The Baker

by Paul Hond

  “I have seen,” said Dulac, “what passes for bread in your country.” His eyes gained a wild, messianic light, and Mickey realized that this man was vying for his soul. “I have seen what mothers feed their young. Understand, Monsieur Lerner, that you have the opportunity, the power, to improve the spirit of your people. Of all people.” His eyes then flashed, alert to something. He sniffed the air. “My bread!” And without another word he turned and rushed to the back and disappeared.

  Shaw gazed thoughtfully at the old stone bowl. “And all this time,” he said, “I thought the baguette was French.”

  Mickey said nothing. He couldn’t figure if he’d gotten the better of Dulac in their discussion or not; he wanted another shot at him, a chance to further his point.

  “Shall we go and have our coffee?” said Shaw. “Our tea?”

  Mickey said, “I’d hate to leave this place unattended.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Shaw. “This is still Paris.” He seemed eager to get out of there.

  “A coffee?” Mickey said.

  “Yes,” said Shaw. “Or something harder, if you’d prefer.”

  “Well,” said Mickey. He felt hesitant about leaving.

  “Because,” said David Shaw, a nervousness entering his voice, “I would like to speak with you about something.”

  Mickey looked at the pianist. “What is it?”

  Shaw shivered momentarily in his coat, then raised his chin. His eyes were moist with meaning. “It’s about your wife,” he said.

  16

  At the well-lit bus stop there stood the usual crowd of white-uniformed ladies who worked at the nearby nursing home, and rather than spit on the ground and curse under his breath as they took their damn time getting up the steps of the bus, Nelson stood by and made a courtly gesture with his hand, as though admitting all of womankind into the plush interior of his own winged chariot. Smiling, he thrust his other hand in his trousers pocket, jingling the change for a moment before pulling out a few hard coins and, upon boarding, dropping them briskly into the slot with the confidence of a man who can smell dinner on the table. It was a pleasure to pay for his ride, a pleasure to feel the driver’s curious gaze pass over the gold buttons of his suit jacket, and a pleasure especially to walk tall and proud down the aisle amid looks and glances (“Is that the same young man who usually gets on here?”) and take his seat among the weary laborers and idlers whose cheap clothes and haggard faces threw his own suit and smile into such startling relief that he became aware of a palpable light radiating from his breast.

  He’d just completed his first full day behind the counter—a promotion, was how he’d explained it to Mama—and things couldn’t have gone better. The ring of the register, the communion with customers, the exchange of money for goods; moving product, it was called. Commerce. Nelson found he had a knack for it: he could move product. It damn sure beat fighting traffic in the van, and he could only hope that Crumb wouldn’t get bored too quickly with making deliveries.

  Crumb. No sooner had he returned from his route and sought assurance that things were going well in the bakery than he shut himself up in his father’s office, where he could plot in private more ways to change things, exercise his new power. He was wild-eyed, inspired. What would it be next? There was a sense of recklessness, of revolution. Nelson wasn’t sure what to make of it; all he knew was that when he asked his new superior if he’d like to go out for a drink after work—Nelson having developed, with his increase of position, certain fuzzy ideas about lounges and beers and unwinding with colleagues—Crumb put him off in a polite, impersonal way, saying how he was “too busy.”

  Nelson decided not to take it personally; eventually, he figured, Crumb would get off his pedestal. In the meantime, Nelson was determined to go about his job as best he could, and hope that Hawk and company would sort of fade out of the picture. He sure didn’t need any trouble coming round his door, now that he had a position.

  He hadn’t spoken with Hawk in several days, not since the night they’d driven out to Crumb’s; he recalled how, after he’d returned to the car without weed or money or food, Rob and Chuckie (and Hawk too, though less ominously) had wanted to go inside. It had taken everything to dissuade them; he’d ended by promising to take them back there some time in the future, though of course he never would. In Nelson’s opinion, these niggas were ready to do something crazy, really crazy; you could smell it on them. It was time to get out of Dodge.

