by Julie Murphy
Dad looks exhausted, but that’s nothing new. In the last few years the lines on his face have transformed from creases to wrinkles, revealing his every worry. Whenever I find myself bitter over how tall I am, I tell myself that it’s a gift from my father. A constant reminder that I’m his girl. And my boxy jaw. That one is his fault, too.
He kisses my forehead before shuffling back to bed. “Take a banana with you.”
Carefully, I lift Hattie’s head and place a pillow beneath it as I get up.
“Don’t forget Tyler’s birthday party tomorrow,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. “You ordered the cake like you said you would, right?”
Oh shit. Hattie wanted a cake from Stella’s Bakery, and I completely forgot to call the order in yesterday. Stella requires forty-eight hours’ notice and the woman doesn’t budge for anything. My best bet is groveling in person after my route.
“It’s all taken care of,” I lie.
Quickly, I run to my room and pull on a pair of frayed denim shorts and the black combat boots Grace picked out for me at the Salvation Army. When I wore them the next night to show her how much I loved them, I paired them with a short sundress. Nineties heroin chic, Grace called it.
The dress didn’t end up staying on for very long. I try pushing back the memory, but that doesn’t stop the goose bumps on my legs.
I check my phone as I run out the door, wheeling my bike along. There was a time when the streets of our trailer park were paved, but now all that’s left are cracked chunks of cement peppered with deep craters. Blame it on weather or horrible drivers or the shitty management company. Either way it’s impossible to bike through, and the only way a car manages is by tiptoeing over each hole and crack. Most people have taken to parking on the street.
We had a house when I was a baby, back when my mom was still around. Hattie remembers it better than I do. But when Hurricane Katrina hit, the house flooded beyond repair and we lost everything below the waterline, including my dad’s po’boy truck.
We were no different from anyone else, though. Everybody lost something or someone or a little bit of both. The three of us spent a few months surfing couches and holing up in motels, living off FEMA cards, waiting for the insurance money to come in while my mom went to stay with her sister in Arkansas. When she didn’t come back, I asked my dad every night when she would come home to us, until eventually I stopped asking.
When the insurance check finally arrived, it wasn’t nearly enough to replace all that we had lost, so Dad bought the FEMA trailer we’d called home for a few months by then and took a job as a cook/maintenance guy at Le Manoir, the oldest hotel in Eulogy and one of the few buildings that survived unscathed.
Mom never came home. Maybe it was the trailer. Maybe it was us. Sometimes catastrophes split you in half, and even if all the pieces are there, they might not ever fit back together.
When I was about nine or ten, we traded that trailer for a slightly larger one so that Dad wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch forever, but this one is no more structurally sound than the last. The floors creak and in some places are deteriorating altogether. There’s mold without a doubt, but it’s easy to ignore anything we can’t see. The roof sags with water damage, the walls are peeling from moisture, and I’d be lying if I said we haven’t had a roach problem more than once. It’s time for us all to move on, but none of us has any sense of where. Or how. And still, there’s something comforting about this place.
As I coast through my route, I try to think of all the ways I can possibly convince Stella to make this cake. I concoct a handful of sob stories in my head, but Stella’s as sympathetic as a gator.
If Grace were here, I’d ask her to make the cake. She may have craved things like SpaghettiOs and Pizza Pockets, but Grace loved to bake. One night we stayed up late making homemade doughnuts and ate every last one before her family woke up in the morning while we watched all the random Olympic games they play overnight, like handball and trampoline.
I wonder what she’s doing today and if she does things like make late-night doughnuts even when she’s not on vacation. It hits me that I don’t know much about her life at home except that she quit soccer last year and has a best friend named Veronica who just moved to Texas.
When I finish my route, I find Freddie sitting in the grass beside a black trash bag full of weeds. He hasn’t noticed me and is mid-yawn when a fat raindrop splashes him right on the tip of his nose.
“I didn’t take you for the gardening type.”
