Warm Peach Pie

         I sweep the cigarettes into the drawer and slam it, glancing out the window at the still empty driveway. I still have time. Hustling across the room, I snatch the pile of city citations from the coffee table and shove them in the sewing basket with the speeding tickets from last month.

         Pulling the old folding screen in front of the gun cabinet is more of an undertaking – I’m still fighting to balance it upright when the car pulls up outside. The last thing is the liquor, but that’s why I got those overblown photos of the grandkids done. I nudge the whiskey bottles behind the frames on the shelf.

The finishing touches: A yellowing lace doily goes down on the table, followed by a drooping African violet in a little blue pot. A few crinkled issues of Better Homes and Gardens land in front of the couch, and I’m on my way to the door.

         And here’s Freddie walking around the side of his van, pushing manufactured warmth up into his crooked smile. Before coming up, he tugs on the hem of his wrinkled suit jacket, then leans down to slick his hair back in the side-view mirror. He struts along with all the awkward spit-polish of a schoolboy on picture day.

         His new hussy, she’s got a gift basket wrapped in her skinny arms as she totters to the door on six-inch heels. The original Angel of Charity, this one, beaming at me through the screen door with picket-fence teeth. The basket looks to have a box of cookies in it, so I unlatch the door.

         “Gran,” Freddie croons, pulling the door open so the hussy can squeeze in. “How you been?”

         I put on my sweetest smile, shifting aside to let them in. Behind them, I catch sight of Samantha. Twelve years old, poor thing, and Freddie’s daughter. She shuffles up in jeans and t-shirt, hair braided, clutching a paperback like it’s a life-jacket. It's Freddie's kind of bright idea to schedule old-lady visits on his custody weekends; two birds with one stone and all.

         “You remember Angela, right, Gran?” Freddy gestures at her as she puts the basket on the coffee table.

         “Oh, hello, dear,” I say, crinkling a sugar-sweet smile at her. “You’ve gained weight, haven’t you?”

         If she reddens, it’s covered by the makeup.

         “Hi again,” she says.

         I shoo them all to the table, letting Freddie force some small talk while Angela examines her nails. He goes on about the usual things – weather, local news, how good the roast smells, how worried about my memory and health he's getting.

         It's not long before he slides to the usual point, leaning forward across the table.

         “You know,” he says, “You’re not as young as you used to be. It must be tough living on your own.”

         “I’m not a day over sixty,” I tell him.

         “Seventy-four, Gran.”

         I fuss with the doily, pretending to be lost in thought.

         “I worry about you,” he says. “Things can happen, you know?”

         Oh, I know all right. Things like major highways going up across the way, real estate markets climbing, shifty grandsons coming by with rest home pamphlets in their pockets, well, those kinds of things can happen.

         “I’m all right,” I tell him. I let my voice stay low and shaky, let him lean in to hear me.

         “What about last year? You gave us all a scare.”

         He means the car accident. True, it had been a close one, but you don’t wrap a sedan around a tree without rubbing elbows with death. It was worth it to show up those college boys in their fancy convertible, but Freddie didn't need to know that. That afternoon might’ve been my time to go, but I told the grim reaper the same thing I tell the tax man: I don't believe anything is certain.

         “And,” Freddie adds, “there’s your confusion problem.”

         “Oh, yes,” I say, nodding slowly. “Thank you so much for coming down to the station with the bail money, dear. I don't know what I'd do without you."

         His smile is almost a grimace and I have to choke back a laugh. Freddie doesn't see it - too busy throwing an exasperated glance at Angela - but I notice Samantha eyeing me from over her book. That child must have her mother's brains.

         The moment's a good enough one to pull out the roast, which Freddie volunteers Samatha to help me do. She follows me to the kitchen, standing with her arms crossed while I get the meat out.

         As usual, it's dried out and tough, surrounded by a layer of blackened, unrecognizable vegetables. I pretend not to notice. The first time was an accident, but ever since then I've found it's a good way to stay amused through dinner. Besides, with a meal like this they're less inclined to stay.

         I glance up and notice Samantha looking at the papers on the counter. The yellow legal pad still has my numbers from hustling cards last weekend on it, so I'm quick to distract her.

         "Samantha, dear, how's school?"

         "Fine." She wanders closer. "I'll get milk."

         Before I can stop her, she pulls open the refrigerator and grabs the milk, spying the boxes of Chinese takeout on the bottom shelf. Damn. The girl doesn't say anything, but that look in her eye is quite enough. Her mother's brains, indeed.

         All through dinner, I'm watching her and she's watching me. While Freddie goes on about his good old Aunt Serena at the Lois Delaney Care Facility (Did I know they have a great senior program there?), Samantha's only pretending to read that book. Angela grits her teeth and compliments my cooking, but the twelve-year-old's got a knowing smile. She's not eating any, either.

         When the time's up and they're finally ready to leave, Freddie passes me the usual check.

         "Here, Gran. That's good to get you through the month?"

