Stones for Bread (25 page)

My father doesn’t come. He says he will see it at home, and I’m relieved. Xavier and Jude also aren’t here, since their shift begins at three in the morning, though I suspect at least Xavier will watch. He doesn’t sleep much anyway.

The
Gazette
provides popcorn and movie candy and cans of soda. Gretchen and Rebekah set the chairs in rows, pushing the tables to the back of the room. The crowd is more subdued than on taping day; people chat and pop open Pepsi, and when Gretchen flicks the lights, they scramble into their chairs. Five minutes until showtime.

“Where are you sitting?” Cecelia asks. She wears her pajamas and plush dog slippers.

“Up front, of course,” Gretchen tells her.

“No, that’s too close,” I say, but I’m steered there anyway, to the first row, where I manage to avoid the center seat and take the one on the very end, closest to the kitchen door.

Cecelia sits next to me, jiggling back in the chair, shaking several kernels of popped corn loose from her bag. She tries to brush them under her chair with her feet, but they don’t touch the ground. “I forgot a pillow.”

“This is too exciting for pillows,” Gretchen says, and plops down beside the girl.

I look for Seamus. He’s still near the food table, talking with Pastor Ryan and a few other men. He sees me searching for him and
nods, slips a soda into each massive cargo pant pocket, and weaves his way toward me. I thank him for the Sprite and he smiles, giving me two boxes of Sour Patch Kids as well, presenting them as a magician holds out his magic cards. “I know you like them.”

Now I smile; he remembers what I ordered at the movies the other night. “Thanks.” Is this what happens after one date? I get the sense I’ve somehow been claimed, and I think I might like it.

“All right, everyone,” the
Gazette
reporter says, clapping his hands. “It’s about that time.”

The television bursts on, already tuned in to the Good Food Channel. A commercial for another show ends and then the unmistakable
Bake-Off with Jonathan Scott
theme plays, a James Bondesque tune, as the screen fills with short clips of previous shows between flashes of Jonathan’s too-handsome face. Seamus drags a chair from the row behind us and settles next to me. “So I can whisper to you and no one will hear me,” he says.

“Shh,” Gretchen says.

He likes to talk through movies, I learned last Saturday. And talk. And talk. Fortunately, the movie I chose—some period drama with high critical praise and no action—had very few people in it. Us, and a trio of women who claimed the seats in the middle of the theater and must have had dinner including ample adult beverages beforehand; their chatting and ill-timed laughter drowned out most of the picture’s dialogue and anything Seamus had to say.

“This is
Bake-Off
,” the TV Jonathan says. “We’re traveling to the tiny city of Billingston, Vermont, to see if Wild Rise, a small artisan bread shop, has what it takes to impart big flavor and take me on in the battle of baguettes.”

Music. Footage of Billingston. Everyone cheers as Gretchen comes on the screen, waiting tables, and customers talk into the camera about me, about the bakehouse, about the bread—everything is “delicious” and “fantastic,” all the praise effusive. I wonder how much
is sincere and how much is influenced by the blinking red light of modern video.

“Those sticky buns,” the television Ginny Moren says. “Oh my. That’s why my backside looks the way it does!”

The crowd laughs and turns toward the real Ginny, four rows behind me, who covers her wide, pink face in embarrassment. “Never speak truth with the cameras rolling,” she says.

And then I’m there on the screen.

“The secrets of baking have, until relatively recently, always passed from mother to daughter. I was young, eight perhaps, when my own mother tied her apron around my waist and told me it was time for me to show her how much of what she taught me I remembered. It was time for me to make my first loaf without help or instruction. No recipes. Just my senses. And I did.”

The photographs I gave Patrice Olsen float across our field of vision with my voice. “It was a squat loaf of wheat bread. A little too dense. A little too brown. But we ate it at supper that night, my father, mother, and I, with butter and salt, rewarmed in the oven. And my mother said to me, ‘You’re now a keeper of bread.’ It was my rite of passage.”

“Wow,” Seamus sighs. He touches my hand, and for a moment I think he’ll thread his fingers with mine, but he pulls back, reaching into his box of Raisinets. The candies rattle around before he manages to grab some and shove them in his mouth. That’s one more thing I learned about him at the movies, he eats loudly and drinks loudly, and loudly clomps from dark theaters when making his way to the restroom. I suppose I knew this already, but it’s so much more amplified in a huge, dark room requiring—or strongly suggesting, at least—as much silence as possible.

“Shh,” Gretchen says again. Cecelia cuddles against her ribs, beneath her arm, fighting to keep her eyes open.

“Hanging in there?” I ask.

The little girl nods. “How much longer?”

“About half an hour.”

“I can make it, if I keep my feet going.” Her legs swing like pendulums, and she bumps Gretchen’s own leg over and over again.

“How about some more popcorn?” Seamus asks.

Cecelia nods and Gretchen shushes him again.

“It’s a commercial,” he says.

“Shh anyway.”

Seamus scavenges for more treats, returning with Swedish Fish for Cecelia and another box of the sour, child-shaped gummies for me, despite the fact I haven’t opened the previous two. He also gives his daughter a Sierra Mist, which he opens with a crack and fizz just as the show begins again. Gretchen glares at him.

“I know, I know,” he tells her, handing the can to Cecelia. “Sorry, Ceese, all the popcorn is gone.” Cecelia slurps her drink and tears open the box of candy. “This is good.”

