Killer Pie: A Thanksgiving Story
December 1, 2003
by Mike Spinney

It was 1988 and I’d just moved to Portland, Maine after a year of knocking around following my discharge from the United States Navy. I was young, single, and not in the best position to take full advantage of all that affords a young man.

I was rooming with my best friend John at the time, and when we moved into our apartment all we had with us to set up housekeeping was what we could fit in my 1981 Chevrolet Citation, which is to say, not much. A couple of duffels’ worth of clothes each, some books, milk crates, a portable stereo, and a couple-hundred cassette tapes. Modern Lovers, Jim Carroll, Public Enemy, B.B. King, AC/DC, Johnny Cash, Talking Heads, plus some “chick” music in case either of us managed to lure some naïve young female back to the pad – an eclectic mix, to say the least.

Shortly after moving in, John bought a futon and I managed to lug my old bed from home up to the place. I scrounged some pots and pans for those days when we decided not to feast at the happy hour buffet, but we were still lacking in the furnishings department.

Our cross-hall neighbor, a fragile old lady named Mrs. Prilutsky, took pity on our souls and offered to sell us some of her belongings. Well into her 80s, Mrs. Prilutsky was jettisoning much of her possessions in preparation for a move to an assisted living facility. We scraped up enough to buy her table setting and couch; both of which were in pristine condition but completely out of their element in our apartment. The couch was sturdy enough to withstand the rigors put upon it by an elderly woman who could not have weighed more than 100 pounds, but hardly built to take the sort of punishment two 200+ pound men would be laying down.

The dishes? They held our food as well as anything, and certainly were an improvement over eating meals straight out of the pan, but they were a little too frilly for our taste. Still, for $20, they were a bargain not to be passed over. Besides, we reasoned, they added a touch of class that might score some points with the ladies. After all, that’s what life was all about in those days.

When Mrs. Prilutsky finally packed her things and vacated her apartment, John and I dropped in to bid her adieu. She gave us both a hug and an open invitation to visit her at any time. We said we would, then got on with our subsistence living and merry making.

1988 was an election year, and I was involved with a number of campaigns, including the re-election of Senator George Mitchell. Ambitious and blessed with a great deal of time to donate to the cause, I quickly became one of the favored volunteers. I managed to score good jobs with other young, ambitious folk, which led to numerous social engagements and a couple brief flings. Following Mitchell’s successful campaign, I was invited to spend thanksgiving with the family of one of Mitchell’s top staffers and her family.

Anxious to demonstrate my gratitude, I accepted the invitation and volunteered to make a pumpkin pie and donate it to the feast. I wanted to make a good impression, so I took the bus to Shop & Save, bought a couple cans of pureed pumpkin pie, pie dough mix, molasses, sugar, a couple disposable pie tins and whatever else my mother said I’d need.

I got to work in the kitchen and put the pies in the oven. When they came out, I was shocked to discover the pies actually looked edible.

Proud of my accomplishment, I wrapped one of the pies in tin foil and struck out for 77 State Street, the address where Mrs. Prilutsky now lived. I walked the distance, checked in at the front desk and got instructions to Mrs. Prilutsky’s apartment, found her door and knocked. My visit was unannounced, but she was delighted to see me and overwhelmed that I had gone through the trouble of making her a pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving. I visited for an hour or so, then went on my way and told her I’d be back after the holiday to visit again.

A couple weeks later I dropped in again, but Mrs. Prilutsky wasn’t home. I inquired at the front desk and was told she was in the hospital, so I made for Maine Medical Center and her room. When I arrived, her brother, her only living relative, greeted me and walked me in. Mrs. Prilutsky was in bed, obviously not well. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she thanked me again for the pumpkin pie, though she apologized because she gave it to her brother after eating a small slice.

Unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Prilutsky was diabetic, and the sugar content of pumpkin pie is a little off the charts. Even so, she was so grateful that she ate a small slice in spite of the danger.

Her brother thanked me for coming by, but told me his sister was very weak and needed to rest. I nodded my understanding, though I didn’t fully appreciate the situation until my subsequent visit when I learned that Mrs. Prilutsky had died.

Mrs. Prilutsky’s funeral was held on Christmas day at Temple Beth El. Bus service was shut down for the holiday, so I walked the distance and paid my respects. To this day, I’m not so sure that it wasn’t my pumpkin pie that put Mrs. Prilutsky in the hospital.

(Mike Spinney is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)