Let Them Eat Cake Page 3

  “You’re only twenty-four.”

  “Nate has lots of strange ailments, and he’s my blood relative.”

  “That’s Nate. He’s a whole different story,” Tanya answered matter-of-factly.

  I tugged the khakis on and stood up, smoothing the creases out of the stiff sailcloth fabric. That’ll do. “I have constant pressure in my rib cage, and my arms really ache.”

  “How often have you been on the elliptical?”

  “Every day this week.” I stepped into the bathroom, avoiding the scale lurking under the sink. “Burning up nervous energy.”

  “Your shocked muscles are rebelling. And you’re anxious.” On the other end of the phone I could hear Tanya’s kids tumble into her classroom. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Meet you at The Ballroom for pool tonight,” she said before hanging up.

  I pulled a black sweater over my head, slipped in some seed pearl earrings, and turned off the curling iron. On a whim, I gathered my hair into a neat French twist and decided I liked it. Maybe I’d make it my signature style.

  I walked into the kitchen through a cloud of fading breakfast fumes.

  “Here, I’ll scramble an egg for you before you go,” my mother said, reaching for a pan. “No thanks, Mom.”

  “It’s not good to leave for work without eating breakfast.”

  Good thing Im not leaving for work then, I thought.

  “Protein will keep you going all day.”

  “I know, Mom; I’ll eat later.”

  She sighed her reply. She meant well.

  Once in the car, I chucked three unopened water bottles, an old Organic To Go bag, a pack of new iPod skins, and a Western Washington University hooded sweatshirt into the backseat.

  I should get rid of Gregs sweatshirt. It whispered his spicy-smooth aftershave in my direction as it flew through the air, and my heart wavered at the memories the scent dredged up. I could still recall his unshaved cheek against mine. Maybe a ritual burning was in order. Of the sweatshirt, not Greg. I clarified this to avoid the temptation to think vengeful thoughts.

  The one thing left in the front seat was a black spiral notebook. Did it still hold my neatly filled-out application? It did. I’d purposely kept the application in my car and not in my room where others helpfully “dusted.”

  I know we’ve been having a…um…lack of communication, God, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me know if this is the right direction.

  No giant professional compass appeared in my mind. On my own again.

  I grew up in a home where my mom washed and dried us and took us to church every Sunday. She found God and her peace there, but I hadn’t, really. It felt stifling to me. Not God, the church itself. I was glad when I went to college and left it behind, but it left a void. God was still there, but I couldn’t find him.

  Last week, while driving down the highway, I saw a billboard that said, “Need directions? Follow me. God.”

  I did need direction. My mom’s church may have been stifling, but no church at all was—well, lonely. Empty.

  Im trying to follow. But I have to see where you’re leading in order to do that.

  I drove across the West Seattle Bridge and into the city. Quarters jingled a muffled tune in the closed cave of my ashtray, stocked for on-street parking. I hoped I’d find a spot.

  I passed Pike and Pine, turned the corner, and drove past Saint Rita’s, Nonna’s church. Nonna once told me that Saint Rita was the patron saint of desperate, seemingly impossible situations. Maybe I’d ask her to give me a hand.

  A long line of Spanish-speaking men loitered on the corner outside, hoping for a car or van to pull up and whisk them off to a day’s worth of work. Idling at a red light, I watched a construction truck slow down and several men leap into the back. The ones who missed out stared dejectedly at the spidery cracks in the sidewalk or scouted down the road, hoping for another chance. Most day laborers were hired before nine, but I’d seen some picked up into the afternoon.

  We all need a job. Value. Worth. A way out of desperate, seemingly impossible situations.

  Help them, Lord, I prayed reflexively into the Great Void. And

  me.

  I rounded the corner, drove past Leah’s building, and parked as soon as I could, pulling into an open parallel spot.

  My hand shook a little as I grabbed the black notebook and locked my car. I fed the coins into the meter.

  Go get ’em, killer.

