Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle

by Penelope Peters

  SUNDAY MORNINGS IN the bakery weren’t Ben’s favorites. Sunday was Helen’s day off, the only day she didn’t make the loaves of breads to sell, which meant that when he arrived, the kitchen was cold and dark and far lonelier than he liked.

  Once, Ben had liked the solitude. He liked the security in knowing he could sing as loudly and as terribly as he wanted, experiment with different flavor combinations without fear of someone else questioning his methods or tastes.

  Ben wasn’t sure when he’d become indifferent to it. One thing he did know was that he hadn’t realized how much he’d hated solitude until Adam inserted himself into Ben’s evenings. Now Ben walked into the empty kitchen and thought of the way Adam tried the different latkes. Ben looked at the worktable and flushed when he remembered how Adam had easily pushed him against it and kissed him.

  He turned on the lights and remembered the soft glow of candlelight on Adam’s face as they lit the Hanukkah candles.

  Solitude had once been a comforting blanket. Now it just felt heavy and smothering around his shoulders.

  Sunday morning meant mixing the muffins and scones, preparing the sufganiyot, pulling out the various fillings he’d prepped the day before. Sunday morning meant making sure there were enough treats on hand for the church-goers looking for their Sunday rewards or to pick up the trays they’d ordered for their church breakfasts after services.

  This Sunday morning, Ben intended to pull down one of the fruitcakes that he’d been soaking in rum and brandy for the last two months. He would scoop it into little plastic cups and set it out for his customers to remind them of the next holiday in the season.

  Ben stared up at the row of fruitcakes.

  I could... not. Adam might—

  Ben sucked in a breath, and then angrily kicked the stool over so he could grab one of the loaf pans.

  No. I’m not making business decisions based on what Adam might think.

  Ben popped the lid on the fruitcake; the heady aroma of alcohol and sugar was solid and strong, bringing memories of Ben’s childhood holidays. Hot chocolate flavored with peppermint sticks, sledding down the backyard hill with his cousins. His mother singing along with the radio as she baked a turkey, changing the words as she went.

  “On the first night of Hanukkah, my true love gave to me...”

  Every year, the secretary in his father’s department would pass out homemade fruitcakes. Every year, she’d worriedly ask if Ben’s dad wanted something else instead.

  “Are you kidding? Your fruitcakes are fantastic, I’d be insulted if you gave me anything else!”

  “Yes, but, I thought, since you’re Jewish—”

  “Since when is fruit Christian? Fruitcake, Wanda. Fruit. Cake.”

  Ben’s father would take the fruitcakes and gleefully soak them with a bottle of Manichewitz, claiming it was the only proper way to deal with the stuff. Ben had never been sure if he’d been referencing the cake or the wine as “stuff”, but either way, the result had always been a powerful knock-out of a dessert.

  “It’s the baker who’s Jewish, not the food they create,” muttered Ben as he parceled out scoops of the dense, moist fruitcake into plastic cups. He popped the lids on the cups and piled them on a tray just as the oven dinged its first batch of scones.

  The oven made a sucking sound as he opened the door and caught a whiff of the treats inside. Cranberry orange, which might have been associated with all the winter holidays, but in reality was a year-round favorite.

  Food transcends holidays, thought Ben as he set the trays to cool.

  “And fuck Adam if he doesn’t realize that,” Ben said aloud.

  He chuckled as the words dissipated in the warm, bready air.

  Of course, he might not like being alone anymore, but there was one distinct advantage to no one being able to hear what he said.

  “Fuck you, Adam!” he shouted, gleeful at being able to curse without Helen’s disapproving glare. “Fuck you and your stupid, little, close-minded, fruitcake-hating, snobbish sufganiyot-disapproving... disapproval of Christmas trees!”

  Bang bang bang.

  Ben froze, hearing the heavy knocking on the glass door in the outer shop. Every muscle went tense; all he could think of was that someone, somewhere, must have heard him shouting.

  Oh shit.

  He peered carefully around the doorway and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Hank stood on the other side of the glass, peering in. As soon as he saw Ben in the doorway, he waved.

