by Trinity Crow
The final load I wrestled in was a single box of clothes, having jammed the others into my backpack to avoid another trip. As I staggered in the door, my stuff threatened to mutiny and jump ship, but I managed to drop it all just inside. I guess that’s why I didn’t notice the sunlight had dimmed inside the room until I turned and discovered the white dog making off with my sweater. He dragged it to the side of the room, flopped on top of it and began to chew. I stood really still and considered for a moment. He wasn't ghosty or evil, just doggy and frankly, kind of doofy. Still, he was dead.
Or was he undead? No, that was zombies. Vampires?
I forgot about the dog for a second, as I sorted zombies into the living dead and vampires into undead. When I focused back on my own unreality, I decided dead was dead and subcategories only mattered if the dead were trying to kill you.
Did I really need that sweater? I thought, looking at a good seventy pounds of supernatural muscle and teeth. I mean, what happens if you piss a ghost dog off?
I stared at him. Pissing him off was not a happy thought. He wasn’t a really tall dog, not like a Great Dane, but he was all muscle. When he walked, you could see them ripple around under his skin. This dog didn't look like mist and shadows, I couldn't see through him. He looked solid and heavy and judging from the sweater, there was nothing wrong with his bite. His collar looked like leather, but it was black with age and use. Maybe he was some kind of pitbull, those dogs that are supposed to go nuts and attack people. Although that could all be hype like foster kids are all delinquents and sluts.
With box in hand, I edged for the stairs, working out a plan, in case he jumped at me. I would shove the box in his jaws and run for it. Simple, but effective, I congratulated myself. Only, I was so focused on that damn dog shredding my sweater that I tripped over the jeans hanging out the box and landed on my butt. The dead dog jumped up and ran towards me, and I panicked, crab crawling backwards. Obviously, he ran faster than I crawled, but I still had time to truly hate myself for falling into the "blond with broken heel" horror movie cliche. I pushed my hands up to ward him off, the box-in-jaws, ninja warrior plan forgotten. I had a split second to comfort myself that I at least wasn't going to die in a tank-top and panties like most of the movie blonds did before the dog attacked. He avoided my hands with ease, shoving his face right against mine, his mouth open, all teeth and tongue. This was it. I squeezed my eyes shut…just in time.
Just in time before that mutt slobbed my whole face with his gross, wet tongue. Turns out, ghost dog spit is just as nasty as live dog spit, although I was spared the smell of his breath. I shoved him off of me, raising my hand to wipe my face. And it was dry. I patted my face and checked my hands again. Dry. I stared at the dog, unnerved. He grinned at me, wagging his tail. He whined and wiggled his butt so hard, he hit himself in the face with his own tail. I snickered at his surprised look. He dashed in to lick me again.
"Get off!" I said, trying to swat him away. He danced harder, intent on tasting every bit of bare skin.
“Corky!” I yelled. “No!” And he actually listened. I mean, he got off me, though there was no remorse in his manner. He wiggled some more, pleased as punch that he had gotten to slurp all over my face. Twice! I stomped over and grabbed my sweater, one sleeve unraveled completely. The damn dog ran to sit at my feet. He tilted his big white head, ears half raised and whined softly. His eyes went foster kid big, and even though I knew he was playing me, it wasn't like the sweater was wearable anymore.
“Fine!” I told him. “Take it!” and threw the freaking thing at him. He leaped and caught it, starting some weird doggy game involving more butt wiggles. I grabbed my box and made a retreat up the stairs. At the top, I turned back to look. The dog, Corky, was curled up on the sweater. He lifted his head and doggie smiled at me. Against the guidelines of all my policies, I smiled back.
I spent the day wiping the place down with generic brand bleach because a germ phobia was another foster home life lesson. I didn't have much in the way of groceries or cooking ingredients, that would have to wait for payday. I had a box of day old bakery stuff and the water was on. I kept to the upstairs. I was willing to give the dog half the floor space, the downstairs half. No need to get all buddy buddy. My night was un-eventful if uncomfortable. The dog was pretty quiet as roommates go. I finished off the kolaches for dinner, and dug out a favorite from the box of books, re-reading White Goats, Black Bees by Donald Grant. I'd need to think about groceries tomorrow. I fell asleep in my sleeping bag, thinking the floor wasn't so bad. Only, halfway through the night, the pain in my hip and shoulder forced me to get up and layer all my clothes on the floor underneath the sleeping bag, making it softer but much lumpier. Whatever. Beds were not in the budget.
