The Baker

by Paul Hond

Nelson shook his head. “When I smoke herb? Shit.”

  “Hell, yeah,” said Ben.

  In the next moment they were standing in front of the main refrigerator, stuffing their mouths with the chocolate-covered éclairs that had been stored along with the strawberry tarts and apple pies and other items that contained eggs or fruit and needed to be kept cold. The quivering yellow custard was a shock to the tongue: in its sweetness it seemed dangerously alive.

  Nelson fell to staring across the room at the oven, which, Ben had to admit, was a dreadful sight—a great mass of bulging steel (an old “carousel” model, with six rotating racks) that took up the entire back wall. Even at rest it seemed full of fire and destruction; and yet it could produce the sweetest delicacies imaginable. The juxtaposition of the monstrous and the desirable, of terror and sugar, was the very stuff of fairy tales, and so it followed that as a child Ben had seen the bakery as a fantastical place, a land of cinnamon smells, of white dust settling and—not least of all—the terrible giant sleeping. Sometimes he saw it that way still.

  He turned to the refrigerator, and on a sudden inspiration pulled out a carton of eggs. “Hey,” he said. “Look what we’ve got.”

  Nelson swallowed a bite of éclair. “Eggs?”

  “Let’s go to the Valley, fuck with the rich people,” Ben said. “A lot of kids from my school live over there.”

  Nelson looked at the eggs.

  Ben tried to catch his friend’s eye. “All got cars for their sixteenth birthdays,” he said. “Nice rides, too. BMWs. Fuckin’ Jaguars and shit.”

  Nelson smiled out of the side of his mouth. “They leave you out, Crumb?”

  “Shit,” said Ben. He felt his nerves starting up. “I left them out.” He had imagined that his own ostracism from the school elite on social and economic grounds would have somehow rallied Nelson to his side, but Nelson only watched him dispassionately. “I had lots of friends,” Ben went on, but it sounded false, defensive. He looked at the eggs, unable to face Nelson. “When I was little,” he said, “I had lots of friends. Every kid had a grandmother who’d buy them Lerner’s buns and éclairs.” He recalled how the cafeteria would stir forestlike with the rustle and crinkle of Lerner’s monogrammed wax paper. “Kids thought my father was the Candy Man. Trouble was, he didn’t make enough money.”

  “The Candy Man,” said Nelson. He liked nicknames.

  “He could’ve made more,” Ben said. “But he doesn’t know how to manage things. It’s like he’s built this engine and is just happy to watch it turn. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he can make it go faster.”

  “What about your mother?” Nelson said. “Don’t she pick up the slack?”

  “Not much,” said Ben. It pained him to admit this—he preferred Nelson to think the Lerners a covertly powerful clan, and probably there had been moments when, feeling down, he’d hinted obscurely at a secret wealth—but at the same time it pleased him to confess to a certain lack of privilege (“Money was always an issue,” he said, nodding soberly), as this made him appear, he hoped, more a product of the streets. “She could’ve made more,” he went on. “She used to give private lessons. But she didn’t have the patience. There’s not a lot of money in what she does. It’s not like she’s really famous or anything. Basically she gets to travel.”

  “Damn,” said Nelson.

  They headed to the front of the store. Ben stopped in Mickey’s office to take the spare keys for the van—Mickey never checked for them, he’d probably forgotten they existed—then caught up with Nelson by the counter. He grabbed the locks and turned out the lights. Outside, he set down the eggs and pulled the gate closed.

  The lot was nearly empty. The van awaited. Ben picked up the carton. “Hope we have enough gas,” he said, thinking of the long, wooded roads of the Valley.

  “S’pose Bread drives by and sees the van’s not here?”

  “He won’t,” said Ben. “And if he does, I’ll just tell him I gave you a lift home. For helping me out.”

  That seemed to settle things. Ben stepped into the van and unlocked Nelson’s door, wondering if this plot of vandalism was in some way a response to Nelson’s gun, a way of keeping pace criminally. He wanted to lead a charge, win some notoriety.

  Nelson climbed in. “You sure you can drive?” he said. “Sure you not fucked up?”

  “No problem,” said Ben. And it was true: all he had now was a damn headache.

