Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  Very quickly it seems the deal is done and I hear Mac in the hall. I’m in the bathroom brushing my hair when he comes in. He stands behind me, waiting for me to say something, but I refuse to fire the first shot.

  “Why do you have to be such a self-righteous pain in the ass?” is his opening volley.

  Over the last few months I’ve learned that the more upset and emotional I become, then the cooler, more rational and controlled he is. In this way are marital homicides conceived.

  So instead of going off immediately, I say to his reflection,

  “Let’s define our terms. A ‘self-righteous pain in the ass’ would be somebody who returns home at three in the afternoon to find her husband using illegal substances in their living room with a drug dealer and a porn star?”

  He sighs. “You have an amazing ability to leap to tall conclusions in a single bound. First of all, Rob’s not a dealer, he works for Geffen—”

  “I don’t care who he works for. If he’s selling drugs, he’s a dealer.”

  “He’s not selling drugs. He was buying.”

  I feel like I’ve tripped over some invisible wire.

  When I turn around I can smell the scotch and the smoke on him. “So you’re dealing and smoking dope now?”

  “I’m not dealing, for God’s sake. It was just a friendly transaction. He mentioned that he wanted some and I had some.”

  “Okay, so you’re not dealing except just a little. But you’re smoking. Why? Please explain it to me because I don’t understand.”

  His eyes narrow. “Let’s see…Because I’d like to feel good once in a while—no, not even good. I’d settle for not half bad. As opposed to hanging by my fingernails on the side of a cliff.”

  “…I thought—I mean, you were feeling good. Weren’t you? When did that change?”

  “Every day is different,” he says.

  “But why are you driving down to Laguna Beach every week and paying Willow a hundred and thirty bucks an hour if you’re not going to do what she says?” I finish brushing my hair and fasten it back with a clip.

  “You’re not in any position to judge me. You can’t even imagine what this is like, how hard it is sometimes just getting through the fucking day.”

  “I know I can’t,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry. All I can tell you is how I feel. It hurts me when you’re so unhappy. And it really hurts me to see you doing things that are going to make it worse in the long run.”

  He gives me a look that’s somewhere between disgust and amusement. “Haven’t you figured out yet there is no long run? There’s only now, and I can barely handle that. I’m not buying any annuities.”

  His hair is dirty and he hasn’t shaved in two or three days. I remember how good he used to look. How I used to think he smelled like pine trees, like summer.

  “Mac, look at yourself. You look like a zombie.”

  He smiles almost cheerfully. “I can be a Prozac zombie or a pot zombie. The only difference is insurance coverage.”

  “No. The difference is you don’t get arrested for doing Prozac.”

  “Actually, the real difference is pot has no side effects. And I’m not going to get arrested—”

  “You don’t know that. It happens every day. Do you realize that the average prison time for possession of that much marijuana is longer than the average sentence for murder?”

  He wags his index finger at me. “You’ve been listening to NPR again.”

  “We could lose everything we’ve worked so hard for—”

  “Here’s where she tells me to pull up my socks and just say no.”

  “Oh, stop it. I’ve never said anything remotely like that.”

  “You don’t have to say it. I can hear you thinking it. In the same tone of disgust you use for white sandwich bread.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. “And what about Skye? She’s going to be here in June. Is this how you want her to see you?”

  “This?” He looks in the mirror, turns his face from side to side. “Have I turned into the piano player from Reefer Madness?”

  “I can’t believe you’re perfectly happy to suck dope into your lungs, but you won’t even try one of the anti-depressants. It could help—”

  “Wyn, I can write now,” he says. “I’m not going to blow that.”

  “You’d rather blow our marriage.”

  For the first time, he looks away from me. “All I can do is all I can do.”

  Suddenly I’m exhausted, and Larchmont Village seems very far away.

  “I want you to remember something, Mac. Your own words. I’ll try anything. Therapy, hypnosis, eagle feathers. Herbal tea. Meds. Just don’t leave. Well, I’m still here.”

