Far Far Away

by Tom McNeal

  Ah! Exzellent! The boys in the back of the truck stared as cows might.

  But Conk Crinklaw was not so easily stupefied. With a broad grin, he leaned from his open window. “Now, what have I told you about speaking Martian, Jeremy?” he said. “No possible good can come of it.” The boys in the back laughed grandly at this, and Conk Crinklaw stretched his grin wider. “No girl’s going to want to do the significant deed with a guy who talks … you know, Martian.” Again he paused. “But maybe that don’t matter so much to you.”

  The boys drove away amidst heavy, derisive laughter.

  “Idiots,” Ginger muttered.

  One of the girlfriends was called Maddy Saxon. She had a dark allure that seemed deeply seated within her and surfaced only in the thin pink scar that ran the length of her cheek. This gave her a daunting stare, which she directed now toward the receding red truck. “Conk’s tempting, though,” she said in a low voice, watching the truck turn the corner, “in an odious kind of way.”

  But Ginger had turned her gaze to Jeremy. In the soft sunlight, her coppery hair shimmered prettily.

  “So?” she said. “What did you say to shut those goons up?”

  Jeremy shrugged and looked off. “I don’t know for sure. It just came to me.”

  Ginger’s eyes shone. “C’mon,” she said. “Tell.”

  “No, really,” Jeremy said, lightly rubbing his temple. “Sometimes when something like that comes out of my mouth—it’s not very often, but when it does—I just have to ask myself, ‘What in the world did I just say?’ ”

  I knew that he meant this question for me. It was part of a pact we had made. If he spoke words I delivered him, I must divulge their meaning.

  It was a low curse, I said to him. One that should remain unexplained.

  But ever so discreetly he shook his head.

  So I told him.

  A smile spread across Jeremy’s face. I will admit it. That he was pleased was pleasing to me.

  “What?” Ginger said, her eyes full of mischief. “You know, don’t you?”

  Jeremy did not deny it—he was a poor liar—but still he said nothing.

  “C’mon, tell,” Ginger said, then softened her voice. “If you tell, I promise we won’t ask for any more of your homework the rest of the year.”

  Jeremy laughed. “There’s only a week of school left.”

  “Yeah,” Ginger said, her smile demure as you please. “That’s why I can do the deal.”

  Well, it is true. Honesty is often disarming.

  Jeremy looked at Ginger and said, “Promise you won’t tell Conk?”

  “I do,” Ginger said, then glanced at the two girlfriends. “And they do, too, or else some of their juicy little secrets will go pin-balling around this little burg.”

  Jeremy took a deep breath. “Okay … what I said was, ‘May you cross an endless desert on the back of a flatulent camel.’ ”

  A merry laugh burst from Ginger. “Where do you get that stuff?” she asked. “I mean, how’d you ever learn a foreign language?”

  Jeremy shrugged. “It’s beyond me.”

  “Beyond you,” Ginger repeated, and this time when she stared at him, her gaze seemed not to pass through him so much as to burrow into him, as if to find clues to a puzzle she was intent on solving. “So,” she said finally (and do not be mistaken, her voice was shaded with flirtation), “what’s life like there in Johnson-Johnsonville?”

  Jeremy shrugged at this question, and Ginger smiled, as if to say, Okay, okay—the puzzle can wait, and soon the group of four was again moving along the street, through the shadows, and deeper into their tale.

  Since I had come to this town, the green smoke (which was, in fact, a greenish gray) had appeared every four or five months or so, infrequently enough to make it seem special. The smoke would begin rising from the circular brick chimney during the night, and the next morning the bakery’s gleaming display cases would be lined with exquisite pale green marzipan cakes, each layered and filled with strawberry paste and topped by a frosted pink rosette.

  These were properly called Prinsesstårta, or Princess Cakes. But the baker, an immigrant from Sweden, soon observed that only the women were purchasing his Princess Cakes, so he changed the name to Prince Cakes in hopes that the men might consume them, too. The strategy succeeded—you will always witness a great rush to buy the cakes by men and women alike.

