by Tim Marquitz
Next, a tray, and a long confectionary tube. Then she got an apron from the closet, a hairnet and gloves from the cabinet. She put on the apron, washed her hands and donned the hairnet and gloves.
Then she took the slab of gingerbread from its tray and laid it on the cutting board. She measured ten inches on the slab, and sliced with one quick, sure move.
She laid it out on the empty tray.
Sarah stared at it a moment: a large rectangle of gingerbread, hard and spicy brown. Something fell from her face, landed with a tiny plop onto the cake. She was still crying. Sarah swiped at her tears, deliberately rough, and turned away.
Already she was humming what little she remembered of Grandma’s chants, the songs she used to sing here at night, bent over her cakes and cookies…Working quickly, Sarah loaded the tube with the white icing. Aiming it carefully, still humming, she drew on the first of the windows, squeezing a thin white line onto the dough.
Hours later, Sarah straightened, her back protesting. She shook her hands out, flexing her fingers. It truly was the dead of night now, no noise anywhere—but the gingerbread was finished: a long wall, drawn with elegant white windows, with dozens of tiny bricks drawn in icing.
There was still a blank space at the top. The tube was almost empty, but there was still enough for Sarah, holding her tongue between her teeth, to write East Street Luxury Towers in slightly wobbly letters.
Then she put away the ingredients. She cleaned her equipment. And she carried the finished gingerbread away upstairs, to her own refrigerator.
She didn’t want her assistants finding it.
#
“Hey, Sarah?”
“What?” Sarah was slow this morning, her head aching from too little sleep. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and focused on Colleen.
The younger woman, clad in the Missus Cupcake apron, gloves and hairnet, was standing in the walk-in refrigerator, sorting through the gingerbread trays and frowning. “There’s, like, this big piece cut out of this gingerbread.”
“Oh, that.” Sarah yawned again. She caught sight of herself on the polished bottom of a copper pan hanging on the wall; she looked terrible, eyes red, mouse-colored hair falling in greasy locks from her hairnet. Better not try to serve out front today.
“It was nothing,” she told Colleen. “Just an idea I had.” She immediately changed the subject. “Let’s get started on the gingerbread houses today, okay? Get the candies out.”
All day, while Wayne served customers out front, Sarah and Colleen constructed and decorated gingerbread houses, painting on windows, roof tiles, little details, and encrusting them with candies. The tiny cottages were cute, embedded on white frosting thickly spread on gingerbread squares, but Sarah’s mind wasn’t really with the task. It was upstairs, with her other project.
Just after lunch, Eileen called.
Sarah read the caller ID and put her phone to her ear with a sigh. “What is it, Eileen?”
“Good afternoon to you, too!” Eileen said ironically. “Good news, Grump: Rahul says he’s happy to go out with you!”
Sarah sighed. “Eileen, I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, no setting you up. Luckily, I never listen to neurotic depressives trying to avoid all social interaction! Okay, sweetie: the date’s Saturday evening, at Kristaki’s, seven o’clock. Plenty of time for you to get cleaned up, get pretty. I’ve instructed Rahul to arrive at least fifteen minutes early, so all you have to do is show up. You’ll see him right away: he’s absolutely gorgeous. Just the thing to get your mind off Tomald.”
The pain lanced. Sarah had to close her eyes. “Eileen, I really don’t think I’m ready—”
“Don’t be silly, Sarah: you’ll have a great time! Speaking of which, how’s the progress on our gingerbread party?”
Sarah’s heart thumped. “Pretty good. I’ve gotten started on the tower.”
“Excellent! Let me know how it goes, and be there at seven o’clock Saturday!”
She hung up.
#
It wasn’t Rahul, who was handsome and nice and everything Eileen had promised. And it wasn’t the restaurant, which was very good, and where Tom had never been. No, the reason the date went so badly was all Sarah.
