Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [21]
Trina considered the question. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. She was from Texas, but had just come from Tucson, having left the man she thought had finally taken her away from everything bad in her life, everything broken and wrong. And then there was the Indian woman in Apache land who was part of the reason she was moving east and slightly to the north.
“Well, that’s not as important as where I’m going.” She reached up and placed her hands behind her head. “Don’t you think it’s where you’re going that’s more important than where you’ve been?”
The priest considered the question. He finally let go of the steering wheel. “I guess you could have a point,” he responded. “So then, why are you going to Pie Town?” he asked, not sure why he was engaging in conversation with the talkative young woman. He mostly wanted to figure out a way to get her out of his car.
“I just heard about Pie Town, New Mexico, and decided it was a town I needed to visit. Just sounds friendly, don’t you think?” She closed her eyes, trying not to think about Tucson, trying not to think about her dreams and hopes all wrapped up in a smooth-talking man from Abilene.
“Pie Town,” she repeated. “Sounds nice. I mean, who doesn’t like pie, right?” She decided not to mention the dream and the woman who read her mind. Trina turned to the priest, who wasn’t answering, and then began glancing around her, lifting her nose in the air. “This car smells funny, don’t you think?” she asked, sniffing.
Father George sniffed as well. “I don’t smell anything,” he replied.
Trina looked behind her. “It’s something,” she said. “Smells like a funeral parlor I was once in. Like fruit that’s too ripe.”
Father George raised his nose and smelled again. He shook his head. “No, I don’t notice anything.”
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments.
“So, Father George Morris, are you going to put her in gear and get back on the highway, or are we going to sit here on the side of the road while everyone passes and stares, thinking we’re up to no good.” She winked at the priest. She liked knowing she made him uneasy.
He blushed. “I’m not comfortable driving,” he explained. “It’s been a while since I drove.”
She shrugged and leaned in his direction. “Oh well, that’s okay. You want to scoot over and let me?” she asked, sitting up, holding on to the steering wheel as if she expected him to slide under her. “I’m a good driver,” she commented. “I started driving a truck with my granddaddy when I was eleven. I even helped drive a big rig across Highway 10.”
“No, no . . . what?” He was confused and tried pushing her away. “I’m not scooting over,” he acknowledged, sounding very shocked by the suggestion.
She sat back in her seat. “Fine, have it your way, Padre,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest. “But you’re not really thinking about putting me out to walk eight miles in this heat, are you?” she asked. She glanced out the window. “And I’m pretty sure it’s going to rain. Did you see those clouds? It’s trouble ahead, for sure.”
He didn’t respond.
She raised herself up, trying to make eye contact with the driver.
“I mean, leaving a girl to fend for herself in a hundred degrees, all alone, without water or good walking shoes, that’s a bigger sin than sitting close to her, right?” She studied the man.
He sighed, knowing he was beat, knowing he had no choice, and put the car into gear. He closed his eyes and crossed himself. “You need to put on your seat belt,” he instructed.
She smiled, clapped her hands together, and reached beside her to pull the belt across her waist. It clicked, and he pulled onto the road.
“You’re young to be a priest, aren’t you?” she asked as they drove along.
“It’s my first parish,” he replied. “You’re young to be hitchhiking, aren’t you?”
She shrugged again. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been hitching rides since before I learned to drive. It’s not such a big deal where I’m from,” she said. She pulled her legs up and placed her feet on the dashboard.
“Texas?” Father George asked. He watched where she put her feet and considered saying