~This story previously appeared in Conclave (2012).
~Selected by Kenneth Fleming, Assistant Editor for
Fiction
Give us this day our daily bread. And
give us, please, the good stuff. Give us something that smells of wheat, not
plastic. Give us this day—right now—something good and chewy, baked with care,
to sink our teeth into.
Years ago, newly married and full of
youthful enthusiasm, I tried to learn to bake bread. How hard could it be? In
our pint-sized kitchen, surrounded by cookbooks, I added water to yeast, salt
to flour. I kneaded until my fingers ached. I patted and poked and folded the
dough. Eventually I produced six or seven edible loaves, but I also baked some
things the dog wouldn’t touch: dense, burnt things more like rustic doorstops
than loaves of homemade bread. The successes we ate immediately. Denise oohed and
aahed. She made a fuss.
“Mmm, this is good with butter,”
she’d say. Or, “This is so good hot.”
It was an awful lot of work for
something that could be eaten in one sitting, something that only tasted good
hot. After a few weeks, I gave up. Ever since, I’ve been glad to pay what’s
asked for a good loaf of honest bread.
Stories should have a bit of
historical background mixed into them. That’s what I’m doing when I tell about
my early attempts to bake bread and that’s what I’m doing, I suppose, when I
tell you that Denise and I are good people. We’ve had, like most married folks,
our share of hard times: lost jobs, dreams that disappeared so slowly we didn’t
notice them creeping away, a thousand sad things big and small. I don’t recall
a time, though, when we were too discouraged, too angry or scared to sit down
at the end of the day and eat a meal together. We’re good people who love to
eat.
I
should mention one unhappy fact: Denise and I are fat. We’re not pudgy.
We used to be. We used to be ample, heavyset, substantial. Now, God help us,
we’re enormous. I guess, relatively speaking, I’m fatter than Denise, but
that’s quibbling—we’re both porkers, plain and simple.
Twelve days ago on a beautiful
Saturday morning I drove to Ziggy’s Bakery in Watertown. Their bread is
terrific. Poppy seed, sourdough, rye, whole wheat—you name it, it’s all
delicious. I’m usually over there at least twice a week, stocking up. It always
seems like a lot of bread when I get it home, but we go through it fast. Denise
makes sandwiches to take to the library, we toast a few slices in the morning,
and I like bread with thick wedges of cheddar cheese when I get home from the
office. Dinner time finds us mopping our plates with chunks of Ziggy’s peasant
loaf and at bedtime I enjoy a slice or two of toasted raisin bread.
I swung my Oldsmobile into Ziggy’s
parking lot. Normally I like to get there earlier, when everything’s still warm
from the oven, but sometimes on the weekends Denise and I like to sleep in.
Don’t be shocked; even when folks are older and heavier, we still enjoy the
pleasures of the flesh.
From the outside, Ziggy’s doesn’t
look like much. It’s just a drab warehouse in the middle of an industrial park.
Inside the bakery, though, it’s another world altogether. It smells so good!
Behind the display cases there’s a giant picture window that lets you see into
the kitchen area and watch the bakers, young men and women in white coats,
kneading and twisting big lumps of beige dough. There’s a snowy haze in the air
and a couple of the workers, the ones pouring flour into the giant mixing vats,
are wearing dust masks. It looks like it would be a fun place to work if you
were young, which I’m not, and in good health, which I’m not either.
