Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  After four rings I scoot into the kitchen and pick up the phone.

  “Hi, Wyn. It’s Skye here.”

  “How are you? What time is it there?”

  She laughs. “It’s 9:20 tomorrow morning. Did you have a happy Independence Day?”

  “We did. My mom had everyone over for a barbecue and we watched fireworks.”

  “Lovely. Is Mac there? I have some news for him.”

  “I’ve been out in the pool. Hang on and I’ll check.”

  I lay the receiver on the counter and run up the stairs.

  “Mac?” I knock twice, then twist the knob. It’s locked. “Mac?

  No response. I knock again, harder. “Skye’s on the phone.”

  I press my ear to the door and jiggle the knob.

  “I’m busy. I’ll call her later.”

  “She wants to tell you something.”

  “I’ll call her later.”

  Resisting the urge to give the door a parting kick I go across the hall to the bedroom and pick up the extension.

  “He must have gone out,” I tell her. “Can I have him call you?”

  “I’m going out tonight, but I’ll be here all day, so…”

  “You want me to tell him anything?”

  She hesitates. “No, that’s okay. I’d like to tell him myself.” Then she adds, “I had a poem published.”

  “Really? How great! Congratulations. Can you send us a copy?”

  “It’s just a wee literary rag. I can email it.”

  “I won’t tell him. I’ll just have him call you.”

  “Thanks, Wyn. Hug little Scruff for me.”

  I fall asleep reading the Sunday paper and wake up with a crick in my neck. It’s almost 6 o’clock. I sit on the edge of the couch scrunching my shoulders and turning my head from side to side. The house is quiet.

  I go upstairs and listen at the closed door. “Mac? What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “Why don’t you take a break and—”

  “Can’t right now.”

  “Did you call Skye yet?”

  “No.”

  I hesitate. “She was so excited to tell you her news.”

  “She’s young. She’ll get over it.”

  I stick out my tongue at the door.

  I feed Charles, pour a glass of white wine and take it out by the pool. As soon as I sit down I smell it. I look up. His office window is open.

  Back in the kitchen, I fish a credit card out of my wallet and take the stairs two at a time. I slip the credit card into the space between the door and the jamb and swipe it up. The lock clicks. The door opens about an inch and then stops against something.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I want to talk to you. Let me in.” I grab the edge of the door and push, but it doesn’t move. “Please. Just for a minute.”

  When I hear him stand up, some instinct prompts me to remove my hand from the door and step back. A good thing, since he leans his full weight against the door, shutting it hard. The lock snaps into place.

  “You could have broken my hand.”

  “I’m trying to work.”

  “No you’re not. You’re sitting in there smoking dope and drinking.”

  “I’m not drinking.”

  I stare at the door, the blank white panel, imagining the crunch of my fingers. It’s all in place now—anger, sadness, frustration, yes, embarrassment, too—it’s all coming to a rolling boil.

  “Hey, remember that story I told you about how I threw a lamp through the front window of David’s house?”

  Silence.

  “It’s true. I really did that. And I’m not above doing it again, so let me in.”

  “I need to work—”

  “You’ve had the whole damn weekend to work.”

  “As I’ve told you countless times, just sitting at the computer doesn’t mean I can write.”

  “Oh, I know. You have to be sitting at the computer at the same time I need to talk to you. That’s the only way you can write.”

  Silence.

  “If you don’t let me in right now, I’m going to beat this goddamn door down with your Louisville Slugger.”

  I hear movement and drawers slamming, the sound of his chair rolling on the plastic chair mat. The door opens abruptly. But instead of letting me in, he’s coming out. Or he thinks he is.

  When he tries to push past me I put both hands squarely on his chest and shove him back with my full weight. It catches him off guard, and he trips on the old dog towel he’d jammed under the door to block the smoke. I lock my arms around his waist and we both go down on the rug. Thankfully with me on top.