Chapter 4
I woke to silence and a feeling of unfamiliarity. For a minute, I didn't remember where I was. I've woken up in a lot of strange places in my life and learned to stay still until I figured out where I was. For the first time ever, the understanding of where I was didn't come with a sinking feeling. I was in my own apartment. No one lived here but me. And all the doors had locks. An unknown feeling spread slowly inside me. Then it clicked. This is what it was like to be safe. I lay there for awhile, to hold on to that.
Even with that good feeling, it was no hardship to roll out of bed, though it was only 4:30 am. After all, I had to pay for this place and the day before dawn is one of my favorite things. Most people have no idea what they are missing, which is fine with me. For one, it's a time to see the world before humanity is awake and ruining things. If everybody got off on that, there'd be no point. And then, it's a fact, the air before the sun comes up is the best air you will breathe all day long in LaPierre, or anywhere in Louisiana for that matter. Maybe the whole South. It has a cool, almost fragile feel that makes breathing a pleasure, unlike the hot, dense air of the day, when humidity combines with heat to make you more breathless after you inhale than before.
It took me only a minute to put on jeans and a Delicata's shirt, then pull my too long hair back in a ponytail, but getting up early is mainly so I can take my time and enjoy the ride. When I stepped out, locking the door behind me, I could see the whole of the plantation washed in moonlight. From the top of my stairs, the upper story and roof of the main house were visible through the trees. Beyond the oleander hedge, garden rows lay half in shadow, the few outbuildings were lost among the weeds. Farther back, the trees grew thicker, but I caught the unmistakable shine of moonlight on water and made a mental note to go exploring one afternoon. To my right, the dark belt of the tree-lined drive cut through the overgrown fields which shone silvery under the moon. I rubbed my arms a minute before deciding against a jacket. The air was a bit cool, but I might as well enjoy it. It would be summer in earnest in just a day or two.
The circular steps were slippery with dew and I stepped carefully, thinking again how ridiculous a choice they were. I'm all about function. Kind of like how I refuse to own anything that needs to be washed separately or ironed. Why make life more difficult? The seat of my bike was also damp. Something I hadn't thought about since I usually stored it in the garage at Maison Krap. However, a wet butt would dry quickly in the heat of the bakery since we kept four ovens going at once. I winced as the dew settled into the seat of my jeans.
The bike tires hissed on the damp pavement as I set off down the long drive. It was kind of eerie, the trees overhead cutting off most of the light from the sinking moon. Grey ribbons of moss hung down, some moving, though the air was still. I knew in my head it was the birds and other things which used them for shelter, but it was creepy just the same. The shadows were deeper here under the trees, and the long, uncut grass could conceal anything or anyone. I kept my bike to the center of the driveway, trying to watch both sides at the same time, which was kind of impossible and made me sort of twitchy. When I cleared the drive, the streets were well lit and I had the whole town to myself. This was my time of day. I had a few favorite routes to work,
but they had all used the Krapinski's as a starting point. I was kind of jazzed to find new streets and new things to see.
LaPierre had started out with a very structured plan. The founding fathers laid it out in squares, it was a French thing, I think. But, aside from a very small downtown, that quickly when to hell. The layout of the streets was more of a circle around a square, with odd diagonals and half arcs. It was easy to get lost, but phenomenal for shortcuts once you knew the town.
Like many small Southern towns, we had lots of local flavor. The houses here were shotguns mostly, with a few Creole cottages thrown in. Unlike the gated and cloistered courtyards famous in New Orleans, LaPierre homes didn't have many secrets going on. People here found self-expression in their choice of house color or fence material. A popular trend seemed to be low cement walls with objects pressed in the sides or top, everything from Mardi Gras bead mosaics to hubcap sunflowers. Many of the houses were painted in crazy loud colors, not just quirky but certifiable, and featured the stuff Southerners like to call folk art. Welded car parts in the shape of an alligator, bottle trees, bicycle tire bird feeders that rotated as the sparrows and cardinals tried to eat. I smiled, imagining my guard squirrel spinning on one, like a giant hamster on a Ferris wheel.
