Film Studies 190: Pane, ostilita', e l'uomo grasso
The films: Pane e tulipani (Silvio Soldini, 2000)/The Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke, 1934)
This time when Brenda Leigh heedlessly picked up the phone to call Mama and ask how she was supposed to know for sure when the dough had finished rising, she didn't even burst into tears. She was in such a good mood that she managed to limit herself to a lip wobble and a swig of Diet Coke. (Last time she'd opened the wine before Sharon got home, and the captain had been silently but plainly irked.) Sharon's kitchen smelled wonderful, and brought back a flood of memories from Brenda's childhood - bittersweet memories, but for tonight at least more sweet than bitter. Carefully monitoring as the twin loaves swelled to fill their bread pans like a delicious science project made it feel a little like her mother was there with her - and wouldn't Mama be delighted to learn that Brenda wasn't a total dead loss in the kitchen.
When Rusty's security detail brought him home (to his endless shame, part of their job was to come inside and inspect the condo for threats, something of which Sharon reminded him daily when she cast aspersions on his housekeeping skills), the teenager looked flabbergasted.
"You're baking? For real?" He peered into the nooks and crannies of the kitchen, perhaps thinking Yankee Candle had just debuted its new yeast roll scent. "What's the occasion?"
She grinned. "Just Tuesday's all. If we're lucky, Sharon'll get home while it's still warm."
"Yeah, unless they roll out." Rusty swung his backpack over his shoulder, headed for his room. Brenda smothered a smile at his fondness for police slang. "Looked like she was just doing paperwork. Is that not, like, the most boring job on the planet? I used to think police stuff was exciting, like in the movies."
Brenda's smile turned a little wistful. She did even more paperwork at the D.A.'s office than she ever had at Major Crimes. But then she also got to come home and bake bread and have movie nights. That Sharon could have both - Major Crimes and a normal life - endlessly impressed her; Brenda didn't think the older woman had any idea how much. Sharon was so good at balancing that just being around her made Brenda feel more centered. (Now you're sounding like her, she chided herself.) She had begun to crave this balance in the aftermath of WIllie Rae's death. She had made fitful, sporadic efforts, but she hadn't even known how to go about it, not really. Now she found that she wanted to emulate the qualities Sharon valued in her own life, even if she did it badly. She wanted to bake bread, for heaven's sake.
She was carefully removing the bread from the oven when the door opened again. "Oh good," she chirped without turning, because Brenda's greatest culinary talent was burning herself on hot objects. "You're home right on time. Have I got a treat for you, Sharon Raydor."
Brenda also hadn't been telling the whole truth. She had a piece of news to share that she hoped would make the older woman happy; but Brenda reserved the right to keep it to herself for a while if the time didn't seem right.
"Right on time," answered a gravelly voice, "but not Sharon. Hello there. Who might you be?"
Brenda nearly flung the fresh bread across the kitchen as she whirled to face the intruder. He stood in Sharon's living room, regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and appreciation. "Who the hell are you?" she retorted. She left her weapon holstered only because the man was balancing a laundry basket and a container of Tide, neither of which could be used with deadly force.
"I'm Jackson." He raised his eyebrows when she didn't react. "Sharon's husband?"
"Oh. I see." And she did see - She had seen a couple of snapshots of him with the Raydor offspring. He was a couple of decades older, a few dozen pounds heavier, and, she noted with disgust, a lot tanner.
"Are you here for Rusty?"
"No, I'm Sharon's friend." Jack's tone was polite but fairly friendly; Brenda's was neither. "Does she know you're here?"
"Not yet." He grinned. It was probably supposed to be charming. "I just got in from Vegas."
As soon as Rusty saw Jack, he paused en route to the kitchen. "Oh - hey," he greeted him in a tone Brenda couldn't decipher. "Um. Did you call Sharon?" The teenager pulled an awkward face, as if worried that it was rude to ask but compelled to anyway.
"My wife loves surprises, son."
"She nearly shot you last time."
Brenda was busy thinking how Jack was laying it on thick with the "my wife" and "son," so it took her a second to process what Rusty had said. She smirked.
"She wouldn't really have shot me. That was all for show."
Rusty didn't look convinced. Neither was Brenda. Atta girl, Captain Raydor.
"Wow, fresh baked bread." Jack advanced toward the kitchen. "That smells terrific."
"You can't have any." Brenda paused. "I mean, it's not ready yet."
That wasn't what she'd meant, and he knew it. She could tell, and besides, Sharon wouldn't have married an idiot, even if she had married an ass. His response was another smile. "Have you known Sharon long, ah -?"
"Brenda." She smiled sweetly. "Years."
The man surveyed her in a way she found particularly offensive, but she didn't flinch, because she knew the whole point was to offend her. She smiled even more sweetly. Oh, yes, she knew what he was wondering: Is this woman sleeping with my wife? Brenda held eye contact. She would certainly not be the one to correct his assumptions. It had been a long time since she'd taken such an immediate dislike to a person. Usually that happened in an interview room.