  “Jesus Christ, are you fucking crazy?”

  He tries to push me away, but my arms are locked around him and my face presses hard into his chest. We struggle in total silence except for a few grunts and breaths. Then a feeling twists inside me, so sharp and so close to longing, that I start to cry.

  He’s still trying to loosen my arms.

  “Stop it, Mac.” It comes out as a gulp between sobs. “Goddamn you, stop pushing me away. You stupid jackass, I love you.”

  He goes completely still. It’s like hugging a tree. I keep thinking any minute he’ll put his arms around me, but he doesn’t. Eventually I let go and roll away. My right wrist feels like it’s been run over by a Volkswagen.

  I get up and take a handful of tissues from the box on his desk to wipe the tears and snot off my face. “Mac, what are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to work.” His eyes are closed and when he opens them his pupils are the size of marbles.

  “Show me.”

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

  “Oh yes, you do. To me and to Skye.”

  He gets up slowly and sits in his chair. I drag one of the wing chairs over and sit facing him. The air in the room is obnoxious with pot smoke and there’s a pill bottle on the desk. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  He turns his head to one side. “I’m sick of this.”

  “Of what?”

  “Everything. You going off to your mother’s for the whole damn day and half the night—”

  “We were invited to the Fourth of July party. We said we’d go—”

  “No. Your mother asked you and you said we’d go. You didn’t ask me if I wanted to go. You know I hate that kind of shit.”

  “What do you mean, you hate that shit? My mother adores you and you always get along with Richard—and CM and Nathan—”

  “Nathan bugs the crap out of me. He’s so fucking full of himself. Mr. Broadway—”

  “Oh, stop it. Nathan’s a cream puff and you always said you liked him—”

  “It was just an excuse to be gone all day.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I wanted you to come with me.”

  “You think I don’t know what you tell your mother and CM and God knows who else? I’m not stupid.”

  “Nobody thinks you’re stupid. Least of all, me. Mac, I love you—”

  “As long as I’m behaving. As long as I don’t upset you. Don’t say weird shit. Don’t embarrass you—”

  “Where are you getting all this crap? You’re the one who decided at the last minute that you didn’t want to go. What was I supposed to do—stay home and watch you drink beer?”

  “You didn’t give a shit if I went. In fact you were hoping I wouldn’t.”

  “It’s really amazing how you know everything that goes on in my mind.”

  “Believe me, you’re not that hard to read.”

  I rest my elbow on the desk and practice flexing my wrist. “What are those pills?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “What are they?”

  “They help me concentrate.”

  “Dexedrine?”

  “Ritalin.”

  “And this is supposed to help?”

  He looks at me, then away again.

  Charles chooses thi
s moment to peek around the corner of the open door. He spots his old towel, gives it a sniff and starts to fluff it up. I smile automatically at his ability to wander into a war zone and settle down for a nap. Either a happy dog or my smile or the combination of the two is apparently unbearable.

  His face changes…not just the expression, but the physiognomy. I can actually see it happen.

  “Get the goddamned dog out of my office.”

  I look at him for a minute. “Mac…I just wish you would—”

  “Go ahead. Tell me what you wish I’d do and I’ll put it on my list.”

  I pick Charles up and pause for a second in the doorway. “I wish you would call your daughter.”

  twenty-four

  The rest of July is a black hole. It’s not like before and he doesn’t leave home…I almost wish he would. He spends hours staring at his computer without typing so much as a word. He swims a lot and takes very long showers. Our water bills are astronomical.

  He doesn’t go out, he doesn’t read. He doesn’t talk much. Even when Skye calls, I can hear the distance in his voice. I worry that she won’t understand, that she’ll think he’s mad at her or doesn’t care. Once or twice I think about calling her myself, but as mapmakers once wrote in the uncharted corners of the known world, Here be monsters.

