Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [30]
They are here because it brings them pleasure to see him, to be near to him. He gives them hope, shows them possibilities, how to open their hearts. And I can see, even from this far distance, that he too is happy. He laughs. He sings. He is fully in this moment, fully in his life.
She is not there with him, and yet she is. A few worry about her absence, and yet he has found a way to transform the grief and disappointment and wrap it up into a grand welcome for a girl who doesn’t even know how to be lonesome for home. They have bonded in a few short days. She will stand with him and he with her, although it is difficult to know for how long. She is only a child herself. But she is of the same spirit as he. She is hard not to like.
I am there, but no one sees me. He knows. I can feel his gratitude as if he thinks I have arranged this celebration, this gathering, her coming. But it is not my place to interfere in the lives of those around him. If it were, I would have gone across the Sangre de Cristos and raised a racket around his mother, making her jump from her bed of addiction and leave to go join them. I would have forced her to stay there, forced her to care, forced her to love him. But that is not my role. I am instead only a presence of comfort, the gentle voice in their minds leading one in the direction they have already chosen. I am the one dancing at birth and the one carrying the dead ones home.
I cannot change the outcomes or the movement of will. I cannot create the choices or dismiss the consequences once those choices have been made. And I cannot change what will happen even if I see it coming, even if I try stepping in its way.
And yet, today I do not think of these things, these things I cannot push away or cast aside. Today I cannot carry the burden of sorrow or the weight of grief. For today is a party, a gift of birth to be celebrated, the gift of life to be honored and enjoyed. There is no time or space for the suffering of tomorrow. Today we sing and we eat too much cake. Today we joke and make music and count the blessings and revel in what we do not know.
I watch from a distance, but I am there. I dance right beside them.
Chapter Twelve
You drive that station wagon?” Oris had not seen the priest since he had made his way into Pie Town. The old man was Catholic, but he rarely attended Mass. He and Father Joseph and a few members of the congregation had a falling-out when Oris tried to hang lights on the rectory to decorate it for Christmas. The priest and the Altar Guild had taken them down because they all said it wasn’t respectable for a parsonage to be covered in colored lights. Oris had gotten angry at the rejection of his gift and quit the church, so he wasn’t paying much attention to the arrival of Father George. He did, however, notice the station wagon around town and knew right away that it was the car that almost forced him off the road earlier in the week.
Father George followed Oris’s glance out to the school parking lot where he had parked his car. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s on loan from the diocese,” he explained, sounding proud. He turned back to look at Oris. “It’s not real pretty, but it gets me where I need to go.”
“You get your driver’s license from the diocese too?” he asked.
Father George appeared confused.
“You almost ran me off the road a few days ago. I remember what your car looked like,” Oris said.
“Oh my,” Father George responded, recalling the incident that happened just as he was making his way into Pie Town. “I am so sorry. I had glanced down at a map to figure out where I was and I just wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry. You weren’t hurt, were you?”
Oris grunted and waved off the apology and the question. “Don’t matter. Oris Whitsett,” he introduced himself. “Alex’s great-grandfather.” He had walked out to his car to get ice from the trunk.
“Father George Morris,” the priest responded. “Looks like a nice day for a party,” he added, trying to sound cheerful.
“Party’s been started,” Oris barked. “You’re late. But wait a minute before you go