Dutifully, she had arrived in her best jacket and tight black jeans, her hair pulled back and makeup applied. Rahul had seemed appreciative, standing up to shake her hand and beam at her. The food, which he paid for, was extremely tasty. But Sarah spent the whole evening sunk in misery, Tom an agonizing picture in her mind, answering all of poor Rahul’s conversational assays in monosyllables, unable to bring herself to care about anything he said. It was no good telling herself to stop being pathetic and rude. Nothing ever did any good.
But the worst was yet to come.
As she and Rahul were leaving the restaurant, pausing to put on their coats, the door opened yet again with an icy blast. And Tom and the blonde walked in.
Sarah froze. Tom had been so much on her mind that it was unbelievable to her that he was actually here, in the flesh. But there he was: as redheaded, dapper and breathtakingly gorgeous as ever, the blonde on his arm. The perfect pair.
It took Tom, who was hanging up his coat and talking to the receptionist, a moment to realize that Sarah was there. Then he looked up, and his eyes widened. “Sarah?”
Sarah couldn’t speak. It was Rahul, looking confused, who said, “Sarah? Who is this?”
She breathed, “Tom.” Then, fighting hard, she said, “Rahul, this is Tom Atkins. He’s, uh…”
“A former boyfriend,” Tom said smoothly, reaching over to shake Rahul’s hand. “Hi, Rahul.”
Rahul’s eyes widened. “Uh, nice to meet you. What do you do?”
“I’m a developer,” Tom said carelessly. “I own East Street Luxury Towers. Right near Sarah’s cupcake place. She told you about that, right?”
“I know about her cupcake business,” Rahul said. “I haven’t eaten there, but my coworker, Eileen, says it’s very good.”
“Oh, it is.” Tom grinned.
“Tom…” The blonde was drumming her long red fingernails on the reservation desk.
“Well, I must be off!” laughed Tom. “Joanne here doesn’t take waiting very well. See you around, Rahul…Sarah.”
Sarah watched as he and Joanne waltzed off to their table. The lights glimmered on his shining hair as he hurried away. Can’t catch me, she thought. I’m the Gingerbread Man.
Somehow, she got rid of Rahul. Then she hurried home, heading straight to the kitchen. There she disabled the smoke alarm before lighting four white tea lights, positioned in glass cups on the counter. Then she took out the second slab of gingerbread.
“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” she sang softly. Can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man. Run, run, run…The chant went on and on, in Sarah’s head and on her tongue. “…As fast as you can. Gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man.” She aimed the tube and drew on the white lines, squinting through the flickering light. Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. It moved on, from chant to drumbeat, the words losing all meaning, the rhythm sounding in the dark. “…I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.”
She chanted it; she sang it. Her heart beat to this new tune as the night wore on and she created another wall of East Street Luxury Towers.
Outside, snow was falling.
#
It happened Wednesday afternoon.
Sarah was serving out front, just handing a vanilla cupcake to a little girl with her mother when she heard the bell ring on the front door. She knew instantly; she didn’t need to look up, achingly slowly. She didn’t need to see his impeccable alpaca coat, or hear her tinkling laughter.
But she did it all anyway.
“Hi, Sarah!” said Tom sunnily. “I brought Joanne here to taste your marvelous cupcakes!”
Sarah stared. She couldn’t believe this. She literally could not believe her eyes—Tom was here, now, in her shop, with his new gi
rlfriend. Her gaze jammed on the bright, glittering pair, over and over, but her mind would not take them in.
The mother, sensing trouble, hurriedly handed over the money, and Sarah cashed it automatically, all the while staring at Tom and Joanne as they glided across the black and white tiles to the plastic seats at the white bar. Joanne hopped into a seat with a little twist and jump, while Tom, hair and scarf still glittering with snowflakes, leaned one elbow on the counter.
He was just inches away.
The door jingled shut behind the family, and Tom nodded at Sarah. “Hi, Sarah, how’re you doing?” He paused. “And Rahul?”
“This is all terribly fattening, isn’t it?” said Joanne, surveying the cupcakes critically. “Do you have any low-carb options?”
What does she think this is, a dieting restaurant? But still, the question got her thinking again. “Our vegan cupcakes are very low-carb,” she said, avoiding Tom’s eyes and hurrying over to the case. She pointed one out. “Very low calorie count.”