He eyes me over his shoulder. “Christ. It’s early. I just had one of those moments where you’re so exhausted you can’t even tell if you’re awake.”
“Oh, these are my witching hours,” I say proudly. “There’s something about early mornings that makes me feel like I’ve got the whole damn planet to myself.”
“Well, you can have it,” he says.
The sky cracks with thunder, and the downpour is instantaneous.
“Y’all two get in here!” shouts Agnes from the front porch. She wears rubber sandals like they sell at the dollar store and a white terry-cloth zip-up robe.
Freddie grabs my bike by the crossbar and throws his trash bag full of weeds over his shoulder.
“Y’all can leave those both on the porch,” says Agnes as she waves us inside.
It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the interior light, but when they do, I find that the walls are lined with moving boxes, and the wood floors are so shiny that I take my boots off without having to be asked. I feel a little bit out of place in a nicer house like this, like by just standing inside of it I’m depreciating the value somehow.
Outside, the rain is already rushing down the street and pooling at the base of the hill. It wasn’t even supposed to rain today, I don’t think. But that’s the way the weather is down here. It’s almost like the pace of life is so slow that even Mother Nature is trying to rush us along and remind us we got places to be other than under the sun.
An older but sturdy white man with gray hair cropped into a military cut emerges from the hallway and kisses Agnes on the cheek.
She swats him away and says, “And this is my husband, Bart.”
Bart waggles his eyebrows up and down. He wears jean shorts with a white undershirt tucked in and brown suspenders. The man is dressed for the sake of necessity and nothing else. I can already tell he’s nothing like Freddie’s grandpa, a short black man who always dressed for every occasion in a bow tie and matching handkerchief. But I like Bart instantly.
“Ramona,” I say, introducing myself. “The newspaper delivery girl.”
“And longtime family friend,” adds Agnes.
Bart nods once, acknowledging that he’s added this bit of information to the card catalog in his head. “Freddie,” he says, “wanna throw some eggs on? I don’t want nothing fancy. Sunny-side up and a slice of toast.”
Freddie kicks his flip-flops off. “You’re missing out, Bart. There’s a whole world of breakfast food out there.”
Agnes sighs, her soft body melting against her new husband. I guess because I’ve never seen my dad be affectionate like this toward anyone, I can’t help but stare.
“I think I’ll see if Freddie needs help,” I say, and turn to follow him.
“Watch out!” says Bart. “The guy is particular about his kitchen.”
I turn the corner to find Freddie tying an apron around his neck. “What can I do?” I ask.
For the first time, he looks nervous. “Um, actually I’ve got kind of a routine.”
“Oh.”
I perch on a stool and watch as Freddie spins on his heels, cracks and beats eggs, and crisps toast to perfection. It’s like watching a wizard with an expertise in potions create his perfect blend of magic.
Sitting here, though, is a little awkward. I’m not quite sure how to talk to him or what to say now that we’re not chasing each other across the beach or Hattie and I aren’t forcing him to play pickle restaurant with us. I smile at the
memory. We always wanted to play restaurant, but Agnes wouldn’t let us cook anything, so instead she gave us a jar of pickles to use as our food. One time Freddie ate so many pickles that he puked them all over the driveway when we were riding our bikes later that afternoon. It was years before I could even get a whiff of pickles without feeling nauseous.
“All right,” says Freddie. “Three servings of eggs Benedict and a Bart not-so-special special.”
Agnes claps her hands with excitement as she sniffs her way to the kitchen. She fiddles with her tiny radio, which rests on the windowsill, before landing on the oldies station.
I wait for them all to sit, unsure which spot belongs to whom. But it’s a round table and it seems that there’s no hierarchy here. I slide into the empty chair across from Freddie as Bart digs in and Agnes says a quiet prayer to herself.