I pedaled up St. Roque and then swung on to an arc street curving north. I glimpsed a street sign that said LaMothe. I slowed to admire a fence made of bicycles wired together and supported by t-posts, A bindweed vine ran riot over the whole thing, the purple flowers still closed tight before dawn, but the heart-shaped leaves unmistakable. I kept my eyes out for cats which are the real hazard of early morning bike riding. They are the only things up beside me, and they have a habit of appearing suddenly from under parked cars or puddles of shadow. The little buggers liked to strut to the middle of the street and then sit, watching your approach. When you got close enough, they'd feint for your front tire or dash straight in front of you. It's the feline version of playing chicken and I had lost more times than I wanted to admit. When you swerved and face planted in the asphalt, they'd run off, laughing, to go tell their cat buddies about the good one they'd just pulled. If anything in this world was supernatural, it was the way a cat's brain worked.
Two right turns later, I was at the bakery. I cruised into the delivery yard behind the store. Around me, the brick walls held the last of the heat from yesterday's sun. By 9 am, it would be unbearable out here. The rattle of my bike against the rack sounded loud in the early morning stillness, as I tried to click the lock shut quickly. There was something wrong about disturbing the sleeping world, but my face and arms were chilled from the wind and early air, and I was in a hurry to get my wet rear into the warmth of the kitchen. I quickly fished my key out and let myself in the back door.
Already, the lights were on and there was stuff in the oven. The blessed heat surrounded me making my numb skin tingle. My backpack was shoved quickly under the counter and I hurried to grab a cup of coffee. Warmed and caffeinated, I walked over to check my list. It had taken me three months to be trusted with my own list, but it meant more than the key. They could take away a key and they could fire me, but baking was a part of me now. No one could take that away from me.
The first thing Mr. D ever taught me was bread and it was still my favorite. I liked the time and effort that goes into a loaf of golden perfect bread. There was something about mixing, kneading and baking that came the closest to contentment that I'd ever felt. So even with the foster crap, the school crap and being made fun of because of my name or eyes, I could go to the bakery, put on an apron and just bake. Then none of that other stuff mattered. The whole world slowed down and centered on my hands and what I was creating.
I made whole wheat, rye, and pumpernickel. I made long, skinny, French baguettes and fat, round, Italian country loaves. I made cheesy herb breads, chunky dinner rolls, and sweetbreads with nuts and fruit. I made the Sabbath challah, rich with eggs and honey, braiding the loaves with a sense of tradition that stretched back hundreds of years. Yeah, maybe it wasn't my tradition, but somehow, some people had figured out to create a heritage and hold on to it, and there was a good feeling to being a part of that.
My list was breads and pastries. Mrs. D did pies and cookies, while Mr. D whipped out cakes, cupcakes, and brownies, plus starting the specialty dessert orders. On a regular day, the top priority on my list was the yeast breads that had to rise for an hour. After that, I would mix quick breads, which was a stupid name for them. Even though they mixed up quick because they didn't use yeast, it still took 45 minutes to an hour to bake, which isn't so quick after all. When I had two types of dough either rising or resting and a batch of quick breads in the oven, I would snag more coffee and breakfast. Mrs. D always made sure there was coffee and something to eat. In a way, it made me uneasy, kind of crossing my policy lines. That might sound stupid, but hope and kindness can be just as cruel as hatred and neglect. People with normal lives just didn't get that.
After the break, I got started on pastries, using the dough made yesterday for today's pastries and making fresh to chill overnight. When everything was in the oven with timers set, I went up front, flipped on the lights and unlocked the door. The usual routine was Mrs. D and I helped customers while Mr. D stayed in the back, doing specialty orders. And if we're swamped, he'd come up front and help us by getting in our way. You couldn't be mad at Mr. D though, he was like a big goofy bear.
