by Tracy Ellen
Trent Christensen is twenty-three-years old, grew up in Northfield, and has worked with Anna at the Fare since it opened two years ago. He’s currently training to be a Pastry Chef at the Minnesota Institute of Arts Culinary School in South Minneapolis. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and Anna partnered up in the future and expanded the business. I’d be interested in backing them to start branding and packaging their own recipes for sale locally—maybe wholesale and retail distribution. I put aside the idea for further consideration to discuss with Anna.
Trent’s very attractive; like a giant Teddy bear. He stands a solid six-five. He has a curly mop of black hair, and dark blue eyes that have a way of twinkling slyly at you even when his mouth wasn’t smiling. He’s a large boy, but you want to cuddle him. Women of all ages love him. Men find him harmless. Like the two girls glaring over at me from the Fare, both ideas make me laugh. Trent has the greatest, if the weirdest, customer service skills. I like working with him just to hear what may come out of his mouth next. The customers get a kick out of his conversational gambits, too.
Stella was over helping a customer in the Sci-fi section. I recognized the younger guy since he’s been in the store often lately, but haven’t met him yet myself. Stella seems to help him whenever he’s browsing. I chuckled to see her talking and smiling animatedly while gesturing emphatically with her arms like she’s a full-blooded Italian, instead of predominantly Scots and German.
I looked to my left. I saw Larissa Butler down at the end of the checkout counter ringing up a single book purchase. That was some fast shopping, but I knew from experience there were certain people that weren’t bookstore browsers. Sacrilegious, I know, but there you go. They entered the store, went directly to the new book section, grabbed their book of choice, and vamoosed.
Larissa’s a part-time employee and a friend of Jazy’s from back in high school days. I’ve known her casually forever, but not really known her well until she started working for me last summer.
She had married young and moved out of state. I hadn’t seen much of her for several years. She came back to Northfield after a particularly nasty divorce about eighteen months ago.
The older man who’d swept her off her feet and married her turned out to be a monster, not Prince Charming. He’d been terrorizing Larissa by beating the crap out of her for years because he was insanely jealous and possessive. Larissa’s a knock-out. She’s tall and slender, has a heart-shaped face, big, crystal blue eyes, and perfectly straight, thin blonde hair. She’s also so sweet-natured and harmless you can’t even hate her for being beautiful. It would be like hating rainbows or white, fluffy clouds.
As for smarts, Larissa’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. While a sweetheart, most of her limited conversation and interests revolve around cute, baby animals. Since my sister Jazy is horse crazy, I can only guess that was the reason for their teen friendship.
Larissa is a woman whose life took a horrifyingly wrong turn by hooking up with the wrong man. If life was fair, she would have an adoring husband who doesn’t blink an eye she’s a boring dimwit because she’s so sweet and beautiful. They’d have three shy children she’d dote on with all the baby love in her heart, and a house full of kittens.
Instead, she’d been living a nightmare for years with a man who beat her up regularly for her every supposed infraction. Thankfully, her parents finally figured out what was going on, helped get her out of that life, and got her some professional help. She left her crazy ex, took back her maiden name, and has moved back home to get her life on track. The ex has been serving time for assault. Not for beating Larissa, but from going nuts on some poor trucker at the MacStop gas station off 35W in Lakeville when stalking Larissa last year after the divorce.
I hired Larissa when Jazy told me her story and asked for my help. I was appalled when I realized the extent of the damage this girl has suffered. I didn’t even know her that well, yet I could see the dramatic difference in her personality and confidence.
Months after being home with her folks, when Larissa first came to talk with me about a possible job, she was still a shell of her former self. Skeletal thin and dull-eyed, submissive and subdued, she was broken and pitiful.
During the interview, I took one look at her and every fiercely protective, maternal instinct I didn’t know I possessed came roaring to life. I spoke to her softly and gently about our shared past, a light banter to put her at her ease. After several minutes of this, I was rewarded with quick, furtive glances of eye contact. After I spent a half an hour telling her cute, g-rated stories about the store and our lives with NanaBel, she was able to watch me talk, sat up straighter, and actually smiled cautiously once or twice. When the hour interview was over, she was softly talking with me. The tiny, spark of hope I saw in her gentle eyes made me want to lay my head down on my desk and weep like a baby for all she’d endured. The scars I caught a glimpse of on her thin arms under the cuffs of her blouse, some faint white lines, others angry red circles, made me want to repeatedly punch a wall.