  He’s already halfway down the stairs.

  At 9:30 on a cool Friday morning in mid-June, Lincoln Boulevard is snarled with traffic. CalTrans is doing median work and there’s a huge antique dealers’ convention in Santa Monica, plus the usual volleyball tournaments at the beach, a PETA demonstration at some big leather outlet, and just general summer madness. Mac is pissed off because we gambled that this would be faster than the 405 and we lost.

  We’re on our way to LAX to pick up Skye, and he’s been incredibly grouchy since yesterday. When I asked if he was nervous about the visit he snapped,

  “Don’t start projecting your anxiety on me.”

  Which I took as an affirmative. It’s not the kind of thing he would have said pre-depression, pre-therapy, and it just underscores this nagging feeling I have that I’m living with a stranger. A strange stranger.

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” I say.

  He grips the steering wheel and glares at the long line of brake lights ahead of us. “I just hate driving in this traffic.”

  I consider telling him that I don’t know anyone who enjoys driving in this traffic, but it’s probably not the right thing to say at this point.

  Once we get past Marymount, things open up and we cruise the rest of the way, park in the garage, and make it to the international terminal with thirty minutes to spare.

  “I need some coffee,” I say. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No.” He’s watching the arrival times and gate numbers flip over on the schedule board.

  “Mac…”

  “What?” He turns impatiently when I touch his hand.

  “It’s going to be alright. Really. Take a deep breath.”

  His jaw relaxes and he nods. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

  I leave him in the arrivals area and go in search of espresso. Maybe I am “projecting my anxiety.” I’d love to get rid of it somehow. In a way, I’ve been looking forward to getting to know Skye. But I’m apprehensive, too. Will she see me as an obstacle? Will she want her father to herself, resent my presence?

  My feelings about her are still somewhat ambivalent. She’s Mac’s daughter and I want to have a relationship with her. On the other hand, she’s his daughter by another woman, and I admit to a certain lingering resentment.

  At Starbucks I order a mocha and nurse it as long as I dare before heading back. From 30 yards away I can see him pacing. He showered this morning, something he’s been kind of lax about lately, and I noticed he took a few minutes to rifle through his closet for a new pair of jeans and a pressed white shirt. He looks younger from this distance and more the way he did in Seattle. But there’s no time for nostalgia.

  Skye is here, in the vanguard of passengers emerging from customs and immigration, her smile illuminating the terminal as she runs towards him, dragging her suitcase. He leans forward as if to kiss her cheek, but she’s not having any of that. She drops the bag and throws herself into his arms.

  I stand for a few seconds, oblivious to the crowd jostling around me, and watch them, holding each other, laughing, and I’m not surprised to feel a knot forming in my throat. I swallow hard.

  Somebody has to drive.

  I approach slowly, hoping they’ll see me, but they’re
lost in each other. Finally I say, “Hello, Skye. How was your flight?”

  She turns to me, still smiling. “Wyn. It’s good to meet you. Again.” Then, somewhat hesitantly, she moves to hug me, and whatever residual resentment was lodged in my heart melts away.

  Traffic is horrendous on the 405, but they don’t even notice. Good that I’m driving, because Mac spends the entire trip looking at her in the sun visor mirror while I concentrate on finding holes in various lanes to slip in and out of, letting the sound of their voices wash over me.

  When I turn into our driveway she’s ecstatic, exclaiming how beautiful the house is, and all the interesting plants. “I didn’t really notice before, I was so nervous.”

  I find it interesting that these references to her first visit are totally unselfconscious, and even Mac seems pretty nonchalant about them. Or not. He’s become adept at appearing relaxed, but you never know what might be roiling underneath.

  In the house, Charles takes one sniff of her and becomes her devoted slave, following at her heels from room to room as I give her a quick tour. We leave her in the guest room to unpack and freshen up, but Charles declines to follow us down to the kitchen. I take iced tea and lemonade out of the fridge while Mac gets down three glasses and slices a lemon.