  Nelson laughed. “Little Man.”

  “Shit.” Ben turned the key in the ignition; the engine roared under his foot. “Just hold the eggs,” he said, watching as the needle on the fuel gauge barely moved off the E. “Damn. We got about enough gas to get you home.” He sighed; he’d had his heart set on showing Nelson the Valley. “Maybe,” he said, “we can get some Hats instead.” Hats was their name for the Orthodox Jews who often came into Lerner’s—they all wore black hats and long black coats, even in summer, and in their own way were just as exclusive as the Valley people, maybe even more so. A lot of them lived right around here.

  Nelson stroked his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t fuck with no Orthodox. Ain’t you ever read the Bible? The Jews always be fuckin’ up they enemies.”

  “Shit,” said Ben. He rolled the van off the lot and onto the street. “You believe in that? You believe in God?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Don’t say that shit while you drivin’.”

  “Why not?” said Ben. He sped up a little then slammed on the brakes, causing the tires to screech. Nelson jerked forward.

  “That shit ain’t funny, Little Man,” said Nelson. He sat back and buckled his seat belt. “Shit.”

  Ben laughed. “I’m telling you,” he said. “I can drive.” He turned onto a dark street that was heavily Orthodox. His own house was just two blocks away. “Look how they keep their yards: don’t even cut their grass. All got like ten kids.” And on Fridays they would take over the streets: scores of men and boys in black hats, emptying out of their homes on some cue of light. “Hardly ever say ‘thank you’ when they buy shit. Not all of them, but most.” He cut the headlights, rolled down his window. “Give me an egg.”

  “Take it yourself,” said Nelson.

  “Shit.” Ben couldn’t understand it. Surely Nelson had been involved in far worse activity. Was he really this superstitious about God? Or was it that he was embarrassed to participate in so harmless, so silly a prank?

  Fearing it might be the latter, Ben reached over and took an egg from the carton with a carelessness that suggested, he hoped, that he viewed this act as a prelude to bigger things. “Just warming up,” he said. He then stuck his arm out the window and flicked his wrist as if putting up a shot: the egg sailed, tumbled and fell toward the windshield of an old brown station wagon, where it exploded into a screaming yellow star.

  “Yo,” said Nelson. “This ain’t right.”

  “You see that shit?” said Ben.

  “Yeah,” said Nelson. He fidgeted, stroked his chin. “I seen it.”

  It was now obvious to Ben that Nelson was indeed scared; and while this pleased Ben’s sense of his own daring—he wasn’t afraid—he felt cheated of the approval he had so desperately craved.

  “I got to get home, Crumb,” Nelson said.

  “Fine,” said Ben. Strangest of all, he thought, and most troubling, was his sense of Nelson’s moral displeasure; suddenly he felt as though he were on the wrong side of things, that Nelson had tricked him, trapped him, and that it was Nelson, not him, who yet maintained the advantage.

  Nelson said, “Oh, shit.”

  Ben looked at Nelson, then at the rearview mirror, which held, like a powerful lens, a pair of blinding headlights. Someone was right on their tail—a cop? Ben’s entire skin tingled.

  “Shit!” he said. “Hide the eggs!”

  Nelson slid the carton under his seat. “I told you, Crumb,” he said. “I told you.”

  In the next moment
the interior of the van filled with spinning red and blue light. Jesus! Ben pulled over to the side of the road. He was weightless with fear, insensible; all his hopeful swagger—the eggs, the van, the visions of destruction and glory—had been reduced, pathetically, to this: his own shivering body, awaiting in sheets of light its first dreaded encounter.

  He then heard Nelson’s voice, calm and even, a voice Ben had never heard before, one that seemed as old and wise as the earth: “Just cooperate,” it said. “Do exactly what he tells you.”

  Nelson pulled out his gun and dropped it furtively into the wide, sack-like hood of Ben’s jacket (Ben was too scared to feel or notice anything, Nelson saw), calculating that this was their best hope in the event of a search; certainly it was a better choice than under the seat (too obvious), or in the deep recesses of his own bulky coat. He hated to put Crumb at risk, but what choice did he have? Anyway, it was Crumb’s own fault. Throwing eggs. Hadn’t he been warned?