There were customers lined up in
front of both cash registers. As always, I joined the line that led to Irina’s
register. Irina is Ziggy’s wife. They’re both from Bulgaria, or Rumania, one of those godforsaken places. Someone
told me that Irina, over there, worked for the government TV
network, and that Ziggy was a sculptor. He looks like an artist: he’s got a
long nose, brown hair in a pony tail, white overalls, and a cotton cap like the
ones that house painters wear. And to be cool, I guess, he’s got the hat on
backwards, with the visor twisted around to the back of his head
Ziggy is all over the place. One
minute he’s out front, greeting customers and joking with, or gently scolding,
the cashiers. Then you’ll see him, through that big window, up on a metal
ladder in the middle of a white cloud, dumping flour into a mixer. Or he might
be doing a chalk drawing on the blackboard that lists the daily specials. He’ll
draw a loaf of bread with legs, a smiling face, and a beret on top. French
bread, get it? Or, next to where it says pumpkin bread, he’ll draw a goofy
jack-o-lantern. He goes all out on the Fourth of July, Saint Patrick’s Day,
Easter, Valentine’s Day—every holiday, major and minor. Being a new American, Ziggy
seems to relish all those special days.
Irina’s pretty, with pale blond hair
rolling down onto her narrow shoulders, the whole pile of it caught up in some
kind of net bag. It’s not one of those hair nets you might see at Burger King
or KFC, it looks European. She looks clean and friendly. And foreign. Her
English has improved since they first opened, but she still has a mysterious,
sexy, accent.
“Hello, Wesley,” she said when I
reached the counter. “You’re late. I was afraid you don’t love us no more.”
“Good morning, Irina,” I said. “Did I
miss anything?”
“The scones is finish.”
“Well, the early bird gets the worm,”
I said. She looked puzzled. “Never mind, I’ll take two— no, make it
three—loaves of peasant bread and two raisin breads. I need four baguettes, a
sourdough, and a dark rye. Maybe a dozen cinnamon rolls and that should do it.”
“We got today pecan sourdough.”
“Okay, throw in a loaf of that,” I
said.
Irina turned and started pulling
loaves of bread from the bins behind her. She put everything into crisp white
bags that said Ziggy’s on them. She was quick and stylish, a pleasure to
watch.
“Sixty-three dollars and forty cents,”
said Irina. “The pecan bread is on top of the house.”
“Thank you,” I said, handing her three
twenties and a five. She gave me the change and blew a kiss in my direction.
I walked outside to the parking lot.
It even smelled good out there! I opened the car door, reached over and laid
the bags of bread on the passenger seat, squeezed behind the wheel and yanked
the door shut. I put the key in the ignition, but before turning it I leaned
over and grabbed a baguette. I twisted off its end and popped it into my mouth.
Absolutely delicious! Before I knew it I’d finished the baguette and half a
raisin loaf. I sampled a couple of cinnamon rolls, too. Then I turned the key
and drove away.
I rode home along the river, whistling
all the while, full of a warm feeling, full of bread. What a beautiful spring
day it was! The cherry trees beside the parkway were full of pink blossoms and
a breeze dappled the water’s surface. I wasn’t paying much attention to the
road or the other cars rocketing along Memorial Drive. It’s a weak excuse, but
true, and it’s what I later told the police: “I was just enjoying the scenery.”
A dog began to cross the road in front
of me. I slammed on the brakes and the car shrieked to a halt inches from the
mutt, who sauntered on, nearly creamed again by a Toyota before reaching the
other side. My car had stalled and, in the sudden stop, my seat had been
catapulted forward. I always drive with the seat as far back as possible, which
allows me, just barely, to slide behind the wheel and drive in a somewhat
normal fashion. But now I was pinned tightly against the steering wheel. I
tried pressing backwards as hard as I could, but I could not move the seat.
Behind me, tires squealed, horns blared, and drivers, pulling past, swore and
shook their fists at me. “Move it, fatty!” someone shouted. “Learn how to
drive, fat boy!” yelled another.
I turned on the emergency lights and I
did manage—it wasn’t easy—to open my door. I realized I was in real danger
sitting in the middle of the highway and so I tried to climb out. I tried like
hell, but I couldn’t move.
My heart’s response to all this effort
was simple and immediate: it began to race and thump like a wild beast. I had
heart pills tucked inside my jacket, but I couldn’t reach them. Over the years,
even suspecting only heartburn, I’d swallowed many of the little tablets, just
in case. And now my
heart was pumping fiercely and real pain—red hot, fiery pain—began to pulsate
throughout my upper body.