  “One sec, Hank,” Ben called. He slid the next trays of scones and muffins into the oven and glanced at the tray of fruitcake samples. Completely on impulse, Ben grabbed that as well, depositing it on the counter as he went to let Hank in.

  “Thanks,” said Hank as Ben opened the door for him. “I know it’s a few minutes early—”

  “For you, Hank, nothing’s too early,” Ben assured him. “You know I don’t get bagel delivery on Sundays, though.”

  “I know. Thought I’d give in to the cliché and have one of those jelly-filled donuts instead.”

  Ben chuckled. “I didn’t think the donut cliché applied to security guards.”

  “It does if I want a donut.”

  Ben laughed harder. “I’ll bring you one of each.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ben went into the back for the tray of sufganiyot. Hank was peering at the fruitcakes when he came back out.

  “What’s this?” asked Hank.

  “Fruitcake samples. Thought I’d take advantage of the Sunday crowds.”

  Hank frowned. “I thought you weren’t selling them until after Hanukkah.”

  “It’s the last night tonight. And they’re just fruitcake, no need to make a religious stand over them.” Ben slid the tray into the display case. “Raspberry jelly and maple cream today.”

  “Sounds good.” Hank leaned on the counter. “I didn’t think you were making a religious stand, exactly. Just making a good point.”

  Ben glanced at him as he bagged up Hank’s donuts. “Huh?”

  “Easy to forget not everyone celebrates Christmas,” said Hank. “How much do I owe you?”

  Ben shook his head. “Officers of the law get free clichés every Sunday. Store policy.”

  Hank snorted. “Uh-huh. When do I pick up the wife’s doorstop?”

  “I don’t know,” challenged Ben. “Where are you getting her doorstop?”

  Hank chuckled. “All right, point taken.”

  “Come by tomorrow afternoon,” Ben said. “It’ll be ready for you.”

  “Good. Happy Hanukkah.”

  “Merry Christmas, Hank,” said Ben.

  It was another twenty minutes before Ben’s next customers came through the door, which gave him enough time to finish setting out the rest of the muffins and scones, as well as getting a good head start on the day’s offering of cookies and sufganiyot. He was just putting the final touches on the dreidels when he heard the bell over the door ring.

  “What’s the flavors today?!?” shouted the now-familiar voices of the hockey team as they stomped and stormed into the store.

  It was hard to ignore Ben’s initial reaction: the swoop of his stomach, the sudden giddiness. The smile that wanted to spread across his face.

  The way his heart stalled in his chest at the thought of turning around to see Adam, glowering at the tray of fruitcake samples, right where he and Ben flirted every morning.

  “Raspberry and maple cream,” said Ben before he turned around. He drew the last line on the dreidel, and then set down the bag of icing.

  Okay, bland, indifferent smile is a go. I can do this.

  Ben turned around.

  The boys filled the shop, probably more so than any other morning – but any other morning, there’d only been five or six of them. This morning, it seemed like the entire team was there. Instead of carrying bags and skates and sticks, though, they were wearing jeans under their coats, and there wasn’t a bag or piece of hockey equipment to be
seen.

  Ben knew he had to look confused as he stared at them, glancing back and forth as if searching for something.

  Or someone.

  “Adam had a meeting at the rink,” said the woman with the scarf over her head. Farida, Ben remembered: Adam’s assistant coach. Her headscarf kept slipping off her head, pulled by the weight of the warmer pashmina she’d wrapped over it in an effort to stay warm. “But the boys wanted to come in for treats anyway. They missed you yesterday.”

  “I missed them,” said Ben honestly.

  Andreas collapsed dramatically on the lower section of the counter. “Two donuts. Hurry, I’m starving.”

  Ben glanced at Farida. “Two?”

  Farida smiled ruefully. “It’s okay. They’re not playing today. We’re calling double donuts a consolation prize.”

  “We lost,” explained Pierre glumly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ben gravely. “I’m sorrier I missed seeing you play. I’ll bet it was a fantastic game.”

  Andreas lifted his head up. “We lost.”

