It’s pouring Thursday afternoon when I wake up. Probably a good day to delve into my time-capsule box that I brought home from the wedding. Getting rid of nonessentials always makes me feel good, sort of clean and strong. Still, I sit at the table after I’ve eaten my cheese omelet, stirring cream around and around in my coffee till it’s too cold to drink and wondering if it’s raining in the San Juans.
Mac said one time that they actually got less rain than Seattle because they were in the rain shadow of the Olympics. He explained what that means, but I can’t remember now. Sometimes I think I’m always paying attention, but not to the right things. There was something with Mac—some tension, a dark shape in my peripheral vision. How else do I explain it? The vague restlessness when I wake up in the afternoons. The nagging sense of missed opportunities.
Okay, maybe I was distracted, but it wasn’t just that. I mean, he’s a bartender, for God’s sake. A college dropout with a low threshold of boredom. I hardly know anything personal about him, except that he likes music and rock climbing. Then there’s Laura, the phantom ex-girlfriend hovering in the wings. Another doomed relationship, I don’t need. I’m already involved with Gary. And I’m not even divorced yet. It’s all happened too fast. What was it John Lennon said? Something about life being what happens to you while you’re busy trying to make plans.
I get up and pour the coffee down the drain, leave my dishes soaking in soapy water. I make space on the floor for myself and a giant plastic trash bag. I slit the tape on the box and dump the contents on the floor.
Engagement calendars. I open one, flip a few pages. Most of the names and places scribbled in the squares don’t sound even vaguely familiar. I check the first pages to be sure they’re mine and not CM’s before tossing them all in the bag.
I save my high school graduation tassel, throw out all the cards. I pitch my acceptance letter from UCLA, my class schedules and my grade reports. I save my high school and college diplomas in their folders with the graduation announcements. I throw out all the pamphlets CM and I worked on for the National Organization for Women, and a button that says “Uppity Woman.” On second thought, I retrieve the button. A rolled up T-shirt unfurls like a banner, making me laugh. CM gave it to me when my steady boyfriend dumped me just before the senior prom. It says “A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle.”
There are photographs. Halloween party at Zelma Wallis’s house. CM and I are standouts. Not just because we’re taller than everyone else by three inches, but because our costumes are so weird. All the other girls have gone the glamour route—a queen, a movie star, a ballerina, Amelia Earhart. There’s even a Statue of Liberty. CM and I are dressed as Amazons (our interpretation) in frizzy black wigs and fake leopard skin “Alley-Oop” outfits her mother made for us. The nickname “the Amazons” would stick with us for the rest of our school days.
A Polaroid snapshot taken by my mother. CM and I stand by my old black Chevy, leaving for freshman orientation at UCLA. She looks confident, gorgeous. Her long hair is ironed straight, parted in the middle. She wears a dark paisley shirt, crocheted vest, bell-bottom pants. Her woven bag from South America is bulging, probably with cookies, apples, gum. I’m smiling, but still manage to look grimly determined. My hair is barely contained in some weird contraption on top of my head. I’m wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt, hip-hugger jeans, and a belt with a huge brass buckle in the shape of my name. Three hours later, I’ll be crouched in a stall in the women’s rest room of the administration building, throwing up.
My heart aches and so does my stomach. This is worse than breaking up with a man, sitting around mooning over old pictures and remembering the good times. CM and I have been together almost twenty-five years, longer than a lot of married couples. She knows more about me than my mother. I used to think we were closer than sisters, but now I’m not sure. Sisters at least know they love each other, so they don’t always have to like each other.
Sibling rivalry—we had it in spades. I got better grades; she was prettier. There were nights that I cried myself to sleep because some boy I was madly in love with had called to talk to me about fixing him up with CM. She never went out with any of them.
What I loved even more than her loyalty, though, was her absolute fearlessness. She seemed to thrive on getting in trouble, while I was loath to upset my father. He never laid a hand on me, rarely even scolded me. But he could say my name a certain way, not with disapproval so much as disappointment. That’s all it took. CM, in one of her brutally honest moods, once told me I would have made a good golden retriever—quick, smart, eager to please him. The strange thing is, it didn’t particularly offend me.
