Pie Town

by Lynne Hinton

  “What is wrong with you?” he yelled, reaching up to touch his face and feeling blood now dripping from his bottom lip.

  She felt for the gear stick and threw the engine into park, slid over to the passenger’s side, and reached for the door handle. When she started to open the door, Rob pulled her back.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you crazy or something?”

  “Or something,” she answered him. “Just let me out and you go home.” She already had the door halfway opened, and she threw her elbow back hard, catching Rob in the chin.

  Rob winced from the blow and then pushed her hard out of the truck. “Fine, bitch. Get out.” And before she could close the door, he sped away.

  The night was not going at all like he had hoped.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  It was well after midnight when Bernie King was driving back from an estate sale down in Silver City. A ranch had foreclosed, and the bank was selling off all the equipment, the stock, and the land. He hadn’t planned to stay as long as he did, but he ran into an old buddy who had grown up in Pie Town and then moved to Carlsbad when he was a teenager. They found each other just before the auction started and decided to have dinner together afterward. They ended up talking well after the restaurant quit serving and stayed as long as the manager would let them, drinking coffee and reminiscing about old times. When the hour came to say good-night, Bernie thought about getting a hotel room at the place where his buddy was staying, but finally decided he would drive home.

  He didn’t buy much at the sale, a few odds and ends, wires and tools, a good-looking table saw. He hadn’t really gone down there planning to buy anything. He just liked to see what other folks had, offer support in some small way to the family, and maybe find a bargain. Turned out, the family was long gone from their farm and from Silver City, and the only representative for the property owner was a man from the bank. Bernie could tell who he was because he was wearing a suit and because, after he walked over and whispered to the auctioneer a few times, he distanced himself during the rest of the sale from most of the ranchers standing around.

  Like the other foreclosure sales Bernie had attended, this one was a fairly sad event, and the longtime rancher had almost decided this would be his last. It was just too hard to see a man’s property picked over and measured so nonchalantly. It was hard to know that a person, a rancher like himself, had lost everything he had worked so hard to have. It just made him feel bad to bid on the details of a man’s life, and he had been just about to leave before the thing started when he had run into his old pal. He stayed for the entire sale, ended up enjoying the auction, and even bought the saw, which he got for a very good price and knew he was certain to use.

  Bernie rolled down the window to stay awake. He thought the fresh air would help. He was not used to being up so late, and he was sleepy. He glanced down at the clock on the dashboard and realized it was way past his bedtime. He thought about the next day and wondered if he could sleep an extra hour in the morning or if he would need to start early trying to make up for the day’s work he had lost already.

  He turned off Highway 32 onto Highway 60 and headed into Pie Town. He was glad he was almost home. He slowed down as he drove through the center of town, checking out all the storefronts and buildings. His was the only vehicle on the road. As he headed across to the other side of town, he looked at all the houses, naming the occupants to himself, and then dropped his speed again when he drove past Francine’s house. He noticed a light on in the backroom and wondered if she stayed up that late every night. He wondered about the waitress, wondered if what he heard was true, that she was interested in seeing him.

  Bernie had been in love only one time, and when he was rejected by Coleen Winters back when they were in high school, he had never made an attempt at love again. He threw himself into his work on the ranch, taking over when his parents died, and filled his days with managing the farm, repairing old fences, and tending to the cattle. He was lonesome only at suppertime, when he fancied the thought of a wife sitting near him, a few children around the table. But once he had put a television in the kitchen and started eating his dinner to the evening news, he found he actually preferred to live alone.

  As he watched Francine’s house grow smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, he figured it was best to leave things as they were. He was too old, he told himself, to think about finding love. He had made a good life for himself, built up a nice bank account, and taken good care of his family’s place. He had managed a solitary life this long, and he thought there was no reason to end what he had worked so hard to maintain. Besides, he enjoyed the friendship with Francine and thought sharing meals with her at the diner was probably as good a relationship as he could have.

  He kept watching his mirror until he took the turn out of town that went past the Joyners’ old place, with its row of dilapidated barns, the road that would finally lead him out beyond the Catholic church and home. He was yawning, blinking hard, and was just about to make the curve near the church when he thought he got a glimpse of a young woman, the same young woman he had met in the parking lot of the diner when the priest arrived and the same one who had filled in for Francine while she was visiting friends in Phoenix. He could see it was her, heading in the opposite direction, walking off of the road, in the fields, and moving in the direction of Pie Town.

  Bernie stopped the truck and stuck his head out the window. He was going to yell out to her, offer her a ride back home since he certainly didn’t think it was safe for her to be out there by herself, when something else caught his eye. He turned back to look out the windshield and suddenly noticed smoke, a plume hanging above the road a few hundred yards away. He put the car back in gear and inched around the curve to see where the smoke was coming from.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, stopping again in the middle of the road. “The church is on fire!”

