Pie Town (5 page)

Chapter Eight

F
ather George Morris was driving the car loaned to him by the Diocese of Western New Mexico. He didn’t have a vehicle of his own. This one was a clunker, an old station wagon given to the church by a woman on her deathbed. The parish priest in Gallup tried to give it back, knowing her husband or sons would need it, could sell it, or would certainly use it, but the woman insisted that the car belonged to the church.

In turn, the priest gave it to the diocese and they also tried to return it to the rightful family. But once the dead woman’s decision had been made, no one, not her spouse or children or siblings, would take the car back. They claimed that the car was cursed and that it bore the spirits of the woman’s dead parents. The family claimed that she gave the car to the church not because she was charitable or wanting to show her gratitude, but because she was trying to save the rest of her family from the fate she had suffered. Nobody wanted anything to do with that car.

Of course, no one at the diocese had given this information to young Father Morris. He thought the car was a perk, an added benefit for all new parish priests in New Mexico. He figured it was intended to be used for providing transportation to church members and for parish activities. He thought the car needed some work, a good cleaning, maybe a tune-up, but he was happy to have the vehicle and accepted it with humility and grace.

Once he got on the road, he experienced some difficulty getting the hang of managing pedals and gears—he hadn’t driven a car for more than seven years—but after an hour he finally remembered how it was done. He turned on the radio, found a Catholic station, and rolled down the windows since the air conditioning was not working.

Father George was hoping to make Mass on that Wednesday, his first day, but he had been held up at the diocese filling out some last-minute forms and had called to inform the older priest who was covering for him that he wouldn’t arrive until late that evening.

It was just about lunchtime when he opened the map that the Monsignor had given him to see how far down Highway 60 he would travel before coming to his first parish and the rectory where he would live in Pie Town. He had made better time than he expected and was hopeful he could grab a bite to eat when he got into town. He glanced down just for an instant to study the map, but it was an instant almost too long. When he looked back up, he had drifted into the other lane, almost running into a brand-new silver Buick, the driver and the passenger screaming as he veered back into his lane. He was so shaken up by the experience that he pulled to the side of the road and stopped. In the rearview mirror he could see that the Buick hit the brakes as well, but then kept going in the opposite direction.

He dropped his head on the steering wheel and prayed a short prayer of thanksgiving. When he raised his head a girl was standing right in front of his car, staring at him through the windshield. He watched as she walked around to the driver’s side.

“Hey,” she said. “You okay?” She leaned down to see into the car.

He nodded quickly, his white-knuckled fingers still clutching the steering wheel. “I looked away and almost hit that car,” he confessed. He glanced up at the young woman who was peering at him through the opened window and then quickly faced ahead. She appeared to be not much older than a teenager. She was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt, strange-looking moccasin shoes, and carrying a small but bulging backpack.

“I know,” she responded. “I watched you.”

Father Morris looked around. He didn’t know where this girl had come from.

As if she understood his confusion, she explained. “I was walking. I was just behind over there.” She turned, casting her glance behind the car.

Father George peered into the rearview mirror, as if he would find something marking where she meant. “I was trying to read the map,” he explained without making eye contact.

She stood up. She dropped her backpack and stretched her arms above her head, and this time the priest was watching. Her shirt came up a bit, and he was sitting right beside her exposed midriff. He blushed, cleared his throat, stared straight ahead, wondering how he could make his exit.

“So, are you lost?” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a tube of lip balm, rubbed her lips, put the tube back, and then bent down again, picking up the backpack and balancing it on her back.

He fiddled with the map, without looking in her direction. “I think I’m okay,” he answered, noticing that she now smelled like cherries, like cherry gum he used to chew when he was a boy.

“ ’Cause I’m a good navigator,” she explained. “I could get you where you’re heading. I’ve got experience in that kind of thing.”

Father George could easily see what she was asking. He felt his heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat in a car with a young woman. The idea made him very uncomfortable, but before he could say anything, before he could explain that it wasn’t a good idea for them to travel together, she had walked around the car and was opening the passenger-side door.

