Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [98]
“What about you?” Trina asked.
Frank waited, finished chewing, and then asked, “What about me?”
“Why do you stay there?” she asked. “I mean, I know it’s your home and you have more of a right to stay than anybody, but what did anybody in that town ever do for you? Why would you want to put your business in a place that talks so bad about you?” Trina had heard the racist comments about the Indians when she worked at the diner. She had even heard some things said directly about Frank and his family. Apparently, the homesteaders held long-standing grudges against the Navajo people from the area.
Frank shook his head, thinking about the question. “People will say anything about somebody else just to keep from dealing with their own pain,” he said. “Truth is, we all want to blame somebody for our troubles, and it’s never too difficult to find an enemy.” He glanced over at Trina and winked. “And that’s not just the white folks. We Indians knew how to do that before the Texans moved out here.”
Trina nodded. “So you think I should stay in Pie Town? Set my big ole pregnant belly in everyone’s face and make my claim here too?”
Frank finished his snack, rolled down the window, and threw out the apple core. “I’m not saying what you should do. I’m just saying you have as much of a right to live where you want to live as anybody else.” He rolled the window back up. “You’re going to be a mother, and you need to make a home for your child. You shouldn’t let anybody make that decision for you. If you want to live in Pie Town, then you should live there.”
Trina took in a deep breath and thought about what Frank had said. She remembered how it was for her when she had first come to Pie Town. She thought about the dream and the name of the town on her tongue when she awoke. She thought about the old woman who had nursed her back to health, fed her, given her shoes, how the name had come to her like a blessing. Trina thought about how it was when she arrived, meeting Roger and Alex, how it was to find out she was pregnant there.
She thought about the conversation she had with Father George, the one they had the night of the fire, the one when she told him she was pregnant, and the one when he told her about that girl he met when he was in seminary, the conversation that somehow opened them both up in a way that felt deep and honest and real. She remembered the ease that settled between them, filled them up, the tender way he held her hand. And then by the next morning when the church was nothing but ashes, all that truth was gone, the tenderness vanished, and everything she thought she had with the priest was lost, burned up, and disappeared. She thought about how he would look at her after that, like he was afraid of her, afraid of what she knew and might tell. She thought about the note she found and how she had ultimately chosen to leave and go back to Texas, try to start over again in a state that she knew but didn’t love.
“Did you tell Alex?” Frank asked. He knew how much the boy worshiped Trina.
Trina shook her head. “I wrote him a letter. He’s too sick. I don’t think he’s really concerned about me and my whereabouts.”
“We both know that’s not true,” Frank said.
Trina didn’t respond. She crossed her feet at the ankles and blew out a long breath.
“Angel ever find you?” he asked.
“Who?” she asked. She didn’t remember Alex’s mother’s name.
“Angel Benavidez,” Frank answered.
Trina glanced up at Frank. “What do you mean?”
“She was putting up those fliers for Alex.”
Trina sat up a bit in her seat. “Alex was behind the fliers?”
Frank nodded. “I thought you knew,” he said.
“No, I thought that somebody was trying to organize a meeting about me, to run me out of town.” She remembered the woman she saw distributing the fliers, the one she didn’t know.
“So that’s why you’re leaving?” Frank persisted.
Trina didn’t answer. “Why did Alex want a meeting?” she finally asked.
“To tell everyone you weren’t guilty, I suppose.” Frank seemed concerned. He pulled off the road and put the engine in park.