by Trinity Crow
That was a seriously weird family list. It reminded me of all the begats in the Bible.
Mr. D smiled at me. “The shame of rejection was no small thing!" He shook his shaggy grey head, his hands waved in a warding-off movement as if to push back the thought of failure. "You worked a long time on a recipe before you tried it out on the family. I have fattened a few pigs that way!”
I smiled at the thought of young Mr. D slipping failed attempts to the pig.
“No girls?” I asked, a little put out.
“Times were different then. The minds, they were smaller!” Mr. D smiled broadly, “Today, certainly, girls are a must! Mama and I have no children to pass these on to.” His smiled slipped, his face growing sad.
"But you have other family?" I asked, guiltily aware the asking of personal questions crossed my policy lines.
He shook his head. “We hoped…” he stopped.
Mrs. D put an arm around him. “We hoped that others made it through and escaped here.”
I stared at them, not understanding, feeling stupid.
“Escaped from what?” I asked hesitantly, not comfortable with all this emotional stuff. Although every day was an emotional day for Mr. D, it was normally up-tempo. They both stared at me.
“From the holocaust,” Mrs. D said, quietly.
I put my eyes back on the dough where they belonged and made my hands move. Wasn't the whole holocaust thing in Germany? The D's are Jewish? Wait, wasn't that in the 40's? How old were they? I poured the batter into the greased pans, my head buzzing. I had never really thought about their past, where they came from, even where they lived. I had my own problems. Which is a shit selfish thing to say, but life isn't just kittens and family game night. Still, it kind of hit me that this whole family dynasty was going to die when the D's did. Well, not all of it. I mean. I knew some of the recipes, the breads, pastry and cookie ones, especially. And I knew I would be making them the rest of my life and if I could, I would teach someone else. This stuff shouldn't die out with the D's. It should… A thought came to me. The D's autobiography of their family was written in those cloth books. Not births and deaths and stuff like that, but generations of their history in the form of recipes. I could write my own history that way. The recipes from days as a foster kid and the kind of evolution to where I was now. It would solve that stupid English requirement and keep me from having to share personal stuff. And the D's? Well, I owed them, didn't I?
“I'll still make them,” I said, not looking up. “when you're gone. I'll still make your Uncle Zatki's challah bread, and Cousin Orli's pear and ginger tart.”
The silence was thunderous, so I ventured a look up. Bad idea. They were staring at me, eyes wide. This was way too much emotional sharing according to my policies.
“I mean, I'm not trying to take your books…or be involved.” I winced as I heard the words fall out of my stupid mouth. Did I just say involved? “I mean, pushy. I just…I mean, I want you to know I…" What the hell was I saying? I was sweaty and my headache was definitely worse. "This isn't just a job to me. I…I can't see the rest of my life without baking. You know?”
Mr. D's chin was wobbling and Mrs. D had actual tears on her face.
Crap.
I loaded the pans on a tray and escaped to the ovens. I took my time coming back, and thankfully, all eyes were dry.
Mr. D waved me over to the table where the recipe book lay open. “Today.” he said, his voice husky “you learn the DiMaggio royal wedding cake.”
Whoa. This was top secret shit. Only Mr. D made that cake. He even shooed Mrs. D out the room.
“You must pay close attention…” he said gravely.
I looked up at him. Did this mean some sort of vow or promise, I wasn't ready to make?
“…for we are fresh out of the pigs!" he added. A slow smile spread across his face and I exhaled. We were clear of that soul-sucking swamp, people call feelings.
“We won’t be needing one!” I smarted off, shaking my head at him, and heaving a huge mental sigh of relief.
I made four small cakes that afternoon while Mr. D worked on the big one. Mr. D and I made the first one together and then I did three on my own. When you learn a new recipe, you can’t mix a large batch. You make a single cake, loaf or batch of cookies over and over. You have to taste each result before moving on to try again. The royal wedding cake was never made in batches. It was almost never made at all. This was the fourth time in two years and each time had been customers from New Orleans or Lafayette. We were famous and a secret all at the same time.
