Fiction

American Pie by Baylee Sidden

It was a hot mid-July evening, the kind that, if this were a movie, would be filled with the typical scenes of peach and mandarin-colored sunsets, neighborhood kids grabbing ice cream after swimming and playing all day, teenagers around a bonfire with loud music and red solo cups, and Lana Del Ray lyrics. And it was a beautiful night and all those things probably did happen tonight at some point somewhere, but this night, Alice was baking an apple pie. She had spent all afternoon making her signature flaky, buttery pie crust which she always cooked to a beautiful golden brown, the color of tanned skin after a week in Cabo or Bali or Hawaii or, well, you can tell she was ready for a vacation.
But instead of wallowing in the fact that the closest Alice had gotten in the past 25 years to a tropical getaway was the pineapple-mango salsa she sometimes bought for her family’s taco night dinners, Alice was baking a pie. Apple pie had always been Jared’s favorite dessert, one of the leftover quirks from the Jared she first knew, the one she had married nearly a quarter of a century ago now - back before his “bourbon belly” as he liked to call it (anyone who accused him of having a “beer belly” would earn themselves a quick smack on the lips for the insult), when he could still fit into his custom-tailored triple-breasted Italian white suit that he had worn for their wedding. Jared did always have a taste for the finer things in life - luxury cars, expensive clothes, pretty women (the last one should have been a compliment to Alice, who was indeed very pretty when she was young). And Jared was handsome too, or at least he was that fateful day he met Alice at the jewelry store.
…
Alice and Jared met in their early 20s. Alice was working in the jewelry section of a department store, she couldn’t even remember the name of it now, when Jared came in. He was young, only a few years older than Alice, who was 22, and he had the most vibrant, spirulina-colored blue-green eyes Alice had ever seen. She still remembered the way his eyes locked onto hers that day in the store, set on fire by some invisible match struck inside his head, and how his eyebrows rose ever so slightly, like a fox gazing at a mouse. He walked over to her counter with the subtly arrogant confidence of a young man trying to convince himself he’s important.
“May I help you?” Alice said, stifling a giggle as he waltzed up to her in a slightly too-extravagant suit jacket to wear when running errands.
“Yes ma’am you can. You see, I’m looking to buy a watch. And not just any watch; I want a really nice watch. But I have a problem with the watches here.”
“Is that so? What’s your problem with the watches?” she smiled back at the sly look Jared gave her.
“Well, I want a watch with some really shiny and bright diamonds in it, but the problem is, none of them are quite as bright as your eyes are Ms….”
“Alice,” she replied, her cheeks turning as red as the little rubies in his lapel pin. “And yours is?”
“Jared.”
“Well, Jared, you must have a very special occasion coming up to be buying such a fancy watch. Or are you one of those low-level criminals who like to store their assets on their bodies?”
“Oh no ma’am, nothing like that at all. I just won some money down at the slots this weekend and thought it would be nice to come see a pretty little shop girl like you and get myself a present while I’m at it.”
…
And just like that, they had hit it off. Jared had always been a talker. He loved to invent feelings inside people they didn’t expect and create ideas in people’s heads that could only be formed by the right words. And he always had the right words. At 5 '8”, what he didn’t have in height, he made up for in words and appearance. True, Jared did have an affinity for nice clothes and expensive jewelry and fancy cars and, especially, for the women who liked these things, but, hell, who doesn’t. Being wealthy - or at least looking the part - didn’t make you a bad person. And neither does bending the truth every once and a while, especially when it’s for a good cause which, for Jared, it always was. Like that time when he talked himself into the slots for the first time when he was 15 and won $200 from the $10 he brought with him. What did he do with that money? He gave it to Pops like he always did, like he always had to. What Pops did with the money was none of Jared’s concern, except when Pops’ “investments” made him a little too buzzed.