Joanne pursed her lips. “No. I’m not into vegan.” She turned to Tom piteously. “Tom, you said this place was good.”
“It is good, sweetie,” said Tom, giving Joanne an affectionate rub. Sarah thought she was going to throw up. “If you’re not trying to keep a corporate figure.”
Sarah flushed angrily; so she was fat now, too? “Or we have gingerbread squares,” her idiot mouth kept running. “Which are very non-fattening. Seasonal specialty.”
“So, Sarah, how are you?” Tom asked, lounging again against the counter. “I mean, really?”
Had Tom always been this cruel and she had just been blind, Sarah wondered, or had Joanne turned him evil? “I’m fine, thank you. If you like the gingerbread, we have some newly construct—”
“How about that Rahul, then?” Tom asked in a would-be casual voice.
“I don’t know. How about Joanne?”
The words leaped out of Sarah’s mouth before she could stop them. A dead silence greeted them, Joanne’s lipsticked smile sliding from her face.
“I think I’ll have one of those squares.” Tom looked really pissed off now, eyes small and furious. “Then it’s back to work for us, huh, Joanne? Lots to do.”
“That’s right,” said Joanne with a venomous laugh. “It must be nice, running a bakery, but some of us have really terrible schedules, you know.”
Her hands shaking, Sarah got out the gingerbread square, wrapped in tissue paper, and handed it to Tom, careful not to let her hand touch his. He passed over the $7.50, sliding the money across the polished counter. The change was made up in a quarter, two dimes and a nickel.
“Exact change,” smirked Tom.
Sarah closed her eyes against the tide of memory—she couldn’t help it. Tom was fanatical about giving exact change, to the extent that he always carried an extra coin purse. Those restaurants and shopping trips they went on—she forced herself, slowly, to open her eyes.
Tom took a bite of his gingerbread, eyes gleaming as he saw he had discomfited Sarah. He turned smartly about. Then, with a rush of cold air, he and Joanne exited Missus Cupcake.
The bell tinkled into silence. Sarah stared down at the money. It was a moment before she opened the cash register.
The bills she cashed immediately, but she hesitated over the four coins, lying gleaming in her hand. With a swift move, she dug out two quarters from her own pocket and put them into the cash drawer.
Tom’s money she stowed away.
#
That night, she let the tears fall onto the cake, one by one.
The four candles guttered low in their glass cups. The drumbeat sounded: Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. It reverberated through Sarah’s head as she drew the service door onto the back wall of East Street Luxury Towers.
“That’s right, you bitch,” she whispered viciously. “Go out the back door! Take the fucking service exit, and never come back again!” Joanne, Joanne, Joanne.
With a ferocious swipe, she finished the last line of icing on the back wall. She gave a rasping sob, and turned to the final slab.
It was slightly longer than the others; Sarah had cut it into a simplified version of the Luxury Towers’ façade. Here she paid especial care, moving the lights closer, steadying her hands on the confectionary tube.
A teardrop, fallen onto the gingerbread, glimmered for a moment before being absorbed by the dough.
Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you…
With a deep breath, Sarah began work on the final wall.
She whispered aloud as she worked, describing Tom: his good looks and selfish heart, his wealth and property. His little quirks: exact change. His fickleness, his abiding jealousy that drove him to show off his new girlfriend to his old one, to have the gall to enter her shop even after he had broken her heart and kicked her out of their apartment.
Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.
Little white candies on the elaborate front porch. The largest, most lavish windows. And the bricks of course, the “authentic” bricks. Hundreds of them.
And Tom’s name, written large, midway up the façade. She drew it in long, extravagant lines of icing: TOM.
And one other thing.
The decal.
With swift strokes, Sarah drew a pentagram into the top of Tom’s building.
#
Sarah couldn’t say she was entirely surprised when Tom burst into the shop the next day.
Eileen, who had stopped by for an after-work cupcake, turned and raised an eyebrow at the din of the bell. “Well, well, look who it is.”
