low: “I’m sorry, Lee. But your son ran away.”
The other woman doesn’t speak. She shudders as she takes in a breath, turns and strides out of the restaurant, shoving the glass front door wide on its hinges as she departs.
Caleb looks back at the old waitress: Margie. He remembers her now. It was perhaps eleven years ago, but she looked at least twenty years younger back then. She used to laugh so loud you couldn’t hear your dinner conversation, and sing Dolly Parton tunes under her breath as she slapped down your plate of steak and eggs. She had watched Caleb sometimes when he was a kid, when his parents would head over to Tallahassee for the drive-in movie. She would make popcorn in a saucepan over the stove and let him sit up late watching scary movies like Swamp Thing . As far as babysitters go, Margie had been the best. Now, as she stands there, still staring at the counter, Caleb wonders where that jovial young woman went. And what made her so . . . old.
She gathers up the bills on the counter with trembling hands, puts the money in the register, and utters a lifeless: “Next.”
Caleb steps forward, money and check in hand.
“Hi, Margie,” he says. She looks up at this, and he can see her eyes are budding with moisture in the corners, but no tears fall. “I bet you don’t remember me, but you used to give me free vanilla pudding every Sunday. I’m Billy Mason.”
Chapter Four
M ARGIE DOES REMEMBER B ILLY M ASON . Now she sits in a booth across from Caleb and Bean, laughing and rattling on in her raspy Southern drawl. Her wispy, whitish-blond permed hair bobs strangely as she seems to nod her head with emphasis on every syllable. The heaviness of her altercation with the corner-booth woman has been shuffled off like a winter coat on a spring day, and as she tells her story, she gestures wildly enough with the fork in her hand to make Caleb lean back in the booth, fearing for his eyeballs. A triangle of key lime pie rests on the table in front of each of them, “on the house.” This is the Hudsonville Caleb remembers.
“So the pie-baking contest was down to three finalists; it was Billy’s mommy, Jane Pierce, and Genie Barowski, and Billy’s daddy is one of the judges. So they bring out the first pie, and they all eat it, and it’s good and all. And they bring out the next one and eat that one all up, and now they’re fixin’ to bring out the last pie. Well, old Billy is—aw hell, not quite two, I guess, and I was watching him for his folks. I look away for a second and Billy’s gotten away from me—he was prone to do things like that. And he goes toddling over next to his daddy with a load in his britches, stinkin’ to high heaven. And Billy’s daddy says . . .” Margie is already gasping for air, holding back laughter. “He says, ‘Mmm, something smells good—that must be my wife’s pie next.’” Margie erupts into laughter, and so does Bean.
Caleb smiles and chuckles. “Guess that explains the divorce,” he says.
Bean, still red with laughter, points to the remaining bite of pie on his plate. “This stuff should have won the blue ribbon. This pie kicks ass, ma’am.”
“Why, thank you, young man,” says Margie, then to Caleb, “It’s a shame you left, Billy. The young ladies of Hudsonville sure missed out on a handsome young man. Everybody knew you was gonna be a good one.”
“Thanks,” says Caleb.
“You went to California with your ma?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t miss us? You never came back to visit.”
“Well, I guess I did miss you all,” Caleb says, “but Mom was never too keen on my coming back, and with track and debate and journalism, I was pretty busy, even during summers.”
“Well, what a fine young man you turned out to be,” says Margie.
“Yeah,” says Bean around his last mouthful of pie. “We’re hella proud of the little guy.” He tries to put an arm around Caleb’s neck, but Caleb shoves him away, smiling.
“So, what brings
The other woman doesn’t speak. She shudders as she takes in a breath, turns and strides out of the restaurant, shoving the glass front door wide on its hinges as she departs.
Caleb looks back at the old waitress: Margie. He remembers her now. It was perhaps eleven years ago, but she looked at least twenty years younger back then. She used to laugh so loud you couldn’t hear your dinner conversation, and sing Dolly Parton tunes under her breath as she slapped down your plate of steak and eggs. She had watched Caleb sometimes when he was a kid, when his parents would head over to Tallahassee for the drive-in movie. She would make popcorn in a saucepan over the stove and let him sit up late watching scary movies like Swamp Thing . As far as babysitters go, Margie had been the best. Now, as she stands there, still staring at the counter, Caleb wonders where that jovial young woman went. And what made her so . . . old.
She gathers up the bills on the counter with trembling hands, puts the money in the register, and utters a lifeless: “Next.”
Caleb steps forward, money and check in hand.
“Hi, Margie,” he says. She looks up at this, and he can see her eyes are budding with moisture in the corners, but no tears fall. “I bet you don’t remember me, but you used to give me free vanilla pudding every Sunday. I’m Billy Mason.”
Chapter Four
M ARGIE DOES REMEMBER B ILLY M ASON . Now she sits in a booth across from Caleb and Bean, laughing and rattling on in her raspy Southern drawl. Her wispy, whitish-blond permed hair bobs strangely as she seems to nod her head with emphasis on every syllable. The heaviness of her altercation with the corner-booth woman has been shuffled off like a winter coat on a spring day, and as she tells her story, she gestures wildly enough with the fork in her hand to make Caleb lean back in the booth, fearing for his eyeballs. A triangle of key lime pie rests on the table in front of each of them, “on the house.” This is the Hudsonville Caleb remembers.
“So the pie-baking contest was down to three finalists; it was Billy’s mommy, Jane Pierce, and Genie Barowski, and Billy’s daddy is one of the judges. So they bring out the first pie, and they all eat it, and it’s good and all. And they bring out the next one and eat that one all up, and now they’re fixin’ to bring out the last pie. Well, old Billy is—aw hell, not quite two, I guess, and I was watching him for his folks. I look away for a second and Billy’s gotten away from me—he was prone to do things like that. And he goes toddling over next to his daddy with a load in his britches, stinkin’ to high heaven. And Billy’s daddy says . . .” Margie is already gasping for air, holding back laughter. “He says, ‘Mmm, something smells good—that must be my wife’s pie next.’” Margie erupts into laughter, and so does Bean.
Caleb smiles and chuckles. “Guess that explains the divorce,” he says.
Bean, still red with laughter, points to the remaining bite of pie on his plate. “This stuff should have won the blue ribbon. This pie kicks ass, ma’am.”
“Why, thank you, young man,” says Margie, then to Caleb, “It’s a shame you left, Billy. The young ladies of Hudsonville sure missed out on a handsome young man. Everybody knew you was gonna be a good one.”
“Thanks,” says Caleb.
“You went to California with your ma?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t miss us? You never came back to visit.”
“Well, I guess I did miss you all,” Caleb says, “but Mom was never too keen on my coming back, and with track and debate and journalism, I was pretty busy, even during summers.”
“Well, what a fine young man you turned out to be,” says Margie.
“Yeah,” says Bean around his last mouthful of pie. “We’re hella proud of the little guy.” He tries to put an arm around Caleb’s neck, but Caleb shoves him away, smiling.
“So, what brings
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