by Kym Brunner
When I walk in with the drinks, Busia is sitting at one of the customer tables, embroidering a pillowcase, while Mom and Eliza are at the counter, opening boxes. I hand off the drinks, the change, and the keys. Picking up a newspaper off the counter, I start fanning myself with it. “What’s wrong with the air conditioning?”
“I turned it off to save money.” Mom tucks a stray hair behind her ear.
“Can you be a dear, Sophie, and prop open the door for some fresh air?” Eliza asks.
The Liberty Bell gongs in my ear. “The air outside is anything but fresh! Are you guys saying that we’re so low on cash that we’re shutting off our utilities?”
“When you start paying the bills, you can do what you want,” Mom snaps. “Right now, I need you to go find a rock and open the door.” She stands and points.
I refuse to move until I get a better answer. “But I thought you had a special account for the bakery. I know it’s been a bad week or two, but don’t you have a bunch of money saved up or something? Maybe Uncle Piotr can help you? Lord knows he eats enough of our food on holidays. He owes us.”
Mom holds up a handful of napkins and cuts them in half. “I’m not asking Uncle Piotr for anything. We’ve just been spending a lot of money lately and not making any, that’s all.”
She arranges the napkins in a pile on the counter as a firestorm of apprehension hits my gut. Mom’s selflessness lately—abandoning her acrylic nails and haircuts, boycotting Starbucks, snipping napkins—all point to one thing:
We’re going broke.
Busia hobbles over to the coffee pot and tops off her cup. Especially with the Scotch tape holding her bottom lids open so they don’t leak, she has that sad puppy look in her eyes that makes my heart break. She shuffles back to her chair and looks longingly at the door.
“Not making any money yet,” Eliza adds, smiling. She sets a small box on the counter and slices it open with a bread knife. “But after those ads run in the Trib, everyone will know about our new product line, and things will pick up. Try not to worry, Irene.”
An atomic bomb hits my chest, and I explode along with it. “Wait a second! Did you place an order for those newspaper ads while I was at Starbucks? When you just said yourself we’re short on money?”
“I don’t have to explain everything to you, Sophie. You didn’t want to work here, remember?” Mom furiously wipes the top surface of the cash register, in case any dust settled there in the three minutes since the last time she wiped it. “Eliza said it was really important. We need new customers. I don’t know what else to do.” Her voice cracks with emotion. “If this doesn’t work…” She trails off, holding a hand over her mouth.
My tongue becomes drier than toast. “What are you saying? That we’ll have to close?”
“Enough negativity! The Grand Re-Opening will work, trust me.” Eliza unwraps a fancy blue peacock statue from the box, smiling. “Wow. This looks prettier in person than online.” She starts looking around, as if trying to find a place to put it. “Oh, and just so you know, Sophie, I negotiated a fabulous deal with the ad manager over at the Tribune. We got a half-page ad that’ll run on both Thursday and Friday. We are going to have a packed house here on Saturday morning, and every day thereafter. I guarantee it.” She smiles and nods at me, like she’s on a commercial for hot dogs. Love them or your money back!
That’s it. This chick is out of control.
“And if we don’t have a packed house, what then? What’s your guarantee worth, Eliza? Are you going to pay our bills this month if no one comes to your big event?”
“O moj Boze.” Busia slips her rosary out of her pocket and kisses the cross. After what Mom said about the bakery closing, I’m hoping Boosh has some legit pull with the Big Guy upstairs, or we could be in big trouble.
Eliza’s expression darkens. “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Sophie. I’m doing everything I can to make this work. You should too.” She walks past me, stopping at the Virgin Mary statue, still sitting in its prominent place behind the register. “Um, Irene? I know this statue is super important, and I love it too, but it is religious. That could potentially turn many customers off, especially our Jewish friends. What do you think about putting our company mascot here instead and putting this statue in the backyard in the flower garden?”
Busia’s head whips up from her prayers, my mouth drops open, and the world stops spinning on its axis. But whether the shock is over Eliza wanting to remove the Blessed Mother from her special place in our store, or because a blue peacock has somehow become our company mascot, remains unknown.