“Where is she?” Tom was wild-eyed, wild-haired; his coat hung open and his face was stung by the wind. “Where’s Joanne?”
“How should I know?” Sarah asked crisply, opening the register. Bring. “It’s not like she’s going to talk to me, is it?”
“She left.” Tom raked a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, as he paced back and forth. “Last night everything was perfect, and now she’s gone!”
“What, amazed that some woman is willfully depriving herself of your charms, Tom?” Eileen said dryly as she accepted her change. She took an ostentatious bite of cupcake.
“She left by the service exit. The cameras caught her.” Tom stopped pacing to jab a long, accusing finger at Sarah. “You’ve got something to do with it, I know it!”
“Honestly, Tom, if you’re that obsessed with Sarah, why did you kick her out in the first place?” Eileen drawled. “Now, are you actually going to buy a cupcake, or are you just going to be a drama queen?”
“Or you could get another gingerbread square,” added Sarah. “Or one of our gingerbread houses?”
Tom glared at both women a moment more. Then, spinning on his heel, he charged back out into the winter dusk, the door slamming behind him.
Eileen turned back to Sarah. “Well! Tomald Trump’s latest squeeze found out what a bastard he was and left, did she? First good news I’ve heard all day!” She eyed Sarah. “Speaking of gingerbread, how is our Tower going?”
Sarah smiled serenely. “Almost finished. I’ll let you know.”
#
That night, the kitchen was silent. Only the refrigerators buzzed.
The hiss of a match. Sarah lit each of the tea lights and arranged them on the counter. A square of flickering yellow. Carefully, she laid aside a fifth, unlit candle.
The four pieces of gingerbread lay in trays: the completed walls of East Street Luxury Towers, not yet put together. A tray in which lay the largest slab of gingerbread yet. A basin full of freshly-mixed white frosting.
Swiftly, Sarah scooped the frosting out, slathering her spatula all over the gingerbread. Run, run, run, as fast as you can. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Man. Again, her tears flowed, falling onto the thick layer of frosting, like sculpted snow….Catch you, Gingerbread Tom.
Sarah set aside the empty basin. Lifting up the back wall, s
he began construction on the tower: three walls, the back and the two sides, sunk deeply into the frosting. Each of them jammed firmly in, with frosting heaped up at their bases. The back wall glued to the others with icing mortar.
Run, run, run fast along. I’m gonna catch you, Gingerbread Tom.
Now she lifted up the façade. It was heavy in her hands, heavy as a tombstone. For a moment, she hesitated.
Can I really do this?
Yes.
It stood upright on the base with no trouble at all.
The tower was not yet complete. Sarah aimed blobs of icing onto each of the corners. Reaching into a nearby ceramic bowl, she took out the quarter, two dimes and a nickel, and embedded them into the still-sticky icing. They gleamed in the candlelight.
Sarah stared at the completed tower: grand and intricate, wealthy, with Tom’s name written on it, but hollow inside. Fake. A building without an interior. Without a heart.
Now Sarah took up the fifth candle, the tall black one. She struck another match, and held it to the wick. It caught immediately, burning high and bright.
By the light of the candle in her hands, Sarah looked over her creation. She saw the gleam of the coins. She read her former lover’s name. And, almost against her will, her eyes moved to the pentagram. The star pointing downward, toward darkness and damnation.
“This is your life, Tom.” Her voice was quiet; her tears were all gone now. “This is your work. A hollow, roofless, empty building. Money used for pointless things. A front door for you to enter. A back door for your lover to leave. Nothing inside. A gingerbread house.”
Still holding the black candle aloft, she reached for the tube with her free hand. One last blob of icing, sprayed into the center of the pentagram.
She laid down the tube and reached into the bowl again. She removed a tiny cookie, shaped like a human figure.
“And this, Tom,” she whispered, “is you. A Gingerbread Man.”
And she attached it in the center of the pentagram, pressing deep into the icing.
And she blew the candle out.
Smoke coiled up from the candle, making Sarah’s nose itch. She laid it down on the counter, where it rolled about, and waved the smoke away.
