Baker's Apprentice

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  It’s been somewhat longer than a month or two.

  He sets the note aside and stares at the first page, letting it slip out of focus, seeing only the shapes of white space between the lines, words blurring into gathered bundles of black keystrokes. It comes back to him—the day last August when he finished the draft at the cottage on Orcas Island.

  He rolled the last sheet out of the old Smith Corona portable in a rush of elation and relief spiked with exhaustion. It was 10:30 in the morning.

  He spent the rest of the day wandering around in a fog, walking into a room and forgetting what he’d come for. He tried to finish building the shelving in the storage shed, but the nervous energy whirring through him made concentration impossible and half his measurements were off.

  He took a walk in the woods with Minnie, the yellow mutt that hung out at the place all summer, and found himself striding faster and faster, finally breaking into a trot, then a full run, arms swinging, feet pounding, wanting to shout just for the sound of it.

  And all at once, a wall of melancholy stopped him. A sense of loss. It was over. The book was finished.

  Now he grimaces at his own naïveté.

  He arranges the pens and pencils in a row according to height. Then rearranges them by color. Then he picks up the one on the end, moves it to the middle, disrupting the pattern. He hooks the rubber bands, one by one, over his thumb and forefinger and shoots them at the pump handle. He goes to retrieve them.

  His eyes keep wandering to the window, the sun’s long rays on the golden seed heads of the wild grasses. He thinks about Pearl May’s birthday party, in full swing down in the meadow. About Foster. About Nora and Chris. Bernie and Emmett. He slouches in the chair, one arm draped over the back, chewing on the cap of the pen. Maybe the problem is that this book’s not ready to see the light of day. Maybe the problem is, it never will be.

  He exhales softly, stacks the pages neatly, Steve’s note going on top. He winds the rubber bands around the pile, two horizontally, one vertically, slides it back into the envelope. He opens his notebook, takes the cap off the pen.

  At eighty-five she’s still splitting kindling, driving her own boat, running a saloon, and masterminding her own birthday party—an intimate gathering of three hundred souls in a meadow overlooking the icy, green Yukon River…

  fifteen

  Wyn

  Just when you thought it was safe…

  Linda LaGardia walks into the bakery at seven-fifteen A.M., bristling with attitude. I haven’t seen her since she no showed at her own retirement party some six months ago, and it’s a nasty surprise, even though I knew she was back from Idaho. Misha told me she’s been in a few times to buy bread—or should I say, pick up bread. Ellen insists on giving her a loaf whenever she stops by.

  “I can’t begrudge her a loaf of bread every now and then,” Ellen said. “It’s not like she has a pension or anything. I feel bad for her.”

  “It’s hard for me to feel bad for someone who thinks of the world as her litter box.”

  This morning, I’m the recipient of a condescending smirk, and then she turns her attention to Ellen. “I got your message,” she says.

  I shoot my partner an alarmed look. “What message?”

  She ignores me. “So what do you think?” she asks Linda.

  “Well, I might be interested. Depends on the pay.”

  I put my hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “What’s going on here?”

  “Linda’s going to fill in for you while you’re on vacation,” Ellen says brightly.

  “What?”

  Without speaking a word, Linda manages to clearly convey her contempt for any bread baker who needs a vacation after only two years. “I didn’t say I’d do it. I said I might be interested if the pay’s right.”

  Ellen smiles sweetly. “You’ll be paid at the same rate you were earning when you left, of course.”

  “Ellen—” I begin, but she taps my foot with hers.

  “How long you want me for?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Her face screws up in concentration; with a corncob pipe, she’d be a dead ringer for Popeye. “Who’s working with me?”

  “Tyler.”

  Her trademark snort. “Since when does she make bread?”

  Ellen smiles again. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how much she’s learned.”

  “Oh, all right. I suppose I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you so much, Linda. It’ll be great to have you back.”

  My gag reflex kicks in.

  “You gonna call me about the dates?”

  “Just as soon as Wyn gets her plane reservations booked.”

  “Where’s Miss Designer Pants jettin’ off to?” she asks Ellen—like I’m not even there.

  I give her a teeth-gritted smile. “Cleveland.”

  She frowns. “What the hell for?”

  “I’m going to France, Linda.”

  Another snort. “Figures.” Then I’m dismissed. She turns to Ellen. “Got any cheese bread?”

  When she exits, leaving the bell over the door jingling manically, Ellen bursts out laughing. “You two.”

  “Us two?”

  “I think you must have been mother and daughter in a former life.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, don’t complain. You got your three weeks, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and I appreciate it. I just hope Tyler doesn’t quit.”

  She pats my arm. “Tyler’s handled a lot of shit in her young life. Linda won’t faze her.”

  Tuesday night when I let myself in the back door, the lights are on and the Ramones are blasting out of the boom box.

  “Tyler?” I hang my denim jacket on a hook by the door. She must be in the storeroom. When I go over to turn down Joey Ramone singing his glue-sniffing song, I see the bread. A fat, dark round with a beautifully glistening slashed crust sits on the table. Squaw bread.

