Longing for Normal

by Darcy Pattison

  Grissini, chleb, bolillo.

  The bread tables were nearly full, and only a few people were still standing on the stage, waiting to register their breads. It was almost time to eat.

  Marj turned and saw me. Over the hubbub, I raised my hands, asking who had called. Still smiling, she circled around to stand beside me and talk in my ear.

  “That was Miss Clay. She just got a full price offer on the house.”

  Oh. A full price offer. I knew I should be either sad or glad, but I was just numb. I turned, still studying the variety of breads.

  Brioche, bagels.

  Bruschetta al pomodore.

  Before I could say anything back to Marj, Mr. Benton was at the microphone calling for attention. It was time to serve the food. He turned and motioned for Marj and me to step up beside him.

  I know he introduced us, and I waved at the crowd. But all I could think of was our home. And the full price offer. Mr. Benton said a few things about Griff and a few more things about Thanksgiving and being grateful and such. Then motioned for the serving to begin.

  And Marj was guiding me down the steps toward the food tables. “Did you get a count of the breads?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Lots. That’s all I know.”

  She smiled, a sad smile. “Griff would have loved all this. I wish he could have seen it.”

  To avoid that thought, I half-turned to where Mrs. Lopez and Mrs. Zane rushed around the stage taking stock of the breads. “Do they need help?”

  “No. They didn’t want any help for that. We’ll just eat.” She hesitated, “And maybe talk?”

  A full price offer. At least my eyes were dry.

  “Hey! There you are!” Toby slapped my back. He wore an orange T-shirt, just like his parents – big surprise. “Come on, I saved you a place.” He motioned to a group of the guys standing in the line on the other side of the room and asked Marj, “You don’t mind if he sits with us?”

  Marj stepped back slightly. “Go on, I’ll sit with some other moms. We’ll talk later.”

  Toby started walking away, “Hey, Eliot, how many different breads are there? Did you count?”

  “Later,” I murmured to Marj and followed Toby.

  

  Toby was hungry, as usual. He sat across the green plastic tablecloth from me, Sam beside him, and other guys around us. We filled a whole table by ourselves. And we stuffed ourselves, even going back for a second helping of everything—the turkey, dressing, green beans, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie had been catered, not cooked in the school cafeteria.

  There was a clamor by the back door, and a TV reporter and cameraman came in, Channel 5. I leaned back and looked around. The room was stuffed with people. But I realized there were some people missing.

  First, I hadn’t seen Mr. Porter. Maybe he would quit teaching after this year; he never seemed happy anyway.

  Second, we had invited the Mayor and all the councilmen, the superintendent and all the school board. The Mayor was missing for sure, and that probably meant few councilmen had come either, except Mr. Zane. And I couldn’t find the superintendent, which meant few school board members were here either, except our zone’s representative, Mr. Rice, a man I had only seen but never met. Mr. Benton had talked to the PTA about getting publicity for this event, but Thanksgiving holiday had too many other events.

  It all made me worry a little. Who would buy all that bread?

  The committee had said it was like old-fashioned pie suppers, that families would bid on their own bread. Would we make any money? This wasn’t the richest part of Nashville.

  On stage, Mrs. Lopez turned on the mike and blew, but no noise came out. Coming over, Mrs. Zane tried moving the ON switch on the back of the mike, but still nothing. She shrugged, then put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. Wheeeee!

  The room was suddenly silent. I knew everyone was thinking, Zany Zanes. But I was remembering that Alli called Mrs. Zane, the Mighty Whistler. It was sad to be here without Alli.

  Mrs. Zane yelled, “Anyone know how to get the microphone working? It’s almost time for the Bread Auction.”

  Mr. Benton and a couple teachers trotted to the stage to recheck the equipment. Meanwhile, chairs scraped as people turned to face the stage. Finally, Mr. Benton tapped the microphone, and it screeched. After a few more minutes testing, they decided it was fixed.

  Mrs. Zane stepped to the microphone. “We have counted the breads. There are 493 students registered at the school, as of today. And we have 576 different breads! Thank all of you for helping to make this happen.”

