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Sweet Potato Pie
At the red light, a young man, maybe 30, probably younger, held a cardboard sign with words I didn’t bother to read. Living on the streets added an aged veneer. Yet, his complexion was pure. Crisp. Sharp. Onyx, topped with hair that might have been as saturated if he could have washed it more often. He wore a coat, appropriate to the Detroit wind, which was blowing mercilessly despite the mild February temperatures. I had seen signs of this sort before. Besides, I was heading somewhere, going to see about a couple. Mr. Horne had called an hour and a half ago to tell me that he had come across pictures of my beautiful family. He asked after my “famous husband.” I reminded him, not for the first time, that my husband had fallen in love with someone else and left us. He seemed hurt. Not by the news, but by the failure of his memory, which let him down so frequently these days. He had been a formidable man in his day. Tall. Sharp witted. Onyx skinned like the man beside my car holding the sign.
I was bringing them something sweet. I asked for a pie, but the restaurant did not have a whole pie. So they had given me six slices. The wedges were placed into cardboard take away containers and two were put into a paper bag. Three bags were inside a plastic grocery bag so that I could carry them more easily. I had just taken one container out and set it in the passenger seat for myself. That left five, an odd number. How would that work among the couple I was going to visit? I had only just wondered when I was stopped at the traffic light where the onyx skinned man seeking handouts. He appeared as an answer.
He came over in response to the window rolling down and peered sheepishly at me as he accepted my offering. He wanted money but he would take this small paper bag. “Sweet potato pie,” I told him in response to his unasked question. He wanted to know but had become accustomed to not asking questions, particularly of people who were willing to offer him things. He could discard the bag later if he chose, but for now, he humbly reached to receive the bag.
But the words “sweet potato pie” were unexpected, like a sudden, brisk wind, blowing open a curtain. A gust of recognition swept a memory to a place just behind his eyes. And I felt air escaped from that crack in his eyes. He adjusted the tilt of his head ever so slightly and he was exposed. I turned away quickly, feeling him to be vulnerable, like I might have felt upon noticing that his fly had come open. The air felt of joy too out of reach to be longed for—just as much hurt as relief. Gratitude was in there too.
I didn’t intend to pull the drapery from his eyes, but that is what I had done, so I averted my own eyes in an effort to offer him privacy. But now I was drawn to him. I wanted to see him, which is odd. I must have passed a thousand homeless people and never felt a desire to really see a single one. Even when I handed them money or food.
It was the pie, though. I liked sweet potato pie. My own mother’s being my favorite. Few make a pie as smooth and tasty as my mother’s. Gus’s came close, which is why I wanted to bring one to the elderly couple I was heading to see. I wanted them to have sweet potato pie, which reminds me of so many Thanksgivings. And, I could see now, that like me, this onyx skinned man had eaten sweet potato pie inside a warm kitchen, in the company of his family. This moment held recognition and disbelief suspended by the brown paper bag in his hand.
I turned my eyes and watched him through a mirror as he took the container from the bag to get at the slice of pie. He had it upside down. No matter. He lifted it to his lips. They were weathered and gray. The bite he took was too much. The light was green now. I was driving away.