  I walked into L’Esperance, heels clicking against the polished wood floor.

  The French baker was in. I could see him through the door into the bakery area, biceps flexing as he rolled dough. He chatted boyishly with one of the other bakers one minute, then commanded another the next. I reached up to make sure my French twist was neat.

  The café tables were filled with perfectly coiffed morning gossips, rumpled newspaper readers, and sleepy coffee drinkers. I waited my turn. Pastries sparkled in the lit display case stretching across the storefront area beneath the brass counter. Tiny blueberry pearls glistened inside pastry seashells. Sassy Tartes Tatin blushed cinnamon red.

  No blonde behind the counter; I assumed she’d been guillotined, and that’s why I was here. The stack of applications was thinner, but still there. A woman about my age with a short brown bob and a baker’s dozen earrings clinging to her left ear caught my eye.

  “Can I help you?”

  The moment had arrived. “I’d like a half-dozen croissants,” I said. Before she could turn away to bag them while I bagged my original intent, I blurted, “I’d like to leave an application too.”

  She looked me up and down, paying particular attention to my high heels and black sweater. I looked her over, too: rubber-soled shoes and powdered sugar dusted across her apron.

  “I’ll give it to Luc,” she said coolly.

  Luc: Aha. He of the perfect café crème draw and gorgeous crinkly

  eyes.

  I paid $9.59 for the croissants and put them in my trunk for safekeeping. Next to the cardboard box of entrails from my gutted cubicle.

  I stopped by Washington Bank and Trust and paid one car payment; then, as a vote of confidence in myself, I went into a shoe store and bought a pair of Dansko Ingrid clogs. Soft-soled, good for someone on her feet all day. I left them in the box with the receipt nestled in the toe.

  Out of the store and back on the street, I glanced at the electric trolley pole next to me. It was washed in raw, dried tar and stapled with fliers for concerts, raves, sample sales, and, at the bottom, a condo for rent.

  I tore one of the phone number tabs off the condo flier and stuck it in my wallet, next to doodled-on Greg, who was paper clipped to the emergency twenty-dollar bill my dad insisted I always carry.

  After dinner, I met Tanya at The Ballroom. The buzz was low, punctuated with laughter and chatter. Glasses clinked against one another, forks clinked against plates, and billiard balls clanked against the soft-sided tables. Most of the people were between twenty-one and thirty, hanging out after work. Oh, that I had work to hang out after.

  Tanya was already there, noshing on chicken wings.

  “Put our name in?” I asked. The pool tables were all full.

  She swallowed. “Yeah. Should just be a couple minutes.”

  Tanya and I had been pool sharks since junior high, when we took on the guys after youth group every Wednesday and usually won. If we were gambling girls, we could have won a lot of money from men who didn’t think women could shoot pool. Just call me Minnesota Fats.

  On second thought, no, please dont.

  Tanya held up her glass of Diet Coke, a lemon slice darting among the ice chips. “Did you already eat?”

  I slid into the booth and ordered a glass of wine and a glass of water. “Yeah, with my dad.”

  “Tell him where you went today?”

  I shook my head. “Might as well wait and see if anything happens first.”

  “I told my
mom you were applying to work at a French boulangerie and she thought I said you were going to be selling French lingerie.”

  “Oh great!” I said. “Let’s hope that doesn’t get back to my dad.”

  We laughed together, and she checked her watch. “I have to be out of here by eight. I have a meeting with someone about being on an adult coed volleyball team. Maybe.”

  Tanya coached volleyball at the school where she taught. “Great,” I said. “With school?”

  She shook her head but didn’t say anything else.

  “You’re holding out on me,” I said. “You love volleyball. What’s up?”

  Tanya took a deep breath. “Remember when I subbed at that Christian school last year, before I got this contract?” I nodded.

  “One of my students had an older brother who came in during family day, and we talked volleyball. I thought nothing of it. You know, family chatter.”