Maybe not a perfect choice for an employee in sales, but I was determined she was going to succeed at Bel’s. She could have a place here for as long as she needed or wanted. Once I worked through the process of getting her trained and comfortable, Larissa’s turned out to be a good, dependable employee and part of the Bel’s Books family.
It appeared routine and steadiness were key for her, so I made sure she did the same duties every shift. I pushed her to learn new things, but slowly and surely with no pressure. Working a Saturday shift was new for her. Her normal schedule was during the week days, usually when I was working. I think she felt safest with me around.
She’s looking much healthier these days. Larissa’s on the timid, quiet side by nature. Gradually, she’s gaining back some confidence and some much needed weight. She’s no longer rigid with internal fear when a man comes near her in the store, or jumps in terror if a book is dropped with a loud smack. She seems content working at Bel’s Books. I believe the upbeat, fun atmosphere is having a soothing, beneficial effect on her battered spirit. The older ladies and young mothers love her. They probably feel like they’re being assisted by a shy Cinderella, you can almost hear the cartoon chirping birds and talking mice.
After her customer left, I walked down to her. “Howdy, Ms. Butler, what’s shakin’ today?”
Larissa doesn’t like being hugged, and I can relate to that. For some reason, she loves double high-fiving. It makes her giggle. Her giggle sounds like a squeaky, little mouse, and that makes me giggle. She said my giggle sounds like I just did something naughty, which makes her giggle more. I have no clue what she means by naughty, but when you look into her eyes and see the child-like innocence shining back despite what she’s gone through; I don’t think our concepts of naughty are remotely the same.
“Hello, Anabel.” Gigglefest over, she motioned grandly to the store at large. “I’m keeping it real today.”
Larissa was proudly smiling when I burst out in delighted laughter to hear her quoting Billy Carlson, my other store manager. He’s a great guy with a great, big heart. It seems simple enough on the surface, but it’s a leap of fantastic progress for Larissa if she’s comfortable enough with Billy to be intentionally joking about his sayings.
A few minutes later, I was sitting and drooling at the Fare counter while waiting for Anna to be done with her work. My eyes were reluctantly drawn away from the bakery case when I noticed the water level in the bottle sitting in front of me shake, and a second later, shake again.
This will always remind me of the build-up scene in the first Jurassic Park movie when something was coming and the puddle did the tremor. I feel the same dread now. I turned on my stool to observe Aunt Lily thumping her way down the main aisle towards us. Her head was swiveling side to side as she glared around Bel’s Books. You’d swear she had entered a den of iniquity instead of what most sane people refer to as a used bookstore. I’ve heard her dogmatic opinion ad nauseam of the dar
k sin that lurks in any books not of a non-fiction, Christian genre. I’ve got nothing against believers, but Aunt Lily’s not a woman you want as your poster girl. Any organization she reps gets a bad rap just by being associated with her fanatic, mean self.
Her sparse, gray hair is worn scraped back in a wincingly tight bun. Her black brows resemble furry centipedes in motion across her broad forehead. They shade the beady, unblinking eyes of a carrion predator. She has a beefy nose with wide, flaring nostrils. Her mouth is perpetually twisted, as if sucking nonstop on a lemon. If that wasn’t scary enough, she has a massive body an aspiring lumberjack would be proud of, even at her age. Aunt Lily is the stuff of nightmares. Not quite as terrifying as a T-Rex, but pretty damn close.
On the crook of one meaty arm hung her purse she’s carried forever. It’s a huge, black monstrosity circa 1900. It’s shiny and furry looking. It’s possibly constructed out of an animal she killed and tanned herself for fun as a child. Hanging daintily from the other elbow, and incongruously out of place, is a familiar pink bakery bag. Firmly clenched in her right hand is the black cane that resembled a long chunk of basalt. She certainly doesn’t need the cane for walking, but used it purely for intimidation purposes.
