Bread Alone (44 page)

She opens the reading glasses that she wears on a silk cord around her neck, puts them on. Before she even begins to read it, I see that she knows what it is. Her face is first flushed, then very pale.

“Oh, baby.” She must have been holding her breath and she lets it all out at once, like the air going out of a balloon. “I’m so sorry you saw this.”

“Please tell me what happened.”

“Wyn, it was so long ago, and it wasn’t really—”

“Please.”

She scans the page and then lays it on the coffee table. She sits back
in the chair, hands in her lap. “When you were four years old, your father decided he was in love with someone else.” Her voice is calm, matter-of-fact.

“Who?” My voice, by contrast, is more like a squeak.

“No one you’d know. She worked in Andersen’s Chicago office. He came home from a trip and told me he was in love with her and he asked me to divorce him.”

I’ve never been anywhere near a tornado, but this is how I think it must be. The black wind howling around you and the dead-calm center. For a second, I’m actually dizzy.

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t actually say much. I just cried and got quietly drunk and passed out.” The idea of my mother drinking enough to pass out is hard to grasp. It probably took all of two drinks. She brushes an imaginary piece of lint off her slacks. “He moved into a hotel that night.”

“Where was I?”

“Thank God you were at Oma and Opa’s. The next day I called them and asked them to keep you a while longer. That week …” She pauses. “It was like a dream. No, more a nightmare. Your father was coming over to the house every night to talk about divorce and division of property and who would live where and how we would settle you.”

“And you really had no idea he was—?”

“None. But then I was rather naive in those days.” She looks away from me, out the sliding-glass door to the patio. “He had an attorney. And a list of attorneys he thought I might want to call. He’d apparently given it quite a bit of thought.”

I see David, sitting on the couch in our den, telling me about the great condo he’d found for me. “So …?”

“I begged him not to leave, not to break up the family, but he was absolutely determined.”

One of those scenes that burns itself into your brain, but you can’t remember why. Waking up one night. Getting up for a drink of water or a potty trip. Walking down the hall, bare feet padding silently on the carpet, past my parents’ room. It’s dark except for my mother in her
chair. She sits in a pool of light, holding a book, and she doesn’t look up when I tiptoe past.

“That was the week that Oma wrote me that letter. I was desperate. I was ready to try anything that might put my world back together.” The ticking of the school clock on the mantel sounds like a drum in the silence.

I must look thoroughly confused, because she leans closer, peering into my face. “It wasn’t such an everyday occurrence then, you know. Things had to be pretty bad before you resorted to divorce.” She attempts a laugh. “Divorcées were women who wore too much makeup and used cigarette holders and frequented cocktail lounges.”

“So what did you say to him?”

“You have to understand, Wyn …” She keeps talking about her desperation, her fear, the pain. She hasn’t said anything yet about loving him. In my head, I’m screaming,
Cut to the chase,
but I sit listening. “The next time he came over, I was ready. I started with the house and the car. His salary, future raises, investments, insurance, a college fund for you. He was very accommodating.” When her eyes sweep up to mine, I imagine her looking at him in just this way. “And then I said, ‘Oh, and one last thing. You will never contact Justine again once the divorce is final.’ “

My mouth opens slightly, half in surprise, half in protest. “You can’t really do that.”

“Not now.” She smiles faintly. “Twenty-five years ago, men didn’t have many rights as far as child custody. Particularly under those circumstances. Anyway …” She shrugs. “I don’t know that I would have done it even if I could have. But that’s not the point. The point is, I made him believe that I could. That I would.” The smile becomes a full-blown triumph. “Two days later, he moved back home.”

For an instant, I see her the way he must have. Beautiful, yes. Always. But no longer sweet, accommodating, pliant. He’s underestimated her. She’s willing to push it to the limit. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would have responded to. I can see him falling in love with her all over again.

I should say something now; I just don’t know what. She stands up.

“And that, my dear, is pretty much the story. I’m going to have a glass of sherry. Would you like something?”

“No. Thanks.”

“It’s very good. Quite dry. Richard’s favorite.”

She goes to the walnut cabinet that came from my grandparents’ town house. Amber liquid splashes into a small crystal glass. Standing there in her black linen slacks and expensive white cotton sweater and a chunky gold necklace I’ve never seen before, she’s gathered all the pieces together. She’s Richard’s wife, not someone’s washed-out widow, fending off her friends’ husbands in the kitchen.

She comes back and sits down next to me, sipping her drink. “We had twelve wonderful years before he died.”

“ ‘Wonderful’?” I still feel like the cartoon character who’s been hit in the face with a frying pan.

“I’m not going to sit here and tell you it was like a fairy tale. But we had a more honest relationship, a deeper one.”

She sets down the glass and puts her hands on mine. A tale without words can be read by looking at our hands together. Hers are small, graceful, limber. Her nails are always French-manicured, cuticles neatly pushed back to reveal the creamy white moons at the base. My hands are large, blunt-fingered. No matter how often I have them manicured, there are always a few pesky hangnails. And I could push my cuticles back to my elbows and I’d never have those pretty little moons.

She’s looking at me, eyebrows just slightly arched. And the last question is …

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

She appears genuinely surprised. “Why would I do that?”

“So I’d know the truth. About what kind of man he was.”

“Wyn, you’ve always known the truth. Your father was a good man who made mistakes. Like everyone else. But don’t ever forget this. He loved you more than anything in the world. When I made him choose, he chose you.”

