The Pecan Pie at the Soup Kitchen

Halfway

By twelve-thirty Sister’s clicker said seventy-three. We had gone through four hotel pans of turkey and Ron was pulling the fifth out of the oven. My feet hurt and my face hurt from smiling and I was happier than I had been in a long, long time.

I had stopped looking at faces before trays. I was just looking at the trays, the next one, the next one, the plate going down, the tongs coming up.

That is why I did not see him right away.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “White or dark?”

Down the line, Walt set his pie knife on the counter. He was looking past me, at the front of the line.

“Carol,” he said quietly. “Look who’s holding the next tray.”

“Grandma.”

I looked up.

Owen was standing at the front of the line in his navy winter coat, the one with the broken zipper pull I had replaced with a paper clip in October. He was holding a tray in both hands. His cheeks were red from the cold. He was grinning up at me like he had pulled off a bank job.

“Owen,” I said. “Honey. What on earth?”

“I made Mom drive me,” he said. “I told her if she didn’t I’d walk.”

I looked past him. Jen was standing just inside the door by Sister’s folding chair, in her good wool coat, with her car keys in her hand. She gave me a small, helpless wave. She looked like she had been crying, or was about to.

“Where’s your dad?” I asked.

Owen’s grin slipped a little. “Home. With Lily. He’s kind of mad.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“I’m not, though.” He held his tray out a little higher. “Can I have dark? And is that Walt’s pie? Grandma said Walt makes pie.”

The woman behind him in line, a heavyset lady in a church choir sweatshirt, said, “Go on and feed the boy, honey, we can wait.”

So I fed the boy. Two slices of dark meat. Walt, down the line, had seen the whole thing, and when Owen got to the dessert end Walt put down his knife, wiped his hand on his apron, and held it out.

“You must be Owen,” Walt said. “I’ve seen you play second base. You’ve got a good glove.”

Owen shook his hand like a grown man. “You came to my games?”

“A couple. I sat way out by the fence.”

“How come?”

Walt thought about it. “Didn’t want to be in the way,” he said.

“You wouldn’t be,” Owen said, and took his pie.