On The Lamb

A short story by Julie Iverson

“We got to get clothes; three days we go bul, fresh so we not crumb.”

“Nah, three days? Nah, what fuh”?

“Cuz we ade it, Mum’s prize pie, the jawn fa’ St. Michaels, Tommy”

“Jeez, James, bro’ now I’m skeered. She okay or she keel us”?

St. Michaels Parish at Queen Village, Philly, the staple of the neighborhood where James’ mother, a known widow there, wins the blue ribbon every year for her melt-in-your-mouth pie. No matter the filling or flavor, it is the flaky mouthwatering crust that blows the judges away. This opportunity disappeared with each bite what with James and his bestie, Tommy, arriving home hungry.

James is an only child whose father was a fireman for the city of Philadelphia and ultimately, lost to a fire when James was in elementary school, summer after third grade, age nine. He and

Mom lived at Queen Village where she is an active volunteer at St. Michaels. At the hospital, she works as a nurse, LPN licensed practical nurse, never finding the time to move up to Registered Nurse for the money. There was some life insurance, so they do okay. Best friend Tommy moved to the same hood in fourth grade. His parents were newly divorced from Fishtown, about ten miles away. Tommy was set for a do-over of grade four when it became decidedly better for him to do-again-fourth at a new school. Tommy leaves for Fishtown each July 5. th Schools out the third week of June but Tom’s Tavern, where Dad works, is tourist busy until after Independence Day.

Now that James is age twenty, Tommy is twenty-one years old. Each guy works part-time, James delivers car parts from the warehouse to the pickers at the dealerships. Tommy is busboy at Tom’s Tavern, a family business where three generations of Tom have gone before him. The elder Tom men were Philly police who worked the tavern after putting their twenty years in.

Tommy is not doing a criminal justice career. Tommy and James are part-time students at the city campus of Temple University. Very part-time, still working on gen-eds.

“Iz the’ weekend, we go away and come back later, few days”

“MMM, that mad, okay we go. Where”?

“We got our boy Bobby at New Hope, we get wit’ Septa, one night, AO. Next by bull we get to the Houdini museum at Scranton. Gotta’ take the Greyhoun’ bus, my man. There’s no rail here to there.”

“We sneakin’ and sleepin’ there at Houdini? Whack, how’s dat”?

“Bet the fishin’ cabin have us for eighty bucks, just a night. We take our wooders and

caffeine, maybe pick up the good venison jerky up there.”

“Wooder ice? That’s whack when it melts”

“Nah, wooder bot’uhls, just ta’ drink.”

The commute to Bobby’s at New Hope, Pennsylvania is uneventful on the Septa rail. They take the Warminster line at Queen village station, plan to walk to Bobby’s parent’s house where their old pal smuggles the two into the basement. There is a large sectional down there for a good sleep. They promise Bobby to be ouda’there early, six in the morning so as not to alert the parents, his or theirs.

“Bobby’s family into the Birds, our Iggles. Stanely cup is now afta’ Easta’ they quiet now,

sleepin’ early.” 

James and Tommy are good boys and always able to get up early whenever need be. The Mom’s are their rock and they never want to disappoint. Tommy’s Dad is cool but not the disciplinarian. One night gone isn’t going to be a shocker, but two?

“Jawn wuz that big ride dare”?

“TomTom, we on the lamb now, this not a city bus or school bus, dis Greyhound!”

The bus from the borough of New Hope, Pennsylvania to Scranton is every bit of three hours with a window view to die for. The river areas and Delaware river gap, steep and rocky and always lush. Fishing and deer hunting are at their best for Pennsylvania outdoorsmen. The weather is not yet hot, usually more wet and for this, James and Tommy get lucky. Around Allentown the conversation drifts between the fires, the mine fire from Centralia that keeps on burning underground to the dairy cows they pass. James has read more about the state than does Tommy and so he recites happily, the tutorials he knows.

“We could hide at the Appalachian trail. People do it, they hike it to disappear.”

“Apple-atcha? That is the hills and the peoples there, we not them, mmm mmm.”

Happens more than we know, people are unbeknownst of the perimeters of the Appalachian trail. Down south in Georgia, folks assume the trail ends somewhere southern. They get on it west of Atlanta. Hiking up north at Piscataquis, Maine is the upper limit for the trail though, most agree the Delaware river gap is the most stunning in elevation and foliage experienced. This is not at all where Washington crossed the Delaware. The trail traverses the Appalachian Mountains, hence the name. Regionally, the Appalachia community spans thirteen states, more than one hundred counties. Kinship within generations of settlers includes Native American tribal communities as well as melting pot from the great migration of early emigrants. Dialect and culture can be described as collectivist in the rural counties stretching from the western Catskills far south into northern Mississippi. James has paraphrased this lesson.

Finally, James and Tommy reach Scranton, Pennsylvania and get to their Pocono destination. Harry Houdini performed two seasons nearby, long ago, and everyone still talks about the world’s greatest magician. The museum exhibits memorabilia in two rooms where James and Tommy obediently read the descriptions as if they are on a school field trip. 

Details of this day can best be described as wholesome and clean-cut. They are good boys and when they leave the Houdini Museum, James and Tommy look for a hoagie spot. James was right, a night nearby is eighty dollars at a place resembling a log cabin. They sleep, exhausted. There’s not much to be said in the morning, just wanting to take the big bus back to Queen Village, home-sweet-home.

“Where you been? I’m worried sick, two nights gone is too much.”

James’ mother whacks a light palm over the tops of their heads. They know when they are being scolded and wait for the worst of it, frozen.

“Tommy, young man, you call your mother right now, please.”

“Ma’ umm sorry, we really sorry for what we done.”

“What? Wha’d else”?

The full confession of the devoured pie comes out and how hungry they were and how tasty is was, another blue ribbon, probably, they believe.

With that, his mother who is practically also mother or at least, an auntie, to Tommy, bursts into tears, barely able to get enough breath to declare her love and devotion and worry over what…?

“PIE? I tell you, you make me a new pie, huh? How’s that”?

And so, this was the new beginning for James and Tommy. They go to the kitchen where James suddenly recalls the recipe by heart; three cups flour, one cuppa lard or shortening, whichever, salt, egg, tablespoon of wooder and the secret ingredient, a teaspoon of white vinegar.

Get it all together in a ball and youse DO NOT roll it out until it has fully chilled in the freezer for an hour.

“What’s th’ flavor”?

“Not rhubarb, ju’eet dat? Nah, there’s nod enough sugar to straighten oud a rhubarb, I mean it, any other jawn a’wright.”