It worked.
To keep current with food trends in her café, Anna likes to do what we term ‘spying’. Spying involves periodically visiting different surrounding towns and checking out the competition to see what’s cookin’.
Our spying adventures began, in part, because of Aunt Lily. Since the opening of Laissez Fare, Aunt Lily takes perverse pleasure stopping by Bel’s with food from other eateries about every second month.
After watching her depress Anna once too many times, I always try to wander unobtrusively over to the Fare’s counter when she stomps down the main aisle trailing her miasma of malevolence. Aunt Lily’s main goal seems to be driving home to Anna how her cooking doesn’t measure up to whatever’s in the bag. Yeah, she’s a real sweetheart of an Auntie.
I am positioned perfectly for the interception today. Aunt Lily’s big on proper posture, so I slump lazily on my stool. My back and elbows rest slovenly on the counter behind me. My legs are sprawled apart while I wait to make my move.
“Oh my, onward Christian soldier.” murmured Trent in my ear, leaning down right behind me. The high school girls had wandered off, and except for the oblivious Anna banging trays around behind us in the sink, we were alone watching Aunt Lily’s forward progress up the aisle. “Didn’t she bring a bag from the Northfield Bakery last time she graced us with her charity? On the subject of charity, what would you say if I told you I was signing up for ChristianSingle.com?”
I answered out of the corner of my mouth. “I’d say, “What did the Christians ever do to you?” that’s what I’d say.”
“God, Anabel!” Trent exclaimed in a fervent undertone. “I love your sassy mouth. Are you sure you won’t reconsider and go out with a younger man with the soul of an old degenerate?”
I stifled my giggles with difficulty. “Quit it! Don’t make me laugh.”
Trent straightened up to his full, impressive height and said with exaggerated courtesy, “Why hello, Ms. Johnson.” He leaned forward, one arm resting on the top of the cash register. “Are you having the best day of your life today?”
Ignoring Trent like he was invisible, Lily Johnson placed the pink bakery bag on the counter. After looking me up and down, Aunt Lily pinned me with the glare of virulence she keeps reserved for Liberals, Infidels, and Jezebels. She snorted angrily at my wide smile of greeting, and at my thighs swaying indecently opened and closed.
She turned her attention to Trent and continued her pleasantries.
Her cane hit the edge of the counter with a loud crack a scant inch from Trent’s hand. He jumped back in stumbling haste at the unexpected attack. He sidestepped behind me. I felt his hand clutching the back of my vest like a talisman to ward off evil.
Aunt Lily started thundering. “Young deviant, the best day in the life for the devout will be the day they meet the One True God and His Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. Renounce your ways and fight the devil inside you before it is too late!” Oh yes, did I forget to mention Aunt Lily is convinced Trent’s a despicable homosexual? “Be saved or beware! You do not want to face Our Father come Judgment Day as the sinner that stands before me.” She paused and ordered menacingly, “Now, boy, be useful and inform my niece I’m here.”
Anna turned off the water at the sink, saw her Aunt, and came hopping over to join us at the counter. Aunt Lily spread her lips in a scary grimace that was supposed to pass for a smile.
The Behemoth cooed. “Anna, come taste these divine Cruellers from the Northfield Bakery. Chef Leonard received his training at the International Culinary Center in New York City.”
She said the words with a malicious reverence, as if the school was located in the Garden of Eden and not just NYC, and the training received guaranteed a quality of baked goods comparable to that of manna from heaven, and not a basic recipe anyone could follow.
Anna blinked once, her happy smile of welcome wobbling. It disappeared at the sight of the Northfield Bakery bag.
Before Aunt Lily could stop me, I snatched the pink bag off the counter. I glanced inside.
Disdainfully, I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t you mean Crullers?”
The crull in Crullers rhymes with skull. Not to be confused with Cruellers. That is pronounced like the word cruel. As in the cruel and unusual punishment Anna’s aunt was attempting to deliver right along with the pastries. Anna had plans to attend that school in New York, but cancelled and went local when Aunt Lily had a “heart attack” and desperately needed her niece by her side.
