Читать книгу Henry's Sisters - Cathy Lamb - Страница 14

A t five o’clock in the morning, my alarm went off. It sounded like a torpedoing bomb and I leaped out of bed. Too many nights in war-torn cities will set your feet on fire when awoken from a deep sleep by high-pitched buzzing.

I sank back onto my bed and held my head until my heart pittered back down and I could breathe.

I showered and pulled on jeans and a V-necked black sweater, the morning so still and cold outside, I felt ice cubes in my gut.

I met Janie downstairs. She was wearing a pink skirt, white blouse, and white tennis shoes, with her hair in two braids wrapped around the back of her head to complete her frumpiness.

“You look like a cupcake.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Nothing wrong with a clean, crisp outfit.”

“You look like a clean, crisp cupcake.”

She put her nose up a fraction. “I like my clothes.”

“Me, too. Tasty.”

“Funny. You’re hilarious, Isabelle. Hilarious.” She stomped toward the door. “We don’t all want to dress with suggestiveness!”

I took a gander down my shirt. There wasn’t that much cleavage showing.

Before we left the house, Janie checked the stove and the iron and the hair dryers. She locked the front door, got in the car, then ran back and rechecked all her checking, locked the door, tapped it four times, and ran to the car.

“Tap tap tap,” I sang out, starting her Porsche.

“Shut up, Isabelle. At least I don’t lay naked on my counters when I’m upset.”

“I lay naked on my counters when I’m happy, too, so there, tap tap tap.”

“You’re never happy, and at least I don’t show people in skyscrapers my boobs.”

“They like my boobs.”

“At least I don’t drink Kahlúa for breakfast.”

“Kahlúa is yummy.”

She put on Vivaldi.

We drove toward town, no one else up and around at this time because they are sane. The sun even seemed tired, the golden globe slowly rising, as if she was getting out of bed and only now starting to slough off her hangover and begin thinking about the colors she would spread across the morning sky.

Trees arched over the road and I saw familiar homes, remembering who lived where when I was in high school. Nice kids and mean kids and kids who got in trouble and kids who were trouble.

It had been a long time since I was here for any length of time. I had run far and long in my work as a photographer. I’d lived for years in France, Israel, Lebanon, and London, with stints in various war-torn, war-crushed, war-raped, war-demoralized countries in the serenity of Africa and the sweet tranquility of the Middle East.

Seeing people’s bodies blown apart in different directions—a foot here, a head there—because a few men have decided they can’t sit down at a table and figure things out isn’t pleasant.

Arriving in a village that’s been obliterated by a tsunami isn’t, either, with mothers screaming that they can’t find their children and children screaming they can’t find their mothers. Running from the Janjaweed as they swish the jungles with their machetes is a heart-stopper. Famine offers up an especially lovely glimpse of how other people wait on the porch of death, barely able to stand, their stomachs swollen as if they’ve ingested a watermelon whole.

Strange diseases that we never see here thrive in other countries, their symptoms cruel, debilitating.

I’d photographed all of it.

And it was actually here that I’d come to love photography.

There was a photography class at school and only nerds took it. I took it because I thought it would be easy.

The teacher was a nerd, too. His name was Mr. Sands. He had a friend named Mr. Reynolds.

We all knew they were gay.

I thought they were the nicest men, besides Father Mike, that I’d ever met. Mr. Sands gave me a camera and told me how to take photos. I used to go with Mr. Sands and Mr. Reynolds to take photos in the mountains and by the river. Cecilia and Janie tagged along, too.

From an old, battle-weary perspective, I now realized they “got” our home life. They had met Momma one morning after she’d been in bed for two weeks. She had not showered, her hair was straight up and gnarled, her robe stained by food and grape juice and mental collapse.

She took one shocked glance at the men and slammed the door. “How dare you bring men to the house when my hair’s not done!” She slapped me across the face, her eyes still fuzzy and unfocused. “What do they want with a young girl? They’re perverts, aren’t they? Perverts.” She slapped me again.