  “Doesn’t mean you didn’t play well,” Ben told him. “Just means the other team played better. Sometimes that happens.”

  Andreas gave him a look. “Did you lose?”

  The knot formed so fast in his throat, Ben had to struggle to answer. “Everyone loses,” he said. His voice cracked, something he could see Farida notice, in the way her eyes widened.

  “Ben,” said Pierre, up on his toes to look at the tray on the counter. “What are these? Are these samples? Can I have one?”

  Ben swallowed hard; it didn’t do a thing to dislodge the knot. At least the question was a distraction, though. “If it’s okay with your coach. They’re fruitcake, they’ve been soaking in alcohol for the last few months. They’re pretty potent.”

  Farida glanced at the samples skeptically. “One bite probably won’t hurt,” she allowed.

  “Woo-hoo!” cheered Pierre, right before the mad rush to grab cups.

  While the boys were eating and jokingly pretending to be completely drunk, Farida leaned over the counter. “He really did have a meeting this morning.”

  Ben had to work to keep his breathing even. “Okay.”

  Farida studied him for a moment. “You know,” she said, keeping her voice low, “if you meant it, about wanting to see the boys skate? There’s a scrimmage this afternoon, right after lunch, for the MVPs of the tournament. We’re not supposed to tell them until after the championship game this morning, but Andreas and Tom are both playing in it. You’re welcome to come by.”

  Ben paused. “Thanks. I... I’m not sure I’d be welcomed by everyone.”

  Farida pressed her lips together. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you and Adam, and beyond the fact that he’s clearly broken up about it and he’s my best friend, I don’t care. But the boys like you, and we’re flying out tonight, and since apparently whatever happened means Adam’s got no intention of coming back to Boston, you should probably—”

  “What?” said Ben, leaning forward. “Wait. He and I had a disagreement, and now he won’t let the boys come back to the tournament? They got to semis, they’re definitely going to be invited back.”

  Farida groaned. “I forgot, you didn’t know—”

  Ben went cold. “Know what?”

  “Oh,” said Pierre, with a mouth full of donut, “Coach got an offer to stay here in Boston with the junior league team. He’s not taking it, though.”

  Farida whispered something in French and drew her headscarf down over her eyes.

  “What?” Ben looked at Farida. “He’s not taking it? Why not?”

  Farida roughly yanked her headscarf off and started to wrap it around her head again. “I don’t know, because he’s an idiot,” she said irritably, whipping the ends of the scarf back and forth. “Ask him, if you want to know!”

  “He’d take it if you asked him to stay,” said Pierre, hooking his chin on the counter. “Can I have another sample? They’re yummy.”

  “Yeah, fine,” said Ben absently. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

  “I guess you argued first,” said Farida.

  Pierre froze. “Did you and Coach break up?”

  The hurt on Pierre’s face instantly made Ben feel guilty. Which was ridiculous, he didn’t have any reason to feel guilty. “Technically we were never together.”

  “But you like him,” insisted Pierre. “And he likes you.”

  “Sometimes people just disagree about things,” Ben told him.

  Pierre shrugged. “My girlfriend thinks hockey is stupid. I still like her, though.”

  “Aren’t you a little young for a girlfriend?” asked Ben, almost amused.

  “No,” said Pierre, puffing up his chest. “Not when she thinks hockey is stupid but still comes to my games!”

  “Good point,” said Ben, chuckling.

  “All right, guys,” called Farida. “If you’re done ransacking Ben’s shop, let’s get going. The game starts in twenty minutes.”

  “Bye, Ben!”

  “Thanks, Ben!”

  “See you next year, Ben!”

  Ben felt a pang, remembering Farida’s words. She was giving him a sharp look, which probably meant the boys hadn’t figured out the consequence of Adam’s decision yet.

  I can at least convince him he should still take the job, though, thought Ben. Boston’s a big city. He can avoid me pretty easily, if he wants. Just because he doesn’t want to see me doesn’t mean he should give up on his career a second time.

  “Bye, guys,” he called as they filed out of the door.

  “Nice meeting you, Ben,” said Farida, sliding over some bills. “Thanks for the donuts, they’re really good.”

