by Lori Lansens
“When you cook it or whip it, it goes white. That’s why. Now it’s your turn.”
Sharla took the egg in her hand and cracked it open. She was relieved not a speck of yellow leaked out as she poured the raw egg back and forth from half shell to half shell. She thought it was a miracle how the yolk stayed whole and separated from the clear part. Sharla begged to do all the eggs, for she enjoyed the cracking and coddling and thought she had a knack, but Mum Addy said it would take too long and “Daddy be back shortly and we want to have it ready to surprise him.”
When all the whites were in the bowl, Addy found the whisk and gave the eggs a good stiff beat. Sharla marvelled at the speed and strength of the frail, thin arms which just moments ago couldn’t lift the pot off the stove.
Addy drew the whisk up and made a high stiff peak in the egg whites. She was nearly out of breath from whipping. “See? Look, Chick. See how that stands up? If it can’t do that you likely haven’t beat long enough. That’s just right. Like that is just right.” Addy took a few deep breaths before setting the whisk in the apples and sugar, then she beat that mixture until it was firm. “Here, now, Baby. You do the last few minutes just so you get an idea how the whisk feels and how the apples should be just so. That’s right,” she encouraged, as Sharla whirled the thing around and around. “Little faster though, so it fluff up right and look just like real snow.”
Sharla spun the whisk faster and perspired for her efforts. She wondered if Mum Addy knew about them plug-in whippers she’d seen Krystal use to make Fawn’s mash potatoes. Finally the apples were whipped enough and the egg whites standing proudly in the bowl. Addy lifted a spatula full of egg whites and said, “Watch now, you want to fold this in. Just this little bit, then another little bit, then another, then the rest.”
“Why not all at once?” Sharla asked, watching the fluffy egg blending into the creamy apple.
“You don’t want to dump the whole of one bowl into the other right off, Chick. You want to say, ‘Eggs, I like you to meet apples, you two gonna be good friends.’”
Sharla giggled. “Can I do it now?”
Addy handed the spatula to Sharla and watched intently as the little hand worked the mixtures together. “Fold, don’t stir. Fold means you’re taking something from the bottom and moving it to the top. That’s good. That’s very good.”
“I got a knack, don’t I…” Sharla looked up and ventured shyly, “Mama?”
“Yes you do, Chicken. You got a knack.”
There was a sudden loud pounding at the door. Sharla figured it was either Lionel or Nedda coming to get her and she said a couple of curse words in her head, for she knew, and she was right, that whatever spell Addy’d been under would be broken now. Addy went to the door and saw Lionel standing there, head bent, swinging his arms like he always did when there were adults around. She smiled at him. “Hello, Lionel. You want to come in and try some dessert Sharla just made?”
Lionel shrugged and stepped in the trailer and saw the fluffy stuff in the bowl. “You make that?” he asked Sharla, then took a seat beside her.
“Yes. Mum Addy did the cutting and whipping though.”
Lionel grinned when Addy set a bowl of the dessert in front of them and presented the pair with spoons, saying, “This here’s called apple snow, Lionel. You tell me if you like it.”
Lionel took a too-big spoonful and shovelled it into his mouth. “I do like it,” he said through the fluff.
Addy nodded and watched the children eat, then covered the bowl and set the mixture in the fridge. “My mother liked to garnish with myrtle or box,” she said to herself.
“Can we go out after, Mum?” Sharla asked.
“Mmm-hmm. Just don’t go bothering them cows.”
Crescent Moons
WHEN SHE WAS A girl and pictured her future, Addy Shadd imagined, as many girls do, a life just like her mother’s. She imagined she would finish school, marry Chester Monk, and build a home with him on that land near the Rusholme crick where Chester said he would live and die. She imagined she’d have children to care for and love and that they’d be a source of comfort and companionship when she grew old. Addy had to remind herself that her mother’s life was not really like that at all. Laisa had lost both her children tragically, her husband early, and then lived alone and lonely, in one way or another, the rest of her life. In the end, though it was not the one she’d imagined, Addy did have a life just like her mother’s.
