Pecan Sandies
I am hiding the evidence, one bite at a time. A few weeks ago, I started with the chocolates. Then the peanut butter bites. Now, the pecan sandies. I’d never had a pecan sandie before. They would not have been my first or even my last choice, but they’ve grown on me the last several days. The dry, grainy texture makes a satisfying crunch, and the salt cuts through the processed sweetness as my salivary glands work overtime to create enough moisture to be able to swallow.
The pecan sandies came in a little tin with a cover that my fingertips struggle to pry off. They are the last of the order. These items have been sitting in the corner of my room for weeks, tucked into a garbage bag. I was supposed to deliver them, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I am paralyzed by anxiety. So rather than deliver them, I eat them. And I feel guilty.
When the fundraiser began, I begged my parents for help. Past experience had taught me that other kids’ parents took the order form to work, returning the envelope covered in signatures and full of cash. Some kids lived in neighborhoods where they could go door to door, garnering enough purchases to win a small prize, or at least the praise of the teacher. My fundraising envelopes were always returned with one signature and a solitary check for five dollars. My parents didn’t believe in having children sell things. As a family, we had experienced our own financial hardships. They didn’t like putting people on the spot. As an executive, my mother didn’t believe it ethical to ask her employees to purchase things. As for our location, we lived in the country- not at all conducive for door-to-door sales.
Just once, I wanted to get the cool keychain or scented pencil as a prize. I must have pestered my dad so much that he relented. One Saturday, he drove me around to the nearest houses. He grew up here and knew nearly everyone. Many people weren’t home. One man whom my father had known for decades closed the door in our faces; but I received a few small orders and felt a bit of pride and relief. Maybe I even had enough for the pencil. When my father gestured toward the last house, I cringed.
“Let’s go home,” I say. “I have enough.”
“It’s one more house. We’re all the way out here.” He marches toward the door, and I reluctantly follow. The house is two storied, peach colored, and badly in need of paint. Various items are strewn about the yard. I know this house and some of its occupants. Four feral children live here, three of them boys. They are rough and tumble, and loud, and one of them is in my grade and gets in trouble a lot. They ride my bus and call me monkey face and ask me if I’m a virgin. I don’t know what a virgin is, so I say yes, and they laugh at me. Then I say no, and they laugh even more. I don’t want to go to this house. I don’t want to ask them for anything. I want to go home.
My father knocks and I hear yelling and movement inside. A tired-looking woman opens the door, and I am terrified. Children’s faces peer at me and snicker from behind her. She addresses me curtly and I am red with embarrassment. I go through my spiel, knowing this has been a waste of time. She won’t buy anything from me, and now I will get teased even more. But I am wrong. She orders chocolates and cookies and candy bars. She places the biggest order of all, hands me a wad of cash and sends me on my way with a kind smile.
Weeks pass and the orders arrive at the school. I successfully deliver the few small ones, but it takes me days to pluck up the courage to make the delivery to the peach house. While I’d had assistance in procuring the orders, delivering them had been left to me, alone. The peach house order was too large for me to carry on my bike. It was too far to walk. One day my mother drives me, but no one was home and for some reason it didn’t occur to me to just leave it on the stoop. After that one delivery attempt, I could not bring myself to try again. The thought of going back to that house was terrifying- so terrifying, that I didn’t do it, day after day, week after week, until the reasonable window in which to deliver the items was long gone.
In my bedroom, I stuff the last pecan sandie into my mouth. I reflect upon the myriad of lies I’ve created in my mind in case I get caught: the order got screwed up. I delivered them to the wrong person. I left them on the stoop, and they got stolen.
I know what I should do is return the money and confess. I work a little weekend job for my grandfather. I’ve been saving up for a ten-speed bike. I can pay the woman back and make it right. Stop living with the guilt. But the anxiety of confessing is even worse than that of making the delivery.
On the bus I won’t make eye contact with the boys from the peach house. I avoid them at school. I carry the guilt around with me for months, waiting to get caught, but I never do. My parents never ask if I delivered everything. They don’t notice the evidence of my gluttony and deceit going out in the trash. We never get a call from the woman whose money I took. My tension starts to ease. The pit in my stomach begins to lessen. I have gotten away with it. Soon, I only have an occasional rush of shame, and after a while, I forget altogether that I am a thief. It completely leaves my mind.
I make my way through middle school and high school, even becoming friendly with the older boys from the peach house. They don’t call me monkey face anymore and I know what a virgin is. We grow up and move away and live our lives. Thirty years have passed when I am “friended” on Facebook by one and then the other of the boys. The memory of what I did returns like a punch in the gut. I took money from a woman trying to raise four kids on her own, who kindly helped me and tried to get some treats for her family. I feel even more shame as an adult than I did as a kid.
I message one of the boys, asking for his mother’s address. Why? He wants to know. My cheeks burn as I write an explanation.
Your mother bought things from me for a fundraiser. I took the money but never delivered the order. I’d like to pay her back. You probably think I’m crazy.
He never said whether he thought I was crazy or not, but he gave me his address and said he would get the money to her.
I write a card explaining myself and offering an apology, then slide a check for fifty dollars inside. I have no idea what her order had cost. Maybe fifteen dollars? But I figure she should get interest. I mail it the next day.
I never hear from the mother, and the boy doesn’t acknowledge receipt of the check and card. That is fine by me. What more is there to say? I’m not looking for absolution from them. I’m seeking it from myself. Even though I can reconcile that I was just a girl who made a mistake and let her anxiety get the best of her, I couldn’t forgive myself until I made it right. And now I had. It was a rare gift to be able to do such a thing, and I am grateful. I am finally free of the burden of guilt. The only remaining effect is the pecan sandies: to this day, I cannot stomach them.