  I call her again and then turn to find her standing practically in my shadow. “So…it looks good. In fact, it looks great. Have you tried it?”

  “Not yet.” She rakes a hand through her blue hair. “I wanted to try it with you.”

  I pick up the loaf. It has a lovely weight, and a thwack on the bottom produces just the right hollow sound. My nose picks up the caramel whiff of molasses and roasted grains. “You want to do the honors?” I hold it out to her and she takes it. She wraps her hands around the loaf and holds it for a second as if it were still warm, then she tears off a chunk and passes it to me.

  I bite off a piece and chew it slowly. It has a good balance of sweet and salt, and a smooth, nutty flavor. The crust is slightly chewy and the crumb is tender, but not too soft.

  “Tyler, this is great.” I try not to sound too surprised. “I hope you wrote down the recipe.”

  She rolls her eyes in response and digs into her back pocket, holding out a piece of yellow legal pad with handwriting that’s poignantly reminiscent of her mother’s. I smile at the title, but I don’t say anything.

  Tyler’s Indian Maiden Bread

  2 cups water

  1/3 cup oil

  ¼ cup molasses

  ½ cup raisins

  5 tablespoons brown sugar

  2 packages dry yeast

  ½ cup warm water

  2½ cups unbleached all-purpose flour

  2½ cups whole wheat flour

  1 cup rye flour

  2½ teaspoons salt

  ½ cup cornmeal

  ½ cup oat flour

  Cornmeal for dusting

  Combine the water, oil, molasses, raisins, and brown sugar in a blender and liquefy. Soften the yeast in the warm water. Sift together 1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour, 2 cups whole wheat flour, the 1 cup rye flour, and the salt in large bowl. Add the molasses and yeast mixtures. Beat at medium speed until smooth, 2 minutes. Gradually stir in enough of the remaining flours to make a soft dough that leaves the sides of the bowl. Remember, the moisture content of various flou
rs can vary widely. You may not need all the flour called for. Turn the dough out onto a floured surface and knead until smooth and satiny, 10 to 12 minutes. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl and turn to oil entire surface. Cover and let rise until doubled, about 1½ hours. Punch down and let rest 10 minutes. Divide into 4 round loaves and place on cookie sheets covered with parchment paper sprinkled with cornmeal. Cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled, 1 hour. Bake at 375°F for 30 to 35 minutes.

  “This is interesting—the part about pureeing the raisins. I guess that’s what makes it so moist without being squishy. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Where’d you get the idea?”

  She looks slightly abashed. “I read it in one of those baking books Ellen has. About cakes. I guess that’s cheating.”

  I laugh. “That’s not cheating. You learned something new and then you used the knowledge to solve a problem. That’s called becoming a professional baker. I’m proud of you.”

  Her expression is equal parts wistful and wary, and when she says, “You are?” the voice doesn’t even sound like her own.

  The rest of my vacation plan seems to fall into place with astonishing swiftness. I call Sylvie Guillaume, although it’s Sylvie Herschel now. She’s married to an architect and has two kids, but she still lives in Toulouse, only a few blocks from her brother and mother. We’ve exchanged Christmas cards over the years, so she’s not hard to track down, and seems genuinely delighted to hear from me. She’s the go between, since Jean-Marc’s English has always been patchy and my French is pretty rusty. She calls me back a few days later to say that Jean-Marc will be pleased to welcome me back to the Boulangerie du Pont.

  “He is married, you know.”

  “No! Finally? Your mother must be pleased.”

  “Bien sûr. They have a little boy—so serious, just like my brother—and Annette, his wife, she runs the shop. Wynter, where will you stay?”

  “I’ll find a pension near—”

  “Non, non, non. Absolutement pas! You will stay with me. We have plenty of room, and it will be such great times, like before.”

  I laugh. “Oui. Comme ça, mais plus ancienne.”

  “I cannot wait to see you.”

  I book the flights, a room at Hôtel de Lutèce, in deference to CM’s wish to stay on the Île St.-Louis, and ten days later, the TGV to Toulouse and the return. It’s going to be hideously expensive to stay in Paris for ten days, but this is something CM and I have talked about doing since we were in high school.

  We drink champagne, read travel guides, and practice our French on each other, and then, the last week of August, she leaves for London. There’s nothing left for me to do but pack. Which for me means beginning with everything I own, and then taking away a few pieces every day. It’s agonizing. After all, it could still be warm, or they might get a sudden cold snap. And what if it rains?

  Three days before D day, I’m still moving things from the closet to the bed, to the couch, and back to the closet. So far all I’m sure of is underwear. And it’s while I’m playing musical clothes that thoughts of Mac come flooding into my mind, overwhelming me, obliterating my anticipation of this trip. It’s utterly weird. Why now? I know he won’t be back by Labor Day. I never really thought he would. I’m not even certain he’ll be back at all. Maybe he’s gone to Alaska by now. There’s not much time left to do anything; maybe he’ll stay through the winter. Maybe he’ll decide he likes it so much he won’t ever leave.

  I can see him doing that. Like that night in the café on Orcas.