  And yet he knew, as the bus approached his stop, that he would come home to Mama’s hard face, telling him—and all it would take was a look—that Hawk had called, had stopped by. Mama could be harsh in her judgments—she’d never liked Hawk, even when he was a little kid—and Nelson almost looked forward to defending his old friend, if only to ease the guilt he felt over avoiding him.

  The bus pulled up to the curb. Nelson exited into the chilly night, feeling suddenly depressed. Because no matter how well things went at work, he would always be delivered, afterwards, to this dreary, dead-end place: the elevated tracks, the garbage-strewn alleys, the leaning utility poles and their dipping wires, the vacant lots spangled with glass; the daily sluggish push of humanity, thousands of weary souls heaving themselves onto buses; the crush of discount shoppers on the avenue (EVERYTHING 99 , THE WINDOWS PROCLAIMED), the little children swarming on sidewalks as young mothers, their chests dusted with talcum powder, shouted after them, grabbing their hands and dragging them through the doors of the beauty salons which spewed invisible clouds of tonics and treatments and dyes that burned into Nelson’s lungs; the sirens, the shouts; the occasional crackle of gunfire.

  Meanwhile the customers at the bakery flashed jewelry, thick rolls of cash. Nelson liked to imagine that one of the older, wealthier women would take a special interest in him and remember him in her will. Not that he was counting on such a miracle, but it was fun to think about, and in any case—if today were any indication—he was certainly capable of making his own way in the world (nine bucks in tips: that was an extra fifty a week), and if things continued to go well, and he saved his money, he might soon find himself ready to get his own place, get a car. Make his own life.

  He zipped up his coat to cover his suit jacket. No sense advertising his turn of fortune.

  He reached his street and turned the corner. It was quiet, and darker than usual: a street lamp was out. Approaching the house, he was startled by the toot of a car horn, but kept walking as though he thought it was some dealer trying to call him over. Then he heard the voice: “Little Man!”

  Nelson stopped: he was caught. “Shit,” he muttered. Did he really think he’d be able to rid himself of Hawk?

  Slowly, Nelson turned.

  Hawk was in the passenger seat, his face barely lit by the tip of a cigarette. Slumped at the wheel was Chuckie Banks.

  Nelson walked over. He was scared, but didn’t dare show it; Hawk was prone to suggestion, and Nelson knew that if he acted casual, Hawk’s pride would force him to behave likewise: he would not want to seem too reliant on Nelson in front of Chuckie Banks.

  “What up?” said Hawk. He rolled the window all the way down.

  “A’ight,” said Nelson. He met Hawk’s outstretched hand. The grip was insistent, advisory; Hawk’s fingers locked with Nelson’s and fell away silkily.

  Hawk said, “Where you been? Didn’t your mother tell you I been callin’?” There was the slightest hint of urgency in the voice, a nuance meant especially for Nelson, waged just beyond Chuckie’s hearing; Nelson heard it as a desperate plea, as of some bitter need to be saved.

  “I been busy,” Nelson said. “Workin’. Christmas comin’ up, so, you know. Overtime.”

  “You need some money?” said Hawk.

  “Naw,” said Nelson.

  “Naw,” said Chuckie Banks. “He a workin’ man. Whassup, Money?”

  Nelson didn’t dare meet Chuckie’s eyes.

  “You wanna make a few bills or what?” said Hawk.

  �
��I’m a’ight,” said Nelson, trying to guess at the scheme. Drugs? A holdup? Whatever it was, Hawk wanted him in, as if his presence would somehow prevent things from going too far. Nelson felt a disappointment over Hawk’s calculations, less for Hawk’s willingness to bring him into a risky situation (he could be flattered by that) as for the idea that Hawk had ended up at the mercy of Chuckie Banks.

  Hawk said, “What you doin’ in them kicks?”

  Nelson looked down regretfully at his new dress shoes. “Workin’,” he said.

  “Yo, Chuck. Check this nigga’s footwear.”

  Chuckie’s sharp face emerged from shadow like a blade.

  Hawk reached for Nelson’s coat zipper and yanked it down. The suit jacket lay revealed like a final skin.

  “Damn,” said Hawk. “My boy all pretty and shit.”

  Nelson gave a laugh, but he was burning with shame. He closed the coat, struggled with the zipper.