Hamond moved Addy out of her third-floor apartment and helped her find another, on the first floor this time because climbing stairs reminded her of Mose and Chick and their life together on William Street. It took her three days to sort through the drawers of the big oak dresser, which was left to list on its legless side, and three more days to decide what to do with the contents. In the end, she gave her husband’s and daughter’s clothes to church charity and felt the better for it at that time. Later she regretted it and wished she’d kept at least one of Mose’s shirts so she could sniff it and dream she was with him. She was glad she’d had sense enough to keep Chick’s porcelain doll and the pretty white dress, both of which were packed away. Addy wondered if she’d ever see the things again and even thought to write down somewhere that the dress and the doll should be buried with her in the casket.
In the days and weeks that followed Mose and Chick’s deaths, Addy would wonder, and always come to the same conclusion, and finally never wonder again. She was sure Mose never suspected the truth. She knew that if something had caused him to doubt, he’d ignore it. And if the Lord himself had told Mose straight, he’d have figured the Lord was mistaken. She herself had not been absolutely certain until Hamond injured his foot and took off his sock. She realized she’d never seen his feet before and reckoned he kept them hidden on account of his deformity. It comforted her to know that even if Mose had discovered for a fact it was Hamond’s seed that made his daughter, he’d forgive Addy, keep a place warm beside him in Heaven, and just be grateful Chick was made at all.
Addy and Hamond would never speak the truth about what happened the night Hamond walked her home and moved the big oak dresser so she could put the butter box away. Addy had pulled the attic door open and been sent reeling by a sickening odour. It had shocked and horrified her to see the swarming insects on a barely-there squirrel. She hadn’t screamed. She’d been too surprised to scream. But she’d fallen back against Hamond and, without knowing just how sad she was, sobbed into his shoulder until she ran dry and got the hiccups. Hamond had rubbed her back and dried her face and she would wonder later whether it was the nearness of him or the kindness of him, or because they were both just so lonely. Whatever it was, she turned her face to his, closed her eyes, and parted her lips.
The kiss was a soft one and tasted sweet, but Hamond could not think it was more than a sisterly or daughterly kiss. Of course he was in love with Addy. He had been for some years, maybe since the day he lifted her off the train, saw she was that fool Wallace Shadd’s daughter, and guessed at all she’d been through. But Addy could not love Hamond, not like that, and even when she kissed him again, pressing against him and taking his face in her hands, he imagined she only meant to thank him for being there. It was after that second kiss, somewhere between the third and fourth, when her tongue found his and their breathing deepened, that Hamond allowed that this moment he’d imagined was truly happening.
As they kissed and stroked and Hamond moved slowly and tenderly inside her, Addy relieved him of his name, thinking only that he was a man whom she loved and who loved her. When he collapsed on top of her and looked like he wanted to cry, she knew it was because it had been years since he’d been with a woman and because he was sure now, if he wasn’t before, that Mary Alice had never loved him. Addy kissed his face and whispered, “It’s all right, Hamond. Shh. It’s all right.”
He rose then, and seemed a different man. Neither of them had to say a word to know what the other was thinking. What had happened would never happen
again. They’d secretly cherish the memory and suffer for it too, but could not and would not regret. Hamond sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his clothes. He didn’t turn around when Addy set her hand on his shoulder. He did turn when he got to the door, and though his face was lost in shadow, Addy knew he was smiling and she smiled too.
The smell of Hamond lingered in the warm bed and Addy would think how strange a place for it to be. In the days and weeks to come, she’d feel sinful and guilty, but for the moment she felt nothing but pure and right. She would not think of Mose, or of Hamond, or herself. She would reach for the pillows at the head of the bed, place them under her hips, and sleep that way, not moving an inch until dawn.
Hamond would play that night over and over in his mind. He knew the night Chick was born that the baby girl was his. He also knew that Addy didn’t or couldn’t see the truth. After Mose and Chick died he dared to dream that one day he and Addy might come together under the same roof and share the same bed. As it was, they shared only their grief. For a long while, that was enough.
