Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  Bobby said, “That was weird.”

  “What was?” Albert lit a cigarette.

  “She always like that?”

  “Who?” His mind was still on Jayne, standing there with the baby in her arms, her breast exposed. It was a stupid colour for a bra. It was a hooker’s colour.

  “Gladys.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she was kinda rough on her kid, wasn’t she? I mean, slamming him up on the sink like that. He’s only four. Can’t weigh more than thirty pounds.”

  “What do you think’s gonna happen to that money?”

  “Take the kid to emergency I guess.”

  “That money’s going to go on more beer and a pizza and maybe a bottle of fucking Thunderbird and whatever else Gladys can get for herself. That kid’s not going to any hospital. Jesus, you’re such a fucking innocent.” Albert started the engine and pulled out into the street. There were no streetlights and beyond the headlights, the shacks looked sinister.

  Bobby huffed and pulled out a cigarette of his own. “So why’d you give them money, then?”

  This was a good question. And one to which Albert had no answer. Why had he given the money? Because he wanted to look good to Jayne? No, she wasn’t worth it, sleeping with a Corkum and wearing clothes like that. She was never the class he thought she might have been. She was just like Bobby’s mother. In his mind, Jake’s eyes appeared, staring into his, and filling up like some sort of darkly enchanted pool that would never empty. “I don’t know. Must have been the grass.”

  “Naw, I don’t think so,” said Bobby.

  Albert looked at Bobby, who smiled as though he’d just proved some point. “Gladys does what she can. You don’t know shit about bad mothers,” he said.

  “I don’t know shit?” Bobby pulled his chin back in disbelief. “You can’t say that to me. Not now.”

  “Get over it. One day I just might show you what bad mothers can do.”

  “Like yours?” Bobby asked in a quiet voice. “That’s whacked, man. Whacked.”

  “You have no fucking idea,” said Albert. He was angry then, and took the curve too fast, making the tires squeal. It occurred to him he really could take Bobby up the mountain one day, like a sort of field trip to the nightmare zoo. Give him an education so complete he’d run back home and study hard, go to college, and be a fucking doctor himself so he could take care of all the little Jakes in the world to his heart’s content. Albert could do that, and maybe he would. Might be the best thing.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dorothy muttered as she drove to the Evanses’ house. She was doing something so against her nature that her underarms would doubtless bare the dark evidence of her nervousness. The rich, sweetish aroma of the chicken and prune casserole resting on the back seat perfumed the car. The casserole dish sat next to a cardboard box packed with a salad, a loaf of crusty bread and some strawberries. It was nearly six thirty and the light shone in long blinding slats near the horizon, which made Dorothy squint as she turned onto Joshua Road. She remembered when Bob Evans, Tom’s father, had built the first house out here when it was still all farmland. Now there were other houses, small houses constructed with care by people who usually built things for other people and who had obviously delighted in bringing their artisanship home for the ones they loved. However, they had been mostly sold and sometimes sold again. They were on large lots, all of them, and one day someone was going to come along and buy these houses, bulldoze them and put up behemoths of dubious taste and inferior workmanship. It was happening all over, these nouveau developments full of people who believed they couldn’t have a baby unless they provided little junior with a bathroom of his own and fed him in a kitchen the size of half the original house—as though the size of a house was an indicator of how much happiness it could hold.

  It was easy to tell which two houses, other than Tom’s, retained the original owners: a pair of neat Cape Cods next to each other. The Doyles and the Millers, if Dorothy remembered correctly. The paint on each house was fresh, one bright yellow, the other white with green shutters, the flower beds tended, the walkways weed-free, the porch steps straight and true. The rest were at various stages of slow decline. Renters occupied at least two, she knew from town gossip, and they were the easiest to identify—a broken pane of glass replaced with plywood, a sheet tacked over a window rather than curtains, dandelions gone to seed everywhere, cheap plastic toys strewn about the lawn: a bright blue pail, a doll with only one leg, a tricycle, a leaky plastic pool. You just couldn’t count on people to have pride anymore, she thought. Had no one taught them decay set in before you knew it and if you didn’t hold it off with a firm hand it would overtake you? You had to keep your back straight and your stride brisk.