  She paused for the clapping and cheering to quiet. Then: “The PTA has voted to donate all the proceeds from this auction to the school for playground equipment.” She explained how the silent auction worked at the tables around the room. Then, she pointed to a table near the door where Mrs. Patel was holding up a book. “And don’t forget to buy a cookbook as you leave!”

  Mrs. Lopez, the Mouth, as Alli called her, was the auctioneer. That figured.

  “It’s time to sell, sell, sell some bread. We’ll auction 50 breads from here while you walk around and do the silent auctions. Amigos, you’ll want to sample the bread from someone else, don’t bid solamente, only, on your own family’s bread. With all these kinds of bread,” she waved at the tables behind her, “you’ll have a treat for Thanksgiving.”

  From the crowd, especially the little kids, there came a faint cry, “Bread, bread. Hurray for bread!”

  But I turned triumphantly to Toby. “576!”

  Toby shook his head, his straight blond hair swinging. “You called it.” He pulled out his billfold. But for once, he didn’t have enough. “Only $40. I owe you ten.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I was glad to have this much for my nest egg since I would be moving to a new family next weekend.

  Onstage, Mrs. Zane said, “Good luck with the bidding. Remember, when you buy bread today, you are really buying a piece of fun for your child.”

  Mrs. Lopez nodded. And this time, she really started the auctioneer’s patter, the sing-song, “Who’ll give me a dollar, a dollar, a dollar, who’ll start the bidding at a dollar for this package of large, fresh pretzels? Looks like de-licious pretzels, de-lightful pretzels, who’ll start the bidding for the Bread Auction.”

  The Channel 5 cameraman was down front filming Mrs. Lopez. And PTA people were standing around the room, ready to help.

  But the room was silent.

  No one was bidding. Nothing.

  “Don’t be shy, now. The first bid is the hardest. Who’ll give me a dollar, five dollars, a dollar, five dollars, who’ll start the bidding for the pretzels?”

  Silence.

  “This is for the playground equipment for your kids. Por los muchachos y las muchachas. They’ll have a jungle gym, swings, a safe place to play. Who’ll start the bidding? A dollar, a dollar, five dollars, a dollar.”

  My heart pounded as I looked at the money that Toby had just handed over, the crisp $5 bills. Griffith Winston was the finest man I had ever known, and this auction was a tribute to him. I should buy some bread. But that money was all I had to take with me when I had to go to a foster home. It was my hidden jar of peanut butter, my pair of socks with no holes, the only spending money I might have for anything that I would need.

  Mrs. Lopez took another deep breath and her patter went on. “De-licious pretzel, a bargain at just a dollar. Who’ll start the bidding? I know, you’re shy, you don’t want to be the first. Who’ll start the bidding? Solamente un dolar.”

  But then, other images filled my heart: Marj sitting in the sunny breakfast room with a bag of pretzels at her elbow, reading the newspaper. Yes, I missed Griff and always would. But somehow, without me noticing, Marj had filled the space that Griff had left behind, and I wanted to do one last thing for her. If it had been cinnamon rolls or English muffins, I would have done nothing. But pretzels? Big soft pretzels like they sold at the mall? Pretzels?

  I
stood up. Sit down, I told myself.

  I opened my mouth. Shut up, I told myself.

  I took a deep breath and called as loud as I could. “$40. I bid $40.”

  Mrs. Lopez paused and looked at me.

  With her white teeth shining in her dark face, a broad smile lit her up, and the auctioneer’s patter took on an intensity. “$40, I have a bid of $40 for these pretzels. Do I hear $41? $45? $50? I have a bid of $40. De-lightful pretzels, bid of $40. Who’ll go $45?”

  Everyone was looking at me.

  Toby’s mouth hung open, and he leaned over like he might snatch the cash away. The Herats, the Patels, the Johnsons—everyone stared. Startled, I realized that in the back of the room was the red-haired woman I had talked to at the Community Center. And with her were more faces I recognized from the Community Center, including the bald man with the strong aftershave and the skinny man who smelled like he never bathed. They had come and I hadn’t even realized it.