Samuel and Simon were sent overseas, but Hamond was too old for the war. When he came knocking on Addy’s door early that Sunday morning, she knew something was wrong, and though she hated herself for it, she prayed if it had to be one of the boys it’d be Simon and not Samuel. “What is it, Hamond?”
“Darryl,” he said quietly, and took his usual chair near the fire.
Addy set the kettle to boil and thanked the Lord the boys were alive. Poor Olivia, she thought, then went cold when Hamond said, “I’m moving up to Toronto.”
“You’re moving up to Toronto?” Addy repeated, thinking if she said it out loud he would see how unthinkable it was.
“She needs me, Addy.”
I need you, Hamond, she thought, but had no right to say.
“She’s all alone.”
I’m all alone, Hamond, Addy screamed in her head. “For how long?”
Hamond shrugged. Addy turned her back to him and watched the flames lick the kettle. “What about the house?”
“Thought you might take over the house. Look after it for me till I get back.”
Even as Hamond said this, Addy knew he would never return. “What about the boys?”
“Well, if the Lord’s willing, Simon’ll go on back to Toronto, likely stay with us awhile. I don’t know if he’s still involved with that woman.”
“And Sammy?”
“Never could imagine him out of Chatham, but with Ben gone now…” Hamond shrugged again.
Addy knew she could make Hamond stay. She knew she could say she’d only live in the house if he were in it, and only sleep in the bed if he were beside her, and Hamond would tell Olivia he wasn’t coming, and she’d be the one left alone, instead of Addy.
As if Hamond could read her mind he began, “Addy, if I thought…” But he stopped himself, or rather the look in her eyes stopped him, for he saw there was no hope. Hamond and Addy both preferred to keep their memories in the butter box. They could never do that and be together too.
The days and weeks and months passed and Addy felt a decade older than her thirty-two years. It was the weight of her grief and the winter, and the war of course, and, as always, her loneliness. Mrs. Yardley and her husband and children had gone to live with her mother on the Prairies, but the Baldwins were still over on William Street and Addy went to see them when she thought she could bear being in the house. She would not pass through the big oak doors though. Instead she climbed the fire escape stairs, stepping around Mr. Baldwin’s winter wood and kindling, intent on keeping her memories at bay.
It was Martin Baldwin who gave Addy her first cigarette. “Smoke one, Adelaide,” he’d said, “calms the nerves.” Addy had taken the cigarette, drawn the smoke into her lungs, and coughed so violently her eyes bulged. Mr. Baldwin had been encouraging. “Don’t worry if the first one tastes evil, Child. Second one’ll make you want a third.”
“Just take in a little, Adelaide. Like this.” Mrs. Baldwin inhaled briefly to demonstrate. “When you been smoking longer I’ll show you how to draw it right up your nose, but for now, just take in a little. And don’t be like Mr. Baldwin here. Just ten or twelve in a day is enough. Mr. Baldwin likes to have thirty cigarettes or so and I believe that’s what’s killing his appetite.”
“Nothing wrong with smoking cigarettes. Keeps a lot of people around these parts in clover. How many tobacco farms we got around Chatham alone? There’s Morpeth and Merlin, Tilbury and out to Leamington. There’s some near Wallaceburg and Thamesville too. You know who brought tobacco here from the South? You know who showed the landowners how to grow it and cut it and hang the leaves to dry?”
Addy shook her head, watching the smoke curl up and disappear behind the man’s yellow eyes.
“Our people, Addy. Negro people brought the know-how from the fields in the South. We brought the skill and we farmed the land. The tobacco in that cigarette you’re smoking likely cut and hung by a Negro. I don’t care if I smoke fifty cigarettes in a day, I believe I’m keeping my brothers employed.”
The tip of the cigarette was glowing orange and Addy had an urge to plunge the thing into her eyeball. Instead, she brought it to her lips, liking how the acrid smoke punished the soft tissue of her throat. She smoked the cigarette down to her fingertip, impressing the Baldwins with her determination.
