“What did you want to be when you were in high school?” Todd asked.
The question startled her. High school had ended so long ago. But she liked being asked because in asking, Todd had put them on equal footing, and in some ways that made sense.
“I wanted to make pies,” Bryony answered. “I wanted to make every kind of pie ever made anywhere on Earth. I remember going to the library after school and searching for information about pies all over the world. It took months—we didn’t have the internet then, you know—but I compiled a list of one hundred and thirty-seven pies. My goal was to make one pie every Saturday until I completed the entire list.”
“Did you?” Todd asked. “Did you make all those pies?”
“No.” Bryony finished off the last tea sample. “My dad didn’t mind as I worked my way through the common fruit pies—apple, cherry, peach—you know, the standards. But when I moved on to the savory pies and requested a moderate financial investment from my parents to buy pigeon meat, Dad put his foot down. He said I was spending too much time in the kitchen.”
“That was mean.”
“I blame myself,” Bryony said. “I should have started with something less exotic, a shepherd’s pie, minced meat.”
“So you gave up?” Todd asked.
“Something like that.” After her father exploded, she had run to her room in tears. Her mother followed close behind promising secret support, begging Bryony to not give up, but unwilling to stand up to the man who would ultimately be funding the project. In the end, Bryony vowed to make her own money and pay for the ingredients herself. She couldn’t remember why or when she gave up. The dream just slipped away without any further fuss.
“I like the teas we already have.” She gathered the cups and put them back on the tray. “What do you think?” she asked as she rose from her seat.
“I think you should finish the pie list,” Todd answered.
His firm tone surprised her. Bryony lowered herself back down to her seat. “Now?” she asked. “Why?”
“Because it’s never too late.” Todd took the tray from her hands as he stood and carried it behind the counter.
The strength of his conviction stayed with her throughout the workday.
In the evening, Bryony climbed the stairs to the second floor of her cozy cape cod. Though she rarely needed to go up, she kept the floor vacuumed and stored items dusted. For years she had hoped to one day finish off the upstairs, turning it into a couple of bedrooms for children, but that plan had included a completely different look on the main floor. There would have been a wedding album on the coffee table in the living room, his and hers toothbrushes in the bathroom, and a box of checks for a joint account in the desk drawer. Those dreams, too, now abandoned, the half story remained a large open area with a wide-planked floor and slanted walls of brown paper backing for fiberglass insulation between exposed rafters.
The boxes she had moved from her parents’ home after her mother died were placed together in one location. They had been stacked in her old bedroom, and her mother had often urged her to take them when she was ready. Still feeling not ready, Bryony used a utility knife to slash the clear packing tape holding the lid flaps down on all three boxes.
The first box held sewing supplies. Her mother had been an avid seamstress and quilter. The contents of the box must have been her way of trying to pass on to Bryony the joy found in those activities.
The next box contained kitchen supplies, duplicates of objects stored in drawers downstairs, but these reminiscent of Bryony’s childhood. She couldn’t part with them. Her grandmother had been the first to use the potato masher, red paint worn away to reveal a wooden handle
In the third box, Bryony found leftover contents of her childhood bedroom. She had boxed them up herself and left them behind when she moved out in her twenties.
A green Girl Scout sash lay on top, all the appliqué patches she earned still whip-stitched in place. Bryony fingered each embroidered symbol signifying an achievement—this one for hiking, the next one for health aid, another for art. Twenty-four patches altogether murmured quiet pride and nostalgic hope for her future life.
Beneath the sash lay tennis trophies. Bryony had forgotten the strength and accuracy of her playing, all the wins she collected in high school.
Packed among the trophies were pressed flowers from high school dances. She had always attended with girlfriends, and her mother had supplied the wrist corsages. Bryony put those in a pile to throw away. No point in hanging onto reminders of not being able to attract a date.
At the bottom of the box she found the reason for her search—the list of pies.
Lifting the booklet out of the box, she ran her finger over the poster board cover. Large lettering on the front spelled out “Bry’s Pies.” Vines and leaves wrapped around the legs and curves of each letter. She opened to the Table of Contents listing the one hundred and thirty-seven typed recipes she had collected, then leafed through the first few pages.
Every recipe had been illustrated. The drawings surprised her. She could barely remember creating them. She must have spent hours hunched over the details at her desk, filling in shapes with a black pen, choosing a floral design for one, a geometric pattern to border another.
Noted at the bottom of each page were the references where she had located the recipe. All these years later, she found herself impressed with the young woman who put together the book she was now holding. That young person possessed the ability to think through a project, gather her resources, apply determination, and add artistic flare.