Aunt Lily’s eyes were slits of hard obsidian. She reached for the bag. “No, Anabel Axelrod. Chef Leonard said these are Persian Cruellers.”
I held the bag back. I shook my head decisively in the negative. “They most certainly are not. Cruellers are twisted and shaped round. They’re also generally thought to be of French origin. What’s with Chef Leonard and the pretentious Persian name? What a poser. Persia’s isn’t even a country anymore. He may as well have called them Prussian Cruellers or Rhodesian Cruellers.” I snorted derisively. “No, these are crude donut sticks that are knock-offs of the more elegant, delicate Cruellers. New Yorkers call them Crullers. They sell them on the street out of those icky carts.”
I tilted my head while I took in the sight of the angry, red-faced woman standing in front of me. “Do you have any idea why this Cruller is shaped like a rectangular stick, Aunt Lily?”
After getting an eyeful of Aunt Lily’s working mouth and clenched fists, Anna broke in tentatively. “Umm, maybe we should try one and…”
Trent interrupted Anna. He was feeling braver a few feet out of thrashing range, and was my obliging straight man.
“Tell us, Anabel! I’m very interested to know why these Crullers are shaped like a stick.”
I met Aunt Lily’s basilisk glare with a relaxed, cool smile. I was totally at my ease with certain people wishing me dead after they’ve had the pleasure of beating me bloody with their cane. Using a napkin, I reached into the bag and pulled out a sugar glazed pastry.
The Cruller glistened under the light from the pendants hanging over the counter.
I held the pastry aloft with two fingers like it was dog poop. “I’ve been told on good authority, this Cruller shape came about because New Yorkers found it too difficult to fit the original, circular Crueller into their coffee cups for dipping.” I smiled angelically at Aunt Lily. “It never crossed their minds to break them in half.”
Trent guffawed loudly and Anna let loose a giggle before hurriedly covering her mouth. Aunt Lily continued to stare at me with a flat expression somehow more ominous then if she was enraged and swinging.
I made a face at the Cruller in my hand, and continued to pour gasoline on the blaze of my eternal hell-fire. I took my time inspecting the pastry while making soft, negativ
e noises in the back of my throat.
I finally finished my careful exam and looked up at the trio watching me.
Thighs still lazily swaying to and fro, I sighed. “Okay, not real thrilled here with the weight or looks of this thing, but time for the ultimate test. How does it taste?”
I pinched the tiniest, most miniscule sample bite humanly possible. After barely allowing it to touch my tongue, I sat up straight and promptly spit it out into the napkin with a loud, disgusted exclamation.
Gagging, I shuddered. “If you think these fat-filled disasters are divine, Aunt Lily, you’ve been sampling your soup kitchen food too often. Ugh! Majorly greasy grossness!” I spit again for good measure.
If I have my way, Aunt Lily the Unloving doesn’t leave any happier then when she arrived. Today, she furiously did an abrupt about-face and thumped out of the store without another word to anyone. Not to be immodest, but I have to pat myself on the back here. I think it was my personal best ever Interception of The Behemoth.
Trent leaned across the counter and twirled me around to face him. His grin was wicked. “I want you for my bride. Think about it. In the meantime, don’t hog the bag. Man, I love these things!”
I had stuffed half a Creuller in my mouth the minute Aunt Lily was out of sight. Chewing while rolling my eyes in heavenly agreement, I passed over the pink bag. Trent and Anna dived in.
Anna aimed a swat at me. Over a mouthful, she garbled, “Way to go, Junior. I have to live with that woman!”
I protested around my own mouthful. “Don’t call “it” a woman. You choose to live with it and will get no pity here, Miss Martyr.”
Stella came over and grabbed the bag from an unsuspecting Trent. She looked inside and scoffed. “No more cancer Cruellers for any of you. I can pour some poison down your throats if you’re still hungry. It’s the same thing as eating all this leaf lard, refined sugar and bleached flour.”