Pie Thief

This is a submission for the 2020 Winter Holidays event. I hope you enjoy it.

Since the characters are Canadian, I've tried to use Canadian spelling within the story. If I inadvertently introduced some Americanisms, I apologize to my northern neighbors (or neighbours, as the case may be).

—C

At first, I thought Chessie had gotten out of the barn. But once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized it was the wrong size and shape. Then I thought it was a white-tailed, but it silhouetted itself against the stars for a second and I saw the rack. That wasn't a deer. Caribou. I'd seen them from a distance, of course, but we'd never had one stray in so close.

I must have made some sound because the head came up and it froze, looking right at me. After a long staring contest, it lowered its head and went back to nibbling on the hay we kept outside for Mom's horse. That was okay. We had plenty and Chessie wasn't territorial.

It was still there in the morning, watching the activity up by the house and barn. It stood motionless by the far fence, its grey, brown, and cream coat an effective camouflage.

"Hmm," was all Mom said when I pointed it out. "Far gate must be open."

I reddened. I'd forgotten again. The gate was sticky, and sometimes I just shoved it and assumed it latched. More than once I'd heard, "If Chessie gets out, you're the one bringing her back." More than once I'd spent hours doing just that.

I sighed and started across the field. "Leave it," she said. "Otherwise, it can't get out. I'll put Chessie in the other field."

One day became two, became three. Once, from the kitchen window, we watched in amusement as Chessie and it touched noses across a fence before they whirled to gallop away from each other in response to something we couldn't perceive. And of course, the hay in the rack on the side of the barn diminished regularly.

"Looks like we have a semi-permanent houseguest," Dad said. "Free food and he'll never leave ... just like your Uncle Martin." The sly jibe at Mom's relative earned him a snap of the kitchen towel against his rear.

"God damn it, you good-for-nothing—" You could hear the howl all the way across the yard and inside the barn. "—dirty, farting—"

I poked my head out and started laughing. You have to admit: a 350-pound animal galloping in a panic to escape a 110-pound woman, its dark eyes bulging wide, legs churning the grass into divots, white muzzle coloured with what was either blood ... highly unlikely ... or the filling from Mom's newly baked cherry pie was pretty funny.

Make that pies, plural, I thought, glancing over at the kitchen window and seeing both tins lying on the ground outside it.

She finally wound down with, "—flea-ridden, shedding-everywhere, poop-everywhere-else pie thief!"

I thought the flea-ridden part was unfair. He wasn't, but the rest was pretty accurate. And somehow, from that day on, "the caribou" became Pie Thief.

He lived up to his name. Pies on the windowsill to cool? Gone. Cookies left on the seat of a truck with the window open? Gone. Birthday cake freshly iced on the kitchen table? Back door somehow jiggered open and ... gone.

It didn't matter if the paddock gate was latched or the mudroom door closed; it was constant warfare between him and Mom. The only evidence would be a "Who me?" look and a trace of fruit syrup or stray cream cheese icing caught on the hair around a lip.

Snow hit, catching us prepared-but-unprepared as was so often the way when it came in October in Ontario. Firewood had been laid by; snowmobiles had been untarped and tuned up, ditto snowblower; winter tires were on the vehicles. But as always, there was still stuff to be brushed off and put away in the barn, and that fell to me.

While I was working on it, I noticed that Pie Thief was hanging around, not disappearing for long periods like he sometimes did. It struck me that he thought the barn a pretty nice place out of the wind and snow. And one with good proximity to Mom's kitchen.

"You think the hay is enough?" I asked my father. "Do we need to get him any supplements?"

"You mean like your mother's ginger cookies?" We both laughed. "I don't know. Maybe talk to Mr. Coulombe at the TSC."

I had my chance when Mom sent me into town for a large bottle of Vitamin D to get us through the dark months.

"I don't know, Jed," Mr. Coulombe said. "You might talk to Kerstman. He owns a farm a way out of town with some herds ... not cows, other stuff. I've heard he has some bison, some caribou. My wife buys this goat kefir he sells. I could give him a call for you."

I nodded.

"Kerstman? It's Rene Coulombe. I've got young Jed Webbe here, and it seems he's acquired a caribou calf and could use a little advice."