  “I have a bid of $40. Going once. Do I hear $45?”

  Still looking around, Marj’s face popped out at me. Pale, but her chin was up, defiant, and maybe a bit proud. Not smiling, but that was OK. She didn’t go overboard in smiles.

  “Going twice. Do I hear $45?”

  On stage, Mrs. Zane held up the clear sack that was stuffed with soft pretzels. Mrs. Lopez gave me a thumbs-up.

  Mrs. Lopez’s gavel banged. “Sold! To Mr. Eliot Winston, a true son of the ever-generous Griffith Winston, for $40.”

  And around the room a cheer rang out.

  I walked to the front and was shepherded to a PTA table to pay. Behind me Mrs. Lopez started next bidding—for Polish chleb—at $10, and three voices jumped right in. Startled, I looked around: the Community Center redhead, Mr. Patel, and another Hispanic father were bidding. For a loaf of Polish bread. I almost laughed out loud. Only at this school, in this community, would you see such a thing.

  After fierce bidding, the price going up a single dollar at a time, the chleb went for $25. Finished paying, I walked across the room to Marj. I set the pretzels on the table in front of her and smiled. She said nothing, but her eyes were shining. I don’t know what she was thinking, but it didn’t matter. It was what I wanted to do.

  My money, my choice.

  I nodded once, then turned and went back to Toby and the other guys.

  The rest of the bidding was fast and furious and decisive, with nothing going for under $20. Even the silent auction breads went for at least $10 each. The Bread Project was a spectacular success.

  AFTER THE BREAD PROJECT

  ELIOT

  The sleet never came, just cold, steady rains that kept us indoors on Wednesday. Marj took me to a movie that afternoon, and we snuck in four of the soft pretzels to eat: three for Marj and one for me. Coming out of the movie theater, the rain was tapering off, but now it was foggy, hard to see very far.

  Driving home, I was quiet, just letting Marj concentrate on driving in the fog. We didn’t talk about the offer on the house. Marj didn’t mention it, and I didn’t ask. It was just a quiet, calm day. I guess we were both content to wait until the holiday was over to decide anything. Now that we were down to the last days of our agreement, I didn’t want to push for answers. Waiting was better than knowing.

  That evening on the TV news, Channel 5 ran a story on our Bread Project, and I was there, bidding $40. They even filmed me walking over to Marj and giving her the pretzels.

  Mrs. Patel called right after, thrilled that the news report had mentioned the cookbooks and given an email address to order them. She had already gotten one order and hoped there would be more. The TV station said they would play the clip from the Bread Project several times that weekend—it was good community PR for the station—and surely they would get more cookbook orders. She said the Bread Project auction had brought in over $10,000. More than enough for the playground equipment, and they would have to talk about how to use the extra money.

  Griff had been right: Any community could come together and do something spectacular.

  Sometime that night, the skies cleared and a brisk wind blew, a comforting bluster around the sky light of my cockpit room, the winds drying things out so that Thanksgiving morning dawned clear and cold and dry.

  I hadn’t set the alarm, but I woke at 6 a.m., dressed and went down to the garage. The old push mower was sharp and oiled, and I took it out one last time to mow the backyard. It barely needed it; the grass barely grew in the cold. But I wanted to use Griff’s tools one last time. The snick, snick, snick of the rolling lawnmower blades pleased me.

  By the time I went in, Marj was in the kitchen cooking. My stomach did a flip because surely, we would talk today. Maybe after the dinner was done and cleaned up. Surely, Marj wouldn’t keep putting it off, wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. I was starting to get anxious, wanting to know now what would happen.

  Meanwhile, we watched the Thanksgiving parades on TV and cooked. Cranberry sauce from fresh cranberries. Roasted Cornish hens–we had agreed that a turkey was too big. Baked sourdough French bread loaves, one of the recipes from the new cookbook. Corn on the cob. Baked potatoes. While we cooked, we snacked on the last of the soft pretzels.

  “I’ll have to make some of these myself next week,” Marj said.