On the television, Jonathan Scott lectures on baguettes, I demonstrate the stretch-and-fold method with my ciabatta dough, and fresh loaves are filmed coming out of the oven. And then on to the park, where people sample the bread and make their opinions known. Cecelia makes an appearance; smacking on my baguette crust, she announces, “Liesl’s is the best bread ever. ’Specially her chocolate kind.”

“That’s me,” the real Cecelia says, pointing, invigorated by her ten seconds of fame and all the sugar she’s consumed.

The room cheers for her, and Seamus says, “You’re famous.”

“Don’t you ever stop talking?” Gretchen wants to know.

“When he’s sleeping,” Cecelia says. “But then he snores, so it’s kinda the same.”

“You have me confused with someone else in this room,” Seamus says. “Someone eating Swedish Fish and wearing purple pajamas.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Like a vacuum cleaner.” And he imitates a noisy, rattling sawing sound.

A chorus of “Shhs” descends on Seamus from around the room.

Another commercial, and then the judges are introduced, the bread is tasted, the images on the screen bouncing from comments about taste to our faces, Jonathan’s and mine, reacting to the words of the judges. He was right, my scowl is broadcasted for the world to see. But other than that one look, the editing is kind to me. I seem well-spoken and knowledgeable and at ease in front of the camera. No odd facial contortions, thank you very much.

And then the winner is announced. It’s still me.

The room comes to life with applause.

On the screen, Jonathan congratulates me. He says his closing lines and the entire park shouts, “Three, two, one,
Bake-Off
,” as instructed by Patrice Olsen minutes prior to the final take. Actually, there had been three takes. The credits roll. Someone flicks on the lights, and we groan and rub at our eyes. The reporter turns off the TV, thanks everyone for coming, and reminds us of the article in tomorrow’s paper, when he can finally, officially, announce my victory.

Viewers mill around. Those whose images were kept off the cutting room floor grin big, cheeks warm and shiny with pride, talking about how they should have said this, or their hair was too flat, or they had a bit of lint on their shirt. A few people ask Cecelia for her autograph, which makes her giggle and blush, but she does it, printing her name on a napkin, an empty popcorn bag, the back of a wrinkled receipt from Elise Braden’s purse. Finally, Rebekah and Gretchen herd everyone out the front door and lock it. They help Seamus and me reset the tables and chairs as Cecelia spins through the room, propelled by candy and soda and her new status as television star. “She won’t sleep,” I tell Seamus.

“We’re both playing hooky tomorrow,” he says. “You should too.”

I snort. “We are going to be overrun tomorrow.”

“An even better reason not to be here.”

“You’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Saturday night, then?”

The room stills, slows as Gretchen and Rebekah suddenly turn their heads toward us and wipe the tables with snail-paced strokes. I hesitate to answer, because of the audience, because this is private. And because I’m ashamed. Bitter honesty fills my mouth, a pre-nausea rush of spit and scandal. It’s one thing to be seen by strangers twenty miles away in a near-empty theater, or in the bakehouse, busy making dough and chaperoned by a hawk-eyed seven-year-old. It’s another to be
involved
.

Is this the kind of man with whom I want people to associate me?

Lord, forgive me
.

“I’m not sure,” I tell him.

“Oh, okay,” he says. He licks his teeth. “We can still come, you know, to help in the afternoon. With the prep. Like we have been. That’s if you need us.”

“Yes. Absolutely yes. I’d still really appreciate that.”

“Well then, okay. We’ll see you then.”

Seamus zips Cecelia into her windbreaker and I pull the hood over her hair, giving the drawstrings a tug. “You think you’re sweet after eating my chocolate bread? How about everything you had tonight? Make sure you brush your teeth super-duper well. TV stars can’t have rotted smiles.”

“That’s from McDonald’s. Mr. Scott said.”

“I promise you, Swedish Fish will do the same.” And then I bend down to her and kiss her forehead. Seamus watches with an expression of loss I recognize too well.

They go, as does Rebekah, whose father gives a soft knock on the front window before returning to the van. I take the dustpan from Gretchen and hold it as she sweeps into it corn kernels and flattened M&M’s and dirt from Seamus’s boots. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” she says to me.

I shake the contents of the dustpan into the trash. “I’m starting to figure it out.”

They are all convinced of the power of the host, this sacred bread, the Lord’s own body. So convinced, it seems, that even the unblessed wafers, the “middle stage between the flour and the Sacrament,” need to be guarded by the priests, the coin-sized breads he makes on a waffle iron (so no leaven will desecrate it) locked away from the people. Still, they disappear. The peasants want them for their animals. Was not the holy child warmed by oxen and sheep at his birth? Then these lowly creatures deserve a blessing from him as well. The wafers are mixed with hay and fed to the calves. Or taken to line the bottom of beehives, to make the honey sweeter.

The poor and devoted people are not the only ones who seek such magic. This is a religion of miracles. Bread becomes man becomes God. The blind see, the lame walk, men rise from the dead. The future is foretold. Magicians and witches—yes, they are very real in those dark, medieval times—want to harness the dominion of the host and use it for their benefit. Ancient cultures find sorcery in the bread, but it is celebrated. Those practicing divination and spell casting with the body of Christ in the church are put to death.

There are stories, though, of the wafer defending itself. It clings to the walls of the tabernacle so firmly the robber cannot steal it, and instead his fingers snap, bones grinding together as he runs away howling. Other times the moon-white disks escape from the thief’s bag, scampering back to their church before anyone discovers they’ve been missing.