Baker's Blues

by Judith Ryan Hendricks

  I head to my office, get Charles settled in his secret hideaway, and sit at my desk trying to compose myself for the day ahead. I boot up the computer.

  The problem is not knowing whether to be furious or frightened. Is he in trouble? In a hospital? Lying in a ditch? Is he drunk? Strung out on something? Or just hunched over his computer somewhere? Why doesn’t he call?

  What I really hate is that I’m not even supposed to get mad at him because HE CAN’T HELP IT. IT’S NOT HIS FAULT. IT’S THE DEPRESSION. YOU CAN’T BLAME HIM. Okay, damn it. So who do I blame? When I want to pick something heavy and heave it through the front window, whose fault is that?

  Somehow the day passes. It’s not until four o’clock that I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I feel cold and shaky. There’s about an hour before the after work crowd starts dropping by to pick up bread for their dinner, and with our new schedule, the kitchen is closed but the fournil is busy. I go into the prep area and make myself a tuna sandwich, take it to my office and start checking email. I try not to expect a message from Mac, but I’m still disappointed not to find one. I make a half-assed attempt at answering email, eat two bites of my sandwich and then pillow my head on my arms and doze off.

  I startle awake when Cheryl comes in.

  “Wyn, are you okay?”

  “Just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Why don’t you get out of here?” she says. “I can take care of closing.”

  I look at her tiny frown. “Maybe I will. If you’re sure…”

  She jerks her head towards the door.

  To fill the silence I turn on Joni Mitchell full blast. That’s why I don’t hear the door until Charles goes on full battle alert. I know it’s not Mac. He’d come in through the garage. But maybe…

  Gabe is standing on the porch, droplets of water in his hair, smiling hopefully. He hands me a plastic shopping bag full of books.

  “Hey, darlin’. Mac wanted to borrow these.”

  My vision swims. “Have you seen him?”

  “No.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and pulls me into a damp hug. He smells of some expensive cologne and he holds my head gently against his cashmere sweater.

  “I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning when I left for work.”

  “I’m sure he’s okay.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He sighs. “No, I’m not. But I’m bettin’ on it. Meanwhile, how ‘bout I cook you some supper?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve got a pot of soup in the fridge. Please stay and have some with me.”

  I take the dry ingredients out of the pantry and mix up the cornmeal biscuit dough, cut it into squares and bake them in a hot oven to Gabe’s obvious delight. It cheers me somewhat.

  I eat a couple of spoonfuls of soup, but Gabe cleans his bowl while Charles sits attentively at his feet, waiting for crumbs.

  “Honey, are you starvin’ this puppy?”

  “He’d like you to think so.”

  He holds a piece of biscuit down to Charles, who looks at me for the go-ahead.

  “Okay, but just one bite.”

  Gabe laughs as the dog hoovers the food neatly off his fingertips. “I do believe he has better table manners than my cousin Ned.”

  “Have some more soup. There are more biscuits in the warming oven.”

  “I wouldn’t say no to that. You just sit still and try to eat something, Wynter. I can get it.”

  He’s just lifting the lid off the soup pot when the phone rings. I almost turn over my chair in my rush to get to it.

  “Good evening,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “Is Mr. McLeod in?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Do you know how I can reach him?”

  “This is his wife. Can I help you?”

  “Well…” He clears his throat while my fingers fumble with the button on my sweater. “Mrs. McLeod, this Sgt. Ruskin, Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department. I was wondering if maybe his car had been stolen? Or maybe he loaned it to a friend? Silver 2000 BMW coupe?”

  My throat is totally dry. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Well…” He pauses again. “We found the car abandoned on a side road off Highway 1 south of the city. Keys in the ignition, several items in the trunk, including a laptop computer and a denim jacket. When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”

  My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek. “Yesterday morning.”

  “Did he say anything about going to Santa Barbara?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ve impounded the car. We’ll be investigating further. Can you give me a physical description?”

  “He’s forty-three. About 6’2”, sandy blonde hair, green eyes.”

  “What was he wearing when you last saw him?”

  “Jeans and a sweatshirt. I tried his cell phone but I got voicemail. I left a message for him to call me.”

  “If you hear from him will you contact me please? The number is 888- 988-0998. Is this number the best place to reach you? Is there a work phone?”

  I give him my cell number and hang up, not looking at Gabe.

  I say, “His car was abandoned near the beach south of Santa Barbara.”

  He replaces the lid on the soup pot. “How ‘bout we take a little ride? Grab that puppy dog.”

  For a while there’s no sound inside the Alpha except the gentle swish of windshield wipers. Charles curls up in the tiny space behind the seats and goes to sleep.

  “You know, depression’s an ugly thing,” Gabe says. “Sneaky, too. It takes over your head without you even knowing till it’s too late.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  He nods, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Headlights slide past us.

  “Twelve years ago when I came out it was quite the hometown scandal. I was engaged to a lovely young lady from a very prominent family. All lined up to go into her daddy’s business. We had season tickets for Ole Miss football games…hey, no laughin’ now. That’s a pretty big deal where I come from.”