On the bottom of the pile is a professional photo taken at the country club the Sunday my father and I won the mixed-doubles tennis tournament. I was fifteen. I think it was the happiest day of my life. In the picture, we’re each holding a handle of the silver trophy. His arm is around me and my smile takes up my entire face.
I stack all my high school yearbooks back in the box. They’re always good for a laugh. Or when I can’t remember somebody’s name. Papers I wrote in college. “Woman’s Work, Man’s World” and “Sociology of Knowledge.” “Shakespeare and the Passive-Aggressive Personality.” Unutterably boring and pretentious. But they were mostly A papers. Maybe Mac was on to something with his cynical view of higher education. Underneath them is a pile of loose sheets. Every overblown, sophomoric poem I had in the literary magazine. My mother saved every single one.
I’m grabbing handfuls of stuff and jamming it into the bag when a piece of ivory stationery floats out of the pile like a leaf on the wind and settles on my foot. The old-fashioned penmanship is the kind they stopped making kids try to imitate when I was in fourth grade. My oma’s handwriting. It’s a letter to my mother, or part of one, probably mixed in with the papers from her cedar chest. As I start to crumple it up, my name leaps off the page at me.
If he really means to leave you, there is nothing you can do to prevent him. You could make things very difficult and unpleasant for him; but I don’t believe you have the strength of will to pursue that course. So it behooves you to consider other alternatives. Of course, you and Justine are more than welcome to stay with us until you decide what to do. However long it takes.
Remember, Johanna, that your father and I are standing by, should you need us. God bless you, my dear child, and comfort you. Justine is behaving reasonably well and seems to be enjoying herself
Lovingly,
Mother
I read it three times. Then once more, just to be sure there’s not some other possible explanation of who “he” is. Of course there’s not. “He” is my father, and now the wheel of my memory turns easily, gracefully, despite its unwieldy mass. Pictures click silently into place like slides, enlarged, illuminated, and projected onto a screen.
They were an unlikely couple. He was handsome, maybe a little bit wild when he was young—daring, adventurous, self-assured. She was pretty, but sweet, quiet, serious. I found their wedding picture interesting when I was old enough to appreciate the subtleties of people’s eyes, their expressions. For that photograph, they seemed to have exchanged personalities. Pleased, proud, exuding stability, he had the air of a man confident of doing the correct thing. While my mother looked as if she might bubble over with laughter at some unexpected adventure that had just presented itself How long before he realized she wasn’t enough for him? How long before she knew?
I reach for the phone book that sits under the little side table and leaf through the A’s till I get to Alaska Airlines.
Saturday morning at eleven-fifteen, I’m standing in front of my mother’s house. The door is locked, undoubtedly Richard’s influence. She’s never locked anything. I ring the bell. When she opens the door and says, “Wyn! What a wonderful surprise!” the revulsion I feel at the sound of her voice nearly unhinges me. “How are you? How long can you stay?”
“I have to go back tonight. Where’s Richard?”
“Playing golf. Why?”
“I need to talk to you about something. Privately.”
Her tone changes instantly. “What’s the matter?”
By this time, we’re in the den. I set down my purse, but before I can say anything, she says, “Do you want some tea? Or juice, or water? Coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks.” I sit down on the couch; she lowers herself gracefully into her sewing chair.
“Honey, what’s wrong? You seem upset.”
“I found this.” I take the letter out of my jacket pocket, unfold it, and hand it to her. “In that box I took home after the wedding.”
She opens the reading glasses that she wears on a silk cord around her neck, puts them on. Before she even begins to read it, I see that she knows what it is. Her face is first flushed, then very pale.
“Oh, baby.” She must have been holding her breath and she lets it all out at once, like the air going out of a balloon. “I’m so sorry you saw this.”
“Please tell me what happened.”
“Wyn, it was so long ago, and it wasn’t really—”
“Please.”
She scans the page and then lays it on the coffee table. She sits back in the chair, hands in her lap. “When you were four years old, your father decided he was in love with someone else.” Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact.
“Who?” My voice, by contrast, is more like a squeak.
