. “Is that right?” he asked. “I’ve forgotten what to say.”
“That’s fine,” George said.
Raymond nodded and continued. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He hesitated.
The priest turned to face the young man to make sure he was okay and to help him along if he needed it.
Raymond spoke quietly. “I thought I could shake the demons I faced as a soldier by myself. I thought I didn’t need help.”
There was a pause.
“And in my arrogance and in my decision not to get the help I needed, I have harmed the people I love and brought danger to them.”
George wanted to interrupt. He wanted to tell the young man that his actions were consequences of what he had endured in war, but he didn’t stop him. He knew that Raymond needed to relieve himself of the burden and that his job as priest was to allow that to happen. He waited as Raymond continued.
“I confess that I have wanted to die.”
Father George closed his eyes.
Raymond took in a breath. “I’ve thought a lot about what happened over there, and I’ve thought that since I was so damaged, so, you know, broken, that I would only be able to damage or break the people around me.” He hesitated.
“I have wished every day since I got back that it had been me who died in that desert and not everybody else in my company.” His voice shook a bit. “I don’t know why I’m the one who lived, why it’s me and not any of them.”
There was no response.
Raymond continued. “And for the longest time, I haven’t been able to think anything else other than that.”
Father George felt heaviness, a weight upon his chest.
“But when I was out on the mountain, out near Techado for the seven days, I felt something else, something different. I don’t know.” He waited. “I started to feel like maybe I could be okay.”
Father George kept his head bowed.
“There were lots of things that helped. Talking to the hospital shrink has been important. The sing was good,” he added, referring to the ceremony his people and the medicine man had held for him. “Dad coming out and being with me, that helped too. What you said about fighting for Trina, about fighting for what is important, that helped. And the place. . . .”
Father George smiled.
“The desert, the silence at night, the beauty I saw every day, that made a difference.”
The priest nodded. Having been where Raymond had been, he understood.
“But what I think helped the most was this town, these people, Roger, Trina, Malene. . . .” He turned to the priest. “You.”
George glanced up.
“I guess I figured that if this many people. . . .” He paused, recalling the responses from the members of the community. “Did you know that every day I was in the hospital somebody from town wrote me a letter, that there was a list of folks who tried to visit and were turned away because I couldn’t have guests? I had more requests than anybody else.” He paused. “Frankly, after a couple of weeks I could have had visitors, but I just couldn’t take all that company.” He rested his hands on his legs. “Did you know that Mr. Whitsett called his son, an officer in the army, and made sure I got the best care at the VA that was available? And did you know that he even offered me his Buick to drive when I need a car?”
George shook his head. Of all the reports about the people of Pie Town, that bit of information was the hardest to believe.
“Danny has invited me and Trina to hang out with him and Christine. Mr. King said I could work on the ranch if I needed a job, and he wants to give me an old Cadillac he has. And his girlfriend, Francine Mueller, is going to teach me how to bake pies. She says I have the hands for baking.” He held out his hands in front of him.
George watched as the young man seemed to be studying his hands. Maybe he was still surprised at what good they could do, he thought.
“Did you know that three hundred people showed up at the detention center in Albuquerque to get them to release Dad? Three hundred people?” he repeated. “That’s twice as many people as live in Pie Town!” He shook his head in amazement.
Raymond continued. “They were all standing out there when Roger and I came out from the interview. All of them out in the parking lot, wearing these crazy T-shirts that somebody ordered with the wrong words on them, holding hands, singing crazy songs from the civil rights era. Have you ever heard that song, ‘We Shall Overcome?’ ”
George had to laugh. “Yes, I have, and they sang it like they meant it. Of course, the T-shirts were pretty funny. See Frank Twinhorse instead of Free Frank Twinhorse? I got one as a souvenir.”
“I know . . . crazy, right?” Raymond laughed too. “Anyway, I guess I figured if this many people cared about me, cared about my dad, believed me when I said I didn’t steal any money or deal drugs, I guess I thought that if they were willing to stand by me, stay with me, I must not just be the damage. I must be something more than what happened over there. There must be more to me than that. And I guess I owe something to the men who died. Being a drunk or a suicide is a poor way to honor those who didn’t make it.” He shrugged. “So, I don’t know.” He turned back to Father George.
The priest was watching him.
“I guess I’m not doing this thing right,” he said, referring to the confession he had started. “What I really wanted to say is that I’m sorry I couldn’t see what everybody else saw and what I want, what I need, is to be able to see myself like they do.”
George waited. He lifted his face, glancing toward the horizon, where the sun was now full and high in the morning sky.
The priest took a breath and quoted the words of Jeremiah that he had memorized since his trip to Ramah and since his return home from the detention center.
“ ‘Thus says the Lord; a voice is heard in Ramah, lamentation and bitter weeping. Rachel is weeping for her children; she refuses to be comforted for her children, because they are no more. Thus says the Lord: Keep your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears; for there is a reward for your work, says the Lord: they shall come back from the land of the enemy; there is hope for your future, says the Lord; your children shall come back to their own country.’ ”
Father George turned to the young man and made the sign of the cross above his head. “You are absolved of the errors of your way. Go and sin no more.” And then he bent down and grabbed some dirt from the ground and poured it into Raymond’s open hand.
