The Peach Pie Pact

A deal is a deal, no matter how long it takes to fulfill

Every Memorial Day in Halder Creek, just after the flag-raising and before the watermelon seed spitting, came the Peach Pie Eating Contest.

It wasn’t official. No sign-ups. No sponsors. Just one long folding table and two old men.

Walter Greaves and Arnold "Arnie" Mills.

They’d been facing off every year since 1946, even though neither one of them had lived in the area for decades.

Nobody remembered who won the first one. Maybe not even the men themselves. But every summer, they’d show up at noon on the dot. White shirtsleeves rolled. Suspenders taut. Forks forgotten. First to finish their pie was the winner. The prize? A dusty blue ribbon Arnie’s mother had made in 1952, and a year's worth of bragging rights.

The loser had to bring both pies the next year. Always spiced peach with a sugared lattice crust.

Last year, Arnie won by a single bite. The crowd cheered, Walter swore gently under his breath, and someone snapped a photo for the paper.

But this year, something was different.

Walter showed up alone.

He unfolded the table, set out the two pies, and waited.

Arnie was late.

The crowd murmured. Mrs. Simms leaned over to her husband and whispered, “Maybe he finally gave it up. They’re what, 92? 95?”

But then, at 12:08, Arnie stepped out of the crowd. Slow, deliberate. Not in his usual short sleeves, either, but in a dark suit, tie crooked, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“Where’d he come from?” someone whispered.

Walter didn’t say a word. He knew Arnie had had a long trip.

The men sat.

A hush fell.

Walter lifted his fork, another new addition this year. Arnie nodded.

The signal.

They began.

Only Walter ate.

Bite after bite, he worked through the pie like a man fulfilling a duty. Arnie sat still, hands in his lap. Watching.

Walter finished. Not fast. Not showy. Just…done.

The crowd applauded, confused and unsure.

Walter set the fork down gently, wiped his mouth, and said, “Well, guess I win.”

Arnie nodded.

Then he stood, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper and the ribbon. He handed them to Walter and walked off.

No words. No ceremony.

Walter unfolded the paper slowly.

Inside, in faded handwriting, the words neither one of them had actually read since the very beginning:

Peach Pie Pact – 1946
If either of us kicks the bucket first, the other has to eat one last pie in silence. Just like we promised the boys who didn’t come back. And who would have given anything for one last taste of home.

At the bottom were two signatures: Arnold Mills and Walter Greaves.

Walter folded the note and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

He turned to the crowd and raised a hand. “That’s all for this year, folks.”

A few clapped again. Most just stood there, a quiet weight settling over them like dust in late sunlight.

Later, after the table was folded and the leftover pie – Arnie’s pie – wrapped in foil, young Andy Mullen found Walter sitting alone near the war memorial.

“Mr. Greaves?” the boy asked. “What was that paper about?”

Walter looked up, then smiled faintly.

“Just an old bet. And a promise.”

“To win?”

“No,” Walter said. “To remember.”

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