“No one you’d know. She worked in Andersen’s Chicago office. He came home from a trip and told me he was in love with her and he asked me to divorce him.”
I’ve never been anywhere near a tornado, but this is how I think it must be. The black wind howling around you and the dead-calm center. For a second, I’m actually dizzy.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t actually say much. I just cried and got quietly drunk and passed out.” The idea of my mother drinking enough to pass out is hard to grasp. It probably took all of two drinks. She brushes an imaginary piece of lint off her slacks. “He moved into a hotel that night.”
“Where was I?”
“Thank God you were at Oma and Opa’s. The next day I called them and asked them to keep you a while longer. That week …” She pauses. “It was like a dream. No, more a nightmare. Your father was coming over to the house every night to talk about divorce and division of property and who would live where and how we would settle you.”
“And you really had no idea he was—?”
“None. But then I was rather naive in those days.” She looks away from me, out the sliding-glass door to the patio. “He had an attorney. And a list of attorneys he thought I might want to call. He’d apparently given it quite a bit of thought.”
I see David, sitting on the couch in our den, telling me about the great condo he’d found for me. “So …?”
“I begged him not to leave, not to break up the family, but he was absolutely determined.”
One of those scenes that burns itself into your brain, but you can’t remember why. Waking up one night. Getting up for a drink of water or a potty trip. Walking down the hall, bare feet padding silently on the carpet, past my parents’ room. It’s dark except for my mother in her chair. She sits in a pool of light, holding a book, and she doesn’t look up when I tiptoe past.
“That was the week that Oma wrote me that letter. I was desperate. I was ready to try anything that might put my world back together.” The ticking of the school clock on the mantel sounds like a drum in the silence.
I must look thoroughly confused, because she leans closer, peering into my face. “It wasn’t such an everyday occurrence then, you know. Things had to be pretty bad before you resorted to divorce.” She attempts a laugh. “Divorcées were women who wore too much makeup and used cigarette holders and frequented cocktail lounges.”
“So what did you say to him?”
“You have to understand, Wyn …” She keeps talking about her desperation, her fear, the pain. She hasn’t said anything yet about loving him. In my head, I’m screaming, Cut to the chase, but I sit listening. “The next time he came over, I was ready. I started with the house and the car. His salary, future raises, investments, insurance, a college fund for you. He was very accommodating.” When her eyes sweep up to mine, I imagine her looking at him in just this way. “And then I said, ‘Oh, and one last thing. You will never contact Justine again once the divorce is final.’ “
My mouth opens slightly, half in surprise, half in protest. “You can’t really do that.”
“Not now.” She smiles faintly. “Twenty-five years ago, men didn’t have many rights as far as child custody. Particularly under those circumstances. Anyway …” She shrugs. “I don’t know that I would have done it even if I could have. But that’s not the point. The point is, I made him believe that I could. That I would.” The smile becomes a full-blown triumph. “Two days later, he moved back home.”
For an instant, I see her the way he must have. Beautiful, yes. Always. But no longer sweet, accommodating, pliant. He’s underestimated her. She’s willing to push it to the limit. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would have responded to. I can see him falling in love with her all over again.
I should say something now; I just don’t know what. She stands up.
“And that, my dear, is pretty much the story. I’m going to have a glass of sherry. Would you like something?”
“It’s very good. Quite dry. Richard’s favorite.”
She goes to the walnut cabinet that came from my grandparents’ town house. Amber liquid splashes into a small crystal glass. Standing there in her black linen slacks and expensive white cotton sweater and a chunky gold necklace I’ve never seen before, she’s gathered all the pieces together. She’s Richard’s wife, not someone’s washed-out widow, fending off her friends’ husbands in the kitchen.
She comes back and sits down next to me, sipping her drink. “We had twelve wonderful years before he died.”
“ ‘Wonderful’?” I still feel like the cartoon character who’s been hit in the face with a frying pan.
“I’m not going to sit here and tell you it was like a fairy tale. But we had a more honest relationship, a deeper one.”
