by Paul Hond
“What’ll it be today, sir?” Nelson said to Irv Gould, an old crank of eighty with bushy red eyebrows. “Rye bread lookin’ good—I recommend gettin’ two, ‘cause you’re liable to eat one on the way home.”
“The seeds irritate my stomach,” said Gould. He was one of the few customers who wasn’t impressed with Nelson’s style. “And I like to keep both hands on the wheel when I drive.”
“That’s fine too,” said Nelson. “Can’t blame you.”
“I’ll take a plain wheat bread,” said Gould.
“Sliced?” said Morris.
Gould waved his hand in the affirmative. Morris set the loaf on the slicer and turned the switch. The store rattled with the noise.
Gould took his bread and left without leaving a tip. Nelson tried to appear oblivious; quickly he pulled out a rag from under the counter and began wiping the countertop.
“I’ll go and get lunch,” said Morris, glancing at Nelson.
“That’s okay,” said Ben. “I can get it.”
Nelson shook out the rag and folded it with care.
“You’ve been getting it for the past week,” said Morris.
Ben felt Nelson’s eyes on him. “Okay,” he said, trying to make it seem natural. “Okay. You can go. I’ll have a chicken sandwich, potato salad and a Coke.”
Morris wrote this down on a pad. “What about you, Nelson?”
Nelson placed the folded rag in his pocket. “Chicken sandwich,” he said, his voice low, hooded.
“What was that?”
“Chicken sandwich.”
Morris scribbled frantically.
Ben took out a bill from his wallet. “It’s on me today,” he announced. As Morris walked past him he handed over the money. “Don’t take all day,” he whispered hotly.
In a moment Ben found himself alone with Nelson. There were no customers.
Ben sighed. “Slow day, huh?” he said.
“It’s a’ight.”
“Probably pick up later.”
“Yeah.” Nelson rubbed his chin. “Prob’ly.”
Ben noticed that Nelson never looked at him anymore when he spoke (he can’t face me, Ben thought; can’t stand the idea that I’m his boss!), never responded with more than a few words. Ben felt he ought to be shown more respect, but then too he believed that he had certain responsibilities to his staff, such as being a good communicator, the kind of boss with whom you could have a cup of coffee in the office and chat about a ball game. In this capacity he was obviously falling short.
He said, “You watch any games last night?”
“Naw.”
It was frustrating: he wanted to talk to Nelson the way they used to talk, but feared that the mere sound of that language, like the snap of a hypnotist’s fingers, might transport them to former roles. He knew that Nelson despised his new persona—despised him—and his only response was to avoid his old friend as much as possible.
Things had gotten so quiet, so fraught with distrust, that when Ben saw the squinting figure of Shirley Finkle making her way through the cold to the bakery door—normally a dreaded sight—it was like an answer to a prayer. Nelson’s mood seemed to lighten too: Shirley Finkle meant an easy sell and a dollar in the tip jar.
“Well, hello!” she said, with paralyzing brightness, her head now bobbing as she looked around at the paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling by a special transparent string that Ben had purchased at a party store. The flakes were still flinching from the draft that Shirley had let in. “When your father comes home, he’ll never recognize this place,” she said, and Ben had a feeling she was referring more to Nelson’s presence behind the counter than anything else. “Have you heard from him?”
“Yes,” said Ben. “He left a message last week.”
“Saying what?”
“Not much. Just that he’ll be back soon, and to call him at his number if there’s an emergency.”
“What in the world is he doing over there?”
Ben shrugged. Mickey hadn’t said, and Ben didn’t particularly care; he could only hope that his father’s return might be delayed, and that, in the time that remained, he could gain some kind of compelling custody over the bakery, like that of a squatter, or a devoted stepparent.
“How do you like that,” said Shirley, shaking her head. “And he expects you to keep running this place all by yourself?”
“It’s not by myself,” Ben said. He gave a jerk of the head to indicate Nelson. “I’ve had some help.” He looked at Nelson to flash him a smile, but Nelson was looking into the tip jar, counting the bills with his eyes.
