Butterfly Pie

Once she was in, she couldn’t get out, and she was afraid that at any moment someone would notice the gun in the pocket of her coat. She was jostled by elbows, purses, coats, all shoving her inexorably forward. The frosty plumes of breath as they waited outside vanished as they shuffled into the warm glow of the bakery and inhaled the scents of butter and flour and fruit filling.

She saw diamonds winking around the neck of a tall, older woman, spotted someone’s BMW though the bakery display window, and was elbowed aside by a man talking animatedly on the newest and best in cell phones.

Most of them ignored her, but there were a few disapproving glares. She read the thought on their faces: “that girl should be in school” and looked away, ashamed. Swallowing, she patted down her blonde curls and hitched the collar of her coat up around her neck—her best coat, the one she had repaired countless times, that was missing the top button and had a bleach stain on the back. She shoved her hands into her pockets and fingered the cold metal of the gun in the right one. This would never work.

And then she saw the pies.

They were laid out on the rack, steaming and buttery golden. There were signs over them giving their filling type and cost, written by someone with a sharply angular hand. The final pie had no cost under the name. It bore only the legend: Butterfly Pie.

Her hands trembled and she shoved them into her pockets, quickly looking away so no one could see the naked longing she knew was plain on her face. No one craves a slice of butterfly pie for its flavor. Those who ate it described it as having a dull purple taste. The filling is dusty, with tiny stick-like filaments that snap gently under tooth.

A woman, muffled in furs nearly to her nose, stepped up to the counter and pulled a card from her wallet. “One slice.”

“What pie?” The cashier, a tall, thin boy said, smiling and grabbing a plate.

“Butterfly, of course.” The woman snapped, swiping her card. “What else would it be? I come in here every single Thursday and you—”

The baker, standing beside the cashier, cut into the next butterfly pie, plated a slice and handed it to her, expressionless. “Have a nice day.”

She halted her tirade mid-word, grabbed the plate and hurried to a table where she unswathed her furs and bowed her head over her pie, lips moving as if she were praying. Then she took a bite.

Silken red hair sprouted suddenly from her head and tumbled down her shoulders in loose curls, her coarse hennaed hair vanishing as the red hair grew. The crease between her eyebrows and the wrinkles at the edges of her eyes was gone. Her lips became plump. She finished the pie, smiled to herself, and shoved the chair back, striding out of the bakery, shouldering people aside.

Annabell’s fingers wrapped around the gun. In her mind, she recited the wish she would say before eating a slice of Butterfly pie. A job. A place to stay. People to love her. Wasn’t that at least more worthwhile than some rich woman’s craving for endless beauty? She inhaled and drew the gun out of her pocket. “Hands up!” she said, and her voice shook., so she said it again, her voice hardening. “Hands up!”

The bakery fell silent. At the counter, the baker and the cashier looked at her, and she saw for the first time the similar shape of their eyes, their dark hair, and big ears. Father and son, a detached voice inside her noted.

“Give me a slice of pie!” She shouted—and then hands clamped onto her arms from behind, jerking her around. The gun clattered to the ground as a blow fell on her arm. She was suddenly on the floor. Her face hurt. She struggled to breathe. A loud voice was bellowing orders above her. Her arms felt like they were being ripped off. The bellowing voice bent down to her ear so that she felt his hot, meaty breath on her face.

“What an idiot you are.” He said. “You realize you just tried to rob this place in front of the town police chief? Yeah, that’s me. And don’t you know? The pie only grants wishes well if you’re a good person. Otherwise, it backfires.” The police chief raised his voice and spoke to the surrounding crowd. “And that’s why we see Amanda Whittacker in here every week, right? She’s a nasty piece of work and she’ll be butt ugly by Monday!”

There was a murmur of laughter and agreement. Annabell laid her head down on the muddy tile floor and felt the tears burn out of her eyes. She had doomed herself from the beginning.

And then another voice, this one not loud but penetrating, said, “Enough.”

She looked up to see the baker and his son. They were covered in flour and there was a smear of blackberry pie sauce at the bottom of the son’s apron. The baker harrumphed and hitched his pants, nodding the police chief away from Annabell. “My own bakery,” he said in a bass rumble. “Handle it my way, a’ight? Gavrel,” He motioned to his son, “Help her up.”

The son put out a floury hand and helped Annabell to her feet. And then Annabell saw the pie plate in his other hand, a slice of butterfly pie sitting on it.

“W-what the heck? You can’t just give that to her!” the police chief protested, “She broke the law! You give that pie to her, and we’ll have an epidemic of entitled little hooligans waving guns!”

There were several assenting voices and in moments they were all shouting at the baker, who looked as upset about their protests as a solid cliff wall does when the tide washes up against it.

Gavrel bent down so Annabell could hear him over the uproar. “See, the problem with what the police chief was saying, is that everybody comes back every week to re-up their wishes. If they aren’t here every single Thursday, it’s only because they don’t have the money.”

Annabell looked up at him, startled out of her shame. “It doesn’t work at all?”

“It works just fine.” Gavrel said, and put the pie plate in her hand. “When it’s a gift.”

She looked at the pie, a single wedge of buttery pastry in the middle of the plate’s white circle. All her planning and agonizing, and it came down to one, simple choice. In the middle of the shouting crowd, she picked up the piece, and bit into it.

It was dusty. It did taste dull purple. There were little stick-like crunches. But as she lifted her eyes from the pie, she saw the smile in Gavrel’s eyes and he said, “Honestly we’ve had a slice set apart for you for the past year. We heard what happened to your parents and we hoped you’d come by. Do you want a job? And a place to stay?”

#bakery #fantasy #pie