But on those days Jared didn’t fight or hit his Pops back; he just went down to the bottoms and talked his way into the poker games again while Pops cooled down. He didn’t even bother Pops on that day he almost died from eating a handful of candied walnuts at school. He just went to the nurse’s office for an epipen shot and talked his way out of calling Pops (who was probably either drunk or asleep anyway). That’s why Jared was so good at gambling - he had always been a talker. And when you say things with confidence, people don’t care whether they’re true or not.
…
Six months after that day in the jewelry store, Alice and Jared were married. It had been a shotgun marriage - Alice had gotten pregnant and Jared had gotten a ring. It was the way things were done back then. And Alice truly did love Jared, at least, in the way that she understood love - the way fresh snow loves a boot, breaks herself for its impact, and retains only an empty hole when the boot leaves. Alice had grown up in the suburbs of Lincoln, the middle child of five children. Her family was just big enough for her to get lost in the daily mix of things but not quite big enough to grant her the freedom that may have taken away just enough of her innocence to protect her from worse fates. And people. She had married Jared against her mother’s wishes and was determined to make it work, to prove she could make something work, to prove she was worthy of his attention. And Alice thought Jared loved her too, perhaps in the only way, too, that he knew how to show love.
While Alice had their baby, she thought Jared might come home a bit earlier in the evenings or stay home more on the weekends. He’s working hard to provide for us, she told herself, which is why he has to work so late. That’s why he’s gone so much, and I should be grateful.
Alice was grateful, for a variety of things. She was grateful that Jared always put food on the table, even though she was the one who always had to cook it. She was grateful that Jared always gave her enough money to get outfits and diapers for the baby, even when he came home with his brand new Jaguar (and a few more wrinkles on the chest and back of his dress shirts that she was sure she had ironed out the day before, and a hint of raspberry-pink lipstick on the corners of his mouth). She was grateful that he had told her about his gambling problem as a young man and that he had quit now, even if his new affinity for small-batch bourbons occasionally put him (and their finances) into a spiral. She was grateful, too, that he kept his business at work, away from the child, at least.
And she was grateful, too, a few years later, for the oversized Prada sunglasses Jared had given her on their third anniversary, and the way they covered up some of the crushed plums and vomit-colored splotches around her eyes and brow bones which, thankfully, were never very dark. A little peach-toned concealer and some setting powder usually smoothed everything over for Alice, since Jared didn’t like to see the ugly purple spots on her face either. Maybe the stress of raising a child was too much for him, Alice told herself, on top of his busy work schedule and the never-ending stream of bills coming in the mail lately. It’s only natural for a man to need some kind of outlet, and surely Jared couldn’t be so bad if he provided so well for Alice and the baby.
So, in the way only a domestic housewife could - just the kind Jared liked best for his everyday women - Alice took care of Jared for years. 25 years, to be exact, of raising their child, of watching that child go to college and move to the East Coast for a job opening. 25 years of watching Jared run through clothes and cars and people just like he always did. But he always came back to Alice, she reminded herself. So even when she burned his dinner occasionally when he came back with a jasmine or rose or vanilla-scented suit jacket, or when she went grocery shopping with the pocket change leftover from the receipt of Jared’s latest car purchase, or when she filled the empty silence of a Friday night with her own version of bright lights and card tables (soap opera reruns and a glass or three of Jared’s brandy that she refilled with water), Alice comforted herself with the fact that Jared still came home to her every night. That, even if she was a bit more than suspicious about his ruffled hair and messy dress shirt when he came home at night, and the lacy pink underwear stuffed inside a coat pocket that Jared swore must have been planted by the guys at work, Alice was the foundation of Jared’s home, of Jared’s life. And she would be the one to inherit the insurance money when that life ended.
So, on a mid-July evening when her husband was away on “business,” Alice decided to bake her husband a pie. The ingredients were simple: apples, sugar, spices, a little sprinkle of pulverized walnuts under the crust. When Jared got home, Alice was there at the front door to greet him, plate in hand and a pleasant, domestic smile plastered on her face, just like Jared loved to see.
“Welcome home, honey.”