Shirley continued shaking her head, and Ben wondered if she was hurt that Mickey hadn’t contacted her, or sent a postcard.
“Anyway, it’s fine,” said Ben. “He trusts me.”
Shirley sighed, looked around some more.
Ben wasn’t sure what to make of his next-door neighbor. She’d wanted so badly to be a heroic presence in the wake of Emi’s death, but it hadn’t worked out; only once since Thanksgiving had she invited Ben over to dinner, and that had been a minor disaster: everything about the evening, from the lemony scent of cleansers to the big smile frozen on Shirley’s face, had suggested nervous preparations and efforts to make him feel at home, and it soon became eerily obvious that the Finkles were imagining that Ben was a sort of grown orphan whom they had adopted. Their childlessness cried out from between the layers of Shirley’s wet, sliding lasagna, shrieked up from the gloss of the kitchen floor, quivered within the silences that descended on the table like an overly attentive waiter. The Finkles watched with wonder as he used his silverware, and seemed to be on tenterhooks as he chewed. When he remarked how good the food was, they looked at each other as though their doubts as to whether he had ever enjoyed a home-cooked meal had been confirmed. It was only when he announced that he couldn’t stay for dessert because he had to go to the bakery to do some paperwork that he knew their fantasy had been spoiled: he wasn’t so needy and helpless after all, and as he walked out the door trailing thank-yous, he sensed that there had been something improper about the whole event, like a date between friends or co-workers that would always be remembered as a bad idea.
Fortunately, Shirley seemed to have erased the evening from her mind. She examined a tray of pastries, still shaking her head over the idea of Mickey gallivanting in Paris, or maybe she was noticing that the prices had gone up a quarter.
Nelson looked up from the tip jar as if he had just noticed the new customer. “Hey, Miss Shirley, how you doin’ today. Got your eye on that raisin bun?” He pulled out a sheet of wax paper from the dispenser, ready to make the move.
Shirley giggled. “Not me,” she said. “I’m starting next year’s diet a little early.”
“You got to indulge sometimes,” Nelson said. “Life is way too short.”
Ben could see Shirley relenting under the pressure; she’d rather buy some buns and throw them out at home than turn down Nelson. “Well,” she said, “now that you put it that way!” A tremendous and startling smile broke out on her face, causing her eyes to close.
“How many?” said Nelson. “How about half a dozen.” He began to bag them, one after the other. “I’m sure your husband’ll be glad to come home to somethin’ good and nice.”
“What, I’m not good and nice?” said Shirley, watching as Nelson loaded the bag. “I’m not nice to come home to?”
“Now I didn’t say that,” said Nelson, and he and Shirley shared a bouncy, shaky laugh, under cover of which Shirley deposited a dollar in the tip jar.
“You boys be good,” she said, setting out the exact change, and then she turned and hurried out the door.
“Nice lady,” said Nelson, looking down at the tray, at the six shiny spots where the buns had stood.
Ben kept himself from saying something like “good job”; he just stood by and let Nelson feel he was being noticed.
Another customer entered: beard, black hat, black coat. Ben had seen this man a
few times over the years, but he didn’t know his name.
Nelson, full of momentum, was ready to win him over. “How you doin’ today?” he said.
“Good,” said the man, without inflection. He was big and heavy, voracious for books, texts, parchment, for fleshy excesses of the marriage bed, the crushing surge of fatherhood. His beard came to three points; red lips twitched in a nest of hair.
Ben went over to the register to free up Nelson, who followed the man to the other end of the counter.
“May I help you?” Nelson said.
“Yes,” said the man. “A loaf of rye bread.”
“One loaf of rye,” said Nelson. It seemed he might push for more, but he held back; the Gould rejection would not be far from his mind. “Want it sliced?” he said.
“Please,” said the man.
Nelson put the bread through the slicer, then peeled off a plastic bag and licked his finger to open it. As he slid the sliced bread into the bag, the man cleared his throat.
