Baker's Apprentice

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  There’s no place to sit. There’s only one long bench against the opposite wall, and it’s fully occupied. A fat, tired-looking woman with a sullen teenage boy. A dark-skinned, dark-eyed family—old man and woman, a young woman holding a baby. The blond guy in a suit talking to them in measured tones has to be a lawyer.

  I stand on one foot, then the other. Ellen paces. Finally a gray-haired woman in pants and a long, red sweater comes down a hallway, and calls my name. She holds out her hand. “Janice Meeker. I’m a crisis counselor. Your friend Tyler’s had a nasty shock.”

  “How did Barton die?” I ask.

  “Heroin overdose. It’s not a pretty sight. From what Tyler says, she and Mr. Tullis were very close.”

  “I think so, yes. I didn’t know him that well.”

  “Are you a relative?” she asks.

  “No. We’re friends. Did you call her father?”

  “She only gave us your name. She said she had no other family locally. She doesn’t want to go back to the house where they lived. Is there someone she can stay with for a few days?”

  “She can stay at my place as long as she needs to,” Ellen says. Janice Meeker looks at her for the first time. “I’m Ellen Liederman. We’re Tyler’s employers.”

  “Come with me.” Down the hall, third door on the left. Janice opens it for us, shuts it behind us. Tyler sits in a wooden chair turned sideways to a scarred wooden table. The room looks like the set for the good cop/bad cop interrogation scene in the movies. It’s not large, but the emptiness dwarfs her. She’s leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees, head down. At the sound of the door, her head jerks up. Tears and mascara make multiple tracks beneath her eyes, and her hair is a blue mat. She looks past Ellen, directly at me.

  I walk over to the chair and stand there biting my lip. “Tyler, I’m so—”

  “I knew you’d come,” she blurts out before she buries her face in my sweatshirt.

  At that moment things become very clear, the way I’ve always imagined it happens when you’re drowning and you see your whole past flash before your eyes. Only it’s the future I’m flashing on here. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind about going to France. It’s not as though I’ve made any kind of decision. The matter is out of my hands. All I do is recognize the truth of this fact: I’m not going to France or anywhere else—not any time soon.

  When the three of us get into the car, Ellen says, “Tyler, you can stay with me as long as you need to. Till you decide whether to move back into the house or get a new place or—”

  Tyler says stiffly, “I’m staying with Wyn.” She looks out the window. “Until you—go to France. Or whatever.”

  Ellen gives me a weird little smile. “For tonight, why don’t you both stay with me?”

  We bed down early in the little glassed-in porch off Ellen’s living room. At ten-fifteen I get up and tiptoe around in the dark, dressing in the bathroom. When I go into the kitchen, Ellen’s sitting at the table reading, a cup of coffee in front of her.

  “There’s a mug for you over there.” She nods toward the counter. “Milk’s in the fridge.”

  “What are you doing up?”

  “One of my insomnia attacks,” she says.

  I pull out a chair and sit down to tie my jogging shoes. When I look up she says, “She’s imprinted on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s that thing that ducklings do—as soon as they hatch, they follow the first moving object they see, thinking it’s their mother.”

  “Right.” I take a sip of coffee and sit for a minute, still trying to understand this thing that’s just happened to my life. I take a breath and then let it out. “I guess you better call Linda and tell her that her services aren’t needed.”

  “Tyler could stay here while you’re gone, you know. You don’t have to miss your trip.”

  I shake my head. “She has nobody else. Can you imagine going through that and then having to work alone all night?”

  “Linda will be there.” Ellen sets down her cup.

  “Right. Like I said…” I take a breath and then let it out. “I don’t understand it. I don’t know why, but when she looked at me today in that room, it wasn’t even in question. I just realized that I can’t go off and leave her. It’s the strangest thing…”

  She smiles knowingly. “Yeah, it is strange. Being needed.”

