Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [29]
Roger glanced down at his grandson. “I think we can find a way to get him up there,” he said. He picked up the check from the table. “Let me take care of your meal.”
Father George immediately responded. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t expect any special treatment.”
“It’s not special treatment unless you get dessert, and based upon the reviews I’ve heard, you don’t want to go there, so let’s just call it a ‘welcome to your new home’ lunch.”
Father George nodded. “What? No pie?” he asked innocently.
Roger turned to the kitchen and yelled out to Fred. “Father George wants to know if there’s pie.”
Fred stood at the window. “Brownies,” he yelled back.
“Only pie you can get is down the road in Quemado. But it’s worth the drive,” Roger explained.
Father George appeared to make a mental note. “No pie in Pie Town,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Although that does seem a bit odd. Maybe that will change.” He smiled. “Anything else I should know about the area?”
“We’re just small-town folks, not too fancy with our thoughts and not too progressive with our religion,” Roger answered.
“And the best party all year happens to be this weekend,” Alex added.
“Oh, and what kind of party is that?” the priest asked.
“My birthday, and even though there’s no pie, I can promise you there will be cake.” Alex grinned. “And you’re invited.”
Father George smiled. “Well, with such a lovely personal invitation like that, how could I say no?”
“Great,” Alex responded. “It’s always a lot of fun.” He studied the priest. “Can you play softball?” he asked.
The priest shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not the athletic type, Alex,” he replied.
“That’s all right. You can just watch.”
Father George nodded.
Roger cleared his throat. “Well, with the storm and all, I’ll drive you over to the house, Trina,” he said, “if you’re ready to go.”
Trina took a swallow from her iced tea. She put down her glass, and suddenly something seemed to be wrong with her. She reached for her napkin and held it to her lips as if she might become sick.
“You okay?” Alex asked.
She nodded and placed the napkin in her lap. “Just not used to the chile, I think.” She cleared her throat. “Okay then, Father, you are now officially free of me!” She glanced over at Alex. “Well, I mean, unless I become a Catholic.” She smiled. “Now let’s go see my new digs!” And she slid out of the booth and headed to the front door. “See you at the party,” she exclaimed to the priest, even though, unlike Father George, she had yet to be formally invited. “And will you look at that? The storm has passed.”
Alex grinned, glancing at the sky, and followed behind her.
Part II
Chapter Eleven
Every day I go to him drifting in the threads of white clouds that hang above the Gallinas and the Datil Mountains. I fly high above the fields and peaks, lighting always on the familiar landmarks, the places I have walked or ridden in wagons and on horseback. I circle and spin, dipping down, dropping once again to the place where I was born and the place where I died, the place where my beloved lives.
The boy grows so tall now. His voice has deepened. His limbs have lengthened. He is not the child I first remember. He is not the tiny baby, so frail, his spine unformed, his backbone open and vulnerable. He is not the fragile toddler or the chubby child in preschool. He is just on the cusp of change. Boy to man.
The party is thrown in his honor. It is quite the celebration, quite a gathering of joyful souls. It is better than a holiday. They all come, bearing gifts and sweet corn and skillet bread, hot chile and stew. They sing and tell tall tales of his arrival. They laugh and dance and wrap their love around each other. They claim to come for him, but I see their hearts. They also come for themselves, to remind themselves that life defeated death, that this broken child lives beyond what was destined, and if a miracle happened to him, maybe a miracle can happen to them