She sets down the glass and puts her hands on mine. A tale without words can be read by looking at our hands together. Hers are small, graceful, limber. Her nails are always French-manicured, cuticles neatly pushed back to reveal the creamy white moons at the base. My hands are large, blunt-fingered. No matter how often I have them manicured, there are always a few pesky hangnails. And I could push my cuticles back to my elbows and I’d never have those pretty little moons.
She’s looking at me, eyebrows just slightly arched. And the last question is …
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
She appears genuinely surprised. “Why would I do that?”
“So I’d know the truth. About what kind of man he was.”
“Wyn, you’ve always known the truth. Your father was a good man who made mistakes. Like everyone else. But don’t ever forget this. He loved you more than anything in the world. When I made him choose, he chose you.”
I get up and push open the sliding door to the backyard, set my feet on my father’s bricks. The old redwood patio furniture with its ugly green cushions would fetch a bundle in one of the retro-chic shops off Melrose. I sit down on the chaise lounge and lie back, put my feet up. The black walnut tree that’s thrived for twenty years under Shoji’s judicious pruning shades the whole yard at this time of year. In spite of the dark stains their shells left on the patio, I always thought “black” walnuts was a misnomer. They taste like the color green. The shells were so tough I used to put them on the driveway before my father came home from work so they’d be crushed open by the weight of the car. He used to say that they only tasted good because you had to work so hard for them.
My mother is standing next to me, although I didn’t see her come out. I move my feet so she can sit down.
“Did we hurt your feelings a lot?”
She gnaws delicately on the inside of her cheek. “Sometimes I just wanted to be in on the joke. I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at him. Sometimes I even wanted him to look at me the way he looked at you.” Her face is flushed. From the sherry, I suppose.
It occurs to me that I have no idea who this lovely stranger is. Haven’t had for years. What she thought about, wished for, laughed at, loved. All this time, I’ve been seeing her in the wedding picture. Mamie Eisenhower bangs. Big smile. Waiting for the adventure to start.
“After he died, people would always say to me, At least you have Wyn.’ “ She touches my arm. “But I didn’t. There wasn’t much left of you. And what there was, you weren’t willing to share with me.”
“Momma …” The word cracks my voice.
I’m so much bigger than she is, it’s hard for her to hold me while I cry, but somehow she does. This hasn’t happened in a very long time.
When I get my mail Tuesday, there’s a fat envelope bearing the postmark of Larkspur, California. I rip the end off, and an airline ticket drops into my hands. I’d conveniently forgotten that a week from Saturday is the date we finally agreed on for me to stand inspection.
There’s a handwritten note stapled to the ticket jacket.
Mere’s your ticket. Erica’s agreed to swap weekends with me, so we’ll only have the kids Saturday afternoon. I thought we’d pick you up and go to the aquarium or Fisherman’s Wharf. Or if there’s anything else you’d prefer, we can do that. Andrew and Katie are excited to meet you.
After we drop them off, we have early dinner reservations at a great little roadhouse in Larkspur and then we’ll go to a party at a client’s house. We don’t have to stay long, but I can’t wait to show you off. Sunday we can do brunch in Tiburon and I have tickets for a matinee that afternoon. Or maybe we’ll forget all that. I’ll take your clothes off using only my teeth and … well, you get the idea. Mope you’re feeling like new. Take care. I miss you.
G.
I should be happier about this. More excited … something. Maybe it’s just that I’m upset about CM. I jam everything back in the envelope and toss it on the kitchen table.
My first priority is weaseling my way back into CM’s good graces. Bread. Not just any bread, but something special. Sylvie used to do these fabulous window displays at the boulangerie with special loaves shaped by Phillipe, one of the bakers who was more artist than artisan. There were sheaves of wheat, ears of corn, little alligators, turtles, fish, cats and dogs, baskets and wreathes, all sculpted from bread dough. I don’t have the artistic inclination for something so elaborate, but any fool can make a circle.
A couronne. In fact, a double couronne, like interlocking wedding rings, will be my peace offering. Jean-Marc told me that the couronne, the crown-shaped loaf, originated in rural areas of France where the people were thrifty with their time as well as their money. The four-to-six-pound loaves of bread would last a whole family for a week, but they didn’t have enough crust in proportion to crumb until somebody came up with the bright idea of putting a hole in the middle.