  I set the table, shaking out a tablecloth and using the best china and real silverware. The crystal glasses, I filled with sparkling grape juice. When everything was ready, we sat down to eat. On TV, the parades were all done and football games had started. Marj flipped to an old movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, and left it on with a low volume while we ate.

  I remembered how Griff had filled the eating time with talk and laughter; now it seemed normal to eat and enjoy the food without much talking.

  Finally, Marj pushed away her plate. “That was great. We’ll have to have Cornish hens again next year.”

  Startled, I looked up. “Next year?” My pulse pounded.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  I started to just ask where she wanted to go from here. But. Alli had said I needed to talk to Marj, to communicate. I just needed to be myself, she had said.

  I drew a shaky breath. “I’m scared. I don’t know if we can be a real family together. But I want to try.”

  Marj’s shoulders sagged a bit. “I’m so glad you said that because I’m scared, too.”

  “I know I have lots of problems, but I’m trying to stop the panic attacks. I’m trying–”

  “Oh, Eliot. I know that. It’s not about your problems. It’s about how ignorant I am of being a parent. I’m just not good at this.”

  That was all crazy. “You’ve been great. I know I got mad that day you were late, but I was so scared ‘cause the panic attacks had come back.”

  “And I forget to give you allowances, so you have to make bets with Toby.”

  “You figured that out?” I hardly dared look at her.

  “Finally.”

  I stared at my plate, still scared to look up.

  “Eliot. Eliot Winston,” she said softly.

  Still without looking up, I said, “I called you at the office last Friday.” I was so scared to tell her what I was thinking. So tired of being scared.

  “You did?”

  “I almost had a panic attack at school, but I kept control. Miss Clay let me call.”

  “That’s great that you kept control,” she said. Then, puzzled, “But I didn’t talk to you that day.”

  “No. I talked to Miss Street. She said you had just gone out to talk to a social worker and to see Mr. Donovan. And now, you have a full price offer on the house. And the Bread Project is over, so our agreement is over.”

  “I didn’t know you had called.” She ran a hand over her eyes. “I just wanted to wait until Thanksgiving Day.”

  Now, suddenly, I had to know. “Just tell me. Am I going to stay or go?”

  “Eliot Winston.”

&nbs
p; Now I did look up. Marj’s hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, growing out long again. Her face was skinny and pale, but she didn’t have dark circles under her eyes like she had early that fall. She was leaning over the best china and real silverware toward me.

  She said, “I’m scared. Scared that I’ll mess up. But—” She picked up a piece of the sourdough bread. “—families are like bread: they take a lot of time and patience. The Bread Project has been amazing. I’ve never felt so connected to a community. I knew Griff always felt that way, whatever community he was in, but I never did. And I know that Griff knew how to fight for the people he loved. But I’ve never known that, either. Even after he’s gone, he’s still teaching me about community and people and family.”

  I said nothing. Just waited. Because she still hadn’t answered the question.

  Marj drew a deep breath. “I went and talked to the social worker last week and told her that I wanted you to stay with me. I talked to Mr. Donovan and told him that I’d sign the papers this week and get them back to him on Monday. But I wanted to give you the choice, too. It’s not just my decision. I want you to stay. But what do you want?”

  I remembered Alli’s harsh voice yelling at me. “You have a chance. A chance for a real family. You have to fight for your family.”

  It was the second chance that I thought I’d never get.

  Hesitantly, I said, “Mom?”

  And she stood and took a step toward me, “Eliot Winston. Come here, Son.”

  And I took the step that closed the gap, and she wrapped her skinny arms around me in the biggest hug ever.

  

  Friday morning, the skies were golden, like someone had poured melted butter on the few remaining clouds. During breakfast, I explained about renting the post office box for Alli and asked if we could go to see if there were any letters. Walking into the old building, I saw a sparrow hopping on the floor. I held open the door, and Marj circled the sparrow and shooed it toward the door. It didn’t fly up, even though it was a two-story foyer. Instead, it hopped away from her as I stood outside, holding the door so the bird couldn’t see me. And then it hopped outside. It shook its tail feathers once, hopped again, then launched into the clear blue skies.