  One of the worst things I’ve ever had to do is call CM in London and tell her I’m not coming. When they finally track her down at her “lodgings,” she’s all burbly. “Better bring your long undies,” she says. “It’s supposed to be cold next week. One of the students gave me the name of a really great Basque café. I was wondering if it’s the same one you were telling me about—”

  “CM, I can’t come.”

  There’s a pause, which is either one of those trans-Atlantic hiccups or my best friend crashing to the ground.

  “What do you mean?” she says finally.

  Being CM, after I tell her what’s happened, all her concern is for Tyler. “Oh my God, that poor baby. What a terrible, terrible thing.”

  “I’m thinking about looking for an apartment for her and me. I mean, she could go home to her dad’s, but apparently there’s some kind of problem with the new stepmother, and I don’t think there’s anywhere else she can go…I’m sorry to be calling you with all this good news—”

  “Oh, don’t even think about it. I know how upset you must be, too. Take good care of her. I’ll call you from Paris.”

  I have to smile. “You’re going anyway?”

  “Might as well. For a few days, anyway. I’ll check out the hotel, and give tout le monde fair warning of what to expect when we come next year.”

  “CM…”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  Tyler moves into the apartment with me temporarily, and I begin to scour the rental ads. I call Daisy Wardwell, the agent who helped me find my first house, on Queen Anne. I talk to everyone I know and some people I don’t know. I put up a notice at the bakery, and we spend every spare minute for the next week running down leads on apartments and houses, but everything is either too expensive or too small or too awful or too far away.

  Tyler’s functional, but not fully conscious. She just tags along behind me like a little silent puppy. Sometimes when I think she’s asleep, I find her lying on the futon, just staring. I keep waiting for the numbness to wear off, like Novocain. That’s when the ceaseless, drilling pain begins to bore right through you.

  I do remember how that feels. After my father died, I was fine for about two weeks. Went to school, did my homework. I even went to a basketball game. Then one afternoon, I came flying into the house with something to show him, and the sight of his empty chair hit me at just the same time as the knowledge that I couldn’t show him anything ever again, because he was gone.

  On Monday morning, our day off, we walk over to the bakery for coffee, and afterward, we make another quick sweep. I feel as if we’ve cruised every street within a two-mile radius of the bakery. Rental signs, places we called about but didn’t see, as well as those we looked at, are all starting to run together.

  So when Tyler grabs my arm and points at a red do-it-yourself rental sign beckoning seductively from the other side of Cedar Street, I hesitate. Have we already been here? The other thing is, the sign’s stuck in a strip of worn grass between two houses and it’s hard to tell which one is for rent.

  “Don’t get excited,” I tell her. “If it’s the big one, there’s no way. And there’s a good chance the little one’s too small.” But I dutifully haul out my little notebook and walk across the street to write down the phone number. The location couldn’t be more perfect. About the same distance from work as CM’s place, but in the opposite direction, down the hill, toward Fremont and Wallingford.

  “Hi there, ladies. Can I help you?”

  An oversized, myopic teddy bear with a reddish-brown beard and metal-rimmed glasses ambl
es out the front door of the big house.

  “We were just wondering which house is for rent.” I give him what I hope is an ingratiating smile and wish I’d at least put on some blush and a little lip gloss.

  He sizes us up. “Which one would you like it to be?”

  Tyler looks at me sideways.

  “I’m sure we can’t afford that one.” I nod at the big, well proportioned craftsman bungalow.

  The guy laughs. “Probably not. Anyway, it’s not exactly ready for occupancy. You’re looking for a two bedroom?”

  I nod.

  “Why don’t you go on in there and have a look.” He cuts his eyes to the small house.

  “We should probably ask first what kind of rent we’re looking at.”

  “Thousand a month,” he says. “Pay your own utilities. I put all new appliances in there, even a stackable washer/drier.”

  I wince. “It’s a little more than we’re looking to spend.”