I don’t have time to wait for a starter to ripen, so I use a poolish, or sponge. Actually my oma used to use this method of bread making, but she never let the sponge ferment more than a couple of hours. I can leave it in the fridge when I go to work and give it a nice, cool, slow development.
POOLISH FOR PAIN DE CAMPAGNE
(SPONGE FOR COUNTRY FRENCH BREAD)
½ teaspoon yeast
½ cup water
¾ cup whole wheat flour
Dissolve yeast in water, then stir in flour till mixture forms a thick batter. Beat about a hundred strokes to develop the long strands of gluten. Cover with a damp cloth and let sit at least 2 hours at room temperature. Longer is better, up to about 8 hours. Or let poolish ripen in refrigerator for 12 to 15 hours. Keep in mind that it must come to room temperature before you can make bread, so allow an extra 2 hours.
Pain de Campagne
All of poolish
2½ cups water
½ teaspoon yeast
5½ to 6½ cups unbleached white bread flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt or sea salt
When the poolish is ready, it will be bubbly and loose, with a definite smell of fermentation. Scrape it into a large bowl, add water and yeast, and stir until the poolish is broken up and the mixture is frothy. Add flour one cup at a time until the dough becomes too difficult to stir, then turn out onto a well-floured board and knead for 10 to 12 minutes, adding flour as necessary. Sprinkle salt over the dough and knead an additional 5 to 7 minutes. At first the dough will be quite sticky, but don’t add any more flour than absolutely necessary to keep it from sticking to the work surface. A moist dough yields a wonderful, chewy texture.
When you press your finger into the dough and it springs right back, it’s ready. Shape it into a ball and cover with a damp towel while you clean and oil the bowl. Place the dough in the bowl, turning to coat the whole surface with oil. This keeps it from forming a dry crust, which will inhibit rising. Cover with the damp towel and let rise at room temperature till doubled in volume, about 2 to 3 hours. When you press your finger about half an inch into the dough and the indentation remains, it’s risen enough.
At this point, deflate the dough gently and let it “rest,” covered, for about 30 minutes to relax the gluten. Then, cut in two pieces, shape as for baguettes, and place on a heavily floured linen dish towel with folds between each loaf for support. Dust tops with flour, cover with damp towels, and proof (let them rise) for 1½ to 2 hours, or until they increase in size about 1½ times.
Preheat the oven to 450°F and put the teakettle on low about 45 minutes to I hour before baking. When the bread has risen, place the baguettes on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper or covered with a thin layer of cornmeal. Make several diagonal slashes with a single-edged razor or serrated knife and shape dough into two circles, overlapping the ends and pinching them together. Remember, this is a rustic bread; the shape isn’t supposed to be perfect.
Adjust the oven rack so it is in the center, fill a heavy pan with boiling water from the teakettle, and set it on the lowest shelf or on the oven floor. Bake the bread for ten minutes at 450°F, then lower the temperature to 400°F and bake another 25 to 30 minutes, or until bread sounds hollow when bottom crust is thumped. Turn off the oven, prop the door open slightly, and let bread sit for another 5 minutes. Then remove and cool on racks. Do not cut or break bread until it has completely cooled.
The night is positively balmy, and I find my pace slowing, my thoughts focused on Gary. It wouldn’t kill me to go down there. It obviously means a lot to him. The thought of his note sends a pleasant little frisson of anticipation down my back, and my steps get faster. Yes, that part of it will be fine. Better than fine.
Everything’s always fine when he’s with me. When I’m looking at him, touching him. But when he leaves, that’s fine, too. I don’t miss him. It’s like he’s a convenience, like junk food. Satisfies the craving for something sweet, but without any lasting nutritional value. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? He’s a person, not a Snickers bar.
My oma never told me, “Wyn, good sex can make you stupid.”
It can get you into places where you wouldn’t normally go and probably shouldn’t be. Unfortunately, that’s one of those lessons you have to learn for yourself. Some people are so dense they have to learn it more than once.
Look at David and me. Yes, okay. He liked shopping and classical music. He could balance a checkbook with his eyes closed and he knew the perfect wine to complement mushroom risotto. He had a killer crosscourt backhand.