  I could live here. That’s exactly what he said. He could say it again.

  Maybe he’ll meet a woman. Somebody strong and brave and independent. Not demanding and emotional and bossy. I sit down on the futon, pushing a stack of sweaters out of the way, and take his last letter out of the mail basket. It was written over a month ago.

  Dear Wyn,

  Foster has appointed (or anointed) himself the official town greeter. Every day he dresses up in a beaver costume and patrols the sidewalks, snaring unwary travelers and insisting that they take his picture.

  When he’s not out greeting his public, he’s at the Beaver Tail, where he wanders around talking to the pictures on the walls, most of which are the founding fathers (and mothers) of the community.

  More about Foster:

  He’s short, pale, and skinny, with a beak nose. He’s got a lot of soft, fuzzy red hair and a beard that looks like he trims it with hedge clippers. I noticed the first time I saw him that he’d shaved about a two-inch-square patch on the top of his head.

  Chris told me Foster showed up in town about five years ago. Nobody knows him by anything but Foster, and they have no idea where he came from. He has a little house about a mile from town, and money doesn’t seem to be a problem.

  If you ask about his ad in the paper, he’ll tell you he needs this equipment in order to return to the Future, where he used to live, until a woman cult leader who feared he was becoming too powerful had him kidnapped and implanted a chip in his brain that would enable her to read his mind. During the surgery something went awry, and he was teletransported back to the twentieth century. He claims to have fought in Vietnam. Or maybe he just says that to needle Chris. But in case he finds the time-travel equipment, he keeps the patch shaved on his head in order to facilitate the chip removal.

  People like Foster have always intrigued me because of the totality of their “otherness.” He (obviously) does not inhabit the same world that you and I do. I think he’s quite aware that most people consider him mad, and he simply doesn’t care. Think what it must be like to be so certain of your own reality.

  Occasionally I wonder if my father wasn’t like that in his own way. He apparently did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, regardless of anyone else’s opinion. On the other hand, maybe he was just a self-absorbed bastard.

  Another memory. One of the last. I was twelve, Kevin was fourteen. He was supposed to take us sailing on a Saturday, and Kevin got sick. Suzanne just assumed that if Kevin couldn’t go, no one would go. When she saw us getting ready to leave, she pitched a fit, but we went anyway. It was a perfect day for sailing. Sunny, cool, with a good, stiff breeze. He’d borrowed a friend’s little day sailer, and that thing just flew over the water—at least it seemed that way to me.

  He showed me how to cast off, let me raise the sail, held my hand under his on the tiller so I could understand how to steer the boat, showed me how to duck down when we came about…and when we got back, and we were cleaning up the boat, he said, “I want you to remember this, Matt.”

  Being a pretty literal kid, I assumed he meant the boat-handling stuff, and always cleaning up the boat when you were through. Three months later he was dead. For years I wondered if he was trying to tell me something. Did he have a premonition? Was he planning to leave Suzanne? Or did he just want me to remember how to take care of a boat? I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve always remembered the day, just like he wanted.

  Mac

  Dorian comes suddenly to life, startling me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to having a phone that quacks. Some really stupid, needy part of me wants it to be Mac.

  A man’s voice says, “Is this Wynter Morrison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Morrison, this is Sergeant LeFevre, Seattle police. I’m calling for a Ms. Tyler Adler.”

  My stomach turns over. Now what is she into? “She’s not here. I mean, she doesn’t live here.” Then it dawns on me what he means. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “Ms. Adler is here at the station. She gave us your name to call as her closest relative. I wonder if you might come down to the station and take her home.”

  “Is she all right? Why is she there?”

  “Ms. Adler’s roommate apparently died suddenly.” Apparently? “She discovered his body, and it’s been very upsetting—”

  “His? Oh God. Barton?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Barton Tullis. Ms. Adler doesn’t wa
nt to go back to the house. Can you make arrangements to—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Where do I go?”

  “It’s the East Precinct, Twelfth and Pine, two blocks east of Broadway. Are you familiar with the area?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I hang up.

  I see Barton’s funny face, his infectious grin, his Hawaiian shirts. How can he be dead? I wipe my damp, shaky hand on my sweatpants and dial the bakery. When Ellen answers I stammer through an explanation. “CM’s car’s in the shop. Can I use your car to go get her?”

  “I’ll come pick you up.”

  When I get in the car, she says, “I can’t believe it.”

  We drive a few blocks in silence, both of us staring straight ahead. Then she asks, “How did he…?”

  “I don’t know. The guy said he ‘apparently died suddenly.’ I was too blown away to even ask.”

  “Tyler must be starting to feel like she screwed up big time in a former life. First her mother bails. Then Tate takes off for Wyoming. Now Barton’s dead.”

  She parks on the street and we run up the steps of the ugly fifties-style flattop that houses the precinct offices. The air inside is cold and stale, with a green-blue cast from the fluorescent lights. Ellen’s already talking to the desk sergeant, explaining who we are, asking where we should go. He picks up a phone and dials, speaks briefly, tells us to have a seat.