  There was something else that Jeremy had heard about the Prince Cakes from his mother, and as they walked toward the bakery, he said, “Have you ever heard of a kind of enchantment that can go with the cake?”

  They had not, but they were interested, Ginger especially.

  “Tell,” she said, and he did.

  Over the years, certain villagers—his mother, for example—had grown to believe that whatever living thing was looked upon during the first bite of Prinsesstårta would steal one’s heart. It was said that this enchantment was so steadfast, it could be reversed only by the touch of a salted tear upon the parted lips of the spellbound.

  “God,” Maddy Saxon said. “What if the first thing you saw was a donkey?”

  “Or Mr. Finnifrock,” the other girlfriend said.

  Mr. Finnifrock was a very nice but very large man, without many teeth.

  Ginger seemed to be thinking about the story. “I like that salted-tear-upon-the-parted-lips-of-the-spellbound detail.” She looked at Jeremy. “So do you think it’s true?”

  He avoided her gaze. “Depends who you ask.”

  This was true as true can be. I did not believe the Legend of the First Bite, but, as in all such matters of the heart, there were wishful souls who did. And then there was the strange but true story of Jeremy’s mother herself.… But that tale must wait, for tendrilous aromas from the bakery had reached out to the group and were pulling them forward with a quickened pace.

  A handsome old delivery truck stood parked in the street, and served as a billboard for the bakery. Its paint was a deep gleaming green, and on the side, scrolling over a painting of a circular brick oven, were the words GREEN OVEN BAKERY in gilded letters.

  A small overhead bell tinkled cheerily as the girls pushed open the door, and the town baker emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron.

  Sten Blix was a round man with doughy-soft features, but his face had a robust reddish glow, and with his full white beard and arctic-blue eyes, he was often asked to portray Weihnachtsmann—Father Christmas—during the holiday season.

  “Ah,” he said, grinning merrily. “Hallå! Hallå! Is it not a great day to be alive?”

  “If you say so,” Ginger said genially, letting her amber eyes fall on the baker. “So,” she said, “how’s life in Blixville?”

  “Yes, yes, all is well in Blixville,” said the baker, who seemed amused not just by the question but by all things, and why not? He was beloved in the town, and his shop was a pocket of warm benignity, as Jeremy could now see for himself. The glass-and-cherrywood cases were filled with a beautiful variety of breads and cakes, two small tables were brightened by vases of flowers, and the rich scents of baked dough, sugar, coffee, and chocolate made me yearn for my mortal sense of taste.

  “And,” he said, turning his jovial face to Jeremy, “is this not Jeremy Johnson Johnson?”

  Jeremy nodded, and color rose in his cheeks.

  The baker’s face brimmed with pleasure. “You used to come in frequently. Do you remember it?”

  Surprise rose in Jeremy’s eyes, then confusion. “Not really,” he replied.

  “Yes! Your dear mother used to bring you into the bakery all tucked away in your little carriage. You were a great burrower! Sometimes she had to dig through the covers to find you.”

  Ginger turned her eyes to Jeremy and said in a crooning voice, “I’ll bet you were just the cutest little mole-creature,” which only enriched the blush in Jeremy’s cheeks.

  But the baker came to his rescue by turning to the real business at hand: “So, my dear children, how
may I help you?”

  “Well, that’s the problem,” Ginger said as she scanned the gleaming cases. “I don’t see any Prinsesstårta.”

  A laugh rumbled up from the baker’s belly. “No, you don’t,” he said. “Because by nine o’clock this morning the Prinsesstårta were all sold out.”

  To my surprise, Ginger’s expression brightened at this news. “You sold them all?”

  “Yes, yes,” the baker said merrily, and waited a full second before adding, “Almost all.”

  Ah! So this was a little game they played!

  “But you kept a few slices back for your most special customers?”

  “Yes, yes, my dear girl. For my most special customers”—here he dramatically peered past Jeremy and the girls toward the street—“and they may be in yet.”

  “You’re a funny man,” Ginger said.

  A pan rattled in the kitchen to the rear of the bakery. Someone else was at work.

  “There is just one little thing,” Ginger said to the baker.

  “I see, I see. There is just one little thing.”

