“I got tired of waiting for you to wake up,” Elaine said. “Are you hungry?”
“I guess so.” Shira swallowed experimentally; her glands were a little less swollen.
“I made you chicken soup,” Elaine said. “From your recipe.”
“You cooked?” Shira said. “Oh boy. Is the kitchen on fire?”
“No, the kitchen is not on fire,” Elaine said. She was hurt, so Shira quickly apologized.
“I can’t wait to eat it. Let me put my slippers on.”
The chicken soup was perfect. Shira was convinced that she could feel the swelling in her glands going down a bit more with every bite. “I think I’m cured,” she said, when she’d finished two bowls.
“Clearly, you’re delirious. Back to bed with you.”
Shira hesitated in the doorway. “Thanks for the soup.”
“You’re going to need all your strength.” Elaine hesitated, clearly uncertain whether she should tell Shira about this. “You know that asshole who pickets funerals of AIDS patients? ‘Reverend’ Phillips?”
“Yeah?” Shira said.
“For our court hearing next week, up here—He’s coming up to picket.”
“Picket,” Shira said. “Our court hearing? He’s going to picket us? Can he do that?”
Elaine shrugged. “Morally, or legally?”
“I guess he can,” Shira said. “Well. I guess I’d rather have him picketing my court hearing than some poor person’s funeral.” Scuffing her feet in her slippers, she headed back up to bed.
***
IV. Down By the Riverside
CLEAR YOUR COUNTER and wash it off carefully, so you won’t pick up any of last night’s dinner when you knead the bread. Call the quarters and light the candles. Turn up the heat.
Meditate for a few moments on anger. The Buddhists say that to be angry at someone is like thrusting a sword through your own body to hurt the person standing behind you. Take a deep breath. Take a couple more deep breaths. Think about bread, instead of about a man with so little purpose in life, with so little meaning, that he can think of nothing better he can do than going around picketing funerals. And churches. And court hearings. Say your partner’s prayer for serenity: “Goddess, give me the serenity to accept those things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill because they pissed me off.”
In your large glass measuring cup, run three cups of warm water, about body temperature. Pour it into your largest pottery bowl, the one you use just for making bread because it’s too big for anything else. Stir into the water:
2 tablespoons dry yeast
½ cup sugar
Let this dissolve and wait a minute or two to make sure that it foams, so you know the yeast is alive. Then add:
6 eggs
5 cups unbleached flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
Get out one of your short, sturdy wooden spoons, and beat this mixture 100 times. It will be wet and sticky and spongy—don’t worry, you’ll be adding more flour later. Cover the bowl with a damp towel and set it somewhere warm to rise for an hour.
While it’s rising, call your friend who’s organizing the counter-protest, to make sure you have the time and place right and she’s called the local papers and everything else. Listen to her reassurances that she’s organized demonstrations before, she knows what she’s doing, you should just relax and not worry about it, and by the way, your friend Carmen has volunteered to drive you and your partner over. Apparently they don’t trust the two of you not to crash the car. Probably wise.
After an hour has passed, fold in 1 cup oil and 1 tablespoon salt. Folding is a method of gently incorporating something into the dough without cutting through it or deflating it. Pour a little oil on the dough and sprinkle a little salt, then stir your spoon around the side of the bowl and fold it over towards the center. Repeat this process until all the oil and salt are incorporated. Then add the rest of the flour—4 cups unbleached, 1 cup whole wheat—by the same method. At this point, the dough will be fairly dry, and you’ll be able to handle it.
Sprinkle some flour on your counter to keep it from sticking, and put flour on your hands. Then turn the dough out onto the counter. Shape it into a ball, and then lean into it so that you’re pressing on it with the heels of your hands, flattening it out slightly. Fold it back onto itself, turn it 90 degrees, and repeat. This is called kneading the dough. Knead for about five minutes, or until the dough is “alive”—in other words, when you poke your finger in, the dough springs back out. Put it back in the bowl, cover it, and let it rise in a warm place for another 50 minutes.