  “Thought you drove a truck,” Chuckie said.

  “I do,” said Nelson. But already he could see the guys trailing him to work, and then coming in all loud and crazy, scattering elderly customers.

  He said, “My boss put in a dress code.”

  Hawk sniffed. “Is that cologne you wearin’?”

  “Naw,” said Nelson. But the smell was all around them.

  Hawk sniffed harder, made a face. “Damn,” he said.

  Chuckie laughed: he and Hawk slapped hands.

  Nelson shivered. All at once he longed to be a part of them.

  Chuckie said, “I told you he a punk.”

  Hawk ignored this, looked up at Nelson. “You in or what?”

  “What’s the plan?” Nelson said.

  “Yo, I can’t be tellin’ you ‘less you in.”

  “Come on, Hawk. You know me better than that.”

  Hawk shook his head slowly. “I don’t know sometimes, bro.”

  Nelson sensed he was being punished for something, but what? It was true that he and Hawk weren’t as close as they used to be, that things had changed since high school. But whose fault was that?

  “You better get home,” said Hawk.

  Chuckie pumped the gas. Fumes spilled up from the tailpipe.

  Nelson coughed.

  Hawk turned to Chuckie. “Yo, let’s go over that girl Denise house. They a party tonight.”

  “Denise?” said Chuckie. “Oh yeah. Denise.”

  Nelson felt himself fading away in the ensuing fog of exhaust. Hawk and Chuckie were laughing now, their bond growing stronger by the second.

  Hawk looked up. “A’ight then, Little Man. Better get inside. Somebody waitin’ for you.” He nodded toward the house.

  Nelson turned. He saw the curtains close in the front window. Had Mama been watching?

  Chuckie laughed. “A’ight then, Sweets.” The car went backwards, stopped, then surged ahead with a screech, and all Nelson saw as it passed was a blur of Hawk’s face, eyes tightly closed, head thrown back in an agony of laughter.

  Nelson stood there numb in the cold and dark, trying to grasp what had just happened. He held his stomach. The breath had been knocked out of him.

  He ought to feel relieved to be rid of them, he told himself. Wasn’t this exactly what he had hoped for? And hadn’t it come much easier than he’d imagined?

  He walked to the front door of his house, weak-kneed, fumbling despairingly with his key. Inside, Mama stood waiting for him in her white robe, arms tensely folded. She’d been in a foul mood all week.

  “Was that Kevin Hawkins I saw you talking to?” she said.

  “What if it was?”

  Her nostrils widened. “I told you, I don’t want you hanging around that boy.”

  Nelson looked down at his shoes.

  “You hear me? Nelson?”

  “Ain’t you gonna ask me how was my day at work?”

  “It doesn’t matter how your day was, not if you’re going to come home and mess with that street trash. All right? Now give me those clothes so I can wash them in time for tomorrow.”

  Nelson felt his fists tightening. He could hear Hawk laughing at him. Hawk and Rob and Chuckie Banks.

  “Nelson?”

  “Stay out my business!” he shouted. Enraged, he rushed past his mother and ran up to his room, where he slammed the door and stood trembling under the bare lightbulb.

  The room enclosed him. He stared at the map on the wall, and saw a picture of his own mind: a once-solid mass having come apart, chunks uncoupling and drifting slowly out to sea.

  “Nelson?”

  Mama was at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Quit buggin’ me!” Nelson called.

  He removed his jacket, his shirt, let them fall to the floor. Then he pulled off his T-shirt and, once again, looked down and faced the horrible fact of his scar. He still wasn’t used to it. He traced the line with his finger, like playing a sad, slow melody.

  Why? Why him? What had he ever done?

  Denise: the name flew at him, but he would never know its heat, this scar had killed his spirit, filling his ears with imagined shrieks and gasps, with whispers and laughter and mean sentiments of pity. What girl would ever want him, his body split like that; and what girl, for that matter, wouldn’t roll her eyes at the small honest change in his pocket, or at Mama spying on him through the blinds?