Of course all that helped. But mostly it was his cobalt-blue contact lenses. The contrast of his sun-bleached hair with his dark eyelashes. It was because he could tie a soda straw in a knot with his tongue, and when he kissed that little fuzzy place in the small of my back, I forgot my own name.
I don’t pretend to know what it was for him. He should have married someone like Kelley to begin with. Someone who not only understood what he was about, but shared the same passion. I blush to recall that night in L.A. when they’d just lost the Hathaway account and I showed up, determined to talk relationships. As much as I’d prefer to think otherwise, Kelley was the one he needed that night. She was the one who knew what had happened, what it meant, how he’d feel about it.
And now here’s Gary. Sweet Gary. Who thinks he wants to take care of me. Make me feel good. He wants me to meet his kids. He wants to take up where David left off. A different route to the same destination Marin instead of Hancock Park. Same story different setting.
Same shit, different day. Why did Erica have to go to law school? She was making decent money as a paralegal She had it all, didn’t she? You can always find another job. You can always make bread at home. He wants me in his life. But it’s his life, not mine.
I picture CM, leaning across the table. Does your life make you happy? Is this what you want to do?
The double wedding ring couronne is, in all modesty, a thing of beauty—two interlocking circles of crusty, golden bread. And it smells like heaven. If this doesn’t make CM call me, nothing will. The presentation is another matter. I don’t have a box big enough, so I wrap it carefully in a clean dish towel and carry it over to the bakery.
Ellen and Misha are up to their eyebrows in Mazurka Bars, but they stop to admire my handiwork.
“It’s sort of an engagement present for CM,” I say. “I need something to put it in.”
“You can use one of those display baskets if you promise to bring it back,” Ellen says.
I arrange the towel in the basket and nestle the bread in the center, covering the whole thing with plastic wrap, loosely, so the crust doesn’t soften. Then I pull out the plain white gift card that I bought and stare at it.
“Are you waiting for inspiration to strike?” Misha laughs.
“I just can’t decide what to say.”
“How about ‘Best wishes’ or something?”
Ellen shakes her head. “That sounds like something you’d write to someone you barely know. This is Wyn’s best friend.”
I feel a quick jab of guilt.
“Okay, how about ‘Happiness always’ or ‘To a terrific couple,’ or—” I write “To CM, Love, Wyn” in the middle of the card, then as an afterthought, I scrawl “and Neal” next to her name. We can talk about the happiness and the terrific-couple stuff when she calls me.
Neither of them is home anyway when I take the bread over there. Maybe it’s best. I leave it with the building manager after making her promise to watch for them and deliver it the second they come home and not set it near any open windows or air vents in the interim. I walk home feeling vaguely depressed and anxious. Like I’ve just delivered my firstborn child into some dubious day care center.
Of course, Gary’s first question is, “Is there someone else?”
“No, there’s nobody else.”
“Wyn, I don’t understand. I thought we had something pretty special going on. Even if you want to call it just sex, where’s the harm in seeing if it turns into something more?” The man is a born negotiator.
“It wasn’t just sex. You were right. I was saying that to protect myself. The harm is that it’s not going to work and the longer we drag it out, the harder it gets to break up.”
“Why are you so sure it isn’t going to work—”
“Because I don’t want it to work.”
“But why?”
“Because we have different priorities. I’m not willing to give mine up again.”
“I’m not asking you to give up anything—”
“You don’t have to ask. It just happens. Like quicksand. I sink into your life and disappear without a trace.”
“Is it such a terrible life?”
“Not at all. It’s just not the life I want.”
“I swear, I don’t understand. If there’s nobody else, why can’t you just be with me until—”
“Until you can change my mind? That’s what would happen, I know. Because I’m weak and because I really like you. You’re very sweet—”
“Geez, the kiss of death.”
“No, it’s not, believe me. Sweet men are a rare and precious commodity. It would be easy to fall right in step with you. And it’s just not where I’m headed.”
He sighs again. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t. And it’s next to impossible to explain. You’re going to have to trust me.” “I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing!” I bite my lip. “It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. We just want different things.”