I get up and push open the sliding door to the backyard, set my feet on my father’s bricks. The old redwood patio furniture with its ugly green cushions would fetch a bundle in one of the retro-chic shops
off Melrose. I sit down on the chaise lounge and lie back, put my feet up. The black walnut tree that’s thrived for twenty years under Shoji’s judicious pruning shades the whole yard at this time of year. In spite of the dark stains their shells left on the patio, I always thought “black” walnuts was a misnomer. They taste like the color green. The shells were so tough I used to put them on the driveway before my father came home from work so they’d be crushed open by the weight of the car. He used to say that they only tasted good because you had to work so hard for them.

My mother is standing next to me, although I didn’t see her come out. I move my feet so she can sit down.

“Did we hurt your feelings a lot?”

She gnaws delicately on the inside of her cheek. “Sometimes I just wanted to be in on the joke. I wanted you to look at me the way you looked at him. Sometimes I even wanted him to look at me the way he looked at you.” Her face is flushed. From the sherry, I suppose.

It occurs to me that I have no idea who this lovely stranger is. Haven’t had for years. What she thought about, wished for, laughed at, loved. All this time, I’ve been seeing her in the wedding picture. Mamie Eisenhower bangs. Big smile. Waiting for the adventure to start.

“After he died, people would always say to me, At least you have Wyn.’ “ She touches my arm. “But I didn’t. There wasn’t much left of you. And what there was, you weren’t willing to share with me.”

“Momma …” The word cracks my voice.

I’m so much bigger than she is, it’s hard for her to hold me while I cry, but somehow she does. This hasn’t happened in a very long time.

When I get my mail Tuesday, there’s a fat envelope bearing the postmark of Larkspur, California. I rip the end off, and an airline ticket drops into my hands. I’d conveniently forgotten that a week from Saturday is the date we finally agreed on for me to stand inspection.

There’s a handwritten note stapled to the ticket jacket.

Dear Wyn,

Mere’s your ticket. Erica’s agreed to swap weekends with me, so we’ll only have the kids Saturday afternoon. I thought we’d pick you up and go to the aquarium or Fisherman’s Wharf. Or if there’s anything else you’d prefer, we can do that. Andrew and Katie are excited to meet you.

After we drop them off, we have early dinner reservations at a great little roadhouse in Larkspur and then we’ll go to a party at a client’s house. We don’t have to stay long, but I can’t wait to show you off. Sunday we can do brunch in Tiburon and I have tickets for a matinee that afternoon. Or maybe we’ll forget all that. I’ll take your clothes off using only my teeth and … well, you get the idea. Mope you’re feeling like new. Take care. I miss you.

G.

I should be happier about this. More excited … something. Maybe it’s just that I’m upset about CM. I jam everything back in the envelope and toss it on the kitchen table.

My first priority is weaseling my way back into CM’s good graces. Bread. Not just any bread, but something special. Sylvie used to do these fabulous window displays at the
boulangerie
with special loaves shaped by Phillipe, one of the bakers who was more artist than artisan. There were sheaves of wheat, ears of corn, little alligators, turtles, fish, cats and dogs, baskets and wreathes, all sculpted from bread dough. I don’t have the artistic inclination for something so elaborate, but any fool can make a circle.

A
couronne.
In fact, a double
couronne,
like interlocking wedding rings, will be my peace offering. Jean-Marc told me that the
couronne,
the crown-shaped loaf, originated in rural areas of France where the people were thrifty with their time as well as their money. The four-to-six-pound loaves of bread would last a whole family for a week, but they didn’t have enough crust in proportion to crumb until somebody came up with the bright idea of putting a hole in the middle.

I don’t have time to wait for a starter to ripen, so I use a
poolish,
or sponge. Actually my oma used to use this method of bread making, but
she never let the sponge ferment more than a couple of hours. I can leave it in the fridge when I go to work and give it a nice, cool, slow development.

POOLISH
FOR
PAIN DE CAMPAGNE
(SPONGE FOR COUNTRY FRENCH BREAD)

½
teaspoon yeast

½ cup water

¾ cup whole wheat flour

Dissolve yeast in water, then stir in flour till mixture forms a thick batter. Beat about a hundred strokes to develop the long strands of gluten. Cover with a damp cloth and let sit at least 2 hours at room temperature. Longer is better, up to about 8 hours. Or let
poolish
ripen in refrigerator for 12 to 15 hours. Keep in mind that it must come to room temperature before you can make bread, so allow an extra 2 hours.

Pain de Campagne

All of
poolish

2½ cups water

½ teaspoon yeast

5½ to 6½ cups unbleached white bread flour

1 tablespoon kosher salt or sea salt

When the
poolish
is ready, it will be bubbly and loose, with a definite smell of fermentation. Scrape it into a large bowl, add water and yeast, and stir until the
poolish
is broken up and the mixture is frothy. Add flour one cup at a time until the dough becomes too difficult to stir, then turn out onto a well-floured board and knead for 10 to 12 minutes, adding flour as necessary. Sprinkle salt over the dough and
knead an additional 5 to 7 minutes. At first the dough will be quite sticky, but don’t add any more flour than absolutely necessary to keep it from sticking to the work surface. A moist dough yields a wonderful, chewy texture.

When you press your finger into the dough and it springs right back, it’s ready. Shape it into a ball and cover with a damp towel while you clean and oil the bowl. Place the dough in the bowl, turning to coat the whole surface with oil. This keeps it from forming a dry crust, which will inhibit rising. Cover with the damp towel and let rise at room temperature till doubled in volume, about 2 to 3 hours. When you press your finger about half an inch into the dough and the indentation remains, it’s risen enough.