  And then in August with all the advance warning of a piano dropping from a skyscraper window, he makes an appointment with the psycho-pharmacologist recommended by Willow and comes home with a prescription for Prozac. I suspect that it’s more about his being unable to write than the fact that our marriage is hanging by a thread, but at this point I’ll take what I can get.

  He takes 20 mg of Prozac every morning, and at first he seems to improve. Then he gains twenty pounds, can’t sleep and loses all interest in sex, which makes him nearly as depressed as before. The psycho (as Mac refers to him) assures him that this is common and that a bit of experimentation should smooth things out. He changes the time he takes the medication, then the dosage. When neither helps, he adds Nortriptyline, which restores libido, but makes Mac a zombie who can’t work, or run or swim or do anything, really, other than sex. Delete Nortriptyline, add Wellbutrin, which works fairly well for a while, then edges him towards anxiety. He paces, bites his nails to the quick, compulsively checks cell phone and email, worries if I don’t come home when he thinks I should, yells at Charles every time he barks, which is often. He does lose some weight because he runs about five miles a day.

  September brings the attack on the World Trade Center. Horrifying images and choked voices. The eerie silence of empty skies. At the bakery I turn up the radio and we all—staff and customers, delivery service people and security guards—stand in mute shock listening to NPR. I call the house but Mac doesn’t answer the phone, and when I get there I find him asleep in front of the TV while footage of the plane hitting the second tower plays in a seemingly endless loop.

  The doctor decides to wean him off Prozac, but he gets impatient and starts skipping doses. The result is an unpleasant withdrawal effect called “brain shock,” which he describes as a cross between electric shock and vertigo. He also begins having lurid nightmares about falling out of a plane or being held under water.

  By mid-November he’s cleared of Prozac and starting on Atomoxetine, the next attempt to fend off the dark side. The doctor says it’s commonly used for ADHD and secondarily for depression. Possible side effects could include loss of appetite, which Mac doesn’t see as a negative, and irritability, which, God knows, is nothing new, and something called QT prolongation. This has to do with abnormal heart rhythm and it worries me, but Mac wants to try it because the psycho says it should help him focus. And so it begins again, with forced optimism and crossed fingers.

  The first Friday in December I come home early. A winter storm has moved in from the Pacific, the kind of weather Charles loves. He probably has genetic memories of his ancestors out herding sheep on the moors in the bone-chilling English rain. All I want to do is get a pot of soup going, make some kind of bread for dinner. I’m looking forward to sitting by the fireplace afterwards with a glass of wine.

  I thought he’d be working in his office this afternoon, but the house is cold and dark. I turn the thermostat up and try to ignore the infinitesimal seismic shift. He’s at the library. Or at Office Max buying a toner cartridge. Or maybe he went to have coffee with Gabe, who’s become his “asshole buddy” (an old Southern expression, Gabe assures me.) They’re both off alcohol at the moment, so they meet a couple of times a week for coffee.

  I gather what I find in the fridge and start chopping onions. While they’re slowly sweating in olive oil, I chop carrots and celery, part of a red bell pepper, tomatoes, potatoes and zucchini, adding each vegetable as I finish chopping. Except the zucchini, which I don’t like cooked too much, so I save it to throw in at the last minute. I grate a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano into a dish and toss the rind into the soup pot, stir together the dry ingredients for cornmeal biscuits. I’ve been pointedly ignoring the clock, but now I allow myself a casual glance.

  Six-thirty. I wander around the house looking for clues. No note on the bed or his desk. The library card is in the Chinese porcelain dish on the hall table. There’s nothing written on his calendar. His gym bag is in the closet. Alan and Sylvia are on a Caribbean cruise.

  I talk to myself. Don’t weird out over nothing. It’s only six thirty. He’s been working hard. Cut him some slack. But the dead air space in my chest tells a different story.

