A Slice of Pie

Helen dipped her fork slowly into the tip of the piece of pie, and slid it down through the toasted coconut, the light and airy whipped cream, the smooth custard, and finally the flaky bottom crust. The first bite was always the best and she didn't want to rush it.

She brought the fork to her lips slowly, and let out a contented sigh as the flavors combined in her mouth.

Helen was a practical woman, but on Wednesdays, with her slice of pie, she allowed herself to dream.

Jeremy. Jeremy Rodriguez.

She always thought of him as the one that got away. Bert used to laugh whenever she said that. And add in a grumpy voice, the one that got away with our money, you mean.

And then she would feel compelled to remind Bert that it was her money, not his, that she'd given to Jeremy, and he'd just grunt and ask her what was for dinner.

"How is everything?" The waitress stopped by her table, a young girl with short red hair and bright blue highlights. She had a piercing in her cheek and on one eyebrow that Helen thought looked painful, but didn't ask because she imagined the girl rolling her eyes if she did. Instead, Helen smiled and told her the pie was excellent as usual.

The girl - Macy - smiled. "Cool," she said, and refilled Helen's coffee cup.

The diner had changed hands three or four times over the years. But the pie was always the same. It was something you could count on, and that mattered.

Back when she first started coming here she'd saved up her money for the weekly treat, sometimes searching for quarters in the couch cushions. Back then she'd worked part time at the library, and Wednesdays were her day off. Everyone always said that with her knowledge of books and her organizational skills she could have gone farther, maybe even been the Director, if she'd only had a college degree. But she hadn't, and so that was that.

Of course now, years later, Helen could have afforded to have pie more than once a week. But keeping up the ritual made it something to look forward to. After all, Helen told herself as she sat sipping her coffee and lingering over the remaining bits of pie on her plate, if it was Christmas every day then pretty soon Christmas wouldn't be anything special, now would it?

Macy looked over from behind the counter and smiled, and Helen realized she'd spoken the thought out loud.

"Thinking about Christmas already?" Macy asked. "It's only April."

"Never too soon to start planning," Helen said with a laugh. My God, she hoped she wasn't going senile. She imagined herself walking down Cottman Avenue, mumbling out loud, while people going on with their lives crossed the street to stay out of her way. Like crazy old Mrs. Montgomery, who had owned the row house across from her all those years ago, and used to sit on the small front stoop and carry on a conversation with her dead husband, while she peered out over the lawn to make sure none of the neighborhood kids trampled her flowers.

"Well I won't be chatting away with you, Bert, while I walk down the street," Helen muttered, then laughed at herself, because it wasn't much different talking to him while she sat in the diner.

Helen scooped up the last morsel of pie crust with her fork, then paid the check, counting out exactly twenty percent for the tip, then adding just a little bit more. She liked the idea of a little bit more. She always had.

It wasn't a long walk back home, but still Helen felt good about herself, that she could pace it off just as briskly as she'd done decades ago.

When she got home, she sat at the small drop-leaf table to sort her mail, in the kitchen that hadn't changed much since she and Bert bought the Philadelphia row house in 1969. The Vietnam Era version of the GI Bill had catapulted them out of the low income neighborhoods they'd both grown up in, and dumped them squarely into the middle class.