  “Well, Charles is obviously smitten. He won’t let her out of his sight.”

  Mac laughs. “Maybe he thinks she’s going to steal the towels.”

  Suddenly he takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. “Thank you,” he says against my hair. “I know it’s not easy.”

  When Skye appears, she’s holding a brown paper shopping bag and Charles in her arms.

  “Brought you some prezzies.” She plunks the bag down on the table and sets the dog on the floor.

  She pulls packages out of the bag, explaining each one carefully…Manuka honey, the edible sort, not for skin care, a bottle of Kim Crawford Sauvignon Blanc wrapped in bubble wrap, a box of chocolates, a black merino wool scarf for Mac, and for me, a carved fish hook pendant.

  “Here, let’s put it on you,” she says, looping the black silk cord over my head. “It’s carved bone. The fish hook symbolizes strength in the Maori culture. I loved this one because of the woman’s profile.”

  “Skye, this is beautiful. Thank you.”

  “It might darken a wee bit,” she says. “That’s usual.”

  “What do you guys want to drink?” I ask. Mac wants an Arnold Palmer.

  “I’ll have that too, please. Er…what is that exactly?”

  “Iced tea and lemonade.”

  “Oh.” Her nose wrinkles.

  “Here, you can taste mine,” he says.

  She does and then smiles her understanding. “Iced tea and lemon cordial. Yes that’s what I’d like, please. In En Zed, lemonade is fizzy. Like 7Up.”

  It’s our first cultural misunderstanding.

  Mac is transformed. I’ve never seen him so ebullient. Ever. And she clearly adores him. She solicits his opinions on everything from clothing to politics to books and music, then hangs on his words of wisdom. She teases him about the Elky, but wants to drive it. She tells him silly jokes. They jog together every morning.

  They remind me a little of my father and me.

  She’s enthralled with L.A. We show her all the tourist stuff, Hollywood, Beverly Hills, even Disneyland. Mac takes her to Paramount where his friend Kristin gives them a tour. She meets Antonio Banderas and talks about him nonstop at dinner. Gabe takes her to his partner’s salon for a total makeover and she comes home and washes off all the makeup. We go to a dance rehearsal with CM. She comes to work with me a couple of days and seems truly interested in the business of running a bakery, even more so than the pastries she inhales. We eat at trendy restaurants in Malibu and Hollywood. She insists on a visit to the Gene Autry Museum, which I’ve never been to, and which turns out to be fabulous. Charles abandons us to sleep on her bed. We make plans for next summer, Seattle and Orcas. And we all cry when she leaves.

  The Fourth of July falls on a Friday this year and my mom wants to have us over for a backyard cookout, along with CM and Nathan, her old hippie friend Georgia Graebel and her husband, and a few couples from the neighborhood. This will probably be the last gathering at the house, because it’s been bought by a young couple from Des Moines. Richard and my mother will be moving to Grass Valley in September. Funny how I hated the idea of Richard moving into “our” house all those years ago, now I hate for them to leave. I used to dread the memories living at that address; now I dread not having access to them.

  The forecast is for perfect weather and I’m looking forward to an evening of food and fireworks, followed by two lazy days at home. The Maven is closed for the whole weekend—Cheryl’s suggestion.

  I’m in the kitchen after lunch, putting dishes in the dishwasher and packing up my contributions to the party—three desserts from the bakery—Ellie’s chocolate cake, Rafe’s Guadeloupe Tart and a box of lemon bars—plus my own guacamole deviled eggs in this funny little Tupperware deviled egg carrier that CM found at a garage sale. At some point I look up to see Mac, clad in his oldest swimming trunks, standing in the door to the patio, dripping wet.

  “You better get showered. We need to leave in about an hour.” I turn to put the pitcher of iced tea back in the refrigerator.

  “I’m not going,” he says.

  I turn around. “What?”

  “I said, I’m not going.”

  It’s stupid, I know, but I want to cry. Instead, I say in what I hope is a neutral tone of voice, “Do you feel…okay?”

