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Martin slipped his fingers silently around the smooth wood at the edge of the screen door. His bare toes curled 'round the sharp edge of the wooden step, sending a sharp splinter into the ball of his foot. He does not seem to notice and rubs his injured foot distractedly down his supporting leg. Eyes darting left and then right, he keeps a lookout for Kitty Kat - certain she would recognize her nemesis (the one of stinging rocks and twisted tails). Though often a victim of Kitty Kat's claws; Martin dismisses any fear of the feline's natural weapons. He has survived the worst she can dish out and still managed to give that old hairball a good dunking in creek. Working in silence, what Martin fears most is the cat's whiny squall whenever she senses Martin's presence. On a mission, Martin can not afford to have his location exposed. Lady Luck favors nine year old boys this day as Martin eases the screen door open just wide enough to permit his bony, rag-tag self to slip through. Standing upright, Martin smiles to himself at this small success, yet the hardest part was still to come. Tiny flecks of Oklahoma dust drift lazily from his cut-off jeans in a small gray cloud, showering the reflective surface with a fine gray powder. Martin does not notice the dark footprints following him as as he makes his way across the kitchen, eyes fixed on his target, and ears attuned to the slightest creak of a floorboard. Now at the linen covered table, he hesitates for just an instant, slipping his work roughened fingers beneath the cool tin. His salivary glands begin to work overtime in sudden anticipation, and Martin swallows noisily as he spreads his little boy hands to support the sudden weight. Keeping a watchful eye toward the darkened front room, Martin backs slowly away from the table, clutching the pie tin and its luscious cargo for all he was worth. One step at a time, he moves, toe-heel, toe-heel reversing his previous path, escape and triumph just a footstep away. Toe-heel, toe-heel....toe-YEOWWRRRRRLLLLLL!!!! Martin leaps into the air, simultaneously recognizing the fear filled growl of Kitty Kat and the sudden soft, furriness of the cold linoleum as he stepped down with all his weight. Indignant, angry and highly insulted, Kitty Kat increases the volume of her yeowling as Martin tap dances around her slick furry body, finally tripping as she races a figure eight between his legs. The prize he so diligently worked toward and anticipated all morning slips first to the left and then back again as Martin struggled to regain control. Finally, Martin watched in horror as the shiny tin and creamy lemon filling slide higher until his grimy fingers are grasping at nothing but air. Knowing the final outcome, Martin squeezed his eyes shut and dropped to the floor, hands covering his face as tears spring from beneath his lashes. Self-preservation kicks in as Martin realizes what he has done. Getting caught for stealing was one thing, but getting caught for stealing and losing the treasure was another. Better in either case to not get caught at all. Martin pushed himself up off the floor, eyes averted from what he knows must be a horrid mess, watchful and somewhat curious that the Mistress has not yet appeared from the front room. With sudden determination and lingering regret, Martin leaped up, turning to run full force through the screen door. A cloud of warmth and calico and wonderful kitchen spices unexpectedly wraps itself around Martin's head as he fell against a great softness, becoming entangled and trapped. Ensnared worse than a rabbit in a trap, Martin stopped struggling, and gave way to the astonishingly excellent fragrance wafting forth from within these volumes of cloth. A voice broke through his confusion, and after a bit, Martin realized the calico was speaking to him. Martin gazed up into the sweetest eyes and the kindest smile he had seen in a very long time. Over his head, in hands the size of a man's, this woman (for Martin had finally determined that he was trapped in the billowing folds of a very large skirt) balanced a particular silver pie tin, heaped with a particular golden prize. Martin stared unbelieving at the treasure balancing on her oversized palm. This was the prize over which Martin had schemed and planned since his nose detected its delicious fragrance wafting through the open kitchen window early this morning. By some miracle, the pie tin had flown up as Martin fell down, and with impeccable timing, into the hands of the waiting...cook. Martin concluded this was the cook of this household, and his heart fell again with the knowledge that though the pie may be safe, it was as gone as if he had dashed it to floor. Carefully extracting himself from her skirt, Martin slowly unwound her apron from behind his neck, unconsciously taking one last whiff of its fine fragrance and began dejectedly backing toward the open screen door. As he eased closer to freedom, he focused on the cook and finally began to comprehend what her kind voice was saying. "Looks like someone could use a bit o' meat on his bones," the voice was low and kind, "would you care to join me in just a small bite?" Martin could hear the words, but he was certain that he was addled by all the excitement. Surely, after nearly stealing her food, she wasn't offering to give him some of her wonderful pie? Martin stopped his backward creep toward the open screen door. "Yep, they ain't nothin' like a bit o' my Aunt Ruth's Lemon Angel Pie." The voice was soft and soothing as the cook turned her back on Martin with a confident assurance that Martin would not dart out the door. "Aunt Ruth had some very strong rules about eating this pie." Martin watched in awe as she set the pie gently on the counter and pulled two plates from the cupboard. "Indeed, Ruth said it was a fine pie to eat alone, but if a person could share this pie with a stranger, it was the best luck in the world." Competent hands quickly cut the pie into half and into half again and with just a fork and a knife, lifted a quarter of that pie out onto each plate. Martin's mouth began to water his formerly parched throat and his feet, seemingly without any coaxing from the brain, began to shuffle their dirty selves across that shiny linoleum floor. Martin sat his bony self in the wooden chair, the heaping plate of pie before him and looked toward the woman in awe, unbelieving his incredible luck. His shaky fingers wrapped themselves around the fork, as he tasted the first morsel. This was the closest to ecstasy Martin would come any time before he became a man. Martin admitted he had been wrong - this woman was no cook, she was an angel.
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