No, Momma, I wanted to say, but they care if I live or die, which is more than I can say for you. “It’s my teacher and his brother. I’m catching up on my work.”

She ran two shaky hands through her greasy hair before bursting into tears. “Fine. Go. Go!”

Mr. Sands and Mr. Reynolds patted my arm all day and bought me a root beer float.

I was soon hooked on photography. I think it was because when I was with them, I started to feel clean. Not completely clean, that couldn’t happen—I had a momma who appeared to hate me, a reputation growing uglier second by second, and cataclysmic memories I couldn’t shut down—but around their gentleness and humor I felt better.

That afternoon I took a photo of my face from an arm’s length away with the river in the background. The area Momma had smacked was red, my eyes swollen and lonely from the tears I’d shed hoping she would love me one day. I stared at that photo for days. I still have it. I started to get interested in shooting not rivers and waterfalls and flowers, but people in pain. People like me.

Which led me to a major in journalism in college and a minor in photography, which led me to newspapers and documentaries, which led me to war zones.

Which led me to so many thousands of images of utter, abject, hideous suffering in my head that eventually my mind, on top of what was already there, split open and electrocuted itself.

And that’s when that other thing happened last year.

I shook my head, my braids swaying off my shoulders as I cleared out the memories.

And now I was back, headed toward a bakery I’d hated working in.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” Janie whimpered.

Bommarito’s Bakery is a two-story brick building between the pharmacy and a bookstore on the main street of Trillium River. Momma had “revived” it two years ago after she closed it a year after Janie left for college. “The people of Trillium River begged for my desserts, desserts made my way. The River way,” she had told me, arching her brows.

The bells jangled as I opened the door and we stepped inside.

“Now, this isn’t gonna be fun,” I groaned.

“Not good, not good, not good,” Janie moaned.

There were five red booths and seven tables. They needed a scrub down. The floor was black and white checked and scratched and dirty. It needed a mopping.

The red canopy outside was dusty and sagging, the lettering on the windows washed out, the window treatments boring beige. There were two long display cases for the cookies, cakes, sweets, and breads.

They needed to be replaced.

This was in direct contrast to how the bakery shined when we worked here. Momma had handed us toothbrushes, sponges, brushes, and mops and made us work ’til that place was so clean you could lick the floor.

“I knew it.” I had known it. Cecilia hadn’t wanted to tell me.

“The bakery is dead. It’s like there’s ghosts wandering around,” Janie whispered as we stood in a ray of sunlight, dust bunnies dancing around our heads.

“Ghosts?” I sputtered. “You’re not into ghosts.”

“Yes, I am. I am researching them for my next book. I think they’re fascinating.”

“They think you’re fascinating, too. In fact, they have elected you to be president of their Ghosts in Oregon Society. There’s a national convention in June. ‘Ghosts Beware’ is the headliner followed by ‘Multicultural Ghost Awareness Night’ and ‘Sensuous Ghosts: How Not to Disappear.’”

“Stop it. I can hear the ghosts.”

I froze to hear the ghosts. “Boo!” I shouted.

She jumped.

I laughed. “There’s a ghost in the booth. Gasp. He’s naked! He’s gorgeous!”

“Then maybe you can sleep with him, Isabelle. For one night, not two. That might constitute a relationship.”

“It’ll be ghostly sex. I’ll burn another bra and thong. My white ones.” I slung an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll cook, you sell.”

“We’re both cooking. You sell. I don’t want to talk to all those people, and you know I don’t do raisins. When I touch them I feel like they have to be counted.”

“I know you don’t do raisins.”

“They’re too small.”

“Yes, I know, Janie. Their smallness unnerves you.”

“They’re not tasty.”

“Right. Raisins are not tasty.”

“They’re tight and wrinkled and shriveled. Yuck.”

“I know. Tight, wrinkled, and shriveled is a no.”

