Littleton’s Pies
by Clinton Nix
You grip the wheel tighter as the street narrows to a single lane. Lin is sleeping shotgun, the afternoon sun baking her face. The sign for Indigo Place zooms by but you keep moving.
Lin yawns, shrugging off the daze of sleep.
“We there?”
“Just about,” you say. “Want some pie?”
She touches the sleep grooves on her face. You can make out the pattern of her jacket zipper.
“I’d like that, yeah.”
Turning off on Littleton Street, you head for a safe haven. A quaint building on the corner of the street, a diner called Littleton’s, with an empty parking lot and one car in the corner. It’s nearly deserted—perfect timing.
Lin pushes the car door shut with her hip until it clicks. You’re already ahead of her.
“Still the same,” She says.
“It’s like home.”
You and Lin step inside. The door chime greets you, and the memories rise like fresh oven bread in your mind. The times you’ve come—with friends, on dates, alone to escape—all align as a singular, monolithic experience. But the more you look at the tacky 50’s interior, the more you realize that your memory is a more perfect replica.
The smell of hot cherries smothers the air, and you sit down with your sister in the green booth in the corner, the torn leather brushing against your clothes. A woman with lightning streaks in her hair lays your menus, but you don’t even look.
“I’ll have the Littleton’s burger and fries.”
You pause and let the rest form in your mind. “And a slice of cherry pie with a scoop of ice cream.” The honey to your bitter Indigo Place tonic.
Lin orders what you have minus the burger and fries. She pulls out her compulsory cigarette, but the waitress points to the ‘no smoking’ sign; it’s new, crisper than anything else in the restaurant. Startled, she puts the cigarette away.
“Thanks, hun,” the waitress says, turning toward the service door.
You notice Lin touching her hair above her left shoulder in that familiar way.
“Maybe we should call it good? You know, just not go and see them.”
The thought is amusing. It would be easy. Say that you’ve done what you can—like a brief gravestone visit to pay your respects.
“We’ve gotta go,” you say. You’re hoping for resistance, for her to say ‘no, let’s not.’
“You’re right.” Lin leans back. “Just saying.” She twirls her frayed hair again.
The waitress brings your plates and you rush to eat. You ignore the hot cherry sauce that’s filling the space between you and Lin—but fractured images rise to the surface between bites. Prismatic lights, blue and red, emerge from the table like holes poked through tin. Flashing. They coalesce, solidify. Figures that turn into…
Your parents. You keep forgetting them. Their faces are now layered and thick, like chiseled stone. They grimace, open their mouths. Words flutter around them: ‘troubled one,’ ‘disappointed,’ and ‘guardianship’ you pick out. The worry mounts in your sternum like a needle, but your pain dissipates into a void of sugar as you shovel pie into your mouth.
The creases on Lin’s face grow in the lamplight, deepening the longer you sit. Her jittery hands play a small puppet show on the table. You look away.
“So good,” You say, the remnants of cherry still on your tongue.
“This place never changes,” Lin adds.
The white on your plate has become soupy, and you dip the remaining bits of crust into it. Once you finish the pie, you get up first. ‘It’ll only last a few days,’ you tell her. ‘It’ll be okay. Maybe they’ve changed.’ Except the words are only figments in your mind. A vapid gesture you can’t even make. The needle in your sternum becomes a hole.
She lingers in the booth as you push open the door, the chime bidding you goodbye. Finally, she wakes up and follows you to the car.
On the road, you dream of turning the car around and whisking you both back to Littleton’s. Or home. You can’t do that, so you begin counting the minutes until you can leave Indigo Place.
“You okay?”
She nods, staring at her phone. “Sleepy.”
Lin drifts away. You wonder if she’s entering that hidden place where no outside light or sound can penetrate. You want to know if it’s warm, if she can hear the sound of the ocean, like holding your ear up to a seashell. You want to follow her to that cavern, but the tracks have blown over.
You sit alone with your thoughts and the hum of the road. The crooked sign for Indigo Place grows larger until it’s so big you can’t see anything else.
But at least you’ve had some Littleton’s pies.
Nixwood Press 