Her fourteen-year-old self’s drive impressed her fifty-seven-year-old self as she continued to scan the book. When she turned to the last page, she found a note. Bryony, I always knew you would make it to the end. Congratulations, Darling. Now, clean up the kitchen and makes plans for your next project. Love, Mom.
Her mother must have written that before Bryony stopped baking the pies. Bryony had never read the note because she had never made it to the end of the book. She gently placed the book on the floor, lowered her head, and wept. Giving up on that dream had initiated the habit of giving up on herself.
When the tears ended, Bryony closed the boxes and pushed them against the wall. Carrying the book in both hands as she descended the staircase, she didn’t know what her next project would be, but she was ready to finish the one she had started over forty years ago.
CAL’S FIRST BRUSH WITH SMALL TOWN POLITICS
Cal’s colleagues continued to tease him about Bailey’s appearance at the Homecoming bonfire through the following week. Today’s rendition started with the art teacher calling from across the teacher’s lounge, “Hey, Cal! My students are redesigning cover art for music. Think your dog would be willing to pose for Appetite for Destruction by Guns and Roses?” The art teacher’s jowls shook as he guffawed, and the others present joined in with subdued laughter.
“I’ll have my dog’s agent call your agent,” Cal answered. “But rest assured, my dog comes at a very high price.” He closed his planner and stood. “You all have a fulfilling rest of the day.” Before leaving the lounge, he added, “Remember, we’re shaping the minds which will fund and provide care for our twilight years.”
As he walked away from the lounge, he considered that Bailey’s antics had cost him dearly indeed. Cal had missed the chance for an honest conversation with Bryony. Every time he saw her, he wanted to learn something new. In the past few days, she had been polite with him—in spite of the fading bruise on her cheek and the slight hitch in her step—but she continued to treat him with an attitude of cool customer service reserve. When he had apologized again in person, she had said, No big deal. Nothing broken but my pride. Another reminder of her humble nature. Bryony appeared to be nothing like her brother.
Musings about Bryony and her numbskull brother gave way to the scene outside a wall of windows opening onto the school courtyard. Full grown ornamental trees lined the perimeter, their leaves tinged in brown, a few on the ground. Soon they would burst with fall color.
“Mister Forster?” Todd stepped in line with Cal’s stride. “Can I talk to you this afternoon after class?”
“Sure,” Cal said. He glanced down at Todd’s new boots, and then up at the rest of his outfit. “Nice duds.”
“Thanks.” Todd smiled.
They finished the walk in silence.
“Hello, hello, hello!” Cal called out as he walked in the room. The buzz in the room quieted. The students faced forward, sitting in jagged rows with desks and chairs at odd angles. A few stood against the walls.
Cal had informed them the first day of school that he found straight lines oppressive, and he would be beyond grateful if the students could find their way to destroy the order of the desks, as long as they could face the front without straining their necks. Students often fell in line behavior-wise, he had learned, when they were allowed ample leeway posture-wise.
That first day, when a student named Marabelle asked if she could stand up for class, he gave his blessing. Of course you can, he’d replied. I had a friend with low back problems who stood wherever he went, except in cars, as doing so would be both dangerous and impossible.
Except for midgets, Tom J. had said.
That’s not politically correct, Peter P. had called out. You’re supposed to say Little People.
The remarks had led to a long discussion about proper language and respect for others. Cal had been able to lay down guidelines for classroom conduct by tweaking the comments made by the students themselves. The spontaneous discussion thrilled him. Empowering students as much as possible laid the groundwork for a classroom environment rich with enthusiastic engagement. At least that’s how Cal saw it, though the teachers in adjoining rooms complained about the noise level.
This day passed with no new complaints from neighboring classrooms. Todd returned as the last stragglers from the final class of the day left the room.
“Pull up a chair,” Cal said. He straightened a pile of essays, each one titled “Why My Vote Counts,” clipped them together at the top, and stuck them in the back of his planner.
Todd placed a chair beside the desk and sat down, while Cal collected a pile of copied documents verifying voter registrations, also clipped them together at the top, and added them to the back of his planner, its binding strained against the added bulk. Reconsidering, he took out both sets of clipped papers and put them in his brief case, along with the planner.
In addition to the board-approved content of the class, Cal had added a bonus-points opportunity for anyone over eighteen who could prove they had registered to vote before the deadline for the next election. Those under eighteen could earn points by writing a two-page, double-spaced essay about the history of voting rights in the U.S. Today he had collected both proof of registration and essays. He would be busy this weekend.
“What can I do for you?” Cal asked. “Your hair, by the way, looks nice.” The new cut opened up Todd’s face, allowing others to see his eyes.