  Nelson made himself small as possible as Ben rolled down the window. Funny: of all the ways he figured he might end up in jail (and it was inevitable, he thought: he was constantly getting himself into stupid situations), of all the scenarios in which he saw his sorry ass being led away in chains to some animal destiny of cages and barbed wire, he’d never imagined it would go down like this. In some ways, it couldn’t be worse: his crew—Hawk, Rob, Chuckie Banks—would laugh him into the ground (“You was with a white boy doin’ what?”); Mama would be beside herself trying to figure how a model child like Ben Lerner could’ve gone bad (“Now I know that boy didn’t have anything to do with guns; must’ve been my child got him mixed up”); and Bread, who was maybe the last person in the world he’d want to disappoint, Bread would blame him for everything, would curse the day he hired him for as long as he lived.

  Then there was Crumb, stiff as a test dummy in the driver’s seat. The boy was wired with fear. Might do anything. Blurt confessions. Step on the gas.

  The gun lay deep in the hood of the jacket. Nelson prayed that Ben wouldn’t notice it.

  “Be cool, Crumb,” he said. “Do what the man say.”

  The officer’s frame filled up the entire window. He was one of those milk-fed country boys; his hand was on his weapon.

  Nelson hunched in shadow.

  The officer pulled out a flashlight. “License and registration.”

  Nelson felt the spinning lights of the car lick at him as the police radio crackled with descriptions of black males, of weapons, streets, cars.

  Ben pulled out his license, then reached over to open the glove compartment. The beam of the flashlight lit up his white hand, revealing Nelson in the passenger’s seat. Nelson winced as the light stabbed his face.

  Ben handed over the license and papers. “Is something wrong?” he said.

  The officer turned the flashlight on the license. He said, “You were driving without your beams.”

  Nelson had to keep himself from blowing up. Of all the stupid-ass mistakes!

  “I was?” Ben said. He sounded surprised, relieved.

  The officer returned the license.

  “Sorry,” Ben said. “It won’t happen again.”

  The officer didn’t seem to hear him; he poked his head in the window, moved the light around the back of the van. Nothing but a few empty boxes.

  He slipped the beam under the seats, squinting.

  Here we go, Nelson thought.

  The officer straightened up. “What are you gentlemen up to this evening?” he said, still moving the light.

  “Nothing,” said Ben. He sounded less sure of himself.

  “Nothing?” said the officer. “Good. Then you’ll have time to step out of the vehicle.”

  “What?” said Ben.

  “Step out of the vehicle. Both of you. Let’s go.”

  Nelson said, “Do it, Crumb.” He opened his door.

  “Hands above your head,” said the officer. “Step around to this side. Hands above your head!”

  Nelson kept his hands high in the air as he passed in front of the van. Nausea entered him; his fingerprints were all over that gun, and God only knew where Hawk had gotten it, what sort of history it had. He cursed himself for having brought it to work, for having wanted to impress Ben Lerner. Stupid! But now he was stuck with the false self he had created: it was up to him to be the brave one, to get them through this ordeal like the veteran of police run-ins that he’d so often claimed to be.

  “What’s going on?” said Ben.

  “Shut up, Crumb,” Nelson said.

  “You shut up,” said the officer. Then, to Ben: “You too. Out of the vehicle.”

  Nelson awaited the worst. He knew he might have to draw attention away from Ben, which meant drawing it to himself. Ben held the goods. Nelson cursed under his breath, just loud enough for the officer to hear it.

  “You say something, partner?” said the officer.

  “Naw,” said Nelson. He relaxed his body as the officer positioned him against the side of the van. Angry puppeteer, arranging lifeless arms. It seemed to Nelson that he’d been through this a million times, though in fact this was the first; maybe it came from hanging around Hawk, who’d described his experiences in so much detail, and so often, that Nelson could believe, especially after drinking, that he himself had lived them. But no, this was real; it was happening to him, and his entire future seemed to hang in the balance.

  “You too, captain. Up against the vehicle.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ben. “You can’t search me for no reason. I know my rights.”

  Nelson shook his head.

  “Up against the vehicle,” said the officer.