         "Oh, yes, dear, thank you!" I slip it in my pocket and take Freddie's hand in both of mine. "But you know, next month I need to see the eye doctor again, and those co-pays are just so high..."

         "I'll see about it, Gran," he says, eye following the check. "You should really let me take you up to see my Aunt sometime soon. She'd really like to meet you."

         Not as much, I imagine, as Freddie'd like to meet my lawyer. They could compare notes on the value of my property and run their itchy fingers over the contents of my will.

         Samantha's smirking at me behind her father's back, and for a moment I wonder if she'll give the game away. At least then she wouldn't get dragged here every other weekend. The only sure thing is to get her in on it.

         "Oh, Freddie?" I say. "I was going to clean out the cellar soon, and I was hoping Samantha here could come and help."

         "I'm sure Sam wouldn't mind, would you, Sam?" He doesn't even look at his daughter. Samantha gives me a curious glance, but nods her head and mumbles a "yeah."

         Then they leave, and I hit the bank. Once the check's cashed, I dance all the way to the casino.



         The next Saturday, Freddie drops Samantha off from the driveway, throwing me a cheerful wave.

         I didn't bother cleaning up. If the girl's caught on, then so be it. I don't give a damn what she thinks - not as long as it's her father with the checkbook.

         She starts slow and cautious, just coming in and sliding onto the couch like usual, but I light a cigarette and tell her there's Coke in the fridge. She nods, staring at the gun cabinet and the whiskey bottles, the assortment of hotel soaps on the table.

         "Gran," she says, but doesn't know where to start. I grin.

         "Let's go out back," I tell her, blowing a smoke ring at the light fixture, then wandering out to the back porch.

         She follows. Standing by the porch rail, we look out into the woods behind the house. It all went to weeds years ago, the foot trails devoured by undergrowth, the fire pit lost in the grass.

         "You don't really need that money, do you?" she asks, glancing at me sideways. "I mean, my dad's money."

         I chuckle. "Oh, heck no. But I do have a damn good time with it."

         She tries not to widen her eyes at me, but I can see the corner of her mouth twitching up.

         "Doing what?"

         "Oh, you know. Going out, hitting the bars, playing the slots. Sometimes I take trips down to the city, walk in the protests."

         "Like picketers?"

         I nod.

         "What for?" she asks.

         "Anything," I tell her. "Anything I like. Government, big business, religion. I spent too many years following other people's rules, sweetheart, but I'm not rolling over anymore."

         "So you don't stand for anything?"

         "I just don't let people push me around." Slowly, I lower myself onto the deck chair. "I've learned you can say 'no' to just about anything, or anybody, if you know how to get away with it."

         "Anything?"

         "Anything but dares and warm peach pie."

         Samantha laughs, then goes quiet, looking out into the trees. I can tell she's weighing her options, wondering what she can tell me.

         "You know," she says, "Dad says those woods are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe."

         "Probably."

         "He wants me to spy on you, figure out if you've got any money stashed away in the house."

         "I'm not surprised."

         "You gonna keep taking his money, then?" she asks.

         I nod.

         "Well, what if I tell?" Now her eyes have a defiant glint to them, and I feel a familiar tingle in my chest. This is where it gets interesting.

         "Hm," I say.

         "You couldn't stop me," she says.

         Oh, honey, don't say that. Never say that.

         "You think I couldn't?" I glare up at her from the chair, not quite willing to haul my old bones up again.

         "Well," she says, "you can't keep fooling him forever."

         Now I give her a real grin and shake my head.

         "Watch me, sweetheart. Besides, it's not like he'd be spending it on you, now would he?"

         She presses back a flash of anger, then considers me carefully.

         "No," she admits. Then, sinking down to sit in front of me, she pins me with a serious look. "So you're just gonna string him along, then what? He gets the land like he wants?"

         I shrug. I hadn't bothered to think that far ahead.

         "I'll give you some of the money, and you keep your mouth shut, all right?" That would be enough for most any kid.

         "No," she says. "Don't do it. Don't let him have it. Everyone thinks you should, right? And you're all about this resistance stuff. So do something crazy with it, something awesome."

         I shake my head. "Not worth the trouble."

         "But, Gran, you could. Take it and build an amusement park or something. If he sells it, it'll just be strip malls and parking lots, and no one wants that."

         "I don't want to bother with it," I say, but she's woken up my pulse a little. Oh, child, don't tempt me.

         "You're just scared to be who you really are," she said. Her eyes are fierce on mine. "You keep hiding behind this other stuff. Stop pretending with Dad. Make something out of it."

         It would be a chance to mess with everyone's expectations, all right. A chance to shake things up.

         "I dare you," she says.

         Damn.

         "Well," I say, pulling myself up. "You sure know how to manipulate a poor old woman. Now I've got no choice."

         She grins, a real smile this time, the first one I've seen since she was a little girl.

         "I'll get you a peach pie, too, how's that?"

         That'll do. Oh, that'll do.



(Word Count: 1,998)