Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  “I’ve been working some with Raphael and he says I’ve got the touch.”

  “Well, he should know.”

  The server sets down a slab of chocolate cake the size of a brick, topped with a thick layer of fudgy ganâche and an avalanche of whipped cream.

  “The good news is that I don’t go till January.”

  I put my hands together. “That is definitely the good news.”

  “So I want you to go back up to Orcas—”

  I shake my head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.” She cocks her head slightly so she’s looking up into my eyes. “This is my going away present to you. I’m going to take care of the Maven till January. Then I still have two weeks to get up to Napa—”

  “That’s not enough time to do all the things you need to do. You’re going to have to get packed, find a place to live—”

  “Got one,” she says around a mouthful of cake. “I didn’t want to live in the dorm with a bunch of kids, so they matched me up with a lady who rents out rooms to students.” She gives me a stern look that I swear she’s copied from CM. “I’m not going to argue about this. I’m just telling you. I’m staying till January and I don’t want you hanging around breathing down my neck.”

  I sigh. “Alright. But only on one condition. I’m paying for your first semester.”

  “Wyn, no. You can’t. It’s over ten thousand dollars.”

  “I can and I will. Or I won’t leave you in charge till January.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “No you won’t. We’ll consider it a well-deserved bonus.”

  “Thanks, Wyn. So much.” She cries some more. Another woman would probably say I love you. Tyler and I have never said that to each other. We’ve never had to.

  I ask, “Who knows about this?”

  “No one,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t even tell Raphael.”

  I sit back in my chair and study her. “You’re pretty amazing, you know. And you’re going to be a kick-ass pastry chef.”

  Sunday morning traffic is light, and just after nine A.M. I pull up in front of Alan’s house. At first I hardly notice the silver Mercedes parked in front of the walkway—the Hills of Beverly are full of them—but when I get out I see the vanity plate LIV 4 PR. I hesitate. Am I up to a confrontation? Finally I decide that I didn’t drive all the way over here just to slink away without seeing him. Let the chips fall.

  The door opens almost before I knock, and it takes me a few minutes to understand that the man in wrinkly jeans, pulling a T-shirt over his head is Mac. He’s sporting the George Hamilton tan, shaggy, sunbleached hair, a cut on his forehead and a scrape along his right jaw.

  “You’re back.” He gives me a stiff smile. “I thought you were going to stay another week.”

  “I did. Several other weeks, actually.”

  I walk past him. The apartment looks like one of the sets for Animal House.

  Empty bottles and full ashtrays. Plastic cups with the last undrinkable swallows of something. A basket with a few soggy tortilla chips sits next to a dish of congealed salsa with a cigar butt leaning on the rim like a beached walrus. There’s a reek of smoke and alcohol that I suspect is coming from him as well as the surroundings.

  “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

  “So, you just dropped by to critique my housekeeping skills?” He closes the door. “I had some people over last night. December Light made the LA Times bestseller list.”

  “Congratulations. What happened to your face?”

  “I fell on the stairs. And just in case you were wondering, I wasn’t drunk.”

  I hang my purse on the back of a chair. “We need to talk.”

  “This isn’t a good time,” he says. “You should’ve called first.”

  “I left you five voicemails that I was home and I asked you to call or come by the house.”

  He looks surprised. “I didn’t get them. And I couldn’t come anyway. I don’t have a car.”

  “Where’s the Death Star?”

  “In the shop.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if my visit is inconvenient for you, but this is important.”

  I sit down and lay the manila envelope full of his mail on the table. “I guess you haven’t been by the house lately.”

  He peers into it, then dumps it out on the table and starts sliding envelopes around into different piles. I have this sudden, weird flash forward of him as an old man, frail and querulous, pushing things aimlessly around on a hospital tray.

  Finally he looks up. “So what do we need to talk about?”

  “Money.”

  He picks up a pack of Marlboro Golds, taps one out and lights it. In the twelve years I’ve known him I’ve never seen him smoke anything. He takes a long drag and blows the smoke straight up.

  “What money?”

  “Let’s start with the seven thousand dollars you withdrew from our checking account on July 12th.”

  “I have expenses, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. And they include a mortgage.”

  “I made some investments.”

  “In what? Cocaine futures?”

  “It’s really none of your business.”

  Frustration burns the back of my throat like cheap wine. “It is my business. Part of that money is mine. And I don’t intend to help finance your self-destruction.”

  “Not unless you can be in charge of it.”

  At that moment there’s a metallic screech from behind the closed door that I assume leads to the bedroom, then silence. That’s when I realize that the steady hum I’ve been hearing since I walked in is the shower.

  It’s pathetic, the way I look automatically at him for some kind of explanation.

  He says, “Exactly what is it you want from me?”

  “Some answers that make sense. Why are you acting like this? And what did you do with our money?”

  “You’re the detective. You should probably go back to the house and see what you can find in my desk.”

  Some other approach is obviously called for here. Perhaps a bit less confrontational. I rest my arms on the table and sit forward. “Why can’t you talk to me? Why won’t you let me help you?”