  “Might as well have a look.” He shrugs. “Since you’re here. It’s unlocked.” He lets us go in alone.

  Set almost at the back of its long, narrow lot, the house is a nondescript white shotgun with green trim and a small porch in front. The inside’s not fancy, but it’s big enough for the two of us. There’s a small living area with a Pullman kitchen and room for a table and chairs. Behind that, a long hall leads to two bedrooms, a bath, and a mudroom, which is where the washer/drier resides. When we come back out front, he’s on the porch.

  “I was thinking about living in the cottage myself while I’m working on the place next door, but I could use the rent money,” he says while we walk around inspecting the outside.

  “Where are you living now?” I ask.

  “In one of the bedrooms in the craftsman. It’s pretty cozy for me and Turbo together. My basset hound.” He strokes his beard thoughtfully. “One good thing, I’m here a lot of the time, working on the house. So if you need anything, I’m usually available to see to it. Where do you two work?”

  “The Queen Street Bakery. Both of us.”

  “Oh.” It’s almost a sigh. “My wife used to love that place.”

  “Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

  “No, she doesn’t love me anymore. We split up. Last year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens, I guess.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his dirty blue jeans. “I got custody of Turbo and she took off for New York. Anyway, what do you think of the place?”

  “It’s really nice,” I say. “The rent might be a bit of a problem for us. We should probably talk it over first. Make sure we’re not getting in over—”

  “I left myself some room to maneuver,” he says quickly. “Tell the truth, I had a couple of guys looking at it yesterday, and I’d prefer to have female tenants. I know I’m not supposed to say that, but you won’t turn me in, will you? Women just seem to take care of a place better. I don’t need some hard-partying dudes trashing this place while I’m trying to fix up the other one. Would nine hundred a month help you any?”

  He holds out his hand. “By the way, I’m Josh—”

  “Keeler,” I finish. “You’re Joshua Keeler.”

  He gives me a questioning look. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Wyn Morrison. I was your tenant on Fourth Street. Behind the big Victorian.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” His placid face breaks into a grin. “Dang, you’re the one who painted the walls that red and yellow. Pretty interesting stuff.” He wags his finger at me. “This one stays white.”

  I smile. “Cross my heart.”

  The following Sunday is moving day and the bottom of a long, downhill slide for Tyler. The excitement of finding a house has worn off, and the reality of what’s happened to Barton has sunk in with a solid thud. By three in the afternoon my furniture has been delivered, and everyone from the bakery comes by to lend a hand. I take a picture of the house. Ellen takes one of Tyler and me at the front door. Then Josh wanders by and takes the last one on the roll of the whole bakery gang draped around the porch. Ellen has Lloyd’s pickup truck to go pick up Tyler’s stuff, but as we’re about to leave, Tyler sits down on my bed and starts to cry.

  “I can’t go back there. Just leave my stuff. I don’t want it.”

  “You have personal things in your room that you’re going to need,” Ellen says. “Not to mention all your clothes.”

  “And you have to have your bed,” I say.

  Tyler shakes her head. “I can’t go in there.”

  “Wyn and I can get it. You don’t have to go in.”

  “Can’t I just stay here?”

  “No, you have to be present,” I say. “I don’t want DeeDee or her creepy boyfriend to have any excuse to have us busted for breaking and entering. Call Felice and tell her we’re coming. And get your key.”

  That evening when the great furniture heist has been accomplished, and Ellen has gone home, Tyler and I have pizza delivered. I’m starving. I devour my half while it’s so hot it burns my mouth. Tyler nibbles at hers and pushes it aside. I pour myself some more red wine.

  “You want to talk?”

  “No.”

  “It’s been two weeks…”

  “You think I should be over it?” she blazes at me.

  “Of course not. I don’t think you ever get over something like that. But if you don’t talk about it to someone, you’ll never get beyond it. It doesn’t have to be me.”