He nodded with a smile and simply said, “This is your land, Raymond Twinhorse, the land that raised you, the land that healed you. Welcome back, son. Welcome home.”
FORTY-FIVE
Daddy, did you spike this?” Malene had just taken a sip of punch.
Oris smiled. “I may have added a few extra ingredients to sweeten it up.” He winked.
“Daddy!” Malene rolled her eyes. “The punch is spiked,” she announced to the group gathered in the diner for a party celebrating Raymond’s return from the VA Hospital in Albuquerque and the engagement of Bernie King and Francine Mueller.
“Well, hallelujah!” Father George headed to the table, causing everyone to laugh. “What’s a party without having a little Oris Whitsett adventure?” George poured himself a glass and took a swallow. “It’s almost as good as the birthday party punch, but not quite.”
He was speaking of the first party he had attended in Pie Town, a birthday party for Roger and Malene’s grandson. The priest had been unaware of the spiked punch and ended up getting very drunk.
“You go easy there, Father George. I think we’re still expecting the late Mass this evening at church.” Fedora Snow was sitting at the booth near the window.
Father George smiled and took another swallow.
Trina immediately pushed her cup of punch away from Alexandria. “Bea, would you get us some milk, please, and a soda for Raymond?”
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p; Bea walked behind the counter and poured the little girl some milk in a cup and grabbed a soda from the cooler. She walked back and handed the cup to Trina. She smiled at Raymond, who was seated next to Trina, and handed him the other drink.
“Well, Bernie, Francine,” Roger decided to change the subject. “Why don’t you tell us about your wedding plans?” He got a glass of punch and returned to the table where he had been sitting.
Everyone hushed.
Bernie cleared his throat. “Well, since we’re of a more mature age . . . ,” he started.
“You mean since you’re almost dead,” Oris yelled out, interrupting the groom-to-be.
“Thank you, Oris,” Bernie commented. “Since we’re older,” he said with a smile, “Father George has released us from the six weeks of premarital counseling.”
“Hey, that’s not fair!” Danny stood up from his seat. “You’re making us go through all the workshops, plus we have to do a retreat in the fall.”
Father George shrugged.
“Don’t lose your patience, Danny,” Trina said, glancing over at Christine. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing your own wedding bells soon enough.”
Danny sat back down, and Christine reached for his hand. He turned to his fiancée and mouthed an apology, and then he glanced over at Raymond, who was wearing a big smile. The two men had become friends after all.
“Do you really think that’s such a good idea?” Oris asked, changing the direction of the conversation back to Bernie’s announcement.
“What do you mean, Oris?” Father George wanted to know.
“Shouldn’t they at least take the sex class?”
Millie Watson elbowed Oris so hard that he spilled his punch.
“Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t bring it up. We all know that Bernie King doesn’t have any idea about how to please a woman.” He pulled away from Millie, afraid she’d elbow him again.
“Oh, and like you do?” Fedora Snow wiped her mouth. She had just taken a swallow of the punch.
“Now, Fedora, don’t you sit over there and pretend I can’t make you bark like a dog.”
“Daddy, please!” Malene spoke up. “We have children in the room.”
“Oh, sorry, Raymond.” Oris winked at the young man.
“Could I please get back to our wedding?” Bernie asked.
The room was quiet.
Bernie cleared his throat. “We’re planning a nice ceremony at the ranch late September, to which you’re all invited.” He turned around. “Except you, Oris.”
Everyone laughed.
“Serves him right.” Fedora Snow drank the rest of her punch and sat up in her chair.
“We’ll have a big spread, and Roger and the boys will play the music. Father George will officiate, of course.”
The priest lifted his cup and nodded in agreement.
Bernie grinned and turned to Francine. “And it will be the happiest day of my life.”
A chorus of “ahhhs” filled the diner. Francine blushed.
“There will, of course, be a wedding pie,” Fred announced. “The bride and groom will serve both chocolate and pecan. Their favorites.” He smiled at the couple. “And Bea and I will be preparing all the food.”
“Well, now I’m not so disappointed that I’m not invited.” This time Oris elbowed Millie, almost knocking her over.
“It sounds lovely,” Trina responded, smiling at Bernie and Francine.
“So everybody take your glasses of punch.” Roger had stood up from his seat. He paused. “That is, if you’re of age,” he added. “And let’s toast the soon-to-be bride and groom. To Bernie and Francine.”
“To Bernie and Francine,” everyone called back.
“And now for the other reason we’re here.” Roger was still standing. “We celebrate the release of Frank and Father George from the detention center in Albuquerque. . . .”
“Here, here!” Bernie shouted, and everyone applauded.
Father George bowed from where he was standing next to the front table, and Frank lifted his hand in acknowledgment. He was at the table with Trina and Raymond and the baby.