“Right. And they crunch sometimes. They’re rough in my mouth.” She smacked her lips.

“You sound positively sexual, do you know that? Do you have a hidden thing for raisins?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yep. So is being unnerved by a raisin.”

Her face set. “I’m not embarrassed to tell you that I also don’t handle hazelnuts anymore.”

“No hazelnuts?”

“Too thin. Poor taste.” She scrunched up her nose.

I rolled my eyes. “Got it. I will be the raisin and hazelnut woman in this bakery.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. You can still work with icing, right?”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “Icing is smooth.”

“Smooth?”

“Yes. Plus its initial color is white.”

“White and smooth.” I didn’t even try to put that together. “Come on, icing woman, let’s get to work.”

At six thirty we opened our doors. Based on the shabbiness here, I did not expect a rush of people, as had happened when we were high schoolers. Back then people came by before work for coffee and treats. They came by during the day for streusel or orange bran muffins or brownies with white chocolate chips.

The card-playing ladies came in on Tuesday night and the quilters came on Thursday. We had a Sunday church crowd and the Saturday afternoon train of people who needed treats for that night’s potlucks.

I was surprised to see no customers, though. Zero. Nada.

Janie turned on her east Indian music and hung up the photo of her therapist.

We propped open the old cookbooks, most from our dad, a man who loved cooking when the demons weren’t prodding him with pitchforks, and kept baking.

I ignored the loss I felt. I ignored the memories that swirled around and about those early dawn hours, wretchedly painful and hilariously funny, soul crushing and radiant. I did not want to dive into those memories.

So, we baked.

At ten o’clock, an older woman shuffled in. She left her shopping cart, piled with filled black garbage bags, outside the door. She wore a blue flowered hat, three sweatshirts, saggy jeans, and one black shoe and one brown shoe.

“Good morning,” I said.

She grinned. She was missing teeth.

I brought over a menu as she sank down in a red booth.

“Breakfast today?” I asked. I had put a white apron around my waist and my braids were back in a ponytail. I knew there was flour in them already. Wouldn’t surprise me if I had purple marzipan icing on my cheek, either.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Coffee?”

She smelled like honeysuckle and mint. I learned later that she somehow always had a plastic bottle of scented lotion with her.

“Juice?”

I saw a flash of confusion in her eyes, then she opened a sugar packet and tipped it into her mouth. She did it with a second one, too.

I thought I’d leave her to her sugar. “I’ll come back in a minute.”

I returned to icing about two dozen blue, pink, and green whale cookies.

Ten minutes later I headed back out. “Decided yet? I have cookies in whale shapes.”

No answer. A smile.

About three seconds later, she leaned over and curled up on the red bench. She made a gurgling sound in her throat.

She slept.

“Ma’am?” I shook her shoulder softly. “Ma’am? No whale cookies?”

A snore escaped her nose.

We learned later her name was Belinda.

Life had not been a whale of fun for her.

At three o’clock, we’d been mass cooking all day, and we were still empty. Belinda had woken up, snuffled, snorted, and left after using the bathroom. I could tell she’d used our sink to take a minishower, though the bathroom was perfectly cleaned up when I checked.

I had dug through the trash where Janie and I had tossed pies and cookies and bread. Now, to be fair, these goodies were several days old and wouldn’t taste fresh.

Still. The bread tasted like sand and water mixed with a dead scorpion thrown in. The doughnuts tasted like soggy sugar and the cookies tasted like corrugated cardboard laced with paper. I gave a bite to Janie. She spit it out.

“Good. That helps me with my book. I needed to know what dead flesh would taste like.”

“It wasn’t dead flesh.”

“I know. But I needed a way to describe it.”

What do you say to things like that?

People ambled on by outside, some carrying windsurfing boards, others pushing strollers. Two women with briefcases. A man wearing a blue apron. Three teenage girls giggling, followed by three strutting teenage boys.

Now why weren’t they all in here? Spending money?

Easy. The food sucked.