Baker's Apprentice

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  My earliest memory of my dad is him standing in the downstairs hall of our house with his beat-up Samsonite suitcase the color of split pea soup. He’s wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid sportshirt, high-top tennis shoes, and what used to be called an Eisenhower jacket slung over one shoulder.

  I can’t recall if he was coming or going, but I do know that Suzanne was pissed. I knew it not just by the hangdog look on his face, but by the blue of St. Elmo’s fire crackling in the air. Suzanne when she was angry was an electrical storm about to happen. Although I also recall that there were sparks anytime they were together.

  They were always, in Kevin’s words, either fighting or fucking. Other kids’ parents argued; ours went to war. Things got broken, doors slammed off their hinges. Once she went after him with the phone. One of those wall phones everyone used to have in the kitchen, just ripped it out of the wall. We had to have the phone company come out and fix it a couple of days later, and I overheard her telling the repairman that she’d been talking to someone when her son fell down the basement stairs and she was so upset that she ran to him, not even noticing that the phone was in her hand. I remember thinking that I didn’t know Kevin had fallen down the stairs, and then later I realized she was lying. Why she would bother lying for the telephone company I had no idea.

  Kevin and I could hear them making love, too, and it didn’t sound a whole lot different from the fighting to a seven-year-old and a five-year-old. Maybe a little quieter. Kevin used to stand with his ear to their bedroom door trying to figure out if he was hurting her, while I ran to our bedroom at the other end of the hall, and put my pillow over my head. Eventually I discovered that music would drown out the sound, no matter what they were doing, and shortly thereafter I realized that it worked just as well for everything else I didn’t want to hear.

  My taste in music has gotten a lot more eclectic since I first took my head out from under the pillow and plopped some of those big headphones with the black squishy padding over my ears.

  I was eight years old in 1966 when the Byrds’ “Eight Miles High” became the first psychedelic rock hit. Later that year the Beatles released Revolver. I listened to the experimental studio stuff—the artificial double tracking, tape loops, saturation—and I was grossed out. I didn’t know what all that stuff was, but I knew it sounded awful. They ruined my music.

  At night after my homework was done and Kevin was ensconced on the couch with Suzanne watching Batman or Get Smart, I laid on the upstairs landing with my head next to the radio, twirling the dial slowly and endlessly, up and down the band, searching for the sounds I thought were lost. One night when I’d been there for so long that the loop pile of the carpet was imprinted on my face and I was nearly asleep, I heard something that caused me to sit straight up, banging my forehead on the phone table.

  It was about the coolest song I’d ever heard and it had a really different beat. I listened, mesmerized, tapping out the rhythm on the floor till the song was over, waiting for the DJ to give the title and artist.

  “Jeez, what a spaz.” Kevin’s voice effectively drowned out the information.

  “Shut up,” I snapped. “I’m trying to hear something.”

  “No you’re not. You’re twitchin’ around like a spaz.”

  “Get lost, butthead.”

  “Hey, Mom. Matt called me a hmmmhole.”

  “Did not.”

  Now Suzanne was at the foot of the stairs. “Mattie, watch your language. Kev, come on back. The commercials are over.”

  “Be right there.” He smiled down at me, which immediately made me wary. “Whatcha listening to, Mattie?” He was ten now, not much taller than me, but sturdier, fair haired and square jawed, with clear gray eyes. It was probably already apparent that he’d gotten whatever looks were to be had in our family. Suzanne was always saying that he was a dead ringer for her favorite brother, Lucas.

  On his way back down, he poked at the radio with the toe of his sneaker, dislodging the station. I grabbed at his foot and he fell part-way down the stairs. Then, sensing opportunity, he somersaulted the rest of the way down and started yelling.

  Suzanne was back in an instant. “What are you two doing? Are you okay, Kev?”

  He started limping around theatrically, yelling that I’d tripped him.

  “I did not. He kicked the radio.”

  “Matt, why are you lying on the floor?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, whatever you’re doing, stop doing it. And go get ready for bed.”

  “But I was just—”

  “No buts. Move it. Kevin, come here. I want to check that ankle.”

  I went to get ready for bed, but not before I’d slipped into Suzanne’s bedroom and used the phone to call the radio station—WJJD in New Jersey—and found out that the song I’d been so taken with was “Not Fade Away” by Buddy Holly.

  I don’t remember the DJ’s name—in those days the night jocks answered their own phones—but I remember him saying, “How old are you, kid?”

  “Twelve.” I tried to make my voice lower, but I’m sure he knew I was lying.

  “Izzat so? Well, listen, if you dig that beat, you might want to go to the source, know what I mean?”

  “Uh. Sure.”

  He laughed. “Try getting your hands on some Bo Diddley records.”

  So I did, and I was hooked on the “Bo Diddley beat,” that strident African-sounding rhythm he played, not on drums, but on his guitar. Then a few years later some other DJ—I’d gotten to be a regular caller at some of the stations—told me that Bo Diddley was actually inspired by John Lee Hooker’s “Boogie Chillen.” The first time I heard that hard-rocking stomp with its chantlike melody, no chord changes, and heavily amped electric guitar, I realized there was a whole new world of old music out there just waiting for me.

