Baker's Apprentice

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  British Columbia resembles nothing so much as one of those folding strings of postcards, twisting and winding and snagging the traveler in its gorgeous panoramas. But he drives almost without seeing, up Highway 99 through the spectacular alpine scenery of Garibaldi Provincial Park, past the blue, glacial lakes, the shores crowded with fir and spruce, the meadows still patched with snow.

  He thinks about stopping in Whistler for lunch, but it reminds him too much of Vail, with its fake-Swiss-village architecture and expensive shops. The road is good, and the sun’s still shining at eight-thirty P.M. when he pulls into a campground just outside of Lillooet. In the cluttered office, he pays for a tent site.

  “Right on the river,” the jovial host tells him. “Place is pretty much yours tonight. By the way, the pool’s heated, if you’re so inclined.”

  He sets up the tent and wanders around the campground, which is all but deserted this early in the season. “Campground” seems somewhat of a misnomer—at least, it’s not his idea of camping. RV hookups with barbecue grills, hot showers, and a laundromat. Heated swimming pool and golf course, complete with electric carts.

  Dinner is vegetable-barley soup—surprisingly good—in a tiny café near the campground.

  The waitress doesn’t have a name tag. She’s sullen and tired looking and she doesn’t do that Hi, my name is Molly and I’ll be your server tonight thing. It’s not that kind of place. She’s a waitress, not a server. She’d probably be suspicious of any stranger who wandered in out of the rain showing an interest in her name. An interest in anything other than tonight’s special, for that matter. But he hears one of the other waitresses call her Molly.

  She stands beside his table, tapping the point of her pencil against the order pad, while he looks at the menu. Her mousy hair hangs in limp strings around her pale, tight face.

  “How’s the soup?” he asks.

  “About the same as it was yesterday.”

  He tries not to laugh. “Okay. I’ll have that.”

  When she sets the bowl down, he says, “Could I have some more water?”

  The heel of her jogging shoe squeaks with her abrupt turn. She doesn’t come back with the water pitcher and a basket of bread until he’s about half finished. Her eyes are red.

  He asks, “Are you okay?”

  In answer, she rips the check off her pad and slaps it down next to his water glass. “You can pay up front.” She disappears into the kitchen. He fishes the little notepad out of his jacket, takes a pen from his shirt pocket, and writes.

  Molly the waitress. Maybe her feet hurt. Or her shoulders. Or maybe it’s not physical at all. Maybe her husband drinks or her kid’s in trouble at school or her mother’s sick. And when she gets home tonight she still has to deal with it—whatever it is. No matter how tired she is or how sad, she still has to make dinner for somebody, clean up the house, do a load of laundry.

  He orders coffee from the other waitress, who has vampire-black hair and a red slash for a mouth. Her fingernails are like talons; he can’t imagine how she can work. When he hands her the check so she can add the coffee, her smile shows lipstick caked on her front teeth.

  “Don’t worry, I remember.” She laughs. “Not like I got any other customers to worry about.” She looks at the table. “You want me to clear this stuff?”

  “Not yet.” They both know he’ll be wrapping the bread in a napkin and taking it with him. It cost more than he anticipated to get the Elky road ready and then there was the weekend on Orcas. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have spent so much on dinner and wine, all of which Wyn correctly suspected was at least partly a crumb tossed to silence his noisy conscience.

  He stuffs the bread in his jacket pocket and walks out.

  By Friday morning the front has caught up with him. It’s a light drizzle while he’s collapsing the tent and loading the truck, but it’s coming down steadily by the time he pours out the coffee dregs, persuades the engine to turn over, and pulls out of the campground, heading north. He pops in another tape. The Doors. Jim Morrison singing “L.A. Woman.” Not his favorite group, but he does like this one. It makes him think of the only L.A. Woman he knows, sound asleep by now in a misty Seattle morning.

  Twenty minutes later the rain is more like a solid wall than a curtain and the wipers can’t begin to keep up with it. He thinks about pulling over, waiting it out, but while he’s thinking, he keeps driving, peering into the mist, gripping the cold blue steering wheel.