  Which brought her back to Tom Evans. Tom was slouching, slipping into a posture from which it was quite possible he would not recover. Dorothy frowned. If it was just Tom, well, she’d leave him to it. Like most everything, it was really none of her business. But it was not just Tom. It was Ivy and Bobby as well. Something needed to be done and, alas, it appeared Tom was not up to doing it. It was all both vexing and somewhat embarrassing. She had come home just after five, ready for a little gardening, a glass of wine even, a salmon dinner, and a book by Vita Sackville-West she had not read before. And there it was: the blinking light on her answering machine.

  Dorothy did not get many messages on her machine—an antiquated contraption that depended on overused cassettes—and the ones she did were generally requests to either donate money to a cause she did not support, or Mabel, inviting her to church again. Apparently, Dorothy was now on a prayer list.

  She was, she had to admit, terribly worried when she heard Ivy’s voice on the phone. The girl rarely called, preferring, sensibly, to drop by the store if she wanted to visit. Hello, Mrs. Carlisle. It’s Ivy. I’m okay. I just wanted to say hello, I guess. Bye. Simple enough words, but the tone was alarming. The child sounded on the verge of tears, the tremble and crack in her voice unmistakable. Dorothy had sat down for a few seconds, trying to determine if there was any way she might avoid calling her. Then, shamed, she slapped the back of her own hand and picked up the phone.

  Ivy answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Ivy, dear, it’s Mrs. Carlisle.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ivy, do not be coy. It’s clear something is wrong and you want to tell me what it is or you wouldn’t have called me.”

  “Dad’s in his room.”

  “Can you ask him to come to the phone, please?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is he sick?”

  There was a pause of significant length.

  “No,” said Ivy, but the meaning was unclear.

  It was impossible not to wonder if Tom Evans was drunk. Dorothy seemed to speak into a great black stretch of space, a sheer-sided, pitch-shadowed crevasse between the phone she held and the one in Ivy’s hand.

  “Is Bobby there?”

  “No. He was here, but he’s gone.”

  “I see,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”

  Again, the pause was significant.

  “Mrs. Carlisle?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I was going to make grilled cheese, but we don’t have any bread.” The words came out in a rush, and Dorothy sensed the obstacle of guilt Ivy had had to overcome to speak them. Saying something like this was like telling a secret, wasn’t it? A family secret. Dorothy’s chest constricted and her lips compressed. She thought how satisfying it would be to throw a bucket of cold water in Tom Evans’s face.

  “Ivy,” she said, rather slowly, for she had no idea what she might be about to say, “I’m so happy you called me. Really, dear, it’s such
a coincidence.” Luckily, she was one of those women who always made double the recipe of everything and froze meals so she didn’t have to cook every night. “I’m sitting here, surrounded by—” she mentally scanned what she had in her freezer “—chicken and prunes. I know that sounds like an odd combination, but it’s actually very good, and there are olives in it. Do you like olives?”

  “I like green ones.”

  “Perfect, then, because these are green olives, and I’ve made far too much, as I always do, and I wonder if you would mind if I popped in with it? I can’t think what got into me, making all this. Do you think you would like that? You’d be doing me such a great favour. Isn’t it wonderful the way these things work out sometimes? What do you say?” There was another silence on the phone during which Dorothy imagined Ivy’s puckered brow, imagined her tapping her front tooth with her thumb as she did when trying to figure something out. “Really, dear, just say yes and you would make me very happy.”

  “Okay,” Ivy said, her voice soft as feathers.

  And so here she was, driving up Joshua Street, turning into the Evanses’ driveway with enough food to feed six people. Thank God for microwaves. The headlights scanned the small house. Ivy stood at the living room window, her hand on the head of the dog, whose paws rested on the sill. A moment later the front door opened and the dog bounded out, Ivy following. Her hair was pulled into a braid from which tendrils escaped, and she wore a white dress with pink flowers on it, which was slightly too small. Ivy pulled at the armholes with her thumbs. Dorothy could not help but wonder if she had put it on after she had called, dressing up for a dinner guest.