  “Okay…”

  “Well, he somehow got my number from the school and called to ask if I’d be interested.”

  “In him or in the league?” I joked.

  She drained her Diet Coke and set the glass down on the cardboard coaster. We were tiptoeing toward troubled waters.

  “Ah,” I said. “Maybe he meant both?”

  Tanya smiled, looking unsure. “I do like to play volleyball, and it seems like a good way to meet more people. I’m so not into the singles group at church. The Impact Group. It sounds like an asteroid.”

  “Meat market,” I said. Neither of us had gone. Nonna called them “ripe fruit,” but as far as she was concerned, anyone over twenty-one who was unmarried and not contemplating childbirth was quickly ripening and about ready to fall off the tree. The group consisted of holdovers from the college group who hadn’t managed to get themselves married in the last decade. The whole thing had a whiff of desperation about it, and I had enough of that clinging to me as it was.

  “Maybe he meant both,” Tanya admitted. “I don’t know. I’m just interested in the volleyball. What if he gets the wrong idea?”

  “Did you get a good vibe?” She considered this. “I guess so.”

  I touched the back of her hand lightly. “I think you should go,” I said softly. “It seems like he might be a nice guy. Who knows? Maybe he’s only interested in volleyball too.” I doubted it, though, and I knew she could read me.

  “I don’t know. I’m not ready, Lexi.”

  I knew she didn’t know if she was ready, but I thought it was time. I wasn’t going to push her though. Not yet. I’d wait and see what she said the next time she brought it up.

  They called our number across the speaker to let us know our pool table was ready. I grabbed a cue stick from the rack and chalked up the end, while Tanya racked the balls. She ran her hands across the soft green felt. Tanya always wanted everything to be perfect and in control.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  I told her about putting in the application. “The counter girl said that Luc would call me.”

  “Luc!” Tanya teased as she sent the cue ball slamming into the other balls, scattering them across the table. “Ooh la la.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “Ooh la la. He’s definitely a bonus. Nice to look at and talk with now—who knows as I get to know him better? But I’d like the job no matter what.”

  “Would you get to bake?”

  “No.” I shook my head and neatly planted one ball into the side pocket and one into the corner. “How much does it pay?”

  “Ten dollars an hour,” I said sheepishly. She drew in her breath. “Lex.

  “I know,” I said. “I know. If I don’t hear by the end of the week, I’ll start looking again.”

  “Are you okay with ten dollars an hour?”

  I stood next to her, leaning on my cue stick. “No. I’m not, really. I feel angry and sad. I mean, I did everything right, you know? I studied hard. I didn’t party all night. I went to college and worked my butt off. I walked all the way up the mountain that my parents and every school counselor said I had to climb, and when I got to the top, there was no great job, no guy waiting, nothing meaningful. I fell off into this ditch by the side of the road.”

  Tanya clucked sympathetically.

  “I’m whining, I know.” I pocketed a ball and dropped my voice. “I’ve disappointed everyone, including myself. It’s embarrassing.” I looked at my watch. “You’d better go if you’re going to meet that guy.”

  “Steve,” she filled in. “I think I’ll call and cancel. We haven’t even finished our game.”

  “No, you need to go. You want to go.”

  Suddenly the cool, in-control persona dropped from her face. “You think…?”

  One by one, I rolled each ball into a pocket. “Game over,” I said softly.

  We paid and walked out the door.

  On the way home, I stopped at the grocery store and bought a card to mail the next day.

  When I got home, my parents were in bed watching TV. I kissed them good night, rubbed our old black Lab’s ears, and then closed their door behind me.

  I went into my room to change. My dirty clothes had been taken out of the hamper, washed, dried, and folded into precise little piles. She’d done my laundry! At least she hadn’t put my clothes away or, worse yet, cleaned the drawers.

  I looked at the vase box in the corner of the closet. I have got to get my own place.

  I pulled out the tab I’d torn off the post earlier, closed my bedroom door, and dialed the number on the tab.