“Wyn, you sound so confused. Why don’t we talk next week?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “What part of this is giving you trouble?”
I’m not feeling so resolutely, unwaveringly positive that he couldn’t change my mind. Maybe if he said, “I love you and we can work around whatever you want to do.” Or even if he said, “You know, I don’t like being jerked around.” But what he says is, “Katie and Andrew are going to be really disappointed.”
“Gary, I’m going to hang up now. Take care of yourself.”
I send the ticket back. He calls every night for a week, but I don’t answer the phone. Every time the machine picks up, he says, “Wyn, I just want to talk to you. Please pick up if you’re there.” He sounds so miserable that a couple of times I almost do. But the elation of making it this far always gives me the strength to pick up a book instead of the phone.
The calls get farther apart and later at night. The messages on the machine start to include things like he just wants to say hi, see how I’m doing, but I don’t call him back. When he calls the bakery, Linda’s only too happy to tell him that I’m not available.
Voices wake me. Raucous male laughter. I roll over. One-thirty, Saturday afternoon. I sit up and pull on my sweatpants. I can’t see anything through the peephole, so I open the door. A tall, skinny guy wearing a backward baseball cap is standing at the corner of the big house, yelling to a guy on the roof.
I step outside. “Do you mind? I’m trying to sleep.” That old Hancock Park voice still comes in handy once in a while.
He wheels around, stares at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m the tenant, and I’m trying to sleep. Who are you?”
He walks toward me offering what I’m sure he hopes is a charming smile. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was a tenant.” He holds out a card. “Marty Crowley, Arvis Brothers Construction.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Putting together an estimate for a Mr. Keeler. I believe he owns the property.”
“Yes. Well … I’d appreciate it if you put your estimate together without shouting. I work nights and I’m trying to sleep.”
“We’ll be as quiet as we can. Like I said, we didn’t know anyone lived here.”
I go back to bed, but I know I’m not getting any more sleep today. When they’ve left, I get up and pull on some shorts and a rugby shirt, take a glass of apple juice out on the porch. The air is soft and heavy with sunlight. I’ve been meaning to buy a couple of those white plastic chairs that you see everywhere, but not having chairs hasn’t stopped me from spending time out here. In fact, there’s something kind of down-home about sitting on the front steps.
All that’s about to change.
I suppose I need to think about getting some white paint. A lot of white paint, probably. It’s going to take at least two coats to cover up the color on the walls. Maybe some evening when Mr. Keeler’s guests are sitting in front of the woodstove enjoying a glass of wine, my yellow paint will surface through the white overcoat like Lillian Hellman’s pentimento.
I’ll be leaving Doug behind, too. My little Douglas fir. He’s grown nearly a foot since I planted him there. I hope Keeler doesn’t rip him out. They do that here. Trees are so ubiquitous and in your face that people don’t appreciate them. God forbid one should be situated in a slightly inconvenient position, maybe casting some shade on your porch. They bring in Paul Bunyan and clear-cut the place.
I reach over and absently pinch a spent bloom off the ivy geranium. My herbs are showing modest growth, but I know they’re just revving their engines till they get a few good days of full sun before they pop the clutch and take off. I pull a leaf off the lemon balm and crumple it under my nose. It smells like the lemon-drop candies my oma loved.
Doug’s not the only one who’s rooted here. I feel more at home in this funky little place after eight months than I did in the house where David and I lived for seven years. Maybe because the rest of my life has undergone a seismic shift equivalent to an 8.9 on the Richter scale. So far, I’ve lost David. CM. Gary. Mac. My house is next. What else could possibly happen?
My oma used to say it was tempting fate to ask questions like that.
The new bartender’s name is Shawn. He looks like a very young Kenny—short and squared off, hair the color of wet sand, pretty blue eyes. He has an engaging crooked grin and the kind of swaggering macho that young guys usually affect when they’re scared shitless. He calls all the women “babe” or “sweetheart” no matter how old they are, and his musical knowledge could be held comfortably in a teaspoon with room left over for sugar.
That’s one reason why I don’t go to Bailey’s much anymore.
