Cathleen Calbert
Pie-Eating, Sunday Night
“We’re all going to die,” Hank says, waving his fork at Trina. “Even you.”
“Don’t throw your food at me, honey,” Trina says, wiping her face.
“Don’t avoid the subject.”
“I’m not avoiding anything. But you shouldn’t wave your fork around when there’s still food on it.”
Hank shrugs as though bits of flying piecrust are none of his business.
“You’re going to die too,” Trina says. “As far as that goes. And you are fifty-nine. Almost the big 6–0. You’re six years ahead of me.”
“I know,” Hank says, shaking his head.
“I’m supposed to live longer than you anyway. Being a woman.”
“But that’s not my point. The point isn’t who first; the point is, I am going to die, you’re going to die, we’re all going to.” He looks around the kitchen to see if he can spot any other mortal creatures to identify, but as far as he can tell, there aren’t any. “Buster too,” he says.
“Come here, Buster… Where is he?”
“Buster!” Hank calls. They hold still a moment, listening. “Must be outside.”
“I hope he’s not in the garbage. Or after the Lutzkers’ cats again.”
“If you’re worried, we should keep him inside.”
“He likes to roam. A dog doesn’t have much of a life if he isn’t able to roam.”
Hank forks another piece of pie into his mouth. The pie is blueberry and still warm. The blueberries are big and plump, and Trina has had the good sense to let them stand on their own merits. The filling isn’t too gluey or too sweet. But it’s the crust that’s ecstasy. Hank can never get over what Trina does with pastry. The crust flakes away when you put a fork to it, and it seems to melt into the blueberries when you get them together in your mouth. Trina makes wonderful pies, but this is the best Hank has eaten. He’s on his third piece. Once he finishes this slice, Hank will have eaten half of the entire pie. And he wants to. He’s become single-minded about the whole thing.
“I wonder where Buster go,” Trina says, looking vaguely toward the kitchen window. “It doesn’t seem fair that we’d go to heaven and he wouldn’t.”
“What makes you think we’d go to heaven?”
Trina looks down at her piece of pie. She scrapes the tines of her fork through the purple juice oozing on the plate. Finally, she says, “You have to take it as an article of faith.”
“Who has to?”
Trina shoves her dessert plate away from her. “You’re just being difficult, and for no good reason. It’s Sunday night, and it’s getting late, and you’re getting ornery.”
“I'm just saying.”
“Well, don’t, is what I’m saying,” Trina says. “You through?”
Hank has put the last forkful of pie left on his plate into his mouth. He closes his eyes to be alone with it. This is the best damn pie he’s ever eaten.
Trina takes his plate away from him, takes the fork out of his hands and brings both to the sink, where she holds them a moment under the faucet.
“And I baked you a nice pie too,” she says.
Hank finally swallows, then opens his eyes. When Trina walks past him, he grabs her waist, holding her close to him, so she’s a little off-kilter. “Honey, that was the best damn pie I’ve ever eaten.”
Cathleen Calbert’s writing has appeared in many publications, including Ms. Magazine, The New York Times, and The Paris Review. She is the author of three books of poetry: Lessons in Space (University of Florida Press), Bad Judgment (Sarabande Books), and Sleeping with a Famous Poet (C.W. Books). She has been awarded The Nation Discovery Award, a Pushcart Prize, and the Mary Tucker Thorp Award from Rhode Island College, where she professes.