“The wedding is to be held in St Louis Cathedral, in the Jackson Square.” Mr. D informed me as he sifted and measured.
I remembered it vaguely from the fourth-grade field trip. It soared against the sky like a fairytale castle. Only, the real style was Gothic, not fairytale. We had all trooped into the nave and paid a quarter to light a candle to Saint Jude. I had gotten into it with Rufus Green over cutting in line. The nuns had mean-mugged us the entire time. The customer must have money because it surely had to cost a mint to book that place. I wondered idly what Mr. D charged for the cake.
As I carefully measured and sifted, the memory of those nerve-wracking days of my first loaves of bread flashed in my head. Mr. and Mrs. D would come in for the taste tests and my knees would shake, internally. These days, it was so much more relaxed. It wasn't just that I knew the D's so much better, it was that I was so much better. I rethought that. The truth was I knew I was good at this and royal wedding cake or not, I knew it was something I could do. As my first try baked, I checked if Mrs. D needed help up front and refilled the glass counter, replacing what had been sold. Since Mrs. D was wiping the outside of the display case, I grabbed some paper towels and moved to the other end. Through the clean glass, my bread and pastries lay in neat rows waiting for customers.
Mrs. D smiled over at me. “How's the new apartment?”
“It’s nice,” I said, my thoughts conflicted between amazing and disturbing as possible adjectives.
“Good to have your own space, no?” she said, giving me a conspiratorial look.
“Yeah," I grinned back at her, “it’s good.” The cool thing about Mrs. D was that she could know how you felt and never be in your business or make you feel uncomfortable. I think we could have sold barely edible baked goods and still people would come just to see Mrs. D.
There was a certain comfort in the familiarness of the bakery but it only reminded me of the shadows still lingering at the apartment. I worked the rest of my shift with a feeling of unease. A whole day off meant plenty of time for supernatural interference.
Chapter 12
Without any planning on my part, I managed to time my ride home just right. As I cruised up the drive, I could see Mrs. Evers on her back porch through a break in the hedge. She lifted a hand from the bowl in her lap and waved to me. When I slowed to wave back, her hand twisted to change from "Hey there" to "Come see". I was totally okay with that, more exciting than books on the subtleties of runes was hearing about Julia and her family. I leaned my bike against the big magnolia tree that shaded the whole back of the house and climbed the shallow stairs.
“Mmmm, chile, you smell like a cinnamon dream.” Mrs. Evers laughed, her crinkles wrinkling up with her smile. I tried a smile back. It really was easier with practice. I wondered how old she was, and then decided I really liked little old ladies who looked like old ladies with wrinkles and white hair, not all shellacked, facelift scary and fooling no one.
“You have time to sit down a bit?” she asked me. "Maybe you want to run home first? Don’t you be polite now."
"I’ve got time," I said, sitting in the wicker chair beside her. I gestured to the bowl in her hands, “Need help?” Not sure if I could be of any, but willing to try.
“ Oh, yes indeed!" she said, pulling a towel off a basket sitting at her feet. The oak-split basket was full of green beans, but they were lumpy and huge.
“Are those green
beans?” I asked, thinking they looked past the edible stage.
“Shelly beans.” she corrected. Mrs. Evers handed me a pod. “Open it,” she said, “just pull the little string.”
I tugged at the green little viney thing and the pod unzipped, spilling five mottled beans into my hand.
“You mean, green beans make these beans.” I was actually amazed. I never really thought of how they grew, they just came dried in plastic bags.
Mrs. Evers laughed again. “Well, there are lots of kinds of beans. Some you can eat as green beans when they are young and then let them grow into cooking beans.”
I nodded and slid the beans into her bowl. She passed me a bowl of my own and motioned at the basket for me to get some beans to shell.
“Some kinds you can cook fresh, just like this. Others, you let them dry and they'll feed you all year.”
“This is a lot of beans," I said, grabbing up a handful.