Kenny’s eyebrows lift when he sees me; a huge grin splits his face. “Hey, lady, where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
I return the smile. “How’s everything?”
He looks down the bar, moving only his eyes, to where Shawn is trying his damnedest to dazzle two very young-looking women. “Well, it ain’t what it used to be, that’s all I’ll say about that. What are you drinking? It’s on the house.”
I laugh. “In that case, I’ll have a glass of your finest red bordeaux.”
He sets a glass down on a napkin. “Château Bathtub for mademoiselle.” He scoops out a dish of peanuts for me. I crack one open and pitch the shell at him. He bats it away.
“Have you talked to Mac?” I keep my voice casual and pay closer attention to the peanut I’m working on.
“Couple of days ago. Thursday, I think. He said to say hi. Told him I would if you ever showed your face again.” He takes wineglasses out of a washer tray and hangs them by their stems in a rack behind the bar.
I take a sip of wine, turn partway around on my chair. “Pretty quiet for a Saturday, isn’t it?”
Kenny shrugs. “We get the regulars during the week, but folks came on the weekend to hear what Mac was going to come up with next. Mr. Cool”—he nods slightly toward Shawn—”don’t know his arse from deep center field, music-wise. His idea of oldies is Twisted Sister. And God knows, I’m not much with the tunes. We played Mac’s last two tapes till people got sick of them. I guess I’m going to have to see about ordering some tapes from somewhere.”
“How is he?
“Mac? Fine.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He didn’t say much. I guess he’s working on Bensinger’s place, mostly.”
I eat another peanut and drink some more wine before I ask, “Did he say anything about coming back this fall?”
Kenny shakes his head. “He won’t be back.” He starts loading dirty glasses into the tray he just emptied.
“You don’t think he will?”
“He’s talking about driving up to Alaska in September. He always wanted to go up there, you know.”
I rip off a damp corner of the napkin, roll it into a little crumb. “Does he have a phone or anything?”
Kenny gives me a smile that skates on the edge of pity. “Nope. There’s an emergency number, but it’s just a rental agency. You want it? Or you want me to tell him anything next time he calls?”
I think for a minute. “No. Just tell him hi for me.”
Even though it’s the end of June, it’s still cool enough at night to use the woodstove. I light a little pile of kindling. When it’s burning fast, I open the door and lay a chunk of alder inside. For a minute, the fire dies, as if smothered, then the log catches.
So Mac’s finally going to Alaska. I rummage through my tape box in search of the last tape he gave me. I’ve never played it. I turn it over to read the card and I have to smile. Title, artist, record label, and running time painstakingly printed for each song. I lay it back in the box and pull out Mozarts Symphony no. 40 in G Minor. I always liked that one.
I lie down on the futon, pull a blanket over me, tired but not sleepy. Through the glass doors of the woodstove, the flames lap at the wood the way you lick an ice cream cone. It doesn’t even appear to be burning till you look up and it’s down to papery white ash.
July. Toulouse was in the middle of the worst heat wave in recent memory. The bakery, of course, was an inferno. Phillipe and Yvon wore shorts and went shirtless, but I didn’t have that option. I wore white cotton overalls with a sleeveless T-shirt. My hair was twisted up and covered with a scarf soaked in cold water. The scarf usually stayed wet for less than thirty minutes before the water evaporated, to be replaced by sweat. We drank gallons of water all day long. I thought I’d never feel cool again.
One morning I arrived at the boulangerie early to find Jean-Marc loading the oven. I stood in the doorway to the fournil watching him. He wore his usual white pants, white shirt, white apron, and he seemed oblivious to the sweat pouring off him as he worked in the oven’s fiery blast. When the last of the dough was in, he closed the heavy door and turned away.
“Bon matin, Wynter.” As if he knew I’d been standing there.
“Bon matin, Jean-Marc.” Not even 6 a.m., and I was already wilted and cranky. He motioned me out the back door. Even in the alley, it was oppressive. No breeze. I leaned my head back against the wall, closed my eyes.
“It’s hotter than hell,” I said in my best colloquial French.
He smiled and mopped his face with a white towel.
“Oui, c’est vrai. But it is the fire that make the bread, Wynter,” he said.