  His mind blanks out, and the memory just shows up, uninvited, like the black-sheep cousin at a family reunion.

  Eight years old. The weekly trip to the city for allergy shots. Going in on the train, the hot, stale-smelling cars that rocked to their own haphazard rhythm, the grimy seats, the crumpled wax-paper cups on the floor, their contents spilled and drying, sticking to the bottoms of his shoes. He sat riveted to the window, watching the trees and houses, bridges and roads flash past. He figured out how to slow them down and look at each thing individually or speed them up into a blur of green and gray fusing together, all depending on the angle of his gaze.

  He hated being taken out of school early on Thursdays, hated missing ball games, hated the shots, but Thursday became the high point of the week, the only time Suzanne was his alone. Kevin had wreaked havoc in the waiting room so many times, the doctor had politely suggested he be left at home.

  The needle always made a bruise on his arm. Sometimes there was a reaction. His bicep would swell up, hot and tender and itchy. On the train coming home, she’d touch the swelling with her always cold fingers to see if it had gone down or if he’d have to take an antihistamine. Kevin demonstrated an uncanny intuition for the location of the injection, and made it a point to aim a brotherly punch or two on that exact spot.

  He’d learned quickly not to favor the sore arm.

  Prince George is like the town in cowboy movies where the wagon train gets outfitted for the trek west. It’s full of RVs and campers loading up with food, water, fuel, last-minute items like kindling axes, extra batteries, camp shovels, the latest insect repellent. A salesman at the sporting-goods store sells him a bear banger—looks like a fountain pen, sounds like a high-powered rifle, makes smoke, guaranteed to make a bear turn tail. He has the uneasy feeling that if it doesn’t work, most users don’t make it back to argue about the guarantee.

  The same salesman sends him to a local hardware store to buy quarter-inch mesh rabbit wire to screen the radiator from the thousands of bugs that make their home in the north, and clear plastic to duct-tape over the headlights. It all seems vaguely surreal, but he doesn’t doubt the necessity of these things.

  The rest of British Columbia is a beautiful blur. He feels slightly foolish, driving past some of the most spectacular scenery in the world without stopping. Some vague sense of urgency keeps his foot on the gas pedal, not racing, but pushing on doggedly toward his destination—as if he knew what it was.

  At Liard Hot Springs he crosses into the Yukon Territory and picks up the Alaska Highway, following it to Whitehorse, only marginally aware of the changing landscape. The sky opens out now; braided rivers wander through valleys that stretch between horizons, fenced off by distant blue mountains.

  The highway is buckled and cracked from frost heave, and in places the pavement is completely washed or scraped clean, leaving only the gravel roadbed and sizable potholes filled with water.

  It’s fording one of these, about fifty kilometers north of Carmacks, under a sky heavy with clouds, that he hears the sickening crack as something hard and unforgiving strikes the underbelly of the El Camino. He’s not inclined to stop till he clears the current obstacle course, and by then, he can feel that something is definitely wrong. The truck is straining and slowing. A glance in the rearview mirror shows a thin plume of black smoke trailing him.

  He pulls over and turns off the engine. When he gets out, the first drops of rain spatter on his face and the windshield.

  Welcome to the Yukon Territory
. He tries to think of everything he associates with the Yukon up to this point; it’s a vague pastiche of snow, aurora borealis, Sergeant Preston, grizzled miners panning for gold, and dance-hall girls and poker games in smoky saloons.

  The first glimpse of Beaverton doesn’t bear much resemblance to that picture. It’s just a collection of mostly gray and brown buildings, nestled in the bend of a big, muddy, green river, with a range of lavender-gray mountains in the distance. Lining the road into town are a couple of motels that look like relics of better days, a boat and canoe rental, and the corrugated metal and cement building where the tow truck turns off the highway. The sign says simply GARAGE.

  The driver, Ian Johnstone, pulls a ragged pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jumpsuit and sticks one in his mouth but doesn’t light it. “Trying to quit,” he explains. “I’ll have a look at ’er and let you know.”