Enough of this crap. “A company mascot, Eliza? For a bakery? And don’t you dare touch Mary! Busia loves that statue, don’t you, Boosh?”
“Tak!” She lets loose with a slew of Polish in a loud, harsh tone. Mom answers back in Polish, but by the end, Busia is close to tears. She stands up and steadies herself a moment, before making a beeline toward the island divider.
“Yes, go take a break, Ma. That’s a good idea.” Mom turns her wrath on me. “And you, Sophie. You go upstairs too. I don’t need your bad mouth around here.” She points to the stairway, like I’m a dog to be ordered around. But this time, I’m baring my teeth and growling back, whether Dola likes it or not. It’s time I stopped looking out for myself and concentrated on what’s happening to my family. Who cares if I’m cursed in love when my life is going to hell?
“No, Mom, I’m not leaving! Not until I find out what Eliza’s been cooking up around here.” I hold up my hands to block Mom’s protests. “Let me rephrase that—what Eliza’s been cooking up besides a whole lot of crappy food. She’s a freaking con man, Mom! When are you going to see that she’s taking advantage of you? Did you notice how much money she has all of a sudden? She’s got new designer sandals and purse and plenty of money for Starbucks! While you sit here with no air conditioning, no customers, and no self-esteem?”
Eliza bangs the counter. “That’s it! I quit! I don’t need this shit.” She grabs her beautiful silver purse from under the counter and storms toward the island divider.
“No, don’t go!” Mom pleads, rushing toward Eliza. “Sophie doesn’t mean it. She’s just a teenager.” Mom glares at me, her hands on her hips, her face in a state of turmoil. “Sophie Marie! You say sorry to Eliza right now!”
A lump forms in my throat. I’m worried that maybe this time, I took things too far. But there’s no way I’m apologizing to that scheming birdbrain who’s bleeding my mother’s bank account dry right before my eyes. “I can’t, Mom. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. Let her go!”
“It’s too late, Irene!” Eliza says, crossing the customer area, of which I notice there are none. “But if the Blue Peacock Café fails without me here, you can thank Sophie!”
Mom tiptoes in her high heels, trying to keep up with Eliza. “But I need your help. I don’t know how to run a Grand Re-Opening!”
“The Blue Peacock Café?” I shake my head in disbelief. “What happened to you, Mom? Why are you letting her run your life?”
Eliza whips open the door and strides out, my mother trailing behind her like a pigeon trolling for a few breadcrumbs of advice. Hopefully Mom will find the rock she wanted while she’s out there and bash it through Eliza’s windshield before sending her on her way.
Chapter 19
I’M UP IN MY ROOM, playing with Snickers, when my mother comes and leans against my doorway. “We need to talk.” Her arms are crossed, and she’s frowning. More like glowering.
“Okay.” I bite my lip, wondering how pissed she is about Eliza quitting. I may have been overly bitchy to Eliza, but only because she was making us go bankrupt. Her quitting saved us a buttload of money, from what I can tell.
“Come to the living room for a family meeting. Now.”
Since I’m feeling somewhat guilty as well as anxious, I follow her. Snickers comes with as a possible distraction, should the need arise to take the heat off of me. I’m freaking out because the last
time we had a family meeting was four years ago when my mom announced she was marrying Rodrigo, the car salesman. She dumped him six months later. We still have the nice car he bought her, though, so I guess Mom considers that marriage a success.
In the living room, we all sit facing each other—Mom and I on the couch, Busia on her rocker. Mom takes a deep breath. “I need to talk to both of you. Things are not going good at the bakery, and I have only a little bit money left in bank. And now that Eliza is gone, I’m thinking…” Mom glances at me briefly. But instead of anger, I see sadness. Maybe even panic. “I’m thinking tomorrow I’ll call the bank and say we are going out of business.” She bursts into tears, and her mouth twists into a grimace. “I don’t know what else to do!”
“Don’t cry, Mom.” I scooch closer to her and gently rub her back. “We can figure something out so we don’t have to close down, right, Boosh?”
“No customers? No money?” She shakes her head and looks away.