  He takes another drag off the cigarette and flicks ashes carelessly at an already full ashtray. “I don’t need your help. And by the way, that’s your biggest problem…thinking you can fix everything—”

  “I know I can’t fix it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. Can’t you just tell me?”

  He sits, seemingly mesmerized by the thin trail of smoke rising from the glowing tip of the cigarette. Finally he says, “You wanted to know about the money…”

  “Yes.”

  “I spent it.”

  “On what?”

  “I rented a limo and went up to Big Sur. Stayed a few days at the Post Ranch Inn.”

  For a few seconds I can’t breathe. “The Post Ranch Inn…costs…over a thousand dollars a night.”

  “One thousand, four hundred and fourteen, to be exact. Plus tax. And then the room service and...but you probably don’t want the details.”

  I’m so close to laughing. That hysterical kind of laughter I’ve always associated with hanging upside down on the roller coaster at Magic Mountain.

  “Relax, I’ll pay you back.”

  I start to say that it’s not the money; but actually, it is. It isn’t just money; it’s tangible evidence of our combined hard work, of the life we made together. The idea that he could throw it away is shocking and infuriating.

  “Mac…” I look straight at him. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “I hope you’re not expecting any helpful hints from me.”

  By now I’m beginning to get that nothing I say will be right or make sense to him because this is not Mac, my husband. This is somebody I don’t know and don’t really want to know. This is somebody scary.

  It’s probably a mistake, but I still have to ask. “Have you thou
ght about seeing a doctor?”

  “For what?”

  “Well, for…because something’s obviously wrong—” I stop just short of with you. “It could be physical—”

  His laugh is sardonic and ugly. “You’re the one who thinks you know everything, and you can control everything. I believe it’s called delusional disorder, and you seem to be exhibiting several of the symptoms. So maybe you’re the one who should see a doctor.”

  The cigarette hisses out in a half empty glass.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not necessary that you do.” He stands up and pushes the chair back against the table. “Not that it hasn’t been great seeing you, but I’ve got things to do this morning.”

  Three blocks away, I have to pull over.

  It’s like being drunk. I’m so disconnected from myself I don’t realize my hands are shaking till I look at them. What just happened back there? Who is this person calling himself Mac McLeod? In a sort of stupor I notice drops of water making dark splats on my cargo pants but it takes a few more seconds to realize they’re coming from my eyes.

  I sit there for twenty minutes, crying in the dappled shade of a jacaranda tree, until one of Beverly Hills’ finest comes over to check me out. He puts his right hand on the roof of the car and bends down to the open window.

  “Everything okay, Miss?”

  I nod, trying to get myself together, to get control of my breathing.

  He watches me for a minute, probably checking for signs of imminent psychosis.

  “I can drive you to urgent care and my partner can follow us in your car.”

  “No, that’s okay. But thank-you,” I croak.

  “Or I’d be happy to take you home.” His voice is soothing. He’s probably the one they get to talk people down from the ledge.

  Finally I look up at him through my swollen eyes. He’s younger than me, but not a kid. I force my mouth into a tight smile.

  “Thanks, but I’ll be fine in a minute. It’s just a…really…bad day.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” He nods gravely. “Can you sit right here for just a moment, please?”

  I watch him turn and walk back to his cruiser. What the hell? Is he going to run my plates?

  When he comes back, he hands me a bottle of water. “You need to be careful not to get dehydrated.”

  In the face of everything, I want to laugh. How very California. How Beverly Hills. But in a way, how sweet.

  He taps gently on the roof. “I hope things get better for you, Miss.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  They can hardly get any worse.

  Monday is a total loss, wiped from the calendar. If I were accused of a crime and had to come up with an alibi for Monday, I’d be headed to jail. The phone rings twice but I don’t answer and I don’t pick up voice mail. I only get out of bed to pee and, much later, to eat a popsicle for dinner.

  Tuesday morning I still feel like crap, but I make myself get out of bed, shower and dress. After a piece of toast, I wander through the house gathering up Brownie’s bedding and grooming stuff and food. There’s a lot of it. And of course the toys.

  When we first brought her home I bought her every new dog toy that looked like fun to me. She didn’t appear to know what to do with them. She didn’t chew, she didn’t fetch, and all my offerings ended up languishing in the corners of the living room or under the bed. It made me sad to think she could have grown up without learning how to play. Brownie waited patiently for me to understand that I couldn’t compensate for her deprived puppyhood and it was okay.

  She lived in the present.

  I pack everything into plastic lawn bags and drive to the shelter in Santa Monica where I got her. The pigtailed young woman behind the desk accepts it graciously.

  “You have a lot of nice stuff here,” she shouts over the rising cacophony of barking, squealing, howling and yipping coming from the kennels. “Wouldn’t you like to see who else might need a forever home?”

  I guess no one’s told her yet. Nothing’s forever.

  “I can’t,” I say. “Not today.”