  Tears are streaming from her eyes. “You should’ve seen him.” She looks out the kitchen window. “He looked so gross. All this foamy shit all over his face. He never did heroin.” She puts her head down on the table.

  I stand behind her, rub her back, feel myself choke up. “I’m so sorry, Tyler. I don’t know what to do to help you.”

  “You can’t do anything,” she manages between gasps of air. “Nobody can.” She goes into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her while I stand there looking at the pizza. Finally I wrap it in foil and put it in the refrigerator.

  When I was crazy with grief over my father, CM always seemed to know when to push me into talking and when to leave me alone. I don’t have a clue how to handle this. I pull on my jeans jacket and take my wine outside, sit down on the steps under the amber porch light.

  All the lights are on next door. I try to imagine how it might look when everything’s finished, although I’m not good at envisioning the shape of things to come. There’s plenty of room for a patio or a deck and gardens. I wonder if the teddy bear will see it all the way through or whether he’ll get a great offer and sell out.

  “How was moving day?” I look up to see our landlord strolling up the driveway, carrying a can of beer. Trotting beside him is a dog whose face resembles the Knight of the Woeful Countenance and whose body design would best be described as a low-rider Sherman tank.

  I can’t help laughing. “Moving day was pretty easy. We had lots of help. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. This must be Turbo.”

  “He has that effect on people. It’s pretty interesting. He looks so sad that it makes ’em laugh.” Turbo lumbers up on the porch and drapes himself facedown over the top step, long ears swinging free. I pet his short, sleek fur and he turns slightly to check me out.

  “Where’s your roommate?”

  “She was tired. I think she’s in bed.”

  “At seven o’clock?”

  “We have to be at work at eleven. We don’t do a lot of late nights.”

  His heavy brows lift. “Really? What do you do at the bakery?”

  “We’re the bread bakers.”

  “Wow. I guess I’ll have to stop by sometime. I haven’t been in there since Fran left.”

  Hearing his mother’s name, Turbo raises his head, looks around, and then sets it down again, this time in my lap. “Well, aren’t you sweet.” I scratch behind his ears. “I usually don’t have this effect on males.”

  Josh laughs, a nice, booming laugh. He finishes his beer. “Let me know if y
ou gals need anything. Come on, big guy, we still got things to do before bedtime.” He turns and walks back toward his house. The dog doesn’t move until Josh disappears from sight. Then he sighs and heaves himself off the porch, takes off running with a grace that truly is amazing.

  “You want some breakfast?”

  It’s Tuesday morning and Tyler’s sprawled on the couch. “No thanks.”

  “You need to eat something.”

  “I had a muffin at work.”

  “Woman does not live by bread alone. You’re looking too skinny. How about some oatmeal?”

  “I’m really not hungry.”

  “Why don’t we go for a walk, then? Maybe you’ll work up an appetite.”

  She gives me an impatient look. “Wyn, you don’t have to be my mother.”

  “Funny, I thought that’s what you wanted me for.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Fine. Now that I’ve given up going to France.”

  She gets up abruptly. “So go to fucking France. Just leave me alone.” She goes in her room, slams the door. So this is motherhood. Ignoring all the unopened packing boxes stacked on the kitchen floor, I fix myself two pieces of Indian Maiden toast and a glass of orange juice and go sit on the front porch. Before I’ve swallowed the first bite, Turbo comes galumphing up and screeches to a halt at my feet. He’s very cool. Doesn’t beg. No pawing. He just sits and stares at me. Or at my toast. His long, pink tongue lolls out to one side.

  “You’re shameless,” I tell him. “It’s one of your most endearing qualities.” As soon as I say it, I remember where it came from and I’m embarrassed, as if he knows I’m stealing lines. I buy his silence with a bite of toast. He scarfs it down and resumes staring.

  “I should’ve known you’d be where somebody had food. Shame on you.” Josh jogs out the back door of the house. “You’ve got to harden your heart,” he says, “or before you know what’s happening, he’ll have your whole breakfast.”