  “Hello, we’re sorry we’re unable to take your call, but please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you. If you’re calling about the condo, it’s still available. Thanks.”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, I…ah…I’m interested in renting the condo but wanted a few more details. Please call me back when you get a chance. Thanks.” I left my name and number and hung up.

  Downtown. Perfect. Part of me knew how much it must cost. Part of me didn’t want to think about it.

  After throwing on some sweats, I went into the kitchen and dug out the croissant box from deep in the pantry where I’d hidden it behind a huge bag of pinto beans, the only place to keep them safe from Dad. I pulled out pistachio paste to spread on each half of the sliced croissants and the ingredients required to make the syrup to brush on top. I rough-chopped some roasted, salted pistachios to sprinkle on as a finishing touch.

  Half an hour later, I’d prepped the pastry to make six croissants. I could pop them into the oven first thing in the morning so they’d be crispy and fresh. Six was enough for Mom and Dad to each have one tomorrow morning, and I’d take one each for Leah and Nate when I met Leah for coffee. That left two, one of which was tagged for Tanya.

  They sure looked good. They smelled good too. My mouth watered.

  Eating mine tonight couldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t want to serve anything I hadn’t tried myself, after all.

  I revved the oven up to four hundred degrees and popped one in. Five minutes later I slid it out of the oven.

  Flaky. Refined brown butter taste. Smooth, silky nut texture—better than almond, I thought. Browned pistachio chips clung to the top, easily flicked off with my tongue, straight into my mouth.

  Délicieux!

  I watched TV for a while before turning in for the night. I took my cell with me, just in case the condo people called back.

  Elle qui a un choix a l’ennui.

  She who has a choice has trouble.

  Acouple of decades—I mean days—went by. By the end of the next week, there’d been no call from the bakery or the condo.

  “Are you coming to church with me tomorrow?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t think so. Hey, Mom, can I help you with dinner?” I’d had a great idea—chicken puttanesca.

  She clucked at me. “No thanks. You know I love to make dinner for my family. It’s part of being a woman.”

  “Mom, I am a woman,” I reminded her.

  She looked at me, and I realized s
he still thought of me as a girl.

  “I’m going for a drive,” I said.

  I drove down the hill to Alki Beach. I pulled a blanket out of my trunk and sat down on the sand, not caring that the wind whipped my hair and roughed up my skin.

  “I’m not a girl anymore, God,” I said. “I’m a woman who needs a home and a job and respect and hope. I have no hope. I hear nothing from you. What’s the point of going to church? I don’t feel you here, there, or anywhere.”

  What was the alternative? Not believing? That wasn’t an option, because I really did believe. When I was growing up, my mom and the youth leaders provided me with a spiritual map. “Be here at this time. We’re studying this book.” I went along with it. But I hadn’t made a map—or a home—for myself now that I was an adult. I needed a place to live in more ways than one.

  I had gotten back into the car and started home when my phone rang. I pulled over on a side road and glanced at the number. I didn’t recognize it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m returning your call about the condo,” a man said.

  “Oh yes,” I said, fumbling for a pen and paper. My pen had fallen into the passenger seat crack. I grabbed the car registration from the glove box to take notes on. “Can you tell me a little more about it?”

  “It’s beautiful. Has a peek view of the Sound, new appliances, Bosch oven.”

  Bosch oven!

  “Secure building.”

  Good, Dad would go for that.

  “There’s a one-thousand-dollar deposit,” he continued. I thought I might be able to swing that. Maybe. What could I sell?

  “And the rent is twelve hundred dollars per month.”

  I sucked in a breath and held it. Twelve hundred per month was three hundred per week. Too much even if I did get the job. Which seemed unlikely, since I hadn’t heard back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just too much for me.”

  “Do you have a roommate you could split it with?”

  “No.”

  The guy seemed genuinely kind. “I’m sorry. I think you’re going to have a hard time finding anything downtown in a good neighborhood for less than that. Maybe you could try some studios.”