  Wyn, I know I said I was coming back in September, but obviously I didn’t. And now I can’t. You deserve an explanation, but at the moment, I don’t have one. Even for myself. I think about you so many times during the day (and night), and I can see you so clearly. Much more clearly than any of the past.

  Mac

  He’s flipping through the notebook in search of an envelope that he’s certain is stuck between two pages when he suddenly realizes that something besides wood is burning in the stove. He grabs a towel and opens the oven door, releasing a cloud of black smoke into the room. Eyes tearing, he pulls out a pan of charred corn bread, and rushes it outside, smoke pluming behind him.

  He sets the smoldering pan on the ground and props the door open to let in the cold, fresh air. Hopefully this doesn’t foreshadow the tone of his rookie winter as a sourdough.

  “So, you like it well done, huh?” Bernice is coming toward him out of the twilight, seemingly oblivious to the cold in only a long sleeved T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Her laughter makes little clouds of steam in the air and transforms her face, filling her eyes with light.

  He smiles. “I guess I’m not exactly the wood-stove gourmet. Yet.”

  “No shit.” She looks down at the cooling black lump of char. “What was it?”

  “Corn bread.”

  She folds her arms. “Here’s the deal, tenderfoot. You gotta get the fire going, really hot, then when the fuel’s almost gone, you put in your bread and let it cook while the temperature goes down. You try to cook it while the temperature’s rising, this”—she pokes the pan with her toe—“is what you get.”

  “Sorry about the pan. I’ll get a new one at the store.”

  She makes a soft puffing noise. “Nah. It was a piece of crap anyway. I’ll bring you one in a little while. I’m just going to get some wood.”

  “You want some help?”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure? I’m not—”

  “What part of no don’t you understand? I don’t need any help.” Her abrupt shift of expression surprises him.

  “Sometimes you let people help because they want to, not because you need it,” he
says evenly.

  “Why do you want to?”

  “Why did you tell me how to bake in the stove?”

  She smiles slightly in spite of an obvious effort not to. “Because you’re pretty clueless. You’d probably starve. Then I’d have to get rid of your dead body. What a pain in the ass.”

  “Well, then, while I’m still among the living, why don’t I make myself useful?”

  She shrugs and looks away. “Up to you.”

  seventeen

  Wyn

  CM’s banging on the door. “Avon calling.”

  “You’re supposed to ring the doorbell.”

  She comes in and throws her arms around me, then holds me at arm’s length.

  “This is a sweet place.” She raises one eyebrow. “I like the landlord, too. Much cuter than mine. Is he married?”

  “Separated. Or divorced. I’m not sure how official it is. You’re not into the lumberjack type anyway.”

  “I could rethink my preferences.”

  I shrug. “He’s a really nice guy, but he’s still carrying the torch for his ex. He’s actually my landlord from Fourth Street. Got a great dog. A basset hound.”

  “Where’s the poppet?”

  “She went shopping, thank God. She’s driving me nuts.”

  “Motherhood—it’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

  “You said it. By the way, she’s shaved her head, so for God’s sake, don’t say anything when you see her.”

  “Shaved her head? Why?”

  “She’s in mourning.”

  “Poor baby. Can you imagine finding your best friend like that?”

  “No. If I found you unconscious, with white stuff on your face, I’d think it was whipped cream.”

  “Wyn, that’s terrible.”

  “I know. But I have to laugh or I’ll slash my wrists.”

  She sits down on the couch, rubs her hands together. “Is it too early for wine?”

  “Somewhere in the country it’s five o’clock.” I open a bottle of zinfandel, pour two glasses. “Tell me everything. How was France?”

  She sighs a smile. “Divine. I was only going to stay a few days, then every day, I thought I might as well stay one more, and…I walked and shopped and ate my way through every arrondissement that I could manage. Of course, it would have been more divine with you. I took lots of pictures to show you. I got taken out to dinner a couple of times—”

  “Anybody I should know about?”

  “No. One American attorney. One French computer salesman. Nice, but no sparks.”

  “When did you get home?”

  “Day before yesterday. But I stopped in New York to see Eva Schutz. My old teacher. It’s been so much fun being off, I’m going to hate going to work tomorrow.”

  “What are you doing this week?” I ask her.

  She eases off her shoes, and raises her feet to the coffee table, going through a little routine of pointing and flexing her toes. “Thinking about next year.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, my grant’s up in April. I don’t know what’s going to happen after that. If they don’t get some money, I’m out of a job. I’m going to put out some feelers when I go home for Christmas.”

  “Oh, sure. Get me up here, then abandon me and go back to L.A.”

  “I don’t want to,” CM says, “I’ll just have to see. How’s your mom? Is Richard doing okay?”

  “They’re great. In fact, they’re cruising through the Panama Canal as we speak. They’ll be home next week.”

  “Heard from Mac?”