  I could see that this, too, was part of their game.

  “We’re a little low on cash reserves.”

  “Oh, well now …” The baker shook his head solemnly and made several small tsk-tsking sounds. “This is really too bad. Too bad indeed.”

  “Of course, we could write you four IOUs,” Ginger said, and then one of the girlfriends chimed in with, “Or one big We-Owe-You.”

  Behind the white beard, the baker’s round face brightened. “I like that! One big We-Owe-You!” He winked and gestured the group toward a sunny window-side table with a vase filled with cobalt-blue irises. “Sit, please sit. My last four slices of Prinsesstårta will be yours. With coffee?”

  The girls all nodded, and Jeremy nodded, too.

  After the baker disappeared to the back of the shop, one of the girlfriends leaned back in her chair, lazily stretched her arms, and looked across the table to Jeremy. This was Marjory Falls, a pretty girl with milk-white skin and ink-black eyes. “Just so you know,” she said, “I spent half my study hall trying to work out that stupid riddle and didn’t even come close. ‘Find hidden in the poem the person who inspired it.’ ” She opened her dovelike hands. “God. What’s that all about? Hidden where, exactly?”

  As we have said, Jeremy’s was a generous nature—he gladly gave to others, and he was on the brink of it now. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Ginger interceded. “Hey, now,” she said. “We made a deal about asking for his homework.”

  Marjory’s hands fluttered up. “This isn’t homework. This is extra-credit.”

  A fragile argument, and one that Ginger began to refute, but this time it was Jeremy who interrupted. “Something told me it was an acrostic,” he said.

  The two girlfriends leaned forward like hungry diners to a meal, but Ginger sat back in her chair, once again studying Jeremy.

  Maddy Saxon ran a finger along her thin pink scar. “What’s an acrostic?”

  “It’s where a particular letter in every line goes together to spell something,” Jeremy said, and when the two girlfriends still seemed confused, he went on. “You’re supposed to find the inspiration for the poem hidden inside the poem, right? So if you read particular letters up and down instead of left to right—”

  But Ginger did not let him finish. “What did you mean when you said something told you it was an acrostic?”

  “Well, it was like the idea suddenly came to me that it was an acrostic.” Jeremy was not comfortable with this sort of half-truth—his forehead glazed with sweat.

  The girlfriends had pulled out the poem and were poring over it, but Ginger’s eyes were still fixed on Jeremy. “And you knew what an acrostic was?”

  “Yes.” He said this firmly, for that much was completely true, and Ginger fell silent when Jeremy wrinkled his nose, stifled a sneeze, and then eyed the irises on the table. From their open mouths yellow pollen lay loosely on their brushy tongues. Jeremy rubbed his nose and pushed the vase a bit farther away.

  “Got it!” Marjory sang out. “It’s the name of Alice Pleasance Liddell. She must have been the girl who inspired the poet to write the poem!”

  Ginger was still staring at Jeremy. “So did it come to you as a vague idea or the actual word?” she asked, but at this very moment the kitchen door swung open, and a large pink-cheeked boy entered the room, carrying a tray filled with cups of coffee. This was Frank Bailey. His plump face and arms were smudged with flour and frosting.

  “Well, well,” Ginger said as he neared the table. “How’s life in Bailey City?”

  Others in the village made sport of Frank Bailey. Ginger, to her credit, did not.

  “Okay,” Frank Bailey answered, setting the tray on the table, then tugging so hard at his earlobe that it stretched like rubber. “I’m working here now.”

  Ginger smiled at him, which prompted him to further awkwardness.

  “I always liked to cook … and my mother thought I ought to learn a trade … so I’m kind of an apprentice, I guess. Mr. Blix is really nice to me.” He finally released his ear. “I like it a lot.”

  “That’s fabulous,” Ginger said, and when Frank Bailey seemed to wonder whether she was serious or not, she said, “No, really, it is.”

  Sten Blix pushed through the kitchen door carrying another tray, this one filled with dessert plates.

  Oh, the Prinsesstårta were an eye-filling sight! Each slice, topped with pale green marzipan and a frosted rosette, was nestled among red ripe strawberries.

