Walking to work at three fifteen that morning, I was exhausted. Rosita’s house was dark. The kitchen curtain was drawn, which only reminded me of the day before, when Rosita had yanked the curtain shut in my face so that she wouldn’t have to look at me anymore.
I bit down hard on my lip. I had La Souche waiting for me, not to mention the four hundred croissants I had to bake, the twelve kinds of bread, and the tartelettes. I decided to forget about the madeleines. I was never going to bake a madeleine for anybody ever again.
First I switched on the lights and heated the ovens. Then I took La Souche out of her warming cupboard. Normally I’d do it while murmuring to her. “Did you sleep well, ma chérie? Are you still comfortable?” The way she smelled, and the sponginess of her structure, always gave me the answer. But I wasn’t in any state to make conversation. I started mixing the ingredients for the twelve different kinds of bread: the pain au céréales, the galette, the pain de seigle, the baguette, and all the rest. Next came the proofing and the baking. All through the early hours of the morning, fresh loaves of bread went into the oven. Soon the heady, slightly sour and slightly sweet smell of fresh-baked bread came wafting through the kitchen. I realized the routine actions and familiar smell of my own bread were making me feel calmer.
At half past six, when the owner came in, I was right on schedule. The first hundred croissants were ready, and I’d spend a couple more hours baking the rest of the day’s product. After that, I’d switch to preparing for the next day.
The owner and I didn’t talk much. It wasn’t like it used to be with Margaret, who hardly ever stopped talking even when nobody was listening. The owner and I said good morning to each other, and through the glass wall I could see him stocking the shelves and refilling the cash register with change.
The first customers came in for their fresh croissants and pains au chocolat and I wondered if Rosita would stop in at the bakery. I thought that maybe she’d come and have a coffee with me, and everything would be normal again. Even though I was angry, I was hopeful. As hopeful as I’d been all the days, months, and years I spent in the Mason Home, that my mother would show up and take me home. I should have known hoping was pointless.
Since I’d been watching the window from the minute the store was open, I was having a hard time concentrating on the bread baking. I left the next batch of croissants in the oven too long. When the buzzer went off, I did hear it somewhere in the back of my head, but it didn’t register that I was supposed to take the croissants out.
It wasn’t until the owner came running into the kitchen that I realized the place was blue with smoke. “Ray! What’s going on in here?” He pulled the oven door open and exclaimed, “Shit! Didn’t you set the timer?” What he pulled out was a tray of blackened croissants.
My legs began to shake.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you ill or something? Do you need to go home?”
I splashed some cold water on my face and took a deep breath. Concentrate, I told myself. Concentrate on your daily routine. I thought about what Pierre used to say: “It’s just like making wine. Time and temperature. Time and temperature.”
I managed to bake another fifty croissants and twenty baguettes. They didn’t look as perfect as usual. A bit too pale, not uniform in shape. The owner raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
At around ten A.M. I was ready to start on the dough for the next day’s croissants. I took La Souche out of the warming cupboard. She looked tired. I’d fed her earlier in the day, but it hadn’t perked her up. She was pale and compact, and smelled sour. Not a nice sourdough smell, but an unpleasant one.
“What’s the matter with you?” I whispered. “Ma chérie, what on earth’s the matter with you?”
I closed my eyes and waited for the answer to come. Had I set the temperature of the warming cupboard wrong? Was she still hungry? Did I need to lower the pH? I opened my eyes and studied the dough intently. Sugar, I suddenly thought. She needs to be sweetened. I gave her two tablespoons of sugar and returned her to the warming cupboard.
For the next hour I couldn’t do anything except hope she’d get better. I couldn’t make the croissant dough with La Souche in this state. Meanwhile I was keeping a constant eye on the store, in case Rosita came in.
Rosita still hadn’t appeared by eleven, and La Souche was worse off than before. She had shrunk even more and seemed to be having trouble breathing. I peered into the store, where my boss and one of the girls were busily serving the people from the fancy neighborhood. They didn’t seem to have any inkling of the drama that was playing out in the kitchen.
“Ma chérie,” I pleaded. “Don’t abandon me. Stay with me.” A tear came rolling down my cheek. I felt it happen but didn’t have the presence of mind to wipe it away. The mixture of water, protein, sodium, potassium, lysozyme, and all the rest dripped into the mother dough. She bravely resisted for a few seconds. “No!” I shouted. “No! No!” The tears kept falling, and as I looked on helplessly she collapsed, slowly but surely. I could neither stop crying nor try to save La Souche. I was paralyzed. I might have saved her if I’d come to my senses in time. But I just couldn’t. I just let it happen.
I was calm by the time I took off my apron and threaded my way through the line of customers to the exit. I heard my boss shout, “Where do you think you’re going?” I had nothing to say to him.
It was quiet on my street. Everyone was at the market, which came to town once a week. The sky was cloudy and the wind was cold, even though it was May. I realized I’d left my coat hanging in the bakery, but didn’t feel like going back for it.
When I turned onto our street I saw that Rosita and Anna’s front door had been left open. I tried to think of all the wise lessons I’d ever learned from the Mason Home shrink. For example: If you’re not seeing eye to eye with someone, it’s best to stay out of their way.
I shouldn’t have walked up to Rosita’s front door. I was still hoping it had all been a misunderstanding. That Rosita would take me back and we’d be almost a family once more. Walking up to her door, I snapped off a few dead twigs in her bushes. Now that La Souche was dead, I had all the time in the world to get her garden into shape.
“Rosita?” I called. She didn’t answer. She was refusing to answer me again. My hope promptly turned back into anger. She’d lied to me, and she was acting as if I didn’t even exist. But I did exist. I did very much exist. She wouldn’t get rid of me that easily.
Slowly I pushed the door open.