  “So, what made you decide to come out then?”

  “I didn’t exactly decide. I sorta got caught with my britches down. So to speak.”

  “I see.”

  “With a lovely cousin of my lovely fiancée.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, darlin’. Wow. Within a very short time I couldn’t get arrested in that town. Actually I was probably lucky her daddy didn’t shoot me. No jury in Mississippi would’ve convicted him.”

  “Your family…?”

  “Cut me off cold. Friends too. Even one or two that I knew were in the closet.”

  I turn to him. “Really?”

  “Yeah, darlin’. They had no plans to come out and they didn’t want to look guilty by association.”

  “So then what?”

  “So I packed my belongings and drove out here to Never-Never Land to finish my roman à clef. But I didn’t know a solitary soul and I was homesick as hell and felt guilty for screwin’ up my life and my family’s good name. Well…semi-good.”

  “So you got depressed.”

  “Yeah, but not right away. First I made a few friends, Alan took me on as a client…he actually sold my book. Things were looking up, as they say. And then, lady, the bottom dropped out.”

  “After you finally got your life together?”

  “That’s the way it works sometimes. See, up to that point I was too busy surviving to be depressed. But I think it was always there. Waitin’ to sneak up behind and tap me on the shoulder.”

  “What happened?”

  He sighs gently. “I was a classic case. Sleeping for days on end. Not doing anything when I was awake but cryin’. I was s’posed to be revising my book, but I couldn’t even read, much less write. I was a damn mess. Then I started self-medicating with bourbon so I could work a little bit. But I was goin’ through two bottles a day. Eventually got myself a bleedin’ ulcer and ended u
p in the hospital.”

  “How did you get well?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. He turns down the wiper speed. Then he says,

  “That’s the thing, darlin’. I’m not well. I’m better. But it’s somethin’ that’s always gonna be with me. Mac too. You can see it in other people right away. It’s like how two combat vets recognize each other.”

  “But I don’t think he saw it in you.”

  “Yes, I believe he did. That’s why he never liked me much. He saw that in me and he knew it was in him. And it scared the livin’ shit out of him. Pardon my French, honey.”

  The trip, of course, is futile. We drive up and down along the beach in the pouring rain, then head for the police station. Sgt. Ruskin has gone for the evening, but the desk sergeant on duty takes Mac’s name and my description of him and the car and goes down the hall into another room.

  After several minutes he’s back.

  “Your husband’s been located, Mrs. McLeod.”

  Gabe’s hand on my elbow steadies me.

  “He was apparently staying at a Travelodge Motel several blocks from where we found his car. When he returned to the beach and found the car was gone he called us. He picked up the car about an hour ago.” He gives me a measured look. “Is everything alright?”

  I have so many questions I can’t think where to begin, but I don’t think the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department has the answers.

  “Yes, it’s fine. I was just worried.” I try to arrange my face into a smile. “Thanks very much for the…everything.”

  When I get in the car I almost sit on Charles, who’s migrated to the passenger seat. I put him in back, but as soon as I’ve buckled the seatbelt, he climbs over the seat and settles on my lap.

  “Good man, Charles.” Gabe reaches over to scratch behind his ears. “You know, my granddaddy always used to say you get one great dog in your life and one true love.”

  He turns the key in the ignition and lets the car idle for a minute while I nod and stare out the windshield.

  On the way south, we stop at the Travelodge and Gabe goes into the office.

  “He checked out a couple hours ago,” he says when he comes back. “He’s probably gone home. In fact, we probably passed each other on the highway.”

  Mac is standing in the hall, reading the mail, eating a biscuit and dropping crumbs everywhere. He says, “Where have you been?”

  It catches me off guard. “Where have I been? Where have you been?”

  “Working.”

  “Working where?”

  “The Travelodge in Ventura.”

  I’m very nearly speechless. “Do you know how long you’ve been gone?”

  He looks at his watch. “About thirty six hours, give or take.”

  “Did it never cross your mind that I might wonder where you were? That I’d be worried? I left you several messages.”

  “I turned off the phone.”

  “The cop said your laptop was in the trunk. How could you be working?”

  “Ever hear of paper and pen?” He waves a handful of damp, ink-smudged, wrinkled pages under my nose.”

  “Why did you leave? Why couldn’t you work here?”

  “I just felt jumpy. I needed some peace and quiet.”

  “Mac, I don’t even know what to say. I was frantic. With the rain and everything, I worried that you were in an accident.”

  “Well, as you can see, I wasn’t. Have we got anything else to eat?”

  I slam my purse on the floor. “What is wrong with you? You disappear for three days and all you can say is have we got anything to eat?”

  “Two days. Two and a half.” His eyes are flat and dull.

  “Have you been taking your pills?”

  “Yep.”

  “Really? Why are there so many left in the bottle?”

  “No idea. Maybe you put them in there so it would look like I wasn’t taking them.”

