Tarts

Lenora Rainey came to atheism in the usual way—gradually. She was born and raised into a highly religious family, and by the time she’d borne her seventh child, she was certain God was a mean old man dressed up in haloes and sandals. He had long wavy blond hair, improbably blue eyes, and a rock-hard penis whenever a pretty young thing happened to walk by.

All her children were grown and out of high school, and most had college degrees. There were twelve grandchildren—some close to being out of high school. Still, she thought, I’ve done more for my family than for myself for my whole life. She looked up, rolled her eyes, and thought God, you may not have noticed, but I’m tired of no one doing even one little thing for me. I’m especially tired of you doing nothing for me. Now, God, your supposed servant is busy bouncing the new secretary on the squeaking box springs of my bed.

God had no answer for her, and it was then that she decided God was about as honorable as that piece of flesh she’d married.

She had pumpkin tarts she must make and take to the nursing home. She went to the kitchen, donned her apron, started working on the pies, and began thinking through some personal plans for herself.

When she finished making the small, individual pumpkin pies, she popped them into the oven. Most would go to the nursing home for Thanksgiving dinner the day after tomorrow, but she set two aside for their dessert. One had extra filling for Reverend Luther Rainey and one for herself.

By the time the pies had finished baking and were cool, the banging of the headboard against the wall and sounds of “Oh, oh! Yes! More! More!” Lenora had boxed up the pumpkin tarts, removed her apron, pulled on her old winter coat, carried the tarts to her car, and drove to the nursing home.

Once at the nursing home, she walked back to the kitchen. There was Mary Ellen Casey, the cook. Mary Ellen smiled and said, “I’m so pleased you made all these tarts for our clients. What a treat they’ll have!”

Leonora smiled and said, “I love baking, and if the Reverend and I ate all I made, we’d have to be rolled around town.”

Mary Ellen laughed. “You’re lovely and still have a slim body. You could eat a few extra tarts and not be even close to plump.” She patted her big belly, which, although one might think was a sign of pregnancy, was simply a sign of her slow metabolism and eager eating.

Lenora said, “Thank you. You always make me feel younger than I am.”

“Well, you started having babies before the rest of us graduated high school.”

“I adore my children, but now that the house is mostly empty, I wish I’d stayed in school and maybe gone on to college.”

“Well, the Reverend is a lucky man.”

Lenora smiled, thinking of the church secretary and wondering if her husband thought he was a lucky man. Her desire to tell Mary Ellen the truth was so strong that she said, “Well, luck has to run out sometimes, no matter who you are.”

The cook laughed and slapped her hands on her prodigious thighs. “My guess is he knows what a jewel he got for a wife, and I’m sure you feel the same way about him.”

Lenora shrugged, but the cook continued, “Every girl in school wanted to date Luther. My goodness, what a handsome young man he was and still is, for that matter. His black curly hair and bright blue eyes are appealing.”

“Even now, with silver mixed into his hair?”

“My goodness, yes. Why I could eat him up.”

Lenora chuckled, “Now that’s an idea. Would you cook him first?”

“Absolutely.”

The two women laughed, and after a bit, Lenora said, “Well, I need to get home. Luther will be waiting for his dinner soon.”

***

Lenora drove from the nursing home, and when she turned the corner to the parsonage, she saw the secretary’s husband parked down the street behind another car, but he could still see the parsonage. Lenora saw her husband's face when the bouncy little blonde woman left the parsonage. She felt a chill crawl up her spine, then shook her head. She waved goodbye to the secretary, who giggled, then returned the wave and walked with hips swinging away from the parsonage and her husband.

Once inside the house, Lenora returned to the kitchen, put on her apron, and got busy frying chicken. The Reverend walked in and said, “That smells good, darlin’. What’d I do to deserve fried chicken and pumpkin pie for dessert.”

“Oh, I fixed this dinner for me. Sure, you can share it with me, but I desired to have fried chicken. Your desires no longer concern me.”

He said nothing but stood watching her. His gaze was cold. He felt she should feel lucky he didn’t kick her out of his home. Her hair was primarily gray, wrinkles were evident on her face, and her belly was sagging from all those children she bore. He much preferred blondes with tight asses and spreading thighs. He sat at the dinner table and waited for his dinner, thinking of his secretary and how she made him feel.

***

After dinner, Lenora put her husband’s pumpkin tart on a plate with a large dollop of sweet whipped cream. She fixed her dessert, too, brought it to the table, sat across from him, and said, “I’m going to the bridge club party this evening.”

“No,” he said. “You should stay home.”

“What you think I should do is fine for you, but I’ll attend the bridge party. Oh, and just so you know, your secretary’s husband watched her leave the house earlier today.

“We were working.”

“Of course you were. How’s your tart?”

“Perfect,” he said as he put another bite in his mouth.

“I meant your secretary, not the pumpkin pie.”

He gritted his teeth, but instead of saying anything, he put the last big bite of his pumpkin tart in his mouth and said, “I’m going for a walk.”

“Perfect,” Lenora said.

***

Lenora was enjoying Bridge Club and hoped by the time she arrived home, her husband would have died—that didn’t worry her. All she knew for sure was the LSD she’d put in his pumpkin tart was enough to help send him on his way—at least the dealer in the city had cautioned her not to use it all at once because it might cause her death. She’d made sure to leave some of the LSD in her husband’s desk drawer should the police question her husband’s death, but most of it went into his tiny pumpkin tart. She did worry a bit that he might not die but might come home a bit worse for the wear but still alive.

When the doorbell of her friend’s door chimed, and the flashing red and blue lights strobed through the windows, she smiled to herself but quickly put on a face of anxiety, which she had practiced by thinking of spiders. She was ready for the police to come in and tell her about her husband’s death, and she could express her sorrow quickly and easily.

The police followed the hostess into the kitchen, where the women had been playing bridge. The officer said, “Mrs. Rainey, will you come with me?”

“Why?”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Really? What kind of accident?”

“We can talk about it outside.”

“Why? What’s happened?” She was careful to look befuddled, not excited or cheerful, which was what she felt inside. She thought, ‘Ding, Dong, the prick is dead!’ as she followed the police out of her friend’s house and onto the wide front porch.

The policeman turned to her and said, “It seems the reverend was intoxicated and driving. He ran over a dog and lost control of the car.”

“Is my husband dead?”

“No, ma’am. He’s in jail.”

“Why?”

Well, he kept driving after killing the dog and ran a red light. He rammed a car filled with teenage children.”

“No,” she murmured and began to cry.

“Yes, ma’am. One of the teens died.”

“No.”

“Yes, ma’am. We think your husband is on some drug or another. We’ll know for sure in a few hours. We’ll be happy to take you home, ma’am.”

She nodded and handed him the car keys. He drove her home and helped her walk into her house. He said, “God bless you, Mrs. Rainey.”

She shook her head and said, “That fucker, if there is a God which I sincerely doubt, has never blessed me.”