Busia’s giving up too? My heart plunges over the Niagara in a barrel. But just because they are, doesn’t mean I have to throw in the apron too. “Come on, you guys! We’re not declaring bankruptcy, not yet. We’ll put things back to the way they used to be, before Eliza ruined it all. We had a million customers before, remember? We can do it again.”
Mom sniffs, grabbing for a tissue. “That was before International Gourmet opened. People can buy Polish food and whatever else they want, all at the same time.” She blows her nose. “Eliza gave me a booklet to read which said, ‘businesses that do well do it different.’ Eliza wanted to try to do organic, but that didn’t work. Murphy wasn’t happy. I’m thinking he’s not coming back anymore.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, either,” I admit reluctantly. “But it’s only been a few days with the new menu. My marketing teacher used to say that you had to give the customer what he wants before he knows what he wants. We have to figure out some new angle—besides organic, no offense—that a lot of people want.”
Busia clears her throat. “Eleeta scone taste good. Just look ugly.”
What the devil has gotten into Busia? Or maybe that’s it—the devil has gotten into her. “Really, Boosh? The names of her pastries didn’t make them sound very tasty.” I look down at my hands. “Guess I could have at least tasted one of her scones.”
Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “Eliza was a good girl, Sophie. She was only trying to help us. I know you didn’t like her, but she really did try. She even told me she’d work lots of extra hours for the first two weeks, and I didn’t have to pay her extra.”
I wince, feeling a bit guilty over how I treated her. “She did? Well, even if that’s true, she was so bitchy all the time, I couldn’t stand being around her.”
“Maybe she thinks the same thing about you,” Mom says quietly.
A lump of regret wedges sideways in my throat. “She was organized, I give her that much. And she had some good ideas, but they weren’t right for us. Organic foods might have gotten us a few new customers, but it made all the old ones leave.”
Busia’s knitting needles click together rapidly. “When teen boy stop in bakery today, he ate Eliza’s scone like this.” Busia imitates someone wolfing down his food. “But he ask what happen to Polish cookie, and I tell him we not selling no more kolaczki. He not like it. His whole body get sad, like this.” Busia exaggerates someone slumped over, frowning.
I can’t appreciate her fine acting because my ears blocked out everything after the words “teen boy.” I look at Mom. “What teen boy? Anyone I know?”
Mom nods, sipping her coffee. “Oh yes. I forgot to tell you. That Italian boy come here while you were at Starbucks. I ask him to carry in some boxes for me, and then I give him three scones to say thank you.”
I bolt to a sitting position. My ears must have been pressed too closely against the couch cushion because I swear it sounded as if she said Giovanni stopped by, and she put him to work. “Giovanni was here? Why didn’t he stay and wait for me?”
Busia stops knitting to look at me. “Him very cute boy. Polite and smart. Me like him.”
Mom dabs her nose with her tissue. “He said he was on break from work. I think maybe he said to tell you to call him. Or maybe he’s going to call you. I can’t remember, sorry.” Mom stands up, coffee cup in hand. “I’m going to get more coffee. Busia, you want some too?”
“Tak.” Busia nods and untangles a knot in her blue fuzzy yarn. The second Mom leaves, I press Busia for more details about Giovanni, but she can only add that he is very nice. “And he tell me that you say that you love Busia very much.”
I grin, thinking Giovanni must realize the road to my heart is to schmooze my grandma. “It’s true, Boosh. I talked about you on our date. I said you were the sweetest, most loving grandmother ever, and that there was never a better baker or Polish cook in all the world.”
Busia waves off my compliment, allowing only a small smile before continuing to knit. “What you think about making bakery a place for teenagers? Have computer and play loud music?” She bobs her head to some imaginary song. “Boys eat lots of food, yes?”
Busia’s suggestion is so young and hip, so I feel bad when I have to nix it. “Yes, teenage boys do eat a ton of food, but they don’t have much money to spend. And teen girls are always watching their weight.” I laugh as a thought occurs to me. “Of course, if we offered low-cal desserts in addition to our Polish treats, and some free wi-fi, maybe your idea could work.”