I tied on a fresh apron and helped a PTA mom who wanted two dozen cookies. I had never seen her before, but she was the kind of annoying that chatters to everyone as if you'd been close for years.
“It is unbelievable what the government controls these days!” she told me, bending over to peer at the display.
“Mmmm,” I answered, It was my standard reply, which was neither agreement or disagreement, just an acknowledgment of her producing vocal sounds.
“Can you believe it?” she demanded, twisting her head to give me the eye.
Yes, I can believe it. I mean, I was state property for 16 years, and you want to know if I think the government is controlling?
Terrible” I said, and turned to straightened the flyers by the register.
"What kind of idiots voted that moms can't bring home baked goods to school functions? It's all about capitalism!"
I work in a place that sells baked goods, lady. This basically gives us a whole new customer base and I'm supposed to agree it's bad?
I offered her a sample of honey pecan brownie, just to shut her up.
Three samples and $42 bucks later, she drove off with cookies for the class party, a pie and two loaves of bread for her family, and a sack of brownies she started eating before she even left the store. I could guarantee those cookies were better than anything she could have made. I wasn't bragging, they were that good.
A young couple came in next. The wide-eyed, blonde woman looked around and made happy noises.
“Can I have one of these?” she asked, pointing to the covered sample trays on the counter. The little signs said clearly "Free sample! Help yourself."
I gave her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she was illiterate, instead of stupid.
“Free samples,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Help yourself.”
“Oh, thanks!” she gushed, smiling.
The guy she was with gave me a brief look like he knew I was making fun of her. I was just grateful she helped herself and didn't require hand feeding. It was his choice to be with an idiot, playing Fred to her Daphne. Although it was possible he enjoyed charity work, I was pretty sure he had chosen boobs over brains. The backlash was my contempt. Deal with it.
They moved along, gawking at the food in the case. I could have handed them off to Mrs. D, but I saw Mrs. McGuffey had just come in. I'm not big on calling women bitches, so I'll just say she was obviously Satan's grandma and leave it at that. Instead, I refilled the free sample display and boxed a ginger pear tart for Mrs. Romano, another regular, who was annoying but bearable, while I
waited for Daphne to figure out what she wanted or Fred to tell her what to do.
“No walnuts,” Mrs. Romano reminded me, “They get stuck in Harvey’s teeth.”
I nodded, more politely than I felt. I used to say “You told me that last time,” and we'd glare at each other. Then Mrs. D and me had this little talk about customer service. Customer service means I put up with people's bullshit and the D's pay me money. I wished I could just bake all day. Mrs. D is cool though. Plus, I don't have to take real shit. Those people get the boot. Still, two years working here, two years of pear tarts and the same conversation? It could get on your damn nerves.
Delicata's worked on a yearly menu. You couldn't get stuff anytime you wanted it. It sounds nuts, but it kept people coming. I knew customers who set their calendars by the pastry schedule at Delicata’s. Pear tarts with or without walnuts every third Friday, pastry puffs on Mondays only (the Bavarian cream was the best) and Saturdays were booming with soft pretzels and eight toppings you could drizzle yourself. Holidays? It was madness. There were times when we had had one or two of something left and I had feared for my life. Thankfully, we did a lot of pre-orders.
The blonde waved at me and I considered waving back, but since I had rent to pay, I controlled myself. They were, shocker, still undecided, and asked me for an opinion on sweet versus savory for a book club tea. I was impressed that she knew the word savory. But a book club tea? What the hell book did Daphne manage to get through? Five bucks said she watched the movie version of whatever it was.
Only part of me was present as I suggested a selection of both, but playing off a central flavor. Blondie's face wrinkled when I mentioned spanokopita. Too ethnic, I guess. But she was quick to snarf up the free sample. Samples always do the trick. The other half of me was amazed at how much I had changed in two years. I could discuss texture, spices, and flavor, which breads were suitable for bread crumbs, Tuscan salads, paninis, french toast or pain perdu. Pretty amazing when you think that before Delicata's, I'd have asked white or wheat and been done.