"My lands, no! This is small potatoes compared to what we grew when I was a girl. We’d put up three or four bushels of dry beans to get through winter. I can some, dry some. Give quite a bit away.”
“You don’t freeze them?” I wondered aloud, wrestling with my pod. I looked over, as my hands struggled to get the unfamiliar rhythm, Mrs. Evers, with years of practice, was whizzing along.
“You can freeze them,” she said, “but I grew up with no electricity and it just hurts my heart to give good money to that old electric company. Those freezers take a power of electric to keep them going.” She shook her head, no doubt thinking of high electric bills, something I could sympathize with. “Child, did you know you can string green beans on a string and dry them that way? They turn black and look ugly as sin. They called them leather britches. You have to soak them first, but cooked up with a ham bone? That was good eating!”
“What kind of beans are these?” The only ones I really knew were red beans, but I had heard that people who weren't from Louisiana ate other kinds.
“Now, these here are scarlet runners. They make the prettiest flower of all the beans, I think. And no matter how hot it gets, they just keep those flowers and beans a'coming.
“Oh, chile, I remembered something I wanted to show you.” She set down her bowl of beans and crossed the porch to the screen door.
“I’ll be right out,” she said, the door squeaking shut behind her.
A stillness fell with Mrs. Evers gone, the heat making everything hazy and slow. I rocked quietly on the shady porch, my fingers finally finding the rhythm of the shelling motion as if they had been born to it. Across from me, a mockingbird flirted, offering his stolen songs. The garden was just a crazy explosion of leaves, flowers and hanging fruit. There was a sleepy, dreamy quality to the afternoon and I swallowed as I put a name to it, peaceful. When had I ever felt this way before? The screen door creaked again and I cleared my throat against useless emotion.
Mrs. Evers settled back in her chair. She took something from her apron pocket and set in on the patio table between us. My breath caught. The small wooden figure on the tabletop was the very image of Corky, his bulky muscles under the smooth skin, his tongue hanging out of his doggie grin. I picked up the figure. The wood was a light color and had been carved by expert hands of someone who had seen Corky many times.
“Albert and Nella had three children,” Mrs. Evers began, “Alain, the eldest, took after his papa, sensible and hardworking, Lousette was the youngest, the poor lost lamb, and Tobias, the middle child, was a dreamer. He loved to run off into the woods and spent hours by the river. Some of the slave men taught him to whittle. My land, he was a natural with that knife! He could make the wood seem to come alive. He made that one there, of Corky, for Julia. Oh, it made Albert laugh! He said what could Julia need of a “figure” when she and Corky were never apart? But she loved it, and she loved Tobias thinking of it. And they, of course, all loved Julia.” Mrs. Evers considered for a moment. “You never saw anything like that Baby’s eyes, changeling eyes, and such thick, curly, black hair. Oh, Julia was as sturdy as a young tree and after that first infant illness, she was never sick again. She loved Nella with all her heart and called her Maman. And Albert? She could twist him around her finger. Why, everybody on that whole plantation watched out for her.
"Her tenth birthday was a milestone. You remember, poor Lousette did not make it to ten years. Albert brought Julia a basket covered over in frills and lace. She was not a little girl for fancy ways. Oh, she must have eyed that basket with some doubt! There had already been a tussle or two over how a young lady should behave,” Mrs. Evers nodded her white head sagely, “but nobody had the heart to make Julia do what she didn’t want to. Well, she pulled off the lace covering and there inside was Corky, a big, old handful of a puppy, even at 8 weeks old!”
My hands stilled as I thought about Corky as a puppy. He was probably disgustingly cute. Even now, as what could only be called extreme senior, he was way too confident of his own charm, that scamp.
“Back then they called those dogs, nanny dogs, they were so devoted to the family, and especially the children. Nowadays, I see them so abused, and Lord, the shelters are just full of them. I think it’s just too easy to mistreat a creature who would give you their whole heart.” Mrs. Evers shook her head as she reached for another handful of beans. “Well, Julia gave Corky her whole heart right back. Those two went everywhere and did everything together. Nella was pleased Julia quit climbing trees because of course, if Corky couldn’t, Julia wouldn’t!
