He was a year ahead of me and already had man’s hands—square fingernails with rough palms. One of his fingernails was always bruised from the missed strike of a hammer when he fixed a roof or put down a floor. I wanted to lift that hand and kiss that bruised finger. I wanted to take all his hurt away.
Thomas had a dimple in his right cheek that showed when I caught his eye and made him smile. I did things I never done before to make that dimple come. Cut my eyes down and back up. Glanced over my shoulder to see if he looked my way. I thought that dimple belonged to me.
I lived for Sundays that took me to Thomas Slater cause not much else did. The in-between time I talked to Thomas in my head, and he said nice things back. What do you think, Prudence? You’re a good cook. You work hard.
Once he walked in at the Rusty Nickel for supplies when I was there, and my tongue got tied in a knot. Before it come undone, he tipped his hat and said, “Afternoon, Miss Perkins,” flashed his dimple, and was gone. For the life of me I couldn’t remember why I come to the store that day. I was such a fool for that boy. I found out how much a fool at the pie auction on Homecoming Sunday.
Thomas Slater’s mama let it slip one time at church that he liked apple pie best. I tucked that secret in my heart when pie auction time come, and I made the best, most perfect apple pie for Thomas Slater. I cut out all the brown spots on the apples, put extra butter in the crust, did a lattice weave for the top, and brushed it with a egg white before it baked and turned golden. I even sprinkled sugar on top and watched it careful so it won’t burn. I never put this much care in a pie before. I made it for my Thomas. His dimple told me to.
The night before Homecoming Sunday, I washed my hair. Used one of them little bottles of shampoo Brother brought back from convention in the valley. After I rinsed the bubbles outta my hair, I poured a whole cup of apple vinegar on for extra shine. My fingers glided through the strands to the ends, slick as silk. I wanted to smell clean when I stood beside Thomas tomorrow, when he held my prize pie.
That year I was sixteen, Homecoming Sunday was a blue-sky day. Planks on sawhorses was set up in the churchyard and made a table to hold dozens of pies. I held on to mine so Thomas saw me with my perfect pie. I set it on the table last, right front corner. Then the auction started.
I stood off to the side so I could watch Thomas out the corner of my eye. I don’t care how many quarters the other pies brought. I waited for Thomas to declare to the congregation he had his sights on me. That day, when I waited for love to pick me, I was happy.
When Thomas raised his hand and called out “fifty cents” as a high opening bid, I was puzzled. That won’t my pie Burnell Sheets held up for bids. It was some sort of rhubarb thing, lopsided, with a burnt crust. I thought Thomas made a mistake or was being kind.
But he paid a whole dollar for that rhubarb thing made by Susie Domer, the little mouse of a girl with limp hair and a lisp. She carried her ugly pie and placed it in Thomas’s bruised, strong hands, and his dimple turned on and stayed on and shined down on her scrappy head.
I don’t stay to see who got my perfect pie. I don’t tell nobody when I go. I walked home, filled up to the top with broken hate, working on a plan.
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Old memories more than twenty-five years back get more idle time today than they have a right to. Even when your hair turns gray, they don’t stay away on this kinda low-cloud day. Thomas Slater never showed his dimple for me again, but I remember what it looked like.
Now this new teacher comes who must not have a watch cause she still ain’t here.
The other teachers before Miss Shaw were girls, really. Not what anybody’d call a real teacher. Nervous and jumpy, they won’t much good to anybody. I already know this one won’t do cause she’s old as Brother. Why can’t we get somebody in between? Or why can’t the valley leave us alone? I heard hope in his voice this morning when he said Miss Kathleen Shaw’s name, and that’s gotta stop. Brother’s a dreamer who’s got to wake up. He still believes life in Baines Creek is gonna get better when there’s not a speck of proof to show for it. Case in point: this here teacher. She’s late by a lot. Said she’d be here at two o’clock, and now it’s half past on Mama’s watch pinned to my bodice. I’ll give her five more minutes.
Now four minutes and I’m outta here.
Three.
Two minutes and I’m gonna leave.
Mixed in the shrill of the rising wind before a storm lets loose, I stand at the open door and hear a car struggle up the road, pull in front of the schoolhouse, and stop. It’s gotta be Miss Kathleen Shaw, but it looks like a man inside. The person raises a hand as big as any I’ve seen, and right then, the rain lets loose and blots out the car behind a wall of water. If that’s not a bad omen, I don’t know what is.
I close the schoolhouse door to keep out the wet and lean up against it. The empty room and extra time pulls me back to Thomas and my perfect pie. Now the shawl climbs into the story.
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Susie Domer, the simple girl Thomas claimed with a lopsided rhubarb pie, was the same age as me back then—sixteen. She always wore the same shawl to church, foggy gray wool with one embroidered red rose that lay between her shoulder blades. After I knew Thomas’s dimple was for Susie and not me, I wanted to pick out the threads of that rose, but I did something better.
Susie was careless. She wore her shawl to Mr. Simmons’s funeral visitation, and cause the day turned from chilly to warm, she hung that shawl on the back of her chair. I watched it slip into a soft heap as she stood to talk to his widow. Then she walked into the sunshine without a look back. I slid my foot over and pulled the shawl beside my chair, reached down, and bunched it under my sweater. I took my leave and walked home, stitching my plan into place.
That plan was the bend in the river where good God-fearing girls don’t go.
Soft grass grew high there. When bodies lay down, the grass stayed down, and the cost to go there was a girl’s reputation. I knew the way. Everybody did. On the day it rained too much for anybody to go to the tall grass, I took Susie’s vain shawl to the bend in the river. Through the soft, broken grass I threaded her shawl, then backed my way out and went home.
Every day, hope got bigger like a bubble growing in my belly. I could only do this cause Mama was dead. If she was here, she’d see straight into my heart and make me undo it all. With Mama dead, Brother was blind.
In the days to come, the hairs on my body would tingle at the thought of the lost shawl being found. I squeezed my legs together and made a moment of bliss thinking bout that shawl, the tall grass, and the trouble them two would make for Susie Domer.
Next Sunday at church, Susie wore one of her mama’s cast-off shawls, and she looked the plainer for it. In the churchyard she stood beside her parents with Thomas off to the side.