“With the county. And the clinic. And I gave one to your dad.”
“He had the proof this whole time?”
“If he kept it. If he read it. If he wanted to believe it. Big ifs with Thompson men. You should know this,” he says.
“Will you tell people this at the festival?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Pie and the chance to be right in public. You love being right in public.”
“True. I also love pie. What kind?”
“Apple. The good recipe.”
“The one your mom used to win the county fair?”
“That’s the one.”
“Deal. But I also want credit for correctly diagnosing that outbreak of sheep scours in ’98. Everyone said it was parasites. I said it was copper deficiency. I was right.”
“Fine. You can have a whole ‘I was right’ moment.”
“Excellent. I’ll prepare remarks. With visual aids.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. Already planning.”
Three witnesses. Six pies. Countless cookies. One dead feud.
Back home,I’m surrounded by index cards, evidence folders, and the growing realization that I’m about to blow up my life in front of the whole town. My bedroom looks like a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream with papers everywhere and strings connecting different events.
“Good afternoon, Cedar Ridge,” I practice to my bedroom mirror. “I’m here to tell you that everything you believe is bullshit.”
Too aggressive.
“Fellow citizens, I come bearing truth.”
Too political. And obnoxious.
“Y’all have been idiots for thirty years.”
Too honest. Also, might get me shot.
“Hey, everyone, funny story about mayo...”
Too casual.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bury a feud.”
Too funereal. Though accurate.
Rita wanders in and immediately goes for my index cards.
“No! These are important!” I try to save them, but she’s already eaten the introduction.
“Fine,” I tell her as she swallows my carefully crafted words. “I’ll wing it. Probably better anyway. Scripted Callie doesn’t sound so good anyway.”