“He was so white! And they would come back after a day romping in the woods, just filthy! The maids had their hands full cleaning those two up near every day before they could be let in the house. She had a special friend in her little maid, Alcee. You see, Julia grew up thinking black folk were every bit as much people as white ones.”
My hands slowed. That was a weird statement. Maybe she just meant according to the times, but it sounded racist as hell. Mrs. Evers looked over at me, maybe sensing my unease. She smiled, and the sight was not reassuring. I had a sudden wild thought of those teeth in a glass of water grinning into the night as she slept.
“They were so good to that child. Julia was in and out the slave quarters. The house cook taught her to make little pies and tarts, spoiled her something awful with treats. The field hands made her a little garden of wildflowers brought in from the woods. Ruelliquen was the whole world to Julia, her home, her playground, her school. In a way, that was the beginning of the trouble.” Mrs. Evers looked out across the yard. “Had they not sheltered Julia, had they let her see what the world was like, things might have turned out very different." She sighed. “Well, it was late spring and Julia was turning fourteen. Nella insisted she have a cotillion."
I widened my eyes at that. Julia in a ball gown, learning to curtsey and do the waltz.
Mrs. Evers chuckled. “Oh yes, Julia felt the same way about the fancy dress and meeting boys. She was still a girl at heart not ready to give up her freedom and settle down into the restrictions of being a lady. But Nella would have her way in this, and Julia adored her mother so much that she just gave in. Not only was the house in a tizzy over the coming party, but Tobias and Alain were home from school and they had brought a friend from a nearby plantation. His name was Aidan and Julia was smitten the first time she saw him. Oh, at that age, love can seem forever. It takes up all your time in dreaming and planning.” Mrs. Evers' wrinkles had softened as if she were remembering her own past. Then her face hardened “Love can make you blind, chile. There were signs even then, that things were not as they should be. He was a fair young man, tall with good manners. He was a charmer and in no time, Julia was wrapped up in cotillion plans with a willing heart.”
“Why after the war," she said, "those old carpetbaggers would come in and pour salt out in the fields. People couldn’t grow crops, no food, no money, families broken up. The North said as they deserved it because of what they did to the slaves. But hate breeds hate, chile, and destroys everything it tou
ches.”
Mrs. Evers reached down for a handful of beans, and her face registered her surprise at finding it empty. “Have we finished the beans already? My, two extra hands make a world of difference and the company does make the time go by. I sure thank you for your help, chile. I remember when I had the energy you do, to work all day at the bakery and then come and help an old lady. You know, there are melons ripe out there. You make sure you take one up with you.”
Reluctantly, I stood to go. I wanted to hear more about Julia but was hesitant to push my luck. I would hate for her to get tired of me. Mrs. Evers smiled at me as if reading my thoughts.
“I’ll have another look around for that picture of Julia. Don’t forget your melon,” she said. “They slip the vine when they are ripe. I’ve been meaning to get the ripe ones over to the table.”
“ I can…if you want.” I offered, surprising myself.
Mrs. Evers hesitated. “Chile, I don’t mean to take advantage of your living here to get chores out of you.”
I felt unaccountably relieved when I heard this and it startled me into admitting that I’d like to. “I never had a garden and stuff. It’s nice.”
Mrs. Evers smiled, as pleased as if she had invented gardens.
“Good, good.” She beamed at me, a big smile teasing her wrinkles upward. For the first time, I wondered about Mrs. Evers. What happened to her husband? Did she have kids? Did they ever come visit her? Was she lonely?
"Well, that's fine then," she said, and then gave me a considering look. "Child, you ever had cathead biscuits with green onion gravy?"
I shook my head. You'd think something called cathead biscuits would have worried me, but after tasting Mrs. Ever’s cooking, I was willing to give it a go no matter what crazy thing she was offering.