“I, I . . .” he stuttered, something he hadn’t done in months, a childhood malady that had disappeared with puberty but came back briefly while he was in his last year at seminary. “I, uh, don’t think I can let you ride with me.” He finally got the whole sentence out.

The girl stood with the door opened and leaned in. “Why not?” she asked.

The priest felt the line of sweat beading across his top lip. “I, I . . .” He stuttered again. “I don’t have insurance for riders.” He lied. He knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, he lied. He had told himself never again, and now, quick as taking his eyes off the road and almost wrecking the car, it had happened again.

“Oh,” she said, standing up straight outside the car. “Well,” she paused, “I guess it’s a good thing I don’t care about that.” She took off the backpack, threw it behind the front seat, jumped in, and shut the door. “I’ll also put some air in your tires when we get to town. Your right front one is a little low.”

Father George turned to the girl, trying to think of a way to get her out of the car. He could imagine the scandal he would cause upon his arrival at his first parish with a young woman, not much older than a teenager, seated next to him in his car. A young woman scantily clad. A young woman hitchhiking. A girl putting air in his tires. He turned a bright shade of red as he considered what the other priest would think when he drove into town with her in his car.

“Trina,” she held out her hand to shake. “I’m Trina, and I’m going just up the road to Pie Town. You don’t mind giving me a lift, do you?”

Father George inhaled, muttered a prayer under his breath. “I’m George,” he said, taking Trina’s hand. “Father George Morris,” he added.

“Then, Father George Morris, we only got about ten minutes before we pull into Pie Town and likely never cross paths again.” She pulled her hand away and grabbed the map from the priest. “Now, where is it that you’re headed?” she asked. “And is it a wedding or a funeral?”

He seemed not to understand the question. He glanced down at his clothes and suddenly realized she was asking because he was wearing his clergy collar and his black shirt and pants. She had obviously assumed he was on his way to officiate at some service.

“Oh, neither,” he replied. “I’m just starting my new job.”

“Fabulous,” she responded. “I plan to start a new job today too.” She smiled. “Or maybe tomorrow, since it’s a bit late now.” She noticed the clock on the dashboard. It was after one o’clock. “And where is your new job?” she asked. “Not that I would really know,” she said. “I’m from Texas.” She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. “God, it feels good to sit down,” she said. She looked over at the driver. “I’ve been walking for two days,” she added.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked. He had not yet taken the car out of park, and the engine was still idling. He wondered where her family was, how long she had been traveling alone.

Trina considered the question. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer. She was from Texas, but had just come from Tucson, having left the man she thought had finally taken her away from everything bad in her life, everything broken and wrong. And then there was the Indian woman in Apache land who was part of the reason she was moving east and slightly to the north.

“Well, that’s not as important as where I’m going.” She reached up and placed her hands behind her head. “Don’t you think it’s where you’re going that’s more important than where you’ve been?”

The priest considered the question. He finally let go of the steering wheel. “I guess you could have a point,” he responded. “So then, why are you going to Pie Town?” he asked, not sure why he was engaging in conversation with the talkative young woman. He mostly wanted to figure out a way to get her out of his car.

“I just heard about Pie Town, New Mexico, and decided it was a town I needed to visit. Just sounds friendly, don’t you think?” She closed her eyes, trying not to think about Tucson, trying not to think about her dreams and hopes all wrapped up in a smooth-talking man from Abilene.

“Pie Town,” she repeated. “Sounds nice. I mean, who doesn’t like pie, right?” She decided not to mention the dream and the woman who read her mind. Trina turned to the priest, who wasn’t answering, and then began glancing around her, lifting her nose in the air. “This car smells funny, don’t you think?” she asked, sniffing.

Father George sniffed as well. “I don’t smell anything,” he replied.