He listened and then hung up the phone. "He says he'll stop by in the next week or so."

I heard what sounded like a bicycle bell. It came again and then a rhythmic crunching was added. I poked my head out of the barn. Coming up the drive was a middle-aged guy in a beat-up black sledge pulled by two caribou. Trailing behind was a bright orange, plastic something.

It was a bicycle bell I heard: when he saw me, he reached over to one screwed onto the ... I didn't know what to call it ... the gunnel, I guess ... of the sledge and gave the lever a couple of firm pushes to produce the "tzzing, tzzing, tzzing." He gave a little click of his tongue and pulled to a smooth stop.

In the stained and faded brown coveralls, the old knee-high Kamiks, and the Canadian Tire toque perched on his head, the wiry little man could have been any local out for some firewood or mending a fence. But the animals gave him away.

"Mr. Kerstman?"

"That's me." He looped the reins and hopped down, extending a hand. The clean-shaven face was ruddy from the cold and his blue eyes—the kind Mom called "dreamy Paul Newman eyes" when she wanted to tease Dad—crinkled as his face split in a grin. "Just call me Kerstman. You're Webbe?"

I wasn't used to being called that. If anything, that was my dad. "Uh, yeah, I guess."

He laughed. "Good that you know who you are ... I guess." It was hard not to smile along with him. His attention swung to the paddock. "There's the boy."

I turned and saw Pie Thief hanging over the fence, studying the three newcomers intently. He made his grunting sound and was answered by one of those behind me. Kerstman walked over and reached into his pocket. From the sudden, rapt attention on Pie Thief's face, I knew that it emerged with some kind of treat. What, exactly, I wasn't sure since it disappeared in one quick inhale. Kerstman clambered over the fence and walked around Pie Thief, one hand maintaining contact all the time.

"Looks like he's close to full grown; weight seems okay. He's having no problem finding grass and lichen?" Kerstman glanced back at me as he asked.

"We don't close the far gate"—I gestured—"so he can get out any time he wants. We just close this one to keep him from the house. Not that it helps much," I muttered.

He laughed again. "Coulombe told me about how he got his name." He reached out and ran a hand down Pie Thief's neck. "Sugar's not the best, but I don't think he's hurting from it. If he knows where to get food now, he'll be okay in the snow."

I looked over at the animals that had come with him. "They're a lot bigger than Pie Thief."

"He looks like a barren-ground caribou. They're smaller. I have some of them. But those guys over there are boreal woodland caribou, the largest type. The one on the left is called Thunder because—" Just then a monstrously loud cervine fart ripped through the air. "Well, I guess it's pretty obvious why. And just for symmetry, that makes his partner Lightning."

"I've never heard of a caribou farmer."

"Well, there are some up north, mostly subsistence."

"Why do you do it?"

He shrugged. "There's a market, so someone will. It has less than half the lactose of cow's milk, which attracts the business types who've noticed that low-lactose products have doubled in sales. Where there's a demand, there's always someone willing to make a buck off it." He smiled at the way of the world. "And artisanal cheesemakers love it because it's twenty-two percent milkfat. That's five or six times what you get out of a cow."

He turned back to Pie Thief. "He's still got his antlers. That's unusual for a male this time of year. Males tend to lose theirs about now, females in the summer. They regrow them every year." I noticed both of his still had theirs. He saw me notice and shrugged. "There are exceptions who don't shed on schedule."

He clambered back over the fence. "I brought you a sled. It'll let you get around in the snow."

"Umm ... I kinda like my snowmobile."

"I get that. But when it's thirty or more below and it won't start because you forgot to set the choke before stopping the last time, or forgot to plug in the block heater, well ... And hauling a trailer of firewood behind a snowmobile is awkward." He gave me a speculative look. "Besides, don't you sometimes just like to hear yourself think out there? You can when it's quiet."

Another loud fart split the silence and we both burst out laughing. "Well, usually it's quiet."

He tipped his head. "Come on. Take a look. This is a pulk." I peered at the orange contraption that looked something like the rescue sled you saw at ski places crossed with a rowboat. "It was developed by a band called the Sámi and has the advantage of working in just about any kind of snow."