  Ben shook his head. “Farewell donuts are on the house. Store policy.”

  Farida stared at him. “Really.”

  “Really.”

  Farida shook her head and laughed. “You are such a mensch.”

  Ben grinned at her. “Are all the coaches in Montreal Jewish?”

  Farida laughed harder. “What? No, I’m Muslim.” She shoved the money into Ben’s tip jar. “Happy Hanukkah, Ben.”

  “Happy... Eid?” echoed Ben, not entirely sure he was correct.

  Farida grinned at him. “That’ll do.”

  ADAM’S HIGHLIGHT OF the day was telling Andreas and Tom that they’d be playing in the MVP game. Adam hadn’t thought they were still carrying the weight of their loss; he changed his mind when he saw their exuberant reaction.

  “Are you fucking serious with me right now, Coach?!?” howled Andreas.

  Tom was almost reserved by comparison. He just stood on his chair and raised his fists triumphantly in the air, holding the pose for a full two minutes while everyone else ignored him.

  “I think they’re happy,” said Farida.

  “Really, couldn’t tell,” deadpanned Adam.

  The scrimmage wasn’t meant to be anything serious, which meant that every kid who played in it took it completely to heart. It probably had something to do with being coached by the visiting junior league coaches – something no kid was going to take lightly, whether or not they intended to continue playing hockey at a more competitive level. The game might have been all in fun – but Adam had no doubt there was some low-level scouting going on. At least, he remembered being a player himself and thinking that might be the case.

  Adam also remembered his coaches giving him a speech before the scrimmages. They’d undoubtedly been full of good advice about having fun and not taking it too seriously. Adam didn’t remember; he hadn’t listened to a word.

  Naturally, he wasn’t surprised when Tom and Andreas didn’t listen to him, either.

  “Fine,” he sighed when he was done telling them to play fair and have fun. “Go. Try not to break anyone.”

  “Fun sponge,” said Andreas, bumping fists with Tom.

  They raced out onto the ice as Adam turned to join the rest of their teammates on the benches.
/>
  “Adam!” called Bob Haskell from the player’s box. “A word before you go?”

  Adam’s heart clenched. He sauntered over to Bob. “Hey, Mr. Haskell. Andreas and Tom are looking forward to playing for your team today.”

  “I’m looking forward to having them,” said Bob. “Wish I could say I had you, too.”

  Adam smiled and shrugged. “It’s not the right time for me yet.”

  Bob Haskell nodded. “Well, I can’t promise anything, but if that changes, let me know.”

  “Will do,” Adam said.

  Farida had stretched out on the benches close enough to the kids to keep an eye on them, but far enough away that they weren’t on top of her. She had a container of popcorn next to her, and Adam dug in as he sat down next to her.

  “That’s mine,” said Farida mildly.

  “Thanks for sharing,” said Adam with mock appreciation.

  “Idiot,” said Farida.

  “Bit strong for stealing popcorn.”

  “That wasn’t about the popcorn,” said Farida, sitting up and moving the container away.

  There was a shriek of indignation from one of the boys. Adam glanced over in time to see Richard scramble over the metal benches, making a racket that echoed in the rink.

  “Coach,” he said seriously when he reached them. “Is it true?”

  Adam blinked. “Is what true, Richard?”

  “Is it true that you and Ben broke up?”

  “Technically, we were never together,” said Adam, wondering why it hurt so much to realize.

  It’s not like we thought our relationship ever had much of a future past today. This was only ever meant to be a fling.

  Pierre, who had followed Richard, frowned at him. “That’s what Ben said. That’s exactly what Ben said.”

  Adam winced, wondering why that hurt to hear. It’s not like either of us thought this was going anywhere. “There you go.”

  Richard cocked his head. “So if you weren’t ever together, then it doesn’t matter that you argued, right?”

  “Right,” said Adam, trying to ignore the pang the words created in his stomach.

  Richard nodded as he processed. “So, he could still come and watch them play.”

  Adam sighed. “I don’t know if he’s going to do that, Richard.”