I like the way they include me without making a show of it. It has me feeling right at home and reminds me of the days when Agnes would take me and Hattie over to their rental house while my dad was at work instead of us wasting away with my grandmother in her sunroom while she forced us to untangle her collection of yarn. Agnes would make us all egg salad sandwiches with a splash of hot sauce and cut them into triangles. Afterward, the three of us would clean up while she watched her shows.
At Grace’s rental house, her mom always made her little brother move so I could have the better seat or would remind Grace to offer me a water or a soda when I came in the door. I was very much a Guest with a capital G. A Guest who might have turned their daughter into a Lesbian with a capital L.
Agnes questions Freddie about high school registration while Bart is distracted with the wobbling kitchen table. He finishes his eggs and toast first, like he’s being timed, and I get the feeling that he was in the military. “I need my Phillips-head,” he murmurs.
No one presses me to talk, which is good, because this is the best breakfast I’ve ever had. My idea of a balanced first meal is two Pop-Tarts and a swig of Diet Dr Pepper. I was uncertain about the light-yellow sauce that Freddie poured over the top, but the combination of the eggs, the sauce, the Canadian bacon, and the English muffin is like Thanksgiving dinner—meant to be mixed together for one specific flavor. “What is this called again?” I ask through a mouthful of food.
“Eggs Benedict,” Freddie answers with a grin.
When we’re through, Agnes piles up all our plates and eyes mine. “One step away from licking it clean, were ya?”
My neck feels like it’s on fire, and I know it’s bright red. It’s always been where my blush gathers. “Yes, ma’am.” I turn to Freddie. “That was so good. Where’d you learn to cook like that?”
He shrugs, and like every other normal person, his blush gathers in his cheeks.
“Certainly not from me,” says Agnes. “But we’ve perfected the art of mornings, haven’t we, Freddie? All those early practices and meets.”
I wait for one of them to elaborate, but Freddie bites down on his bottom lip and takes the pile of plates from Agnes.
I hate to leave, but the clock only ticks in one direction, and whatever goodwill Stella might have stored away grows shorter with every minute that passes. “I guess I’d better get going home. Thanks, y’all, for the breakfast.”
“You are not riding your bike home in that weather,” says Agnes.
I glance outside. The rain hasn’t let up, even a little bit. Stella’s is a lot farther than home, but I don’t have a choice. Hattie will give me the silent treatment until the baby comes if I fail to get a birthday cake for Tyler. “I’ll be fine.”
“Freddie, you take my car and get her home. My water aerobics class doesn’t start until ten.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
Agnes makes me wait on the porch while Freddie throws my bike into the trunk of her Cadillac. Once he’s started the car and pulled it down the driveway alongside the walkway, I turn to Agnes. “Thanks again,” I tell her.
She gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, and it spreads a bit of warmth through my chest, reminding me of all the ways she was a better mom to me during those summers than my mom ever was.
I dart though the pouring rain to the passenger-side door.
The interior of Agnes’s car is beige and spotless with wooden beaded seat covers. I’m careful to keep my feet on the mat as Freddie reverses out of the driveway. The windshield wipers are working overtime to combat the relentless downpour.
“Which way?”
The clock on the dash says nine a.m. The bakery’s been open for hours already. I feel like a jerk asking, but this would save me so much time. “Actually, I’m supposed to go by the bakery for Hattie. Would you mind dropping me there instead?”
He shrugs. “Tell me the way.”
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “Only thing waiting at home for me are more boxes.”
Stella’s Bakery is a little lemon drop of a building—a tiny yellow square made of bricks that Stella’s grandsons repaint for her every summer. A least, it is when you can see it. Right now, it’s a smudge of yellow behind a sheet of gray.
“I can’t believe this place is still here,” says Freddie as we dash through the rain.
I grip the door handle. “The only thing that really changes here are the people who pass through.”
Inside, Stella herself sits on a creaking wooden stool with an old Regency romance novel held up to her nose. Stella may look like every other sweet, old white lady in town, but sweet she is not. The old guys who normally take their coffee and beignets outside are crowded around the little bar that lines the front window. They speak in sighs and grunts and whistles.