  He recalled with longing all the good times with Crumb—the games, the long, breezy rides in the van; Crumb had been the closest thing he’d had to a true friend, he realized, and it shamed him to think that he could be so lonely for him now. Still, he hoped that the situation would improve, that they could go back to the way they were just a week before—Crumb respecting him, looking up to him, seeking his strength.

  Benjamin Lerner sat back in his father’s chair and put his feet up on the desk. All the papers that had been piled there were now neatly arranged in vertical files, and a record of the week’s transactions shone impressively on the screen of his computer. He’d entered the data of the past year’s receipts and statements, and now at the click of a button he could project profits, track inflation, budget, strategize, envision. In three short weeks he had implemented a host of changes that he felt would make things run more efficiently, and not a day went by when he didn’t come up with some new idea, be it rearranging the items on the shelves for a more attractive display, or keeping his gun hidden in the desk drawer, where it would be on hand at the day’s end, when he was alone in the back counting money.

  He eliminated certain unpopular products, raised and lowered prices of others. He suspended all transactions with grocery stores—selling on consignment wasn’t very profitable to begin with, and when you added all the driving back and forth, the time, the gas, the hassle, well, he couldn’t imagine what Mickey had been thinking. Without the deliveries to stores, volume decreased, and so when two of the bakers began making noises about going to work for a new catering outfit, Ben forced the issue by cutting back their hours. As soon as they quit, Ben installed Lazarus as a baker at a little better than a baker’s wage. This saved even more money—Lazarus was now, in effect, doing two jobs at once, baking and supervising preparations. It was a wonder that Mickey hadn’t thought of doing this years ago.

  And then there was Nelson. Ben had been certain that Nelson would resist the idea of surrendering the van keys and working the counter, but he was wrong: Nelson took it as a promotion. He began to dress differently—white shirts, dress shoes, a blue jacket the color of billiard chalk—and developed in just a few days an air of high professionalism, mixed with a small dose of street hustle, the fast-talking come-on that was like a language all its own. The result was that many customers, whether charmed or faintly intimidated, or just out of plain racial guilt, were making larger-than-normal purchases, and Ben saw no reason to tamper with Nelson’s enterprising approach. The best thing about it, of course, was that he wasn’t paying Nelson a penny more; the extra money now came from tips, and of all the ideas that Ben had hatched, it was the tip
jar which he counted as his masterstroke. Customers thought nothing of dropping in a few coins, and Nelson always rewarded them with a smile and a thank-you, which filled a good number of them—Ben could see it in their eyes—with that warm humanitarian feeling people get when they have a pleasant exchange with a black person. By the end of the week, Nelson had pulled in an extra forty, fifty bucks.

  Deliveries, however, were not nearly as fun as he’d imagined, back when he used to tag along with Nelson. It was pretty boring driving around all day, and demoralizing to arrive at country clubs and nursing homes (using the service entrances, he could avoid the sight of the filthy rich or the forsaken old) and approach the tie-wearing banquet managers and white-linened kitchen help, who, as though sensing his arrival, were invariably assembled in a fierce tableau of industry, looking for all the world like a lean enemy army that might someday conquer his own.

  No longer did he dream of speeding down the highway with the radio on full blast, or crossing state lines in a blur of rattling metal; the van was not a toy, but a vital piece of equipment, to be maintained and handled like everything else that had come under his control.

  His only real regret was for the tensions that had entered into his relationship with Nelson. Or was this mostly in his mind? Sure, things had changed between them—Ben, by his own admission, had set a different tone, or rather, had been the first to respond to the demands of the situation—but he certainly harbored no ill feelings, and could even believe, during moments of bustle behind the counter, amid shouted orders and brisk teamwork, that their friendship had simply been raised to a professional level. And hadn’t he done everything he could to downplay his power? Hadn’t he coated his orders with humor and gratitude? With joking, self-deprecating remarks?

  It was one o’clock—time for somebody to buy lunch. Ben got up from the desk and walked around to the front, where Nelson was waiting on a customer, wearing a big, wide, toothy smile that had been growing over the past couple of weeks, and which had now reached such grotesque and mocking proportions that Ben feared the customers might take offense. But they noticed nothing; in fact it put many of them at ease.