by Chelsea Corarito
“What kind of pie did you say this is again?” Brenda whiffs the barely-there slice she’s put on a piece of fine china. My set is gathering dust since it was used last Thanksgiving.
“Cherry pie. It’s a secret family recipe.” I carry my plate with precision as she leads us to the adjoining sunroom.
“Funny, I could have sworn I caught a whiff of almond in there too. I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t swear!” She raises an eyebrow as if that will make me cave and tell her the secret ingredient. “But I understand we can’t share secret family recipes. I’ve been trying to get my mother-in-law to tell me the secret ingredient in her bourbon pumpkin pie for years. No dice!” She sits and takes the daintiest of bites, touches the fork to her mouth, and spends an excessive amount of time patting the nonexistent crumbs away with a fabric napkin. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised when you said you wanted to apologize. I really couldn’t think of anything you could apologize for, though.”
I place the dish directly on the coffee table. Brenda winces but doesn’t say anything. “I’ve decided to give up on winning the neighborhood’s Fall Front Porch-Off Competition. If I haven’t gotten first place after five years of trying my hardest, I clearly don’t have it in me to win.”
“Oh, Jessica, I wouldn’t say that—”
“There’s no need to sugarcoat it. I’ve tried everything.” I lay a bite of pie larger than my fork onto the metal and bite down. The cherries linger on my tongue enough to catch the almond essence. God, that’s good. “Last year, I planned out my design over the entire year before the competition. The year before, I hired those professionals down in Texas. They were so expensive, I emptied one of Rod and I’s retirement accounts to get enough thirteen-foot-tall skeletons to recreate a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Brenda pauses mid-chew. “You did what?”
I wave my fork through the air. She’s focusing on the wrong things. “The year before that, I even paid off one of those local travel companies to give Loretta from around the corner a ‘free’ all-expenses-paid cruise so she wouldn’t be around the second half of October to decorate her front porch. The point is, I’ve literally done it all. Nothing works.”
Brenda takes another bite, my honesty sinking in. “I personally thought you did a wonderful job this year, Jessica. The way you built a faux-facade of your house and then papier-mâchéd it with locally sourced aspen and maple leaves? I’ve never seen anything like it—and I’m on Pinterest all the time looking at this sort of thing,” she chuckles, her slice nearly gone.
“It took the entire week before the deadline to get it all done. I used a whole year’s worth of PTO so I didn’t have to go into work. I asked Rod and the kids to help me, you know, make it a family activity. But he never brought them around.”
She looks out across the street, as if she can see our house four streets around the bend. She places her plate on marble coasters. Bending forward, voice low, she asks, “How are the kids taking the separation?”
I can’t help it, I wince. Baring my soul is part of the plan but it’s the equivalent of scraping a rusty spoon along the inside of a pumpkin. I hear the hollowness ringing around inside of me. “I wouldn’t say things are going great, to be honest. But Rod will realize he made a mistake.”
“Of course.”
“Sometimes men simply need things spelled out for them.” Brenda nods as I answer.
“I would be lying if I said Michael and I had never had our disagreements. Of course, not one that ended with him moving out,” she can’t resist the jab. “But there’s been a few nights where I told him to sleep on the couch.”
The tears welling up are real. I look out the window behind Brenda, rage filling the vacuum created from my recently vacated soul. She’d notice if she could see past her professionally-manicured vampire nails. “You and Michael have been together for how long?”
“Over twenty years, can you believe it? We got married right out of high school and haven’t had a single night apart since our wedding. I don’t think the poor man could find his socks without me around.” She chuckles without mirth.
“Wow, twenty years. Time must just fly by.” With the windows open, I hear the migrating Canadian geese, their V formation pointing south. Golden hour sun rays split against the glass coffee table, shattering them onto the wool rug below.
Brenda’s cheeks turn pale. “The pie was delicious, thank you again, Jessica. Truly, no apologies are necessary.” Her words stall as she settles back against the supple leather of her couch. “I’m not feeling well all of a sudden. Perhaps we can continue this conversation later?”
The dizziness begins, the room unmoored. Each breath crumples like dying leaves. “I think now is actually the perfect time, Brenda. What I came to apologize for is for not doing this sooner.” I make sure she’s looking at me, that she sees what she’s done to me. “Did you know you can make your own cyanide with cherry pits? I’ve been diluting and infusing the same mixture all year, a bastard Crème de Noyaux,” I choke on the French words, “over and over again, until I knew for sure even the smallest slice with the smallest bit of extract would get the job done.” My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, its percussive rhythm marching me towards the finale.
“Cyanide?” Her pupils are dilated, little blue pie saucers. She’s horizontal on the couch, grasping around for her cell phone.
“Like I said, this was my last year entering the Fall Front Porch-Off. But it’s also your last year judging it. If I can’t win, no one can.” Each word forces a gulp of air.
Her lips open and close. An onslaught of laughter comes through the window; a passerby triggered an animatronic ghoul on the lawn across the street. Haunted cackling echoes as the last bit of fading daylight crosses the horizon. I wonder if Brenda fined the homeowners with a HOA citation for not removing their decorations within three days of the holiday passing.
“Jessica,” each word compressed with labor, “I. . . don’t choose. . . the competition winners.”
The remaining breath falls out of my mouth. “But. . . you’re. . . the head. . . of the HOA. . .”
Her eyes are rolling back, hands opening and closing as a seizure passes. A whisper, the words caress my eardrums, “The. . . winner. . . is. . . determined. . . by. . . ”
Cherries and almonds float under my nose and out the window, tumbling down the street with the first cold wind of winter.
Author Bio
Chelsea (she/her) is a fiction writer trying to figure out what genre calls to her. This is her first published piece after a long writing hiatus when life, frankly, just got in the way. When she’s not writing, you can find her hiking the Rockies, attempting gardening while living at 9500 ft, and curled up with a good book while it’s snowing outside.