The floors are sticky with powdered sugar, and every inhalation is a rush of sweet dough. The glass cases are full of all kinds of pastries, ranging from beignets to plain old bagels. None of them look quite perfect, because Stella is of the mind that food is meant for tasting and not for looking.
“What’ll it be?” asks Stella without looking up, her doughy fingers drumming the countertop.
If I don’t get this cake, Hattie is going to chain me to a tree, pour honey on me, and leave me there until a bear comes along. Hattie came to me last week and said she bought Tyler a new gaming console and that didn’t leave much for cake. I wanted to say no, but I keep telling myself that this is for her. Not him. Even though, actually, it is.
I inch my way toward the counter. I swear this woman can smell fear. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I need a cake for tomorrow—”
“No can do.” She looks up with a grin, and I am positive that Stella is one of those people who take deep pleasure in saying no. She taps her finger on a piece of paper taped to the counter that reads CUSTOM ORDERS REQUIRE 48 HR NOTICE. “And while we’re at it, let me give you a little earful about you throwing my paper right in the path of my sprinkler. By the time I get home every morning, the damn thing is soaked through to the funnies section.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll do better in the future, I swear. But if you could—”
She taps her sign once more.
I nudge Freddie and turn to leave. “Let’s go.”
Freddie clears his throat and steps forward. “Miss Stella,” he says, the twang in his voice dipping so far south it’s borderline cartoonish. “My grandmama, Agnes Pearl Freemont, told me to tell you hello and that she’d like a dozen croissants.”
She picks her head up again and grins, and this time it’s the kind of grin that boys like Freddie are used to causing. Stella smacks the counter and digs her fists into her hips. “You tell that Agnes the only reason I forgive her for not coming around here herself is because she sent such a dashing young fella in her place. You must be as tall as your grandpapa.”
He nods. “Taller, ma’am. And, uh, he passed away four years ago now.”
Stella shakes her head as she piles her croissants and a few extra pigs in a blanket into one of her light-pink boxes. “Nothing fair ’bout that.”
> Freddie reaches for his wallet, and Stella automatically shakes him off. “On the house.”
My mouth drops open. Sorcery.
With the box tucked under his arm, we both turn to leave. My shoulders slope downward as I try to imagine how I can fix this without Hattie crucifying me.
“Oh, Miss Stella?” asks Freddie as he doubles back. “No chance you could do that cake for tomorrow? A one-time favor?”
I hold my breath.
Her bushy brows furrow into a caterpillar. “Just this once,” she says. “And don’t y’all tell nobody I went back on my policy. Can’t have rumors going around.”
Freddie gives an all-knowing grin.
She shakes her finger right at his chest. “That charm might last ya,” she says. “But your good looks won’t be around forever.” She turns to me. “Now what can I get y’all?”
I nod my head as fast as it will go. “Double chocolate, please.”
“And I wasn’t kidding ’bout my paper,” she adds. “No point in paying for it if I can’t read the damn thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as we’re in the car, I turn to Freddie. “What was that?”
“Or thank you would be good, too.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, okay, thanks.”
“Where to now?”
I open my mouth to speak, but pause. I’m not ashamed of our little trailer. There’s not much hiding down here, but I never brought Grace home. I didn’t know how to, I guess. Grace knew I was poor and that I lived in a trailer, but there was always some kind of disconnect. Whenever I said the words poor or broke, she would give me a limp smile and tell me about one of the handful of times she went without in some way. So Grace never saw me in the yellow lights of my kitchen or on the brown carpet of my bedroom. But Freddie—he’s the same Freddie who cried a little too often when we were kids and was always there when Hattie wanted to run off with her friends. Now he’s a taller, more grown-up Freddie who doesn’t always smell like egg sandwiches.
We tear apart a few croissants—they smell too good!—as I point him right and left until we’re at the gates of my trailer park. “I’m good here,” I tell him, unbuckling my seat belt.