You had a message on your answering machine from someone whose name you didn’t recognize, but the voice sounded friendly, so you call back. It’s the mother of one of your daughter’s old classmates. She wants to know where the protest will be, and if straight people are allowed to come. Reassure her that everyone is welcome and you appreciate her support.
Punch down the dough. Let it rise for another 20 minutes.
Read the front section of the newspaper. The editorial writers at the newspaper are on your side.
This makes enough dough for three huge loaves, so cut the dough into three sections. Cut each section into six pieces, and braid a six-stranded loaf. If you don’t know how to do a six-stranded braid, just do a four-stranded or even a three-stranded braid. Carefully put each loaf on a greased cookie sheet, then let each loaf rise ½ hour more. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
Read the comics. Read Miss Manners.
Bake the bread at 375 degrees for 50 minutes. Set aside one loaf for yourself and your partner. The other two are to share.
***
THERE WERE ALWAYS at least two counter-protests when Doug Phillips came to town, and Shira hadn’t really wanted to go to the peace-and-Christian-brotherhood one, organized by the local gay church. She wasn’t a Christian. She hadn’t even been a a Christian before she became a Witch. But the cameras would be on her, and although she actually felt more like going to the counter-protest where she’d get to shout obscenities, she did feel that the counter-protest where they’d be praying for Doug’s soul was the more right response. If she were the person she wished she were, that was the counter-protest she’d want to go to. So she baked bread, and went.
The police had cordoned the area off into three sections. The smallest section was reserved for Doug Phillips and his friends; only ten of them were coming. There was another section for the peace-and-Christian-brotherhood counter-protest, and another section for the angry counter-protest. They’d put Christian Brotherhood in the middle.
The pastor of the gay church had set up a table; they would have bread and hot coffee to offer to both the angry protestors and the bigots, as well as to any news media who got cold. There was a stiff wind that day. As Shira and Elaine got out of Carmen’s car, Shira found herself hoping that the bigots would all get frostbite.
“Hey,” the pastor said. “You must be Shira and Elaine. I’m Reverend Dan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Elaine said. Shira nodded. They clasped gloved hands.
“Thanks a lot for bringing bread,” he said as she set it down onto the table. “Wow! You actually baked this, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” Shira said.
“Well, Doug and company are supposed to be arriving at 11,” Dan said. Shira checked her watch; it was 10:45. “They’re usually late. I’m guessing everyone else will show up at 11 on the dot, or five minutes before at the earliest. Nobody wants to spend any extra time out in the cold. Want some coffee?”
Shira had brought along a mug. The court hearing was at 11:30, so she’d be getting inside soon enough. “Do you want to go save us seats?” she asked Elaine.
“The lawyer will do it.”
Dan had guessed correctly; the rest of the counter-protesters showed up at 10:55, and sorted themselves out based on the signs people were waving. The angry ones had signs
that started with “GOD HATES BIGOTS” and got angrier from there. A lot of people joined the Christian Brotherhood counter-protest; most of them were strangers to Shira, but some were friends of hers, or neighbors. Lecie’s teacher had come, and Lecie’s best friend Becky, and her parents, and some of the other parents from her class.
The news media showed up right at 11. “Would you like some coffee?” Shira offered as one of the cameramen came over.
“Sure,” he said, and she poured him a cup.
“Bread? It’s home-made.”
“Homemade? Really?” The cameraman happily took a slice. “This is really good.”
The bigots arrived at 11:14, struggling out of a couple of station wagons and a van and into the cold wind with their signs. FAGS RECRUIT CHILDREN. FAGS BURN IN HELL. They hadn’t dressed for the weather.
The bigots were met with a shout from the angry protest. “Doug Go Home,” they chanted for a few minutes. If the bigots were chanting anything, they weren’t chanting loudly enough to be heard. Doug—Shira thought it was Doug—appeared to have a Bible, which he started ostentatiously reading out loud. Some of the cameras were pointed at him.