After a time it became a habit to leave her quiet little house on Degge Street in the evenings and go to the Baldwins’ to sit near the fire, smoke, and sing along with the radio, never the phonograph any more, for they were desperate for news from the front. The Andrews Sisters, Johnny Mercer, Kay Kyser, Harry James and His Music Makers, Nat and Ella and Billie. Addy and the Baldwins knew all the words to all the songs and they knew the arrangements well enough they might have conducted the orchestras, too. They didn’t talk much most nights. They just sang songs to forget and shrouded themselves in their cigarette smoke, hiding from the rest of the world and themselves.
It had been Mr. Baldwin, after sampling enough of Addy’s baking and putting ten healthy pounds on his ailing frame, who suggested Addy for the job at The Oakwood Bakery. He knew a man who worked the bread ovens and that’s how he heard about the opening in pastry. The Oakwood was a large operation and supplied bread and baked goods to all of the restaurants in Chatham and neighbouring towns, not to mention the hospital and home deliveries. Mr. Baldwin’s friend had gone to his boss, then his boss to his boss, with a box of sample pastries Addy’d baked in Mary Alice’s unreliable old stove.
She’d been hired without an interview, though she’d heard Mr. Revello, the owner, wasn’t pleased to be giving such a good job to a woman. Mr. Revello was even less pleased when she entered the bakery on that first morning. “What you want?!” he’d barked, blowing a whisky breeze sharp enough to make her eyes water.
“I’m Adelaide. Adelaide Shadd,” she said, shocked it was her maiden name that tripped off her tongue. She didn’t correct herself right away and so she would be Addy Shadd again, from that moment on for the rest of her life. It was not that she meant to betray Mose, it was just that each time she said “Mosely” or thought “Mosely” she lost Chick and him all over again. “I’m Adelaide Shadd and I’m here for the job in pastry.”
Mr. Revello had clearly not been told that Addy was a Negro woman and she nearly laughed at the look of horror on his face. She’d been informed that the bakery had a huge order going out that very day and she knew the man had no choice but to hand her an apron and point her to the pastry table. Revello hated women, everyone knew, and Negro women most of all.
The Oakwood had always enjoyed a solid reputation, but with Addy Shadd making pastry, orders doubled in the first two months. The workers showed her how to make the Italian pastry cannoli on her first day. Except that it was filled with custard, the sweet was not unlike the raisin horn Laisa’d taught her how to bake when she was barely six years old. Addy quickly took over the pastry department and discarded the baker
y’s recipes for shortbread, walnut squares, and butter tarts, replacing them with her own. Her customers’ favourite, which she would only make in the fall, was apple snow.
Unlike the other women, Addy mostly kept to herself. She found the lunchroom gossip tedious and couldn’t help but wonder what all they’d say if they knew the truth about her.
Heather was one of the girls who worked in the back. Revello raged at the young woman one day, throwing a loaf of bread at her small red head. “Bastard,” she said, and spit.
Addy’d been offended by the round of spit on the floor and scolded, “That ain’t a clean thing to do in a food place, Heather.”
“Sorry,” Heather’d said, and stepped on the spit with her boot. “You smell him though? He’s pickled. Hope he crashes the truck. If I was his wife I’d kill him. You know he hits her?”
“I don’t know that,” Addy said.
“You don’t see she’s got bruises on her arms all the time? Remember last Christmas, the whole side of her face was purple and her eyeglasses cut into her eyelid. Remember? Remember she said she fell on the ice?”
“Maybe she fell on the ice.”
“And maybe he beat the devil out of her. Maybe he beats Fiorella too.”
Addy shrugged and didn’t want to say that she suspected Revello did violate his daughter, but not with his fists. She didn’t want to say she thought his affection for his daughter was unnatural. And she didn’t want to tell what the little girl had recently told her.
“What’s the tongue game?” Addy’d asked, already sickened by her suspicions. It was a few days ago. She was behind schedule and quickly, though expertly, shaping fruit-filled crescents to go into the oven. She’d been annoyed, as she always was, by the child’s presence.
Fiorella was a coy little girl, and a loathing for women, including her own mother, had been passed down from her father to her. She licked her lips, stuck out her eight-year-old tongue, and said, “My Papa puts out his tongue and I put out my tongue and we touch and it’s tickly.”