  “Rascal, come on,” Ivy said to the dog, “Don’t jump. Don’t jump.”

  Dorothy stepped out of the car and petted the dog, which did not jump, but wiggled and whined and seemed to be smiling at her. “Good boy,” she said, and then she hugged Ivy. The child clung to her for a moment and then stiffened, stepping away.

  “I didn’t tell Dad you were coming,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at the dark window above the front door, which Dorothy presumed was her father’s bedroom.

  “That’s perfect, dear! It will be a surprise then, won’t it? And I wonder, well, I know it was your idea to call me, but do you think we could say I just took it upon myself to come by? I so rarely get the opportunity to do anything so spontaneous, and I’m rather sorry I didn’t think of it myself, truthfully. Would you mind very much if I took the credit?”

  “I’m not sure Dad’s going to be, well, he won’t be mad at you, but . . .”

  “Oh, he won’t be mad at me!” said Dorothy, and she noted Ivy rubbed the Boy Scout whistle hanging around her neck, as though it were an amulet. Frankly, she didn’t care very much if Tom was angry or not. No bread, indeed! “No one can be angry at someone who comes bearing gifts of chicken and prunes! Now, take that salad bowl, dear, and I’ll get the rest, and then we’ll see to your father.”

  Rascal was already at the door, looking over his shoulder encouragingly, as if he were leading some sort of doggy version of the assault on Bunker Hill.

  “Come on, then. It seems Rascal’s hungry, too.” Dorothy shut the car door with her foot and marched up the steps.

  In the kitchen, she set the stove to 350 degrees and took the foil off the chicken so it would heat quicker. She made no effort to be quiet, hoping the noise would rouse Tom out of his belfry. She rattled knives and forks, and dropped two on purpose. Ivy ducked her head and looked at the ceiling.

  “Why don’t you turn on the radio, Ivy? I could use some music, couldn’t you? All this quiet isn’t good for a festive dinner.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Well, I do,” said Dorothy. She turned the radio on and the sudden, ear-shattering blare of screaming guitars shocked her so that she stepped back as though from an exploding bomb, her hand in front of her, the fingers splayed.

  Ivy laughed and dove for the volume button. “That’s Bobby,” she said, still laughing. “He likes it loud.”

  “Good grief,” said Dorothy. “That can’t be good for your ears.” Approaching the machine with due caution, she fiddled with the dial until she found a classical station. “Excellent. Bach’s Concerto for Oboe and Violin in C minor. Precisely the correct music for chicken, don’t you think?”

  “It’s pretty,” said Ivy.

  Movement from upstairs. Something thudding, and then footsteps.

  “The bear arises from hibernation,” said Dorothy.

  “Grumpy bear,” said Ivy.

  “Not to worry, we have food.” Dorothy gave Ivy a quick hug and then told her to get the plates.

  Tom appeared a moment later in the doorway. He had been sleeping, apparently. His face looked as rumpled as his clothes and there were marks along his cheek where he’d slept on a fold in the pillowcase. They looked like scars. He rubbed his eyes, and wiped whatever he’d cleared from them onto the seat of his jeans. There were little flakes of white matter in the corners of his mouth and he moved his tongue around as if it was dry. He seemed not entirely sure where he was, or who these people in his kitchen were.

  “Mrs. Carlisle?”

  “I see sleep has not addled your powers of perception, Tom. Now, do sit down. You’re staring. You look as though you could use something to drink.” Dorothy caught the glimmer in his eye. “Ivy, do you have any orange juice? I didn’t bring anything to drink, I’m afraid.”

  Ivy opened the fridge and stared into it. Dorothy looked over her shoulder. There was something that might once have been a tomato, a half-full plastic jug of milk, something green (broccoli, she prayed),and a single egg resting in a notch in the door.