Trina looked behind her. “It’s something,” she said. “Smells like a funeral parlor I was once in. Like fruit that’s too ripe.”

Father George raised his nose and smelled again. He shook his head. “No, I don’t notice anything.”

The two of them sat in silence for a few moments.

“So, Father George Morris, are you going to put her in gear and get back on the highway, or are we going to sit here on the side of the road while everyone passes and stares, thinking we’re up to no good.” She winked at the priest. She liked knowing she made him uneasy.

He blushed. “I’m not comfortable driving,” he explained. “It’s been a while since I drove.”

She shrugged and leaned in his direction. “Oh well, that’s okay. You want to scoot over and let me?” she asked, sitting up, holding on to the steering wheel as if she expected him to slide under her. “I’m a good driver,” she commented. “I started driving a truck with my granddaddy when I was eleven. I even helped drive a big rig across Highway 10.”

“No, no . . . what?” He was confused and tried pushing her away. “I’m not scooting over,” he acknowledged, sounding very shocked by the suggestion.

She sat back in her seat. “Fine, have it your way, Padre,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest. “But you’re not really thinking about putting me out to walk eight miles in this heat, are you?” she asked. She glanced out the window. “And I’m pretty sure it’s going to rain. Did you see those clouds? It’s trouble ahead, for sure.”

He didn’t respond.

She raised herself up, trying to make eye contact with the driver.

“I mean, leaving a girl to fend for herself in a hundred degrees, all alone, without water or good walking shoes, that’s a bigger sin than sitting close to her, right?” She studied the man.

He sighed, knowing he was beat, knowing he had no choice, and put the car into gear. He closed his eyes and crossed himself. “You need to put on your seat belt,” he instructed.

She smiled, clapped her hands together, and reached beside her to pull the belt across her waist. It clicked, and he pulled onto the road.

“You’re young to be a priest, aren’t you?” she asked as they drove along.

“It’s my first parish,” he replied. “You’re young to be hitchhiking, aren’t you?”

She shrugged again. “I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been hitching rides since before I learned to drive. It’s not such a big deal where I’m from,” she said. She pulled her legs up and placed her feet on the dashboard.

“Texas?” Father George asked. He watched where she put her feet and considered saying something about the inappropriateness of it, but decided against it.

“That’s right,” she responded, slapping her thighs, thinking about her home state, her hometown, deciding not to take the trip down memory lane. “So, you never told me where you’re headed,” she reminded him.

“Pie Town too, I guess,” he answered. “It’s one of my three parishes, and I figured I would start there. It’s the one with a parish house.” He loosened up a bit as they drove down the highway.

“You’ll live alone?” she asked.

He nodded. “That’s usually the way it works. A few of the ladies in the church cook and clean, but unless there are sisters in the parish, nuns, I mean, then I live in the house alone.”

“You get a whole house to yourself and a cook and a maid?” Trina asked, her tone one of surprise.

Father George considered how his arrangement must sound to a layperson. “I guess that’s about the way of things,” he answered.

“Damn,” Trina responded, without seeming even to notice that a curse word had just escaped her lips. “That’s pretty sweet. Last place I lived, there were three of us sharing a two-room apartment, and that’s the most space I’ve ever had. When I was kid, we always had a bunch of people staying around, sleeping on the floors, on the sofa, on the back porch. Then, in the foster homes, well, there were so many kids in those houses, you were lucky just to have a place to sit at the table to eat.”

George didn’t answer. He just glanced over at his passenger, wondering about her upbringing, wondering from what circumstances she had emerged. “So, Trina, how old are you?” he asked, trying to sound fatherly, trying to erase the discomfort in his voice as well as in his thoughts. There was something about the girl that troubled him.

“Twenty,” she answered. “Not that it really matters.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?” he responded.

“I think age is just a way we use to judge people. You hear how old somebody is, and based on their answer, you decide that they must be a certain way. If we never knew the ages of each other, maybe we wouldn’t be so, I don’t know, critical.”