  The year has been difficult in so many ways. At times I’ve thought of leaving, but then we have a few good days and I tell myself it’s going to be fine, I just need to hang on. I try not to show him my fears. I don’t call his cell if he’s twenty minutes late meeting me. I don’t ask where he’s going or with whom, or when he’ll be home. I don’t remind him to take his meds or go to his appointments. I try to monitor his moods without being obvious. I avoid asking how he slept. I want to know all those things, but I can’t ask. I have to wait till he volunteers the information. And for the most part, he eventually does.

  At seven-fifteen I call Gabe and leave a voicemail. If Mac’s with you, tell him dinner’s ready and I’m giving his share to Charles.

  A few minutes after eight the phone rings and I make myself not snatch it up on the first ring.

  “You guys eating dinner?” It’s CM.

  “Not yet. I’m making soup. What’s up?”

  “Nathan’s got four tickets for Lion King Saturday night. You want to have dinner and catch the show?”

  “Um…sure. Sounds great. I’ll just check with Mac and get back to you tomorrow.”

  “I was thinking we might try that new place in Westwood…I think it’s called Degas or something. Some painterly name.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll let you know.”

  We hang up. Five minutes later she calls back.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Are you sure? You sound kind of like somebody’s standing on your hair.”

  “It’s just…Mac’s not home. Yet.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you know what this town gets like when it rains. Traffic’s probably a bitch. Have you tried calling him?”

  “No. I don’t want to be paranoid.”

  “Right. Well, he’s probably sitting in traffic. Maybe his phone’s dead. Could be a lot of things. I wouldn’t worry too much. We’re home all evening. Call me if you want later on.”

  “What are you going to do, take the bloodhounds out?”

  “No, Ms. Smart-Ass. I’m just going to be your ever faithful, long suffering best friend who puts up with you when nobody else will.”

  I exhale. “I know. I’m sorry. Thanks for that.”

  At eight thirty I call his cell. I leave a message, still trying to sound casual. Hey, it’s me. I made minestrone. Call and let me know when you’re coming so I know when to p
ut the biscuits in. Be careful driving in this stuff. Love you.

  Nine-thirty. Ten-thirty. I’m no longer in denial. Something’s happened. It’s just a question of what. I don’t want to consider the possibilities. If he was okay he’d have called me by now. But I’m paralyzed. I don’t know what to do. The soup is cold, under a slick of olive oil. I put it in the fridge. I cover the biscuit ingredients and set them in the pantry.

  Upstairs I turn on the 11 o’clock news on the bedroom TV and settle in with Charles, pretending that I’m not watching for the story of some hideous multi-car pileup on the 101. God, where is he? At midnight I go in the bathroom, open the medicine cabinet to retrieve my toothbrush and find myself staring at the amber plastic bottle that holds thirty capsules, a month’s supply of Atomoxetine.

  I take down the bottle and open it, pour the contents into my hand. Fifteen orange and yellow capsules. I turn the bottle to read the label. The prescription is dated November 1st.

  There are two possible interpretations for what I’m looking at. Either the prescription was filled before he actually needed it, or he hasn’t been taking it every day. I try to remember what he’s been doing for the last two weeks. Why the hell didn’t I notice? I’ve been so intent on not nagging, not spying, not questioning…could I have missed something…some sign that things were veering off track. But where is he? I can’t start calling everyone I know and asking if he’s there. It’s after midnight. Shit. I’m going to kill him. If he’s not dead.

  I try his cell again and get voice mail again. I don’t leave a message.

  I fall asleep about an hour before I have to get up. The rain has stopped but the sky is still low and gray. I brew a double espresso and go through the motions of feeding and walking Charles. I pull on jeans and a turtleneck, put Charles in the back seat and drive to the Maven.

  Cheryl has become an adept reader of my moods, almost as good as Tyler. I feel like the wicked queen, making my employees skulk around trying to stay in my good graces or risk being beheaded. In any case she sees that this is not the morning to tell me about personnel problems or suggest that one of the floor mixers should be replaced.