was about to start, and she was pleased to hear the announcer say, “Well, let’s see what’s going on down in Pine Ridge . . .”
She moved to the cabinet with its porcelain counter and began making the pies. She scooped flour into a bowl, poured salt into her hand and dumped it in, added lard, then mixed everything with her fingers, working the flour into the lard. She added water, working the dough until it formed a soft ball. She rolled out the dough on the counter and used a saucer to cut circles. Quickly she put fruit on one side of each circle. She dipped her fingers in water and wet the edges of the dough. Then she folded the dough in half and crimped the edges together with a fork to seal them.
Lanie used both hands to lift the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stove. After a few minutes, she heated the grease in the skillet and, using a spatula, carefully put two of the pies in the pan. She watched them fry, peeking under the edge until the crust was brown. Then she carefully turned them over. When they were done, she put the fried pies onto cloth towels made from flour sacks to drain the grease.
She worked quickly and efficiently, frying the rest of the pies, and had just put the last batch into the warming compartment when she heard Beau begin to bark. “That must be Reverend Jones.”
She heard footsteps on the porch and went to open the door. “Hello, Reverend.”
“Howdy, Miss Lanie. One hundred pounds?” Reverend Jones was a large black man. He had a hundred-pound block of ice on his back, which he held there with a pair of large tongs. His leather cape kept his back dry.
“That’s right.” Lanie smiled and opened the icebox while Reverend Jones chipped the large block into pieces that would fit inside the metal-lined compartment. He shut the door and smiled at Lanie. “That ought to last you folks a day or two.”
“If you’ve got time, Reverend, I made apple pie yesterday, and I’ve got some tea.”
“Why, that’d go down mighty fine, Miss Lanie.” He sat down, his massive form filling the chair. Madison Jones was not only the iceman in Fairhope, he also was pastor of Greater Mount Zion Methodist Episcopal Church, the black church in town. He watched as Lanie pulled a tin plate out of the warming box over the cookstove, cut a generous slice of pie, put it on a saucer, and then set the pie and a fork before him. She opened the icebox and chipped off enough ice to fill a large glass, then poured tea over the ice. “It’s already sweetened. We don’t have any lemon.”
“That be mighty fine, missy. Just the way I likes it.”
“How is Melanie doing?”
“Oh, she doing real good! Done got over her mumps, but, of course, the rest of the chil’uns gonna get it too.”
Lanie always asked about all eight of the reverend’s children and his wife, and that pleased the big man.
“How your mama doin’, Miss Lanie?”
“All right, I guess.”
“You don’t sound too sure ’bout that.”
“Well, she hasn’t had a baby in a long time, and the doctor doesn’t seem to . . .”
When Madison Jones saw that she could not finish, he swallowed the pie in his mouth and said gently, “It’s gonna be all right. The good Lord’s gonna take care of your mama.”
“I know He will. But I just worry sometimes.”
Madison finished the pie and washed it down with the tea. “I wants to give you a promise verse for today.”
“You always do. What is it?”
“The Good Book, it say, ‘Our God is in the heavens; he hath done whatsoever he hath pleased.’ Dat’s in Psalm 115, verse 3. So you see, the good Lord, He’s in charge of your mama—and you and me and everybody else.”