  Bernie pulled his cell phone out of his front pocket, punched in 911, and let them know where he was and what was happening, and then he called Roger to make sure the sheriff was aware of the fire. When he hung up from his calls, he suddenly remembered what had captured his attention before he had seen the burning church. He turned back around to search for the girl. He looked across the fields and down the road for Trina. He even put the truck in reverse and backed around the curve, looking everywhere, but could not find her. Suddenly, Bernie thought of Father George. He put the engine back in drive and headed toward the burning building. He stopped in front of the church, jumped out of his truck, and ran toward the rectory, hoping that the priest was in his bed and had not ventured into the sanctuary for some late night prayer.

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The boy has moved closer to me. He sees me in a new way now, knows me in a deeper sense. He already has knowledge well beyond what I had when my body was in his state. He is smart that way. I suppose he always has been. I have heard the old ones mention that being born with a physical body so frail, so slow to thrive, stimulates the manifestations of other experiences. Perhaps they know best.

  I remain near. I have heeded the warnings and not stepped in like before. I have not eased the pain in his legs or opened the constricted airways to help him breathe better. I have not brought home those who wander. I have not entered the dreams of others. I do not slow down the rate of his heartbeat or pry open the weary eyes of those who give him care. I let them sleep. At least for now. I let him bid his farewells in his own way, and I do not interrupt. I cannot promise my resolve, however, will last.

  Ah, I had such hope for this town, this family, this boy. I had such confidence in the foundation of this place, the brown earth, the velvet sky, the plains and mountains. I believed in the landscape of those who live here, the hearts of those who love more than they fear. I had such longing for life to flourish in this place, for mercy to stand unguarded and compassion to walk upright and proud. I hoped for goodness to thrive, for all that is lovely
to bloom and grow, for truth to be held up by everyone.

  But now fire has ravished hope. Ashes are all that remain, and I am forbidden to bring to life that which is dead.

  He makes his own way now, and all I can wish is that somehow he can do in these last faint whispers of his small, unlived life what cannot be done from beyond.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Roger stood at the steps leading to the front door of his tenant’s apartment. It was late in the afternoon, a few days after the fire, and he knew he had waited as long as he could to make this official visit. He never cared much for this kind of conversation to begin with, but he especially didn’t want to have this particular one because Alex, still frail and weak from his illness, had begged him to wait and just let Trina come to him.

  Roger still wasn’t sure why Alex had been so upset about his plan to ask the girl a few questions. He had tried to explain that he wasn’t accusing Trina of starting the fire. He just had heard that she was seen around the time of the fire near the church and wanted to ask what she knew.

  Alex, however, had insisted that the town was blaming their newest resident, and that for the sheriff to go visit her and ask her point-blank about the night of the fire was to take sides with those spreading the rumors. Roger had not even intended for Alex to know that he was planning to talk to Trina, but the boy had overheard his grandparents’ conversation after Roger stopped by to check on Malene and Alex and to bring them a few things he had bought from the grocery store. Some items were on sale, and as he usually did, he had stocked up on foods that he knew were favorites of his ex-wife and his grandson.

  The two of them were going through the bags when Alex got out of bed and into his chair and wheeled himself into the kitchen. It was then that Roger was telling Malene the latest from the fire investigation. Alex already knew as much as everyone else, maybe a bit more, since he had been awake when the sirens started and before the fire engine roared through town and down his street. He had called out to Malene and made her get up from bed and call Roger to make sure nothing had happened to the sheriff or to Trina or to anyone they loved. Roger had promised the boy that he would report what he knew when he knew it, and he had stuck to his word. He stopped by Malene’s on his way home from the fire and told them everything.

  Roger had explained that the church was a total loss. The fire and smoke had destroyed most of the building, and what wasn’t burned was damaged from the water. There was not much left but a couple of pews, the sign in the front yard, and the marble altar, a gift from the diocese when the church was first built. The good news was that Father George was not in the sanctuary at the time of the fire. He was asleep, and the rectory was spared.

  Bernie and the priest did what they could to keep the fire contained. When Father George attempted to run into the sanctuary and save the hand-sewn paraments and the sanctuary Bible, the consecrated elements, and a few of his vestments, Bernie stopped him, explaining that the church was too old, it was burning too fast, and the fire was just too hot. Even though the pastor’s office wasn’t burning at the time and the priest fought with the rancher to get in there, when a beam in the ceiling fell Bernie decided that it was just too dangerous to go in. Father George could finally only watch as all of his books and notes, his ordination gifts and remembrances, his handwoven stoles and custom-made robes, his sermon files and his certificates—all that was sacred and meaningful to him—were lost to the flames.

  Once the firefighters had put out the fire and the smoke had cleared, Roger walked with George through the ruins, where they found a few things. A chalice and plate given to him, George explained, by the priest in his hometown, a long silver cross blessed by the pope that he wore on Sundays, a few photographs in frames he had kept on his desk, and a crucifix someone had given him from a mission trip in Mexico. That was all that was spared, and as he walked and searched he clutched these few belongings to his chest. Father George was so clearly distraught by what had happened that Roger left him to himself. No one else dared tried to comfort him with promises of replacements or anything to do with the business of insurance. They figured it was best to leave him alone as he continued sifting through the ashes, trying to find the things he had lost.