  “Another letter last week. He still hasn’t said anything about coming back.”

  “Why don’t you call him?”

  “I don’t have a phone number.”

  “How many saloons can there be in Beaverton?”

  “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I feel. And I sure as hell don’t know how he feels.”

  “Then you’re not as smart as you look.”

  “Don’t start on me, Mayle. I’m not in the mood.”

  She sighs. “Okay, have it your way. I had a good feeling about him, though.”

  “Fine, you call him.”

  The door opens then, and Tyler makes her entrance, toting a bag from Nordstrom Rack. “Don’t say it,” she says to CM.

  “Say what?”

  “You know what. About my hair.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’m sick of everyone making a big deal out of it. I got shit for having it blue. Now it’s gone and I’m getting even more shit.”

  “I didn’t say a word. I just came by to see if you guys wanted to have dinner, but you’re both so grouchy I’d be better off with my own company.”

  “Where should we go?” I ask.

  “I was thinking the Two Bells Tavern.”

  “They have good burgers,” Tyler says almost to herself. “On sourdough rolls.” This is about the most enthusiasm she’s shown for anything in weeks. She reaches into her shopping bag, pulls out a black bowler hat, and sets it on her head. She looks like Boy George, but I’m not about to say anything.

  “I’m ready,” she says.

  When I hear the piano, I walk quietly around to the front of the big house, tiptoe up the steps to the bay window. The parlor is full of power tools, boxes. A few old doors and a stained-glass window lean against the wall. Josh sits at a baby grand piano, his back to me. A drop cloth lies in a heap on the floor and in the middle of it, Turbo has made himself a cozy nest. Josh’s playing “Love Letters Straight from Your Heart,” and it’s so sweetly sad that after he finishes, I stand for a minute, half-forgetting why I came.

  He turns around quickly when I knock, motions for me to come in. The room smells of fresh sawdust. “That was beautiful,” I say. “Is this the same piano from the Victorian?”

  “Yep.” He nods, looking embarrassed. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask a favor. I was wondering if it might be possible for Tyler and me to plant a garden.”

  “Sure. Where and how big?”

  “I was hoping you’d tell me. Herbs, maybe some flowers. I thought it might be good for her. Therapeutic.”

  “That’s a nice idea.” He gets up abruptly. “Sorry, I’m not used to visitors. Sit down.”

  “No, I’m fine, really. I didn’t know what your plans were about the yard, and I—”

  He laughs. “Neither do I. Haven’t got that far yet.” He leans forward, resting his arms on the instrument. “How about right in front of the house? That way you could see it from the window. And I could see it from my kitchen. How big?”

  “I don’t know. I wanted to be sure it was okay with you before I started making any plans.”

  “Just draw me a sketch of what you want. I can rototill it for you.”

  “That’s really nice of you.”

  “In fact, since it’s an improvement to the property, I’ll spring for the plants.”

  “You don’t need to do that.” I bend down to stroke Turbo’s long, silky ears.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll be getting the labor for free.” He hesitates. “How’s Tyler doing?”

  “Not good. She and Barton grew up together. He seemed like a really sweet guy.”

  “That’s sad,” he says. “She’s lucky to have you looking out for her.”

  I stand up. “I guess. Well…thanks. I’ll sketch a garden plan. Maybe this weather will hold and we can get it in before the monsoon.”

  “Yup. Maybe.” By the time I get to the door, he’s already turned back to the piano.

  The following week, Ellen arranges for Tyler to start seeing Terry Dumont, a friend of hers who’s a counselor at the Queen Anne Community Crisis Center. While she’s at her first appointment, Josh and I stake out the garden. It’s small and simple, just a border, really. Six feet by fifteen feet, bisected by the walkway leading to the house. My tentative plant list includes lots of lavender, some lamb’s ears, lady’s mantle, artemesia, fern lea
f tansy, pennyroyal, hyssop, rose geranium, lovage, lemon verbena, and yarrow.

  “Where are you going to get your herbs?” Josh asks.

  “I thought Ellen might take me out to the Herbfarm. In Fall City.”

  “Fran used to go—” He stops himself. “Silly, isn’t it?”

  “No it’s not. How long has she been gone?”

  “One year and eight months, one week, three days.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Yeah. And it seems even longer.”

  “Sometimes it takes a while to realize you miss—someone. Maybe she’ll come back.”

  “Thinking stuff like that’ll run you crazy in a hurry.” He shakes his head, the way you do to fend off a buzzing insect. “It probably wasn’t real smart for us to get married in the first place. She always had an itch to see the world and I always wanted to get some land and stay put.” He shrugs. “Live and learn, I guess.”

  While we’re tying string between the stakes, Tyler drags up to the house, barely looks at us, goes inside without saying a word. Somehow I was hoping for more of a reaction.

  Josh smiles. “She’ll come around. Give her a little time. She probably has no idea what it’s supposed to be.”

  I beard the lioness in her den. Her door’s closed, so I knock.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “If you want.” She’s lying on the bed with her butt against the wall, legs sticking straight up.