Dan led the Christian Brotherhood protest in a round of “We Shall Overcome.” Some of the cameras pointed at them. The bigots looked cold. The wind battered at their signs and nearly pulled one away.
Shira poured some coffee and tucked a loaf of bread under her arm. “I’m going to go talk to them.”
“It’s up to you, but I’d rather you didn’t,” Dan said. “They’re going to try to draw you into a confrontation.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be peaceful. Brotherly.” Shira made her way to the police line that marked off Bigot Territory. “Excuse me,” Shira said.
Doug held up his Bible to block his view of Shira, raising his voice.
Shira looked past him. “Would anybody like some coffee? You look awfully cold.”
“Trying to infect us with AIDS, faggot?” one of the boys spat. Almost all of the protestors seemed to be very young, except for Doug.
“You’re in a lot more danger of hypothermia,” Shira said.
They didn’t answer. She tried again. “How about some bread? It’s homemade.”
“Fag-lover!” one of the girls said.
“Wrong again,” she said. “I’m a lesbian. In fact, I’m the mom who wants her kid back.”
That got their attention. Doug even stopped reading. Patiently, Shira held out the cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “You should have worn hats.”
One of the boys reached out and took the styrofoam cup from Shira’s mittened hand. He took a mouthful, then spit it into her face.
Shira was suddenly, acutely aware of two things: she was going to need to go inside to dry off, since the collar of her cotton turtleneck was going to freeze into a coffee-sickle very soon. And every camera was now pointed directly at her.
Deliberately, she broke off a piece of bread and held it out to the boy.
Doug hissed to the boy, “Just leave it.” Sullenly, the boy stepped back. The rest of the protesters ignored her completely.
“I’m praying for you,” Shira said to the boy, pitching her voice to be heard by the cameras. “There has to be a lot of emptiness in your heart, for you to come all the way up to Iowa in the winter just to tell me how much you hate me. A lot of emptiness. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Shira carefully laid out the coffee cups, propping them upright in the snow. “These will be cold in a minute, but we’re right over there if you’d like some more.” She marched back over to the table.
The hearing went as they’d expected: the Iowa-based Federal judge ruled that the Texas judge didn’t have jurisdiction. But nobody seemed willing to do anything about it. Again. When Shira and Elaine came out after the hearing, the bigots had taken off. She heard a rumor later that three had to get treated for frostbite, but it might have just been wishful thinking.
***
V. Black Magic Cake
IN THE BACK of Carmen’s van, run an extension cord to the cigarette lighter adapter and plug in the toaster oven. Say, “Yes, it’s necessary! Do I harass you about your religious practices?” Make a cup of sour milk. Put in a tablespoon of plain white vinegar, plus milk to equal one cup.
Combine in a large bowl:
1 ¾ cups unbleached flour
2 cups sugar
¾ cups cocoa
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
2 eggs
1 cup strong coffee
1 cup sour milk
½ cup vegetable oil
1 tsp vanilla
If you’re making this at home and have an electric mixer, mix this all at medium speed for two minutes. If you’re in the back of a van, beat it with a wire whisk for five minutes. The batter will be thin.
Ordinarily you would bake this in a 13x9 inch greased and floured pan. If you're baking it in a toaster oven, grease and flour a cake pan made for a toy oven, because that's all that will fit. When your friend asks why you made up a whole batch of cake batter, which you’re now just going to throw away, tell her you’re too worried to do proper division right now. Besides, at best you could have cut the recipe in half because where were you going to get a half an egg? Pour enough batter into the tiny pan to fill it up about halfway.
Turn the toaster oven to 350 degrees and put in the tiny cake pan. It’s hard to say how long you’ll need to bake it in a toaster oven; try not to scorch it, and test often with a toothpick. It’s done when the toothpick comes out clean.