  “I feel fine.”

  Sometimes when this happens, if I back way off, he ends up changing his mind. But I have a feeling this is not one of those times. I press my lips together.

  “What will you do instead?”

  “Swim. Watch TV.”

  Watch TV is code for drink beer till he falls asleep.

  “Well…be careful not to get sunburned.”

  He sits in the shade at the umbrella table, staring at the newspaper, while I finish getting ready and load the car. Charles follows me out, dragging his leash.

  “I’m leaving now. I guess I’ll see you later.”

  He doesn’t look up. “Okay.”

  When I pull up in front of my mother’s house, Nathan’s Prius is in the driveway. With the garage door open, I can hear music and voices coming from the backyard. I sit for a minute, recalling the last time Mac and I spent the Fourth of July on Orcas. Probably five years ago now.

  We made a day of it, starting with the pancake breakfast at the firehouse. Then on to the parade of floats, trucks, bikes and the high school marching band. After that we hit the American Legion salmon barbecue, and finally ended up on Main Street at dusk, maneuvering for a spot to watch the fireworks, which were set to go off from Indian Island. I remember it was cold that year. We wore flannel shirts and down jackets, and we drank hot coffee with brandy from a thermos…

  “What can I carry?” CM’s standing by the car, waiting to give me a hug. She’s used to Mac’s unpredictable absences, so she doesn’t bother to ask, but I feel compelled to explain anyway.

  “He wasn’t feeling good.”

  We look at each other for a second, then she picks Charles up and allows him a few wet kisses. “Sorry to hear it. I’ll take Chas out back. Want a margarita?”

  “Probably more than one.”

  My mother is scooping ice from the freezer into the ice bucket, and when she looks up and sees me I can tell she already knows. I set the eggs down on the counter.

  “I called to ask you to bring your good ice cream scoop,” she says. “Mac told me you’d already left.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom—”

  She sets down the ice bucket and puts her arms around me. “Oh, honey…Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” She adds quickly, “Or his.”

  “So I keep reminding myself.” I pull back. “I’d better go get the desserts before they melt.”

  He�
�s asleep on the couch when I get home. Two beer bottles on the coffee table and doubtless there are others in the backyard and in his office. I don’t know if he really doesn’t hear me come in or if he’s faking it, and I’m too tired to care. After making sure all the doors are locked, I take Charles upstairs.

  When I come down to the kitchen in the morning I see him through the window, sitting at the umbrella table, reading. Just where I left him. He’s left the espresso machine empty of water and coffee beans, so I refill both before putting a cup under the dispenser. While it’s brewing I debate whether I should sit down and enjoy my coffee or go out and attempt conversation.

  “Hi.”

  He looks up. “I didn’t know you came home last night.”

  “Of course I came home. You were asleep, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Because I’m disturbed enough as it is, right?”

  “You missed a good party. The kids did sparklers and we had hamburgers and toasted marshmallows and then we all walked over to the school to watch fireworks. Everyone was asking about you.”

  “I bet.”

  “What should we do for breakfast?”

  “Whatever you like. I already had mine.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Butter pecan ice cream.”

  “Don’t you want some eggs or—”

  “Actually what I want is some peace and quiet. Do you mind?”

  He sleeps most of the day. I take the dog for a long walk and spend the remains of the morning cleaning out the pantry. In the afternoon I go to a movie. I make a Cobb salad for dinner. Mac looks at it without comment, fixes himself a bowl of butter pecan ice cream and goes out by the pool to eat alone. I stand at the sink, eating from the salad platter, watching him, trying to swallow my food around the knot in my throat. He’s not really oblivious. He’s like the boy in my seventh grade homeroom who was so dorky and knew it and always tried to pretend he didn’t care.

  Sunday morning I make pancakes. He eats butter pecan ice cream out by the pool, then goes into his office and shuts the door. I clean out the refrigerator and swim a few laps. I’m standing in the laundry room drying off when the phone rings. I assume since he’s in his office that he’ll get it.