Mom walks in with two cups of coffee. “What idea might work?”
I tell her what Busia and I discussed, and Mom looks worried. “It’s too late to start all over. The newspaper ads all say, ‘Organic bakery goods.’”
“We can call the newspaper and ask them to change a few words.” I scooch to the edge of the couch so I can look them in the eye. “If we plan it all out right now, we can make it work.” I grab a notepad and pen out of the little side drawer of the coffee table. “Like someone famous once said, ‘there’s no I in team.’ We can do this, guys. We just need teamwork.”
“But they also say, ‘if you can’t beat them, join them.’” Mom sighs loudly and sips her coffee. “Maybe it’s better if I sell the bakery and get a job at International Gourmet.”
“Whaaat?” I slap the couch with my hand, remembering how I was going to try to trick Mom by telling her I worked there. Now the idea makes me sick to my stomach. “No! No way! That would not be better, Mom! Our place has been in this neighborhood forever, and people love us. Besides, our pastries kick ass over International Gourmet’s! At least give me a chance to try to fix things. I mean, really try this time.”
“I know a way for bakery to be success.” Busia concentrates on her knitting needles and makes a flurry of complicated stitches.
Mom and I both turn to stare at her. We wait.
I hold my hands up in surrender. “Well? Are you going to tell us?”
“No, don’t ask,” Mom says, shaking her head. “She’s going to tell us we should do some of her Polish hoo-ha, but I’m not doing that ever again. Forget it, Ma.”
“Polish spirits are not hoo-ha! They are spirit of God.” Busia follows with a blast of angry Polish words, and for once, Mom stays quiet.
“Why don’t you like her spirits, anyway?” I ask, glancing at Busia to make sure she’s okay with me reexamining some healed wounds. To my surprise, Busia looks curious, expectant.
Mom shrugs, so I press. “Seriously. What’s the real reason you don’t like her rituals? You started to tell me last week, but you stopped yourself. Like you wanted to tell me but were afraid.”
“Yes, I wanting to know too.” Busia stops knitting and waits for Mom’s reply.
Mom closes her eyes a second and breathes in deeply. “Okay, fine. I’ll tell you now so you both can know. Now don’t get mad—either of you. But since you’re insisting, I will tell you.” She sets her cup down and takes a deep breath. “So, here’s what happened: Busia once made a ritual so that I co
uld find the love of my life. You see, I was very, very sad and always crying because I was twenty-four and had no boyfriend for a long time. Busia said to me that she could make a deal with Dola for me as long as I agreed not to cry anymore. So, I said yes. Then a miracle happened! I met a soldier named Richard—very handsome man, very smart, too—and we fell in love.” She smiles, as if remembering the joy she felt.
She takes a deep breath and continues, “Almost one year later, I found out I was pregnant. I was so happy and glad, even though we hadn’t planned to have a baby. Richard said we were going to get married, and I believed him, but one day, poof! He left me—when I was eight months pregnant! I went to his apartment, and he was gone.” She sucks her lips in for a moment, as if to keep from crying, and then sighs. “He is the only man I ever really loved.” She clears her throat and looks down at her hands. “So, that is why I think Dola is very, very bad. A mean, terrible spirit. She gave me love and took it away. I didn’t want her to do that to you, Sophie.”
My heart practically rips from my chest as I imagine my mother being ditched by the man she loved and left to care for me all on her own. “Aw, Mom. But you always said…”
Mom surprises me by taking one of my hands in hers. “I know I told you that I didn’t know who the father is, and I’m sorry I lied to you. But in some ways, it is true. I don’t know him, because I never saw him again. Someone told me he went back to the army. I don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”
I’m not sure how to feel about a father I never knew existed, but for now, my job is to comfort my mother. “Wow, Mom. That’s terrible. No wonder you hate Busia’s spirits so much.”
Mom nods and looks at me, pulling a stray hair of mine behind my ear. “So, you see why I’m so against Busia making a deal for you? I don’t want her to ruin your life too.”
I swallow the huge lump in my throat and nod, not wanting to make eye contact with Busia in fear that I’ll hurt her feelings.