He shook out an arrangement of leather, canvas, and wood. With a few deft moves, he unhooked Lightning from his sledge and showed me how to harness him up: some straps around his chest and belly, and then a long single rope stretching back underneath and out between his legs to the pulk.

Then I tried it with Pie Thief. He thought the whole apparatus looked rather sketchy. It didn't look like a grey wolf or a bear intent on caribou tartare, but ...

Trying to buckle a strap on an animal half-again as big as you are, and who keeps sidling sideways and spinning to put his antlers toward you ... umm, no.

Kerstman laughed and took the harness from me. Brushing his hands down the wiry fur, he murmured softly as he slowly worked. "This is called a round collar. Don't use a chest collar because they put all the pressure on a small area." He picked up a wooden yoke-thingie and let Pie Thief sniff it. "This is the hame. It ..." The quiet voice droned on, lulling, as he named each part and described what it was for.

When he was done, he reversed the process. Then he handed me the collar. "Slowly. Talk softly as you do it. Remind him what each piece is for."

She was small and dark, with hair like a raven's wing that she wore in a long plait down her back. I was lost the moment she told me to get my goddamn feet off her coat.

Poor Angus was up from Hamilton, playing one town over from where we lived. There weren't a lot of local bands and even fewer that were much good, though that didn't stop me from getting out and listening. When one came in from farther away, I made it a point to go. As long as it wasn't total thrash-metal, I could generally have a good time.

My buddies and I were wedged around a tiny table just like everyone else in the bar, my back to it so I could face the platform. Her coat had slipped halfway off the back of her chair, and I hadn't noticed that fact nor where I was putting my feet.

"Sorry," I muttered, suddenly tongue-tied.

She pointedly brushed the footprints off the sleeve, giving me a tight smile that said, "No problem," on the surface and, "Idiot!" underneath.

At the set break, I took a breath and bent forward. "Can I buy you a beer to make up for stepping on your coat?"

"I'm not drinking."

Even if I couldn't see the half-empty draught sitting in front of her, the giggles from her tablemates would have made the brushoff obvious. I sat back and ignored the sounds of crash-and-burn my friends made.

Then I leaned heavily into my liquid courage and bent forward again. "Since you're done with that beer you're drinking, can I buy you a coffee to make up for stepping on your coat?"

Both tables went quiet, waiting.

"I don't like coffee."

The wide-eyed looks from her tablemates told us all that was a lie, but the message was clear. I shrugged and turned back to my table, my friends now silently raising eyebrows in commiseration at how unnecessary she was being.

The second set passed in a blur. My eyes kept wandering to the right to study the quarter-profile. I think she knew it, maybe caught me out of the corner of her eye, because she stared fixedly ahead.

It was hard to let it go, but I managed, although I used a couple of Creemore lagers to help the process. Luckily, I wasn't the one driving tonight.

We came around the corner of the bar heading for the parking lot and, of course, there they were in a little pack. I saw her face tighten as our eyes met.

"I'm—"

I didn't get any further than that. "Are you clueless? Have you and your buddies got some kind of 'Who Can Nail the Squaw?' game going that you can't take a hint?"

The ugly epithet drew me up short. While cries of "Whoa, Nadie!" and "Girl!" from her crowd, and "What the fuck, bitch?" from mine echoed, I took stock of what I was facing. I ignored everything but the brown eyes staring fiercely into mine.

"I was just going to say sorry if I spoiled your evening. I only asked a second time 'cause I couldn't take my eyes off you."

One of her friends wrapped an arm around ... Nadie? ... and pulled her away.

"Sorry," I heard one of the other girls say to one of my friends. "She got dumped this morning and she's had a few."

I didn't see her for a couple of weeks. Then I had to go over to Ville-Claire to pick up a part for my dad. While I was there, I stopped in at the bakery—a croissant and some coffee would hit the spot—and there she was behind the counter.

My first thought was to duck back out of the place as quickly as possible, but two things got in the way. The first was that she'd seen me. She looked once as I came in the door, frowned slightly as if she couldn't place the face, then looked again and stiffened. The second was that I felt the same thunderbolt light up my nervous system. There was nothing to do but tough it out.

"Almond croissant and a large coffee, black, please."

She silently filled my order. "Four fifty," she said, setting the paper bag in front of me.