  “Okay, then. When you’re ready.” Pause. “Would you like to make a small donation this morning?”

  I think that’s exactly what I’ve just done, but it seems ungenerous to say so. Instead I write a big fat check to assuage my guilt and make a quick escape. It occurs to me that this could be their fund-raising strategy. Give us some money and we won’t make you look at them.

  I peel out of the shelter’s parking lot in a spray of gravel and get back on the coast highway, heading north. I must be feeling better because I’m finally hungry.

  It’s a gorgeous day, sunny with a brisk off-shore breeze, one of those days when you understand and forgive those last eight million people for moving here. It’s only ten-forty-five, but cars are already turning into Gladstone’s 4 Fish, and half the population of the L.A. basin is moving relentlessly west towards the beach like so many cooler-toting lemmings.

  About a mile past Pepperdine University, I turn into Malibu Seafood and spot CM sitting in her yellow Miata, top down, her face turned up to the sun. We leap out of our cars and run to hug each other.

  We order steamed mussels to split and ahi tuna burgers at the counter and go out to wait for our food at one of the weathered picnic tables on the deck. From her huge tote bag she produces a split of Gloria Ferrer champagne, chilled and sweating, and pops the cork to the amused smiles of our fellow diners.

  “You ladies must be celebrating,” says a guy at the table next to us.

  CM gives him her man-killer smile. “Yeah, my friend here just made parole. Maybe you read about it in the paper…?”

  He smiles back, somewhat uncertainly, and returns to his clam chowder.

  By the time they call our order number, I’m ravenous. We dunk our bread into the buttery broth and touch our plastic cups together.

  “A day without champagne is like a day without—”

  “Sex,” she finishes my toast. “And God know there’s been too many of those lately.”

  We eat and talk, dawdling over the champagne, enjoying the sun. She brings me up to date on work—a series of shows back east in November, love life—nonexistent, family—Shayne, her niece, is getting married.

  “About time, don’t you think? The kid starts kindergarten next year.” She rolls her eyes. “Can you imagine doing that when we were in our twenties?”

  I shrug. “I guess some people did it.”

  “Yeah. We called them trailer trash.”

  “No, we called them hippies. In fact, I think I missed my calling. Maybe I’d have been happier in one of those enclaves over in Topanga Canyon, three or four kids, some chickens. Swimming nude in the hot springs. Smoking dope with my biker boyfriend. Baking nine-grain bread for the whole encampment.”

  “Sounds ideal. Hold that thought for retirement. Meanwhile, what’s the status with Mac?”

  I set down my glass abruptly.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  I nod. “Sunday. And I wish I hadn’t. He looks awful. But he acts like such a shit it’s really hard to work up any sympathy for him. He cleaned out our checking account for a long weekend at Big Sur, which of course meant there was no money to pay the bills and the checks he did write were bouncing all over town, so I had to deal with that. When I went over to his bachelor pad to talk to him about it, there was—someone there. In the shower.”

  “The publicist?”

  “Probably. At this point, who cares. And you wouldn’t believe the apartment. It looked like something out of Hieronymus Bosch.” I take a long drink of ice water. “I don’t understand how someone could change that much. He hates me—”

  “Wyn, you’ve got to know by now this is not about you.”

  “Well, what is it about? I have no clue.”

  She crumples up her napkin and tosses it on her empty plate. “He’s depressed, honey. Like Boone. Remember?”

  “That was diff
erent. Boone was…sick. Mentally.”

  “Well…depression is a mental illness.”

  The last bit of champagne in the bottom of my cup has gone warm and flat. I stir a French fry around in the little plastic cup of ketchup till it disintegrates.

  She presses on. “I think you’re right about him being angry. But it’s not at you. I think he’s angry at everything. Especially himself.”

  We dump our trash and she follows me down to the cars. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says, and hugs me. “We’ve got some serious shopping and lunching to do. And movies—I haven’t seen a decent movie in months.”

  I climb in my Volvo and roll down the window.

  She leans on the door frame and squeezes my arm. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I squint up at her, shading my eyes.

  “The problem is, I have trouble with the idea of Mac having a mental illness. I guess on some level I prefer to think of him as a bastard. I know how to deal with bastards.”

  It feels like fall—even though it’s only August, even though in Southern California, the hottest, nastiest weather often shows up after Labor Day. There’s an oblique quality in the light, a thickening of the air, a slowing of motion. The scorched brown hills sit waiting for the relief of the first winter rains.

  I’m floating on an air mattress in the pool, dangling my arms and legs in the cool water. My flight is at 10:30 tomorrow morning. I need to get the house ready and wash some clothes and pack my suitcase. In spite of Tyler’s insistence that everything will be fine at the Bread Maven, in spite of the fact that Mac apparently wants nothing to do with me, I’m uneasy about leaving.

  The cordless phone on the table rings and I pull myself up the metal ladder to answer it.

  “Wynter? Alan. Lear. How are you?”

  “Hi, Alan. I’m okay. If you’re looking for Mac, he’s not here.”