  By the end of the following day, it was clear to the sheriff and the members of the Catron County Fire Department that the fire was started by a couple of candles left burning too close to the altar cloths that had been folded and placed on the altar after being cleaned by members of the Altar Guild. The fire, it was determined, started around 1:00 A.M. and was finally put out, the last flames extinguished, at 6:15 A.M. The sun was just beginning to rise as the first responders were leaving the scene and as the townspeople drove up the hill and around the curve to see the damage from what was already being called the Holy Family Fire.

  There was other news about the night of the fire, news that was commonly known and shared by Roger with Alex and Malene. Mass had been held at five o’clock that evening. A meeting of the prayer shawl group had been held from 6:00 to 7:30 P.M., and the last member to leave, Cora West, shut the back door of the church at 7:45 P.M. She left only after turning out all of the lights and checking all the doors, making sure they were closed and locked. She could not recall whether any windows were left opened but was confident that no one had entered through an unlocked door and that there were no candles burning when she made her exit.

  Later, when the captain of the fire department was finally able to locate and speak to the priest, Father George confirmed that he had left the sanctuary after Mass, blowing out the altar candles, and had not returned to the church anytime that evening. He had been in the rectory, he reported, for the rest of the evening, working at his desk and talking on the phone. He did not know of any other meetings being held in the church after the prayer shawl group. The fire captain told Roger that he wanted to press for more information, but he chose not to ask any further questions. It was clear that Father George was deeply affected by the fire and his own personal losses.

  What also became clear—to the captain, a thirty-year veteran fireman from Fence Lake, to the sheriff, and to everyone else who heard the news about the Holy Family Fire—was that Bernie King had discovered the fire and called it in and that someone had been in the church after Mass and the meetings, lit candles, and left them burning. Beyond that known and accepted bit of information, there were only speculations, and there were quite a few of them.

  When Roger heard the two reports about Trina being in the vicinity, one from Danny White, his deputy, who saw the girl in the truck with Rob Chavez heading in that direction around 9:30 P.M., and the other from Bernie, who was sure it was Trina he saw walking in the fields away from the church around 1:00 A.M., he explained to Malene, thinking that Alex was not listening, he made a plan to visit his tenant later that afternoon. That was when Alex had wheeled himself into the kitchen and begged his grandfather not to ask the girl questions, not to treat her as a suspect or even as a person of interest, a phrase he had learned from the years of hearing about Roger’s work.

  Roger had tried to assure Alex that the visit would not be an investigation and that he was not making any assumptions about Trina’s whereabouts at the time of the fire. He was only following up on a few stories that were going around, he tried to explain, and he promised he would not try to intimidate or scare Trina and that he would treat her the same way he would treat anyone else he thought might have information about the fire.

  Roger stood at the bottom of the steps to Trina’s apartment and remembered the conversation he’d had with his grandson.

  “I’ve asked everyone the same questions,” Roger said to Alex. “I’m not accusing anybody. I’m just trying to find out the facts, see if anyone knows something that can help us figure out what happened. I’m sure whoever started it didn’t mean to leave candles burning. I’m sure it was an accident, and I’m just trying to learn the facts.”

  Alex shook his head. “Everybody already thinks s
he did it,” he said. His face was flushed, and Roger was worried that the boy was getting too upset.

  “Who thinks she did it?” Roger asked, unsure of what his grandson knew.

  “Danny does,” he answered.

  “How do you know that?” Roger asked.

  “I heard him talking to Christine when I went with Grandma to work. He saw Trina in the truck with Rob Chavez, and he thinks they went to the church together to make out.” Alex had his right hand balled into a fist.

  “Well, first of all, Danny should not be talking to anybody else about what he thinks about a case.” Roger glanced over at Malene, who shrugged. She didn’t know about this conversation. “And secondly, Danny doesn’t know if Trina started the fire.”

  “He thinks she did it,” Alex said, shaking his head. “And so does Mr. King and Ms. Francine.”

  This news surprised Roger. “What makes you say that?” he asked, wondering how his grandson had so much information.

  “Papa and I went to the diner, and they talked about it. Mr. King says he saw her walking in a field about the time he saw the fire, and Ms. Francine made that kind of clucking noise she makes when she talks about people in trouble.” The boy looked as if he was about to cry. “It only takes a couple of people telling stuff and folks believe the worst.” He turned to Roger. “You can’t let them say these bad things.”

  Roger glanced away. He wished he could stop this kind of gossip, but he knew that the law, unfortunately, couldn’t stop folks from talking. He was about to explain this when Alex spoke again.

  “It’s the same thing they did to Mama,” he said, and both Malene and Roger turned quickly to the boy.

  They didn’t respond.

  “I know the things they said about her,” he explained. “You thought I never heard, but I did. I know they thought she was bad for having me and not having a husband. And I know they still think she’s bad, and I know you got divorced because somehow all the bad things that people said made you quit believing in each other.” Alex leaned back in his chair. It was clear that he was exhausted.