  “Should I call you?”

  Ian shrugs. “I’ll find you.”

  With a last backward glance at the Elky, Mac pulls his bag out of the back and walks across the road to the Gold Rush Motel.

  The woman perched like a delicate bird on the stool next to him has to be at least eighty years old. The skin of her face is crazed, like a clay pot excavated from some archeological dig. Her hair is thick and white, tied back with a black ribbon. She’s the only woman in the place not wearing jeans and flannel. The skirt of her blue wool dress drapes gracefully around her legs, to the ankles, and she holds her beer glass in white-gloved hands.

  She smiles at him. “I’m Pearl May Austen.” Her voice carries the remnants of a British accent.

  He returns the smile. “Mac McLeod.”

  “Welcome to Beaverton, Mr. McLeod. We don’t see many visitors this early in the season. May I ask the nature of your visit?”

  He turns on his stool to face her, resting his elbow on the bar. Her eyes are a startling, deep blue, almost lavender, her nose straight and long, her mouth firm.

  “I’m not sure about the nature of my visit, except that it’s going to be longer than I planned. My truck seems to need a new transmission.”

  She inclines her head, an odd gesture of long-extinct graciousness. “How unfortunate. Is Ian looking after that for you?”

  “Right.”

  “That, at least, is fortunate. He’s one of the finest auto mechanics of my acquaintance.”

  He wonders just how many auto mechanics her acquaintance includes.

  “Where were you heading? Dawson?”

  “Alaska.”

  “Ah, the last, best place. And what were you planning to do there?”

  “Actually, my plans are somewhat…fluid at the moment. Find a job, I guess.”

  “Not one of those dangerous jobs on the fishing boats, I hope.”

  “No, something more sedate, I think. Like tending bar.”

  She raises one sparse gray eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.

  “Are you English?” he asks.

  Her laugh is a dry, pleasant sound that makes him think of leaves crunching underfoot, New York in the fall.

  “Only by descent. I was born and reared right here in Beaverton. Of course, my mother was a terrible snob and insisted I go to London to school, but other than those ten dreadful years, I haven’t moved around at all, and I plan to die right here in Beaverton, hopefully on this very bar stool. Where is your home, Mr. McLeod?”

  “Seattle.”

  “My family has been in this area since 1896. A colorful bunch, but I won’t bore you with details.” The almost imperceptible movement of her hand brings the bartender, a tall, sandy-haired guy with an easy grin. “Chris, Mr. McLeod’s glass is empty. Please bring him whatever he’s drinking. My tab.”

  Mac’s already reaching for his wallet. “Thanks, but I’m not in the habit of letting ladies buy my beer.” He holds out a five to the bartender, but he shakes his head.

  “Like to help you out, man, but she’s my boss.”

  He laughs. “You own the Beaver Tail?”

  “I do. As did my mother before me. So put your money away, Mr. McLeod.”

  “Mac. And thanks.” The bartender sets a beer in front of him on a clean napkin. “How did your mother end up owning a saloon?”

  “She was a seamstress by trade, but she won the Beaver Tail in a poker game and decided that being a saloon owner would be a more interesting occupation.”

  “I expect it was.”

  She nods. “Oh, yes indeed. I could tell you stories…” She takes a dainty sip of her beer. “What did Ian tell you about fixing your truck?”

  “He said the closest place to get a transmission is Whitehorse. If they have what we need. If not there, he’ll try Vancouver.”

  “Either way, it appears you’ll be with us for a while. Have you given any thought to accommodations in Beaverton?”

  He pictures the barren, drafty motel room across from Ian’s garage. The flimsy gold chenille bedspread, the curtains that feel more like paper than cloth. “I’m at the Gold Rush.”

  “An utterly ghastly place.”

  “True, but it’s cheap. And I’ve slept in much worse and lived to tell the tale.”

  “It would please me very much if you would come and stay in my guest house.”

  “That’s kind of you, but—”

  “I do hate that word. ‘Kind.’ It’s rather simpering, milquetoastish, don’t you think? Besides, kindness has nothing whatsoever to do with my offer. I’ve some things around the place that need doing, and if you insist on working for a living, you can take them on in exchange for a place to sleep till your truck is ready.”