  “I don’t think so,” said Ivy, who kept her head in the appliance far longer than was necessary, given the lack of items therein.

  “Tea, then. I’m sure you have tea. Tom, where do you keep the tea? And didn’t I tell you to sit, dear?”

  “What’s going on?” said Tom. He pulled one of the metal padded chairs toward him and sat heavily.

  “Well, I wanted it to be a surprise and apparently that’s worked beautifully,” said Dorothy. She found the bread knife and, noting spots, rinsed it under the tap before cutting the crusty loaf. “I got on a bit of a cooking jag and it all rather got away from me, I’m afraid. I made far too much food and couldn’t think of anyone who would eat it for me. And then Ivy called to say hello—Ivy, do get your head out of the fridge. You’re letting all the cold air out. Why don’t you put some water on for tea? Thank you, dear. Where was I? Oh, yes, I do make far too much food for just me, and I’ve been meaning to invite you all over for dinner one evening anyway, but then the forces of the universe conspired and here I am. It seemed the right thing to do.” She knew she was prattling and vowed to stop. No wonder Tom had that baffled look on his face.

  “What did?” Tom’s eyes tracked first Ivy, then Dorothy, then back to Ivy.

  “Why, come over with dinner, of course,” said Dorothy.

  Tom regarded her with an expression only slightly less baffled than before. Dorothy thought, not for the first time, what a truly handsome man Tom was, in the old-fashioned, manly way. His features were roughly shaped, without anything pretty or childlike in them, nothing of the boy. They were also, just now, bound and shadowed by pain. Deep ruts along his mouth. Muscles twitching in his clenched jaw. Blue swaths under his eyes, which were red and inflamed from tears, or from the effort required not to shed them. His lips pressed together as if he were afraid, should they part, something inhuman would escape, or find purchase. Dorothy concentrated on evenly slicing the bread. It was embarrassing, to see a big strong man so exposed. It was unseemly, somewhat shameful. It was like looking at a newly amputated limb, something pink and unprocessed, something that should be kept bandaged.

  Dorothy knew from personal experience what it felt like t
o lose someone you loved. Death, not abandonment in her case, but she recognized death came in many forms. Tom faced several deaths—death of his marriage, death of the future he had believed in, death of trust, death of the possibility of loving and being loved. Perhaps the worst of all, that. It wasn’t true, of course. Tom was young and vital, he could find love again, but it probably didn’t feel possible to him. It was normal in the midst of such mourning to feel love was over. It occurred to Dorothy that Tom was a man made for a woman, incomplete and purposeless without one. It was so obvious she was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her before. It was a tragedy, not that Patty had left him, for Dorothy believed that was inevitable, sooner or later, but rather that Tom had picked the wrong woman to begin with.

  Men were unschooled in loss. Women were told from birth, practically, that love was painful, that hearts were broken and some things were simply unfixable. Women, in other words, were prepared for pain. Men were not. Men were taught they could overcome all obstacles through sheer dint of will, concentration, perseverance, strength of body and of character. Dorothy remembered the images from her girlhood of those tragic heroines: Camille, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Anna Karenina, Evangeline, Mary Queen of Scots. All those drooping, wistful, tear-wilted beauties. In Dorothy’s teenage bedroom there had hung a black-framed print of John Everett Millais’s Ophelia floating down the brown-tinged river, pale and lovely, her right hand clutching, even in death, a small cluster of wildflowers—red for blood, white for purity. The model was Lizzie Siddell, who almost died from the illness brought about by lying in a cold bath for hours while Millais got her beautiful, doomed expression just right. In Dorothy’s day, girls were taught a certain lovely nobility bloomed in sorrow, in being impaled on the sword of grief. It got into a girl’s idea of life in such a way that when heartbreak did come upon her she was, if not actually able to see the dramatic romance in it, at least not so utterly blindsided as a man. Poor Tom; like most men, he was as vulnerable as a porcupine flipped on his back when he was in love, and just as nearsighted.