I don’t remember being hit by the van, but
the collision propelled my car off the highway and into a large oak tree. From
that point on, my memory consists only of fleeting, disconnected images: a
policeman looking in the window, a crowd of gawkers, firemen in yellow coats
and black boots, television cameras. I heard sirens, the screech of a saw on
metal, a faraway voice urging me to stay calm and breathe deeply.
The newspaper story and that awful
photograph retrieve some of the other details from the noise and chaos. That’s
me on the stretcher, sure enough, although I don’t remember being placed on it
or carried to the ambulance. Denise was mortified—she still is—by the headline:
400 LB MAN RESCUED BY JAWS OF LIFE. She wanted to call the paper and ask them
to print a correction: 327 LB MAN. I talked her out of it.
I didn’t have an official heart
attack. They’re calling it an episode of cardiac insult. There is, apparently, no further
permanent damage to my heart. Of course, my heart is a mess anyway and has been
for years. While I was in the hospital, my cardiologist, Nelson Mbate, M.D.,
delivered several lectures about my weight. It’s not exactly in one ear and out
the other with these little chats, but I’ve been hearing these speeches, in one
form or another, for most of my life.
Dr. Mbate, an African gentleman whose
voice is deep and musical, wears beautiful suits of pale silk. He has a degree
from Columbia and is on the faculty at Harvard Medical School. His skin shines
like polished ebony.
One night, in the hospital, I had a
dream: It was Dr. Mbate, not me, who was fat. He stood at the foot of my bed
with a bucket of fried chicken under one arm. His elegant jacket, decorated
with grease stains, was stretched across a huge stomach.
”Wesley, you are familiar with, I’m
certain, our African proverb about the weasel and the pig.”
He paused, tilted his face ever so
slightly, and smiled significantly.
“Sometimes, sir,” he continued, “there
is more wisdom in one of these charming fables than in all the celebrated
brains within our hallowed halls of learning.” Here, the doctor gave a sharp
rap with his knuckles to the top of his own head. He reached into the bucket,
pulled out a drumstick, and waved it in my direction.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“My good chap, you’ll simply waste
away if you carry on in this fashion.” Then he turned on his heels and was
gone, the smell of fried chicken lingering in his wake.
My nose is broken, my forehead is
puckered and polka dotted from all the little pieces of glass that lodged
there. My left arm is in a cast; I have a busted wrist and a shattered elbow.
My head is still swollen. Imagine a man my size with a swollen head! I’ve got a
big white bandage covering my right ear, the ear they had to
reattach because it was sliced off. My right ankle is sprained, not broken, but
I’m going to be on crutches for a long time.
Mostly I sit here in our living room,
catching up on my reading. I just finished an historical novel about Mary,
Queen of Scots. She was really something! I’m looking forward to starting a
book of Nabokov short stories that a friend brought over, and I’m picking at a
book of stories by Irish writers. I say picking because a lot of them are dreary: defeated
characters; sullen gray landscapes; melancholy, booze-fueled reveries.
I sit on the couch in my pajamas with
my bad leg propped on the coffee table, reading a story set during the Potato
Famine. A starving man and woman and their two children are peeling the
wallpaper from their grim cottage and eating it. They’re soaking peat moss in
water until a few beetles emerge and then they eat them too. They huddle around the
fireplace where they have begun to burn their furniture to stay warm. The
desperate husband and wife have to decide which one of their children to give
up and place in the Poor Home.
Now and then I lay down my book and
look out the window. I can see a corner of our little yard, a section of wooden
fence, a snow shovel. The grass is turning green. Yesterday I saw a pair of
cardinals sitting on the fence.