“You really shouldn’t put your hand in your mouth and then touch the bread,” the man said. “It’s unsanitary.”
Nelson looked up at him. “I didn’t touch the bread,” he said politely. “I just touched the bag.”
“Yes, but you first picked up the bread with your fingers. If you’ve been licking your fingers and picking up bread all day, I would argue that that is an unsanitary practice.”
“No need to argue,” said Nelson. He tried a laugh, but Ben could see he was trapped. Ben felt trapped himself, caught between loyalty to his employee and service to his customer.
“I’d like a different loaf,” said the man.
Nelson held himself together. “Okay,” he said. “No problem.” He reached for another loaf.
“I’d prefer if you washed your hands first,” said the man.
“Wash my hands?” said Nelson. He chuckled, shook his head.
The man’s face gained some color. “I’m sorry, is that too much to ask?”
“I didn’t hear you askin’,” said Nelson. He remained gracious, instructive, but his blackness alone seemed to tinge all of that with menace. “Know what I’m sayin’?”
The man said, “I’d like to speak to the manager. I’d like to speak to Mr. Lerner.”
Ben interceded, fingering the knot on his tie. “I’m the manager,” he said. “Benjamin Lerner.”
“You’re the manager?” said the man. “And you allow your employees to handle food with their bare hands?”
Ben hardly knew what to say, and could only hope that Nelson would maintain himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I know people at the Health Department.”
“We apologize,” said Ben, his knees shaking. The Health Department had closed down a big area bakery a few years back, citing roaches, mice. Rumor had it that it was a political move; someone had wanted the place to go down. The big winner, of course, had been Lerner’s. Now Ben could see his own business facing ruin. He said, “I can guarantee we’ll clear up the problem. In the meantime—” He pulled out a piece of wax paper and with it placed two loaves of rye into a bag. Nelson stood there watching. His hands were in his pockets.
“No, thank you,” said the man as Ben placed the bag on the counter. “I think I’d rather take my business elsewhere.” He shot Nelson a look, then turned and walked out of the bakery.
Nelson stared after him through the window.
Ben decided to act like nothing serious had happened, though he knew he’d have to take some sort of action. It was incidents like this that snowballed and came back to roll over you.
“Tellin’ me to wash my hands,” said Nelson. “That nigga got to be out his mind.”
“Shrug it off,” said Ben, almost grateful that he’d been afforded this opportunity to rally behind Nelson. “The guy was an asshole. Don’t worry about it.”
Nelson shook his head; Ben could see he was getting himself worked up.
“I’ll get some plastic gloves,” Ben said, “those disposable ones. Personally, I don’t care, but, I mean, we sure don’t need any hassles from the Health Department.” He sighed. “Look, it’s no big deal. It’s not like we need his business.” This statement was a direct contradiction to remarks Ben had made during a staff meeting the day before, when he said that there was no such thing as an unimportant customer.
Morris came back with the food and sat in his folding chair by the bread slicer. When Ben told him what happened, Morris looked surprised.
“I’ve been licking my fingers for fifty years,” he said. “Never had a complaint.”
“There you go,” said Nelson, as if this proved his point. He grabbed his chicken sandwich and went to the far end of the counter.
Ben canceled afternoon deliveries so that he could be around just in case the man returned. He told Morris and Nelson that he had a lot of paperwork to do, but he knew Nelson didn’t believe him. The day passed without further incident, but Nelson, his spirits dampened, had ceased to be upbeat with customers.
When after three days Nelson still hadn’t rebounded, Ben knew he had to do something. He called Nelson into the office just before closing and told him in as friendly a tone as he could to have a seat. Then he sat at his desk and clasped his hands behind his head. “Something tells me,” he said, “that you’re still pretty upset over what happened the other day.”
Nelson fidgeted in the chair and looked around.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Ben went on, “and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to put you back on deliveries.”
Nelson glanced up at the ceiling.
