Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [10]
“I’m running a little late. You’re going to need to take these right in the pans. Can you bring me the pans on your way home later today?”
“Sure.”
Usually all the loaves are stacked and ready to go, and then she and Mrs. Piantowski pack the cart together: coolest loaves on the bottom, warmest ones on top. Alice understands that this is probably about allowing the loaves to cool without getting soggy, but it also creates this heady perfume as she walks down the street. She imagines the fresh bread smells wafting like a banner over her head—the best advertising imaginable.
“What’s that spice?”
“Cardamom.”
“Smells good.”
There’s never much chat with Mrs. Piantowski. She’s not exactly unfriendly; she just doesn’t talk much. Maybe she doesn’t know how difficult it is for a fifteen-year-old to initiate a conversation. Maybe with eight kids of her own she cherishes the quiet of these earlymorning hours and is not willing to sacrifice the silence to talk to one more child.
But Mrs. Piantowski’s quiet today has more to do with the fact that her husband has taken to leaving their bed to wander through the house like a refugee from his own life. Isaac will not say they have too many children, he would never say that. Instead he turns away from her, leaves their bed in the darkest hours, only to return when her alarm sounds at three a.m. It is a new dance they do each night, a dance of sleep and wakefulness and loneliness, instead of the old dance of love.
But these aches recede as she steps into her kitchen, lights the stove, puts an apron and the kettle on, and sets the first batch of dough to rising.
Alice doesn’t mind the quiet. It gives her a chance to experience Mrs. Piantowski’s kitchen. There’s eight of everything: eight hooks on the wall for coats, eight hooks above for hats, eight stools around the table, which is set for eight for breakfast. Everything is spotless; nothing is out of place. Alice thinks Mrs. Piantowski must either be a drill sergeant or the most persuasive person on the planet.
The baby starts to fuss.
“Can I pick up the baby?”
“She’s fine.”
Alice crosses to the baby.
“I never met anyone named Inga before,” she says, extending a finger, which the baby grabs.
“My grandmother’s name.”
“Hi, Inga,” Alice whispers, and lays her hand against Inga’s cheek.
Eyes closed, Alice inhales the baby smells and the baking smells; the yeast and the sugar and.. . .
“Go ahead.”
“What?”
“You’ve held a baby before?”
“Sure.”
She releases the Velcro holding Inga in place and scoops her up in her hands, remembering to support her head as she pulls her close against her body. Alice and Inga engage in a long staring contest until Inga’s nose wrinkles and she sneezes. Laughing, Alice is rewarded with one of Inga’s smiles. Alice sways with the baby, her weight transferring from foot to foot, and then she starts to dance with the baby, right there in the kitchen. Not too fast, not too jittery; just a slow swirl and glide, anything to keep Inga smiling.
Mrs. Piantowski starts to sing. In a foreign language. What is that, Polish? The song is halfway between a lullaby and a lament. Why would you sing this song to a baby? It’s so sad, Alice thinks, it could make you cry. And then Mrs. Piantowski starts to clap and before you know it she is dancing; hitching up her apron and her skirt and doing something fancy with her feet as she continues to sing. The song changes from a whisper to a shout and Inga loves it; with each change in tone, each surprise, Inga turns her head to watch her mother and smiles her toothless smile.
Alice looks back and forth between the two of them, baby Inga laughing, Mrs. Piantowski’s face shining in the warm kitchen, and wonders, did this ever happen in her life, with her mother?
She must be looking famished because Mrs. Piantowski pours her a big glass of milk and sets a cinnamon bun on a plate. Then she hands her a cloth napkin and invites her to sit down. She waves away Alice’s worry about being late and takes baby Inga from her. This is too much. Mrs. Piantowski is a completely different