I’ve gotten dozens of get well cards,
mostly from friends and neighbors and business associates, but others from
complete strangers. They say, “Hang in there!” and, “God wasn’t ready for you
yet,” and they wish me a speedy recovery. Ziggy and Irina sent a handwritten
note. “To our Best Customer,” it says. “Get Normal Soon.”
Denise says we’re going to turn over a
new leaf, that’s how she puts it. She brings me plates of crisp vegetables:
sliced zucchini, carrot sticks, red peppers, and broccoli.
But when I think about her resolution,
I imagine Denise and I turning over actual leaves, big shiny green leaves,
tropical ones. I see us clearly: two fat people naked at the edge of a sandy
beach, rummaging about in the lush vegetation. We grasp at leaves, we twist
them and push them aside. A familiar, yeasty aroma seeps up from the
undergrowth. We squint into the shadows and there, heaped beneath the shrubs
and stalks, are dozens of delectable baked goods, fresh from the oven.
It takes several trips, but we gather
up all this bounty in our arms and carry it to the water’s edge. We unfold a
beach towel and lay it on the sand. We arrange our banquet on top of the towel.
We’ve got thick slabs of oatmeal bread
and almond scones topped with clotted cream. Hot buttered slices of toasted nut
bread. Popovers. Hunks of pumpernickel, black as dirt. There’s cheese bread,
rye bread, loaves of sprouted wheat. We've got raisin buns, blueberry muffins,
and warm
banana bread.
Denise and I lower ourselves to the
sand. For a moment we gaze out at the clear blue sea. Then we begin to eat.
Except for an occasional murmur of pleasure, we don’t speak. We chew and
swallow. We lick our lips. We lick our fingers.
We’re still plowing through our feast
when the sun sets, turning the sky purple and pink. Denise eats another
croissant and then a brioche studded with bits of candied fruit. I gobble a
lemon square, a meat pie, a chewy baguette. The sky becomes dark and the moon
shines on the sea and still we eat. Waves crash against the shore and a cool
breeze rustles the palms behind us. We eat on into the night. We eat as if
there’s no tomorrow.
*****
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Usually I begin to write a story with
only a snatch of overheard or invented dialogue or a single image. With “The
Jaws of Life” I started with more.
I wanted to write a story about
baking, love, and obesity. I’d tried, a couple of years earlier, to learn to
bake bread. I’m a pretty good cook, but baking is tough. So much science! And
then I suffered a fall on the tennis court that smashed up my wrist and put an
end to kneading, bread baking, and tennis.
I had the beginning of an
introduction: Give us this day our daily
bread. It’s a simple sentence, but a good one. Wish I’d written it.
Like Wesley, I love bread, but I’m
not fat. In fact, I skew towards scrawny. My wife chides me for my lack of a
proper rear end. All the more fun, then, to write as a hefty narrator. The
protagonists of my stories are often clueless beings comically buffeted by the
world around them. Not Wesley and Denise. They see clearly. Wesley proclaims
early on, “We’re good people who love to eat.”
Near our house there’s a terrific
bakery called Iggy’s. I added the Z. They make wonderful bread and other tasty
baked goods. Two hundred miles from the Lower East Side, they produce great
bagels.
The term jaws of life has always fascinated me. Such an evocative name for a
tool.
I happened to be reading a batch of
Irish short stories at the time I wrote Jaws,
so that accounts for Wesley, recovering at home in his pajamas, discoursing on
Irish literature.
I was a visual artist long before I
ever started to write seriously. I’ve found that, for me, the process of
writing is remarkably similar to that of painting. Adding and erasing. Putting
stuff in and taking it out. Knowing when to stop. Like now.
*****
ABOUT TODD MCKIE
Todd McKie is an artist and writer
stumbling, dazed and paint-spattered, from canvas to keyboard. His short
fiction has appeared in PANK,
Litro, STORY, Chicago Literati, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency
and elsewhere. Todd lives in Boston. Visit him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/todd.mckie.75
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