I dug out the coins. As I slid them across the counter, she said quietly, "And I'm sorry."

I looked up to meet those intense eyes again. I gave a little "whatever" shrug and started to turn, but the jolts of electricity in my system wouldn't let me. I turned back.

"After you get off, can I buy you co—" I started to say coffee and then realized where we were standing. "—something to eat to make up for stepping on your coat?"

She gave a half-exasperated snort. "You don't give up, do you?"

Nerves made me honest. "I can't take my eyes off you."

Her forehead tightened, then relaxed. "I get off at one." She nodded with her chin out the window at the place across the street. "They make an okay burger. If you show, you show."

"So," she said when she settled across from me. I'd spent half an hour picking up the part for my dad, and twice that killing time. "So, why can't you take your eyes off me?"

I looked at her blankly.

"I've got a boy's hips and no chest. My face isn't going on any magazine covers. What kind of line is that?"

"I—" I stopped. I tried again, "I—" and got no further. "I don't know. I just couldn't."

"Couldn't or can't?"

"Couldn't then, having trouble now except you're making it easier by making me uncomfortable."

That got a small chuckle. "I don't even know your name."

"Jed. Jed Webbe."

She stuck out her hand. "Nadie Simard."

And my second encounter with Nadie Simard likewise passed in a total blur. The only thing I remembered clearly was the conversation when we walked out.

"Can I see you again?" I asked.

"Okay."

"What's that big land mine I need to watch out for?"

"What do you mean?"

"At the bar, you kinda got all extra and there might have been a slur shouted."

I could see the light inside her shut down, her upset remembered and soaking in anew. I felt bad about that, but I needed to know. I waited.

"My last boyfriend." The words came out reluctantly. "He pushed me and after a while, I gave in. After I slept with him a couple of times, he dumped me. One of my friends heard from one of his friends that he just wanted to see if it was any different." At my puzzled look, "Sex with a First Nation chick. Well, part-First Nation."

"Okay."

I could almost see her puff up like a howler monkey.

"It'sNOTfucking okay! I—"

I cut off the outrage. "Okay, as in: okay, I can work with that." She shut her mouth. "Okay, as in: you can call the shots. I won't push anything. You'll do the asking." She deflated the rest of the way.

"What does that mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. If you want a kiss or anything, you'll have to start it."

I ignored the sputter ... only semi-outraged because it didn't get to her eyes. A glint of humour had replaced the anger there. "Pretty sure of yourself."

"Nope. Not even a little sure. But hopeful."

It took two more dates before she ended the evening by rising onto her tiptoes, which put her lips still a long way from mine. "Will you kiss me?"

I obliged; of course I did. It was a stupid promise I'd made. Well, stupid as far as the major part of my brain was concerned, the part that had fantasized about a kiss ... and more ... for weeks. A little part was rubbing its hands together in glee because what guy wouldn't get a thrill about being told they were wanted?

Two weeks in which I tried to find out everything I could about her. In which I found out she didn't just work behind the counter at the bakery, she was the assistant baker. "I'm going to either buy that shop or open my own someday."

In which I found out that her father wasn't in the picture—she was not forthcoming on what that meant: dead or just gone, so I assumed gone—and her mother had mixed feelings on her daughter's dating life. "She'll be nice unless she thinks I'm being used. Then she's nasty as fuck."

Two weeks in which I dreamed about those eyes and thought about how great it would feel to hold her up against me by that tight little butt as I kissed her. So now, would I kiss her? Damn straight I would! Even though my hands on her butt didn't figure into it, it was still great.

And then she turned back from putting her key in her door, gave a little run-hop, and ended up with her arms around my neck for another, and my hands reflexively grabbed her butt. The wiry, weigh-nothing body in my arms in contrast with the soft lips ... let's just say it met all expectations.

Of course, that brought its own issues: if you're on first base, then it's only natural you set your sights on second. And so, my nights got no calmer because I'd made that promise and couldn't even find out if second base was a possibility.

The worst was when I invited her to our family's ritual Saturday dinner. My older sister, Jess, was up for the weekend from Toronto this time, and Mom said, "Why don't you invite your friend?" And then it was late, and snow was blowing, and there'd been a glass or two of wine. "Nadie, you probably shouldn't drive. We can make up the guest room for you."