  He hesitates.

  “Guest house is really a euphemism, the place is no more than a bunkhouse, but it’s got a wood stove, and you’ll be warm and dry. Please do come. You can bring your things over in the morning.”

  “Miss Austen—”

  “If I’m to call you Mac, you must call me Pearl. Especially if you’re staying under my roof.”

  The bartender grins. “You might as well give up, man. There’s no denying Pearl May once she makes up her mind to something.”

  Pearl May Austen’s house is a large, plain, two-story white box at the end of Third Street. A white picket fence in need of repair and re-painting is all that divides the gravel yard from the gravel road that leads to it. Up close he can see that the house could use painting as well. The two second-story windows are set off by black shutters hanging crookedly, and the front door is painted red, giving the house the look of a menacing clown face.

  He sets his bag down on the wooden stoop, but before he can knock, the door opens and a little boy with matted brown hair and dark, round eyes gazes up at him watchfully. Five, maybe six years old. His green-and-yellow-striped T-shirt boasts a large, sticky-looking spot, and his brown corduroy pants have slipped down from his narrow waist, causing the cuffs to pile up on top of his sneakers. He stares at Mac and chews his index finger.

  Mac makes a stab at communication. “Hi.”

  More staring and chewing.

  “Is Pearl May home?”

  From somewhere inside the house, a woman’s voice. “Emm? Emmett? Where are you? You didn’t finish your sandwich.” Footsteps. “What are you doing? Your pants are falling—” As she takes his arm she notices Mac and the half smile on her face disappears. She straightens up, regarding him with the same dark eyes, free hand tugging at her white blouse.

  “Yes?”

  “I was looking for Pearl May.”

  “She’s not home.”

  “I’m Mac McLeod. She offered to let me stay in the bunkhouse while my truck’s—”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She looks at the sky, and then back at him, the glare hardening into place. “You’d think we were running a damn hotel.”

  “This looks like a bad time.” He picks up his duffle bag. “I can come back later.”

  “Wait a second.” She steps back inside and shuts the door in his face. When the door opens again, she hands him a stack of sheets and t
owels with a paper-wrapped bar of soap and a key on top. “Around back. Follow the path.” She jerks her head to the left and shuts the door, leaving him to pick his way between a couple of bikes and a rusted metal wagon that reminds him of one he had when he was a kid. He winds through a backyard, rampant with wild grasses. A potting bench sags beside a small greenhouse with filthy windows.

  The bunkhouse is a small log structure nearly hidden by scrub and tall grass, about fifty yards from the house, on a high bank overlooking a creek. The door’s not locked. It’s not even completely closed. He toes it open with his boot.

  The dim interior is dominated by a huge black stove on an apron of bricks set into a rough plank floor that looks freshly mopped. The rest of the furnishings consist of two narrow beds piled with wool blankets and pillows, a small wooden table, two chairs, and a rustic hutch full of dishes and cups. In the corner is a large sink with a red-handled pump. The only light comes from two windows with wavy glass panes. Cozy for one. He can’t imagine sharing it.

  He sets his bag on the bed, and is starting to unzip it when there’s a polite knock and the door swings open.

  “It isn’t Buckingham Palace, but I hope you find it satisfactory.” Pearl May hefts a large metal can with a spout onto the table. “Kerosene,” she says. “Lamps are in the bathroom.”

  “The bathroom,” he repeats, looking around.

  “Here.” She walks over to a faded green curtain, and pulls it aside dramatically to reveal a large, white soaking tub in a closet-size niche. She smiles, crinkling her eyes even more than they were before. “The privy is about twenty yards east.”

  She shows him the wire basket on a rope to lower perishables down into the chilly creek water. She demonstrates the firebox and vents on the hulking black stove, how to empty the ash compartment, points him toward the woodshed.

  “You’ll probably not be cooking many gourmet meals while you’re here, but I think you’ll find this old thing a joy to use. Once you get used to it.”