***
“YOU’RE CRAZY, SHIRA,” Carmen said.
“Crazy? I’m not the one who volunteered to help with a kidnapping.” Shira pulled out the tiny cake and tested it. Nope, not done yet.
“What’s the point of baking a cake? I mean, I know you’re into cooking, but this is ridiculous.”
“It’s to summon Lecie. So she comes out of the house.”
“And if this doesn’t work?” Carmen asked.
“Then I’ll think of something.”
Around the corner, where David lived, they heard a screen door slam. Carmen peered out the window. “Holy shit,” she said.
“It’s her. I got her, didn’t I?”
“Well, it sure looks like Lecie.” Shira started to scramble into the front seat, and Carmen batted at her. “Stay back! I can’t see yet if David’s with her.” Shira clenched her fists, checked the cake again. It was done. She pulled it out. “David’s not with her. Go for it.”
Shira opened the back of the van. “Lecie!” she said.
Lecie turned. She’d grown, in the last six months. And David had cut her hair—Shira wasn’t sure she liked this style. “Mommy?” Lecie said.
“Yes, honey, it’s me.” Shira held out her arms, and Lecie ran to her. “I’ve come to take you home, but you need to come with me—now.”
“OK,” Lecie said, and scrambled into the van. Shira closed the doors and buckled Lecie in, then gave Carmen the thumbs up. Carmen started the van.
“Where did you tell Daddy you were going?” Shira asked.
“Oh, Daddy isn’t home. I told Roberta that I was going out to play.”
“Who’s Roberta?”
“My babysitter. Mommy, can I have some cake?” Lecie pointed to the cooling miniature black magic cake. “I smelled it baking.”
Shira caught Carmen’s eye in the rear-view mirror and nodded smugly. “Sure, kiddo. You can have the whole thing. It’s a Lecie-sized cake. Just let it cool for a few minutes.”
Lecie nodded. “Mommy, I missed you a lot.”
“I missed you too. A lot.” Shira did some calculations. It was impossible to say how long it would take Roberta to realize Lecie was gone. Probably not long. Oklahoma was an hour’s drive from Dallas. Shira had the court order saying she had custody of Lecie, but if a Texas cop pulled them over, he might take Lecie anyway.
“Mo
mmy, can I come sit on your lap?”
“No, kiddo, you need to stay buckled in. You can sit on my lap later.”
“Car switch time,” Carmen said after twenty minutes, pulling off on a quiet street. “Everybody out.”
“Come on, Lecie,” Shira said, grabbing the black magic cake. They climbed out of Carmen’s van and into a nondescript white car with Texas plates. They’d rented it that morning.
Elaine's pager, which she'd sent down with Carmen and Shira, went off as they were changing cars. Shira looked down at it and pursed her lips. It was the code they'd arranged for David called Des Moines. “They know she's missing,” Shira said quietly. “Let’s go.”
Carmen pulled off the side street and quickly found the highway again. “Forty minutes to Oklahoma,” she said. “What are they likely to do?”
“Hopefully they’ll start looking for vans.”
Carmen switched on her police scanner. Shira wasn’t sure, in the sea of staticky acronyms and numbers, whether any of the dispatchers were talking about her and Lecie or not, but Carmen shook her head. “Nothing yet,” she said.
Ten minutes from the border, it came over the wire: kidnapping of child. Blond hair, blue eyes, red t-shirt, blue pants. Carmen poked Shira. “There’s a blue t-shirt in the backpack.”
“Lecie, duck down so no one can see you. Then take off your shirt and put this on,” Shira said.
“When do I get my cake?” Lecie asked.
“As soon as you’ve changed shirts,” Shira said.
Lecie quickly stripped off her red shirt and put on the blue one. Shira stuffed the red shirt into the backpack, then handed Lecie the cake. Lecie started eating it greedily, then hesitated. “Would you like some?” she asked.
Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories Page 20