  I pick up the phone. “We need to call Willow—”

  He grabs the receiver out of my hand and slams it down. “I have appointments. Next week. Everything’s fine. I feel great.”

  He turns and walks into the kitchen. I pick up the pile of yellow legal pages and look at each one, front and back. They look like jabberwocky.

  I should disengage right now. Just walk away. Go take a hot bath. Do something constructive. But I can’t. I’m furious and exhausted and frustrated. And completely helpless, which makes it worse. Not only can I not help him, I can’t even have a good screaming fight with him about it because he’s speaking Remulac.

  So instead of doing the intelligent thing, I take the pages into the kitchen where he’s drinking a beer—another bad sign—and I hold them out to him.

  “This is what you’re working on?”

  “Correct.”

  “What is it?”

  “What would you like it to be?”

  “I don’t think what I’d like it to be is important. You’re the author.”

  “It could be any number of things. Which is the beauty of the piece.”

  “You shouldn’t be drinking that, you know.”

  He looks at the bottle as if this is news to him. “Why not?”

  “The doctor said not to drink alcohol when you’re taking that stuff.”

  “Well, this tastes a hell of a lot better than Atomoxetine, so I think I’d rather drink and stop taking pills.”

  “I think you’ve already stopped taking them. Haven’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they don’t work.”

  “I know they’re not perfect or wonderful, but they were making things just a little easier.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for me. I can’t work, I can’t think. My hands shake all the time. You want to know why I left the car? Because I was afraid I was going through the guard rail.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry it’s like this—”

  “Bullshit. All you care about is whether I’m taking the fucking pills. Add one, drop one, reduce this, increase that, wait six weeks and then start all over and in the meantime I wander around like the undead.”

  “We just have to keep trying until we find the right—”

  “What’s this we shit? I don’t see you popping any meds.”

  “If we keep going like this I will be.”

  “Great. Then you’ll know what it’s like.”

  “Mac!” I wad up the yellow pages and throw them at him. “If you didn’t just quit taking your meds, you wouldn’t be going through this.”

  “Let me explain this to you. Again. When I take the pills, I can’t write—”

  “So is that the only thing you care about anymore?”

  “What do you want? Should I go back to being a bartender? Would that make you happy?”

  “Yes! It would. I liked you as a bartender. You were happier; you were a lot nicer. As of now, you seem to think being a writer entitles you to act like an asshole.”

  He reaches past me to pick up his keys off the table.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just so upset I can’t even think. I don’t want to argue anymore. We can talk about it tomorrow. It’s late and we both need—where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  In bed, I curl myself around Charles, lulled by the warmth of his little body and the soft drone of his breathing. When my shoulder gets sore I turn on my back and lie there with eyes open in the dark. At dawn I get up, brew myself an espresso and turn on the computer. I Google Liv Keppler and get an amazing number of responses. There’s a private mail box, but there are two other addresses listed—one in Santa Monica and one on Starlight Canyon Drive in Hollywood. I’m betting on that one.

  I’ve always found driving in the Hollywood Hills annoying and confusing, but at this moment I’m preternaturally calm. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning, cool and sharp, air washed clean by the storm, clouds dispersed. Hardly any tra
ffic. I only have to double back once. The street sign has been knocked down and when I come back around the corner I spot it lying in the mud.

  It’s easy to find number 10899, easier still because my husband’s car is sitting about half a block down the street, a ticket flapping on the windshield. It’s almost a relief.

  I look over at Charles and he looks back at me. Sensible little dog that he is, he doesn’t try to jolly me out of it. I pull into a driveway and turn around, heading back towards Sunset.

  Sometimes it happens that you know the exact moment when everything changes, when you run out of excuses. When compassion fatigue sets in.

  For me, this is that time.

  As divorces go, ours is pretty civilized. Certainly more so than my first, which dragged on for several years, full of acrimonious wrangling over finances. Neither Mac nor I have the heart to fight over anything; nor do we have a lot to fight over.

  The dissolution of us takes place in a conference room instead of a courtroom, with a clerk instead of a judge. When the brief proceeding is over I fully intend to say something to him. Something to gentle the landing, to close the door without slamming it. But I put my papers in a file folder, say good bye to my attorney Elizabeth, and turn around to find the room empty.

  twenty-five

  On a rainy spring morning, I drive up to St. Helena for Tyler’s graduation. CM offers to go with me, but I know Nathan’s coming that week, so I let her off the hook. If the truth be told, I’m just glad to get away. From Luna Blanca, even from the bakery. Life has slipped into a different gear lately; it feels as if I’m standing still and things are moving around me.

  I’ve just had the Volvo in for a tune up and new brakes and James gave the car a rueful look.

  “How much longer you planning to drive this baby?” he asked, chewing the frayed toothpick that’s forever in his mouth.

  “As long as I can,” I said.

  “Pretty soon it’s gonna need a new clutch. Gonna run you about a grand. Probably not worth putting that much into it.”