  Nelson watched with surprise as Ben was thrown against the side of the van, hands plastered to the roof. Though he was being handled roughly—more roughly than Nelson had been—there was a play of a smile on his face; it was as if, in his submission, his helplessness, he felt a childlike comfort, a sense, within his terror, of a final safety, a place where no more bad things could happen.

  Or maybe it was the idiot grin of one sinking fearfully into some fuzzy image of himself as a gangster.

  Nelson felt the officer behind him. The big white hands explored his body. It tickled on the chest and under the arms. The hands reached in pockets, pulling keys, gum, loose bills, change. Pat-pat-pat on the chest, the back.

  “Leroy here your drug dealer?”

  “No,” said Ben.

  Crotch, thighs.

  “Same Boy Scout troop?”

  “No. I was taking him home.”

  Calves, ankles.

  “From where?”

  “Work,” said Ben. “He works for my father.”

  “You work, do you?” Back to the pockets.

  “Yeah,” said Nelson. His pockets filled back up with his things.

  The heat lifted.

  “You just stay put,” said the officer.

  Nelson watched as the officer stood behind Ben. The gun was right under his nose, right inside that hood. Surely he could smell it. Nelson knew he might have to do something, anything, to distract the officer. Run? Shout? Collapse?

  The officer started in on Ben. Pockets, legs, tap-tap-tap. Like touching a hot pipe. Nelson watched from the corner of his eye. It was, as he had figured, a less-thorough frisk; and yet it seemed impossible that the officer wouldn’t think to reach inside the hood. He stooped down and felt around Ben’s ankles. Nothing.

  The officer straightened up. His face was red. “Get back in the vehicle. Both of you.”

  Nelson walked around the front of the van, careful not to make any sudden movements. He got in. They might be home free, he thought, so long as Crumb doesn’t pull his hood on.

  Ben got in, closed the door.

  The cop hung his big head in the window. “I’ll let you go this time,” he said. His face loomed big and terrible as a planet. “Just get where you’re going.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ben said, his voice leaking gratitude, confession. “H
ave a good night.”

  Nelson prayed silently.

  The officer hesitated, as if catching a whiff of something—his mustache actually twitched—then stepped away and headed back to his car, to the whirling lights and phantom transmissions.

  Ben started the engine, turned on the headlights and drove off with extreme care, one eye on the mirror.

  “Fuckin’ redneck,” he said, then began rolling his shoulders and uttering tough, inarticulate threats, intimating that the officer had been lucky they didn’t fuck him up, take his gun and whatnot.

  Nelson wanted to laugh at Ben’s stupidity, but he was too mad. Didn’t Crumb realize how close he’d come to getting them locked up? Didn’t he care? And all this dumbass talk about jumping the officer—who did he think he was fooling? It sickened Nelson to think it was all for his benefit, that Ben was trying to impress him, or worse, challenge him somehow, provoke him into making similar vows. Like a smug protégé sniffing out something fraudulent in his master, Ben seemed to be daring Nelson to act. Nelson took a long breath, then reached into Ben’s hood—the boy was still spewing nonsense—and retrieved the gun unnoticed. He held it up to Ben’s face and poured out his anger.

  “You see this?” he said. “See this gun, this firearm? I was this mo’-fuckin’ close to being caught with it. All because of your mo’fuckin’ headlights. See, you didn’t care, you weren’t paying attention, ‘cause it wasn’t you who was carryin’ this.” He waved the gun for emphasis. “A’ight? You hear me, nigga?”

  Ben looked terrified; he stopped the van at the next corner, too shaken to drive.

  “I had this shit stuck up my sleeve,” Nelson said. He shoved the gun in his pocket. “You know what would’ve happened if I’d been caught? Do you?” He paused, recalling that he’d once claimed to be on five years’ probation. He picked up that thread. “They’d’ve put me away for good,” he said, sinking further into the sewage of old lies. He didn’t care; he was too filled with disgust—for himself, for Crumb, for the world—to do anything but drown in a kind of diseased self-pity. “I could’ve lost everything,” he said. “You hear me? You hear me, white boy?”

  Ben stared straight ahead; he looked close to tears.