“Of course, it’s entirely up to you,” Ben said. “I just want you to be as comfortable as possible. I mean, in the van, at least you won’t have to deal with as many assholes.”
Nelson stroked his chin. “If you want me to drive,” he said, “I’ll drive.”
Ben considered that his talk two weeks before about teamwork and being a team player had maybe rubbed off some. “Great,” he said. “I never really got the hang of driving that thing anyway.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the van keys. Nelson became alert at the sound. Ben gave the keys a little friendly jiggle in his palm. “Like old times,” he said. “Think you remember how to drive it?”
“Yeah,” said Nelson.
Ben placed the keys on the desk: it was like a dare for Nelson to grab them. When Nelson didn’t make a move, Ben took the keys, got up, and offered them. Nelson held out his hand, and when the keys had been passed, Ben felt instantly that he had made a terrible mistake.
17
Mickey stared at the fire. It had been three weeks since he’d learned the truth about his wife, but even now, watching the hypnotic dance of the flames (it is alive, this fire, Mickey thought, it is more alive than me, and yet I have created it), the words of David Shaw came back to him, and despite the relentless heat, a chill passed over his skin.
“It’s about your wife,” Shaw had said as they walked out of Dulac’s bakery under a bone-colored sky. Shaw then informed him that he knew of a place not too far away where they could, as he cryptically put it, “talk alone,” and Mickey, as he followed Shaw’s brisk steps, could not bring himself to ask a single question. And didn’t he already know? It seemed almost cruel that Shaw should now tell him of Emi’s deeds (he recalled a remark of Shaw’s at the Halloween party: “We must talk someday,” he’d said), and Mickey wondered if the pianist, who would have witnessed her affairs firsthand while traveling with her, needed simply to unburden his conscience.
They entered a dark, mint-scented room of red rugs and pillows—the best tearoom in Paris, Shaw said—and were led to a corner table, where Mickey lowered himself with a small protest from his joints on the low, cushioned wicker seat. The usual reds of November—leaves, apples, Indian corn, the remnant clouds of sunsets smeared red-orange across a turquoise rim of sky—were displaced by red visions of deserts and sumptuous tents, idea
s that were deepened by the heavy red draperies that hung unmoving over the windows, pressing the darkness in toward some central erotic idea. As Shaw ordered two teas from an Arab waiter—Shaw’s bomb was imminent now—Mickey thought to preempt him by claiming a knowledge of Emi’s secret life, in hopes of saving both of them from the pathetic charade of disclosure.
He heard himself say, “I know what you want to tell me,” and wished immediately that he’d held off, waited for the tea at least, so that he could have something to hold, to duck down into. His hands squirmed on his lap.
“You do?” said Shaw. He seemed surprised. “About Emi?”
“Yes,” Mickey said, a little ironic wink in his voice, “I couldn’t help but notice how she was acting toward the end.”
He sat back and waited, confident not only that he’d struck the perfect note—a man of appetites reclining in his knowledge—but that the bomb of adultery (here it comes, he thought) would release him from whatever it was that kept him from going to a pay phone and calling Donna Childs.
Shaw touched his ear, that faultless musician’s ear, and inclined it, as if he hadn’t heard right. “You mean you knew?” he said. “About—her condition?”
Mickey kept his jaw firm. Condition? He knew she’d been under stress, a little frustrated—but a condition? “What do you mean?” he said, forcing a smile so as not to seem too surprised or concerned.
Shaw pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit a match: a flame snapped into existence, then quickly reduced, and with it the room, the city, the entire world seemed to concentrate itself into what was now a tense moment of ignition, a moment on which so much suddenly seemed to depend. Mickey watched the blue light swim toward Shaw’s fingertips as he held the tiny droplet of fire to the end of the cigarette, until at the last possible moment the tip burst into a brightness that intensified like a frightening idea. The match, black and twisted but still showing a glimmer of blue, fell straight down into a clear glass ashtray, where it broke in half, sending up a single strand of smoke, a long musical note heard only by the dead.