“Lord knows, if they were still locked up we’d be faced with a lot of unhappy Catholics and a few broken-down cars.” Roger smiled.
“Not my Buick,” Oris noted.
Roger ignored him. “And we also celebrate the homecoming of Raymond Twinhorse, our hero, our son.”
Everyone lifted their glasses again. “To Raymond,” they all shouted.
And the young man watched as the citizens of his town toasted him. He smiled at Trina and looked down. It was obvious that he was at a loss for words.
“And now,” Bea announced as she returned from the kitchen, “there is pie!”
Everyone got their slices and began eating.
“Francine, this is your best yet.” Malene had her mouth full.
“This is excellent,” Roger agreed.
“Well, Francine, even I have to give my stamp of approval and take away every bad thing I’ve ever said about your baking. I may have to wrestle Bernie for you if you can bake pies like this.” Oris had eaten his in three bites and was already going for a second slice. “What do you call this?” he asked.
“Heavenly Chocolate Pie. But I didn’t bake it,” Francine responded.
“What?” Malene asked. “Bea, did you start baking?”
Bea shook her head. “Nope, not me either.”
“Then who?” Christine asked. “Because I already want to place an order for my birthday party. Who needs cake when you can have Heavenly Chocolate Pie?”
“I guess now is as good a time as any to make my announcement.” Francine moved away from the counter and stood in front of the group.
She smoothed down the front of her dress. “I have decided to leave my job here at the diner,” Francine said to the group, glancing over at Bernie. “I’d like to be able to spend as much time as I can with my husband on the ranch.”
“I told you they were near death,” Oris said to Millie.
“Then who will make the pies?” Danny asked.
“The person taking my place is the one who baked the pie you’re eating,” Francine replied.
Everyone glanced around the room trying to figure out who was such a good baker and who was going to work at the diner.
A throat was cleared, and everyone turned to the table where Trina and the baby were sitting with Raymond and Frank.
Raymond stood up. “Francine taught me a lot since I’ve been back,” he said. “It’s really more about the crust than it is the filling.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Oris exclaimed. “Our hero can bake pies.”
And everyone at the diner cheered.
EPILOGUE
The old man walked to the top of Techado Mountain. The sun was setting, but the desert air was not yet chilled. Autumn had arrived, but the summer was unwilling to release its hold on the earth and the air was hot and dry. He walked slowly, his cane guiding his steps until he reached the peak. As he stood above the land of his ancestors, the only place he knew as home, he cast his gaze to the south, in the direction of the place he had come to bless: a large ranch with a house at the far north end.
He could not see the celebration that had begun in the late afternoon. He could not make out the faces of those who gathered, the smiles of the well-wishers, the quiet tears of a man promising himself to a woman. He could not make out the hands that slipped into others or the close way lovers danced. He did not hear the music or the laughter, the words of a prayer given by a priest, words beckoning the spirit of love to fall like rain upon the couple and upon those gathered. He did not recognize the shouts announcing that another marriage had been made. He could not see or hear the wedding, but he knew that love and life were rich below him. He knew that a man and a woman had joined themselves together and that a boy had been reunited with the earth, with his home.
The old man smiled as the clouds gathered and a low rumble of thunder could be h
eard from the mountains far away. He saw a few flashes of heat lightning dance across the western sky, but he was not worried. He knew the storms of yesterday could not threaten the bonds forged today.
He bowed to the east and the west. He bowed to the north and then, turning again to the south, in the direction of the gathering of the people of the little Catron County village, he opened his small pouch, the corn pollen falling through his fingers, and quietly said the words of a blessing for the people.
He finished his prayer, made his four bows again, and headed back to his home. His job was done for the moment. The boy, the town, and the gathering of those below the mountain had found their hope in this ceremony of love, their courage in the choices made by friends for friends, and their strength in the power of the bonds between them. On this day, he knew, no storm cloud or rain, no harsh winds or fierce lightning, no violent hail or scorching sun, on this day, this good day, no enemy would prevail against them.
The old man laughed as he walked off the mountain. “This is a good place” you would have heard him say if you had been there, listening. “This place they call home. This place they call Pie Town.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I gratefully acknowledge my friends and loved ones who continue to encourage and support me and my writing. I am especially thankful for my husband, Bob Branard, who has never left my corner. Sally McMillan is more than an agent; she is my dear friend. Special thanks go to editor Wendy Lee and publicist Lauren Cook, and hats off once again to Carolyn Marino, who first said yes.
Keith Cochran, Deputy Sheriff of Stevens County, wonderful father, husband, and friend, helped me out a great deal with issues of the law. Thank you, Keith, Sara, Isaac, and Jessica, for being such a fabulous family. And thank you to the Creekside Writers in Chewelah, Washington, for your continued love and support.
I am rich with the best things in life: good friends, a loving family, beauty and grace all around, and a never-ending confidence that I am not alone. I am truly blessed.
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WELCOME BACK TO PIE TOWN