  “Zounds,” Ginger said. “They’re almost too beautiful to eat.” Then, smiling at the baker, she added, “Notice I said almost.”

  Marjory said, “I noticed you said Zounds, which I hope to God you will never say again.”

  Ginger regarded her. “How do you feel about Egads?”

  “Worse.”

  Ginger smiled and sprang her little trap: “Then Zounds it is.”

  The baker stood close by during this exchange but now gave a cheery laugh and departed. The three girls stared at their portions of Prinsesstårta as one might stare at a bow-wrapped gift. But Marjory and Maddy could not stare for long—they grabbed their forks and began to eat.

  Probably they did not believe Jeremy’s Legend of the First Bite, but, still, they took no chances—they chewed with their eyes tightly closed. They did not open their eyes when the bell over the door tinkled and two customers entered. They did not open them when Jeremy, reacting to the pollen from the irises in the vase before him, wrinkled a napkin and dabbed at his nose. They did not open them when Ginger said, “Oh sweet mother of God, why would Conk Crinklaw ride a bicycle buck-naked down Main Street?”

  This was, of course, untrue.

  The two girlfriends smiled at this ploy, continued chewing, and kept their eyes clamped closed. They did not open them until their first bites were safely swallowed.

  “Mmm,” purred Marjory.

  Maddy, who rarely smiled, smiled.

  Jeremy did not go quite so far as the girls. He merely finished his first bite with his eyes steadfastly cast down at his plate.

  “Verdict?” Ginger said when he was done.

  “Good,” Jeremy said, nodding slowly. “Really, really good.”

  Ginger seemed pleased. “Told you,” she said.

  But here was an interesting something. Ginger, who had gone to such trouble to acquire the Prinsesstårta, had not begun eating hers—indeed, seemed in no hurry to begin. After a sip of coffee, she pressed several strands of coppery hair between her lips and regarded the baker as he whistled a merry tune and slid fresh loaves of bread into the display cases.

  “What?” Maddy asked, following Ginger’s gaze to the baker.

  “Him,” Ginger whispered, nodding toward the baker as, still whistling, he pushed through the half doors into the kitchen. “Do you think the reason he’s so glad to see us when we come in is that his life is as dull as ditchwater?”

  “A
re you kidding?” Maddy Saxon said in her low voice. “There are tons of boring people in this town, and none of them are happy to see us.”

  “Maybe he’s just nice,” Jeremy said.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Ginger said. She gazed again toward the kitchen. “It’s just that all he does is bake all day, and then he goes home to that big old house, where he tends his flowers and lives alone without even a dog or a hamster or a horny toad.”

  “Who says he doesn’t have a horny toad?” Marjory said, licking a bit of frosting from her fork, which led all three girls to muffled laughter, while Jeremy could do nothing but smile awkwardly and blush.

  Ginger was still staring toward the kitchen when her gaze suddenly narrowed and she glanced from Maddy to Marjory. “Maybe,” she said in the smallest whisper, “the boring little kingdom of Blixville needs some … investigating.”

  At once Marjory’s hands flew up in excitement. “Night mission!” she whispered, and Maddy in a low tone added, “Stealth patrol.”

  I had no idea what to make of this, and neither did Jeremy. He merely continued to eat and, occasionally, stifle a sneeze. He pushed the vase of flowers even farther away from him. The girlfriends meanwhile had slowed the consumption of their last morsels of Prince Cake as if to forestall its complete disappearance. That theirs was reduced to crumbs seemed to please Ginger, who ceremonially cleared her throat and cut the first bite from her portion. Then, simultaneously closing her eyes and opening her mouth, she slipped the first forkful of cake into her mouth.

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  The girlfriends stared at her. Maddy said, “You are the queen of sadistic eating.”

  With eyes still closed, Ginger made a murmuring laugh and kept chewing.

  Across the table, Jeremy stilled his fork. His expression contorted, relaxed, then suddenly contorted again. He jerked his head back and an enormous sneeze exploded from his mouth.

  This sneeze was so wild and boisterous that the baker poked his head through the kitchen door and all of the girls turned their eyes to Jeremy in astonishment.