A key that had to be Sharon's this time, by process of elimination, clicked in the lock. (How did she manage never to scrape?) Normally as the captain came in, unless it was an unseemly hour, she called out to Rusty and, lately, to Brenda. Instead, before the door was even fully open, she stated, "Jackson."
Her tone was civil, but just barely. Brenda had never heard it outside of work. The blonde's gaze fell upon the refrigerator door, and she stealthily grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard, extracted the chilled bottle, and poured the other woman a glass. She held it out. Sharon met her eyes without speaking but with evident gratitude, and crossed the condo to take it.
Had Brenda been in her place, she would have done what her daddy referred to as pitchin' a fit. There would certainly have been yelling; door slamming, almost inevitably. Sharon took a single fortifying sip of chardonnay, her shoulders rising and falling, and swiveled with her back against the bar to meet Jack's gaze. "Jack, I have had a long, stressful day. I'm exhausted and I have plans. Those plans do not include you, or your whites." She hoisted the basket one-armed and extended it toward him. "If your reason for being back in Los Angeles is something I need to know about, you can call me tomorrow and we will discuss it. I am sure there are abundant laundromats near your hotel, wherever that may be."
"I don't have any quarters," he half teased, half wheedled, and Sharon's eyebrow drew together, frown lines appearing.
"You're resourceful."
"C'mon, Sharon. You have a perfectly good washer and dryer right here. I'll start a load and buy us all dinner. You still keep the menus in the same place? Brenda, do you like Chinese food? Everybody likes Chinese food. There's a place near here that has a killer Peking duck -"
Replacing the laundry basket, he made his way toward the shelf where Sharon kept an assortment of delivery menus. Brenda stepped aside so he wouldn't brush against her and decided there and then that she hated Chinese food, especially Peking duck, and that if she ate it with Jackson Raydor, she'd choke on it.
Again Sharon said nothing, but her eyes tracked every minute movement her estranged husband made. After a few seconds he dropped the menus, scattering them across the counter. Brenda noticed the glint of muted gold on his left hand. Sharon hadn't worn a wedding ring in all the time Brenda had known her.
Sharon pointed to the laundry basket. "This is my home," she said evenly. Brenda heard the fatigue and annoyance creeping around the edges of the words. "Don't come here again without asking me first."
Brenda bit her lip. Yeah, she thought guiltily, Sharon only needs one deadbeat coming over with dirty clothes. Although, to be fair, the other woman had offered.
Sharon followed Jackson to the door, probably to make sure he actually left, and Brenda consciously didn't listen to their murmured dialog. She really didn't want to know what they had to say to one another. Brenda couldn't imagine what Sharon saw in him; but then she reminded herself that it was what Sharon had seen thirty years ago, not what she saw now.
The captain rapped on Rusty's door and Brenda heard her say, "I'm going to heat up some soup. Dinner in about fifteen minutes." In other words, It's safe to come out now.
The blonde stood awkwardly in the kitchen, arms akimbo. This was not how she had envisioned the evening going.
"So." Still in the living area, Sharon toed off her heels. "That's Jack." Her tight, tired smile spoke of nothing but strain. Brenda realized the tension hadn't evaporated with the unwanted guest. She hadn't become an unwanted guest too, had she? No, she couldn't believe that.
"I don't like him," she blurted. Sharon's eyes widened and Brenda felt hers do the same. She hadn't meant to say that.
"Neither do I, most of the time. But, well. Water under the bridge." Moving closer, Sharon held out her glass, and Brenda obliged with a top-up.
"You handled that well."
"I've had practice. But there is a limit." Sharon sighed. "Are you all right with vegetable soup? I have some in the freezer."
Brenda shooed her toward one of the high-backed bar seats. "You sit and I'll do it. I can manage that much. It'll be nice with the bread."
"The bread - Brenda, I can't believe you baked. I smelled it the instant I got off the elevator, and then Jack was here. I'm sorry for being distracted. It smells wonderful."
Brenda flushed with pleasure at the small compliment. It felt good to be the one doing something nice for somebody else, especially when that somebody else was Sharon.
While Brenda transferred the soup to a large pot and began to warm it over low heat, silence stretched out between them. It was a silence similar to the ones Brenda had grown accustomed to, but not the same. It wasn't as easy.
"Well -"
"So -"
They began at the same time, too brightly, and both laughed. The blonde moved fluidly around Sharon's kitchen. She wondered why they couldn't reestablish an equally fluid rhythm between the two of them. Even as she mentally heaped blame upon Jackson, a part of her wondered if it was really all his fault, or if there was something else going on.
"God, I was afraid he was going to ask to stay on the couch again," Sharon said.
"You coulda told him it was already reserved," Brenda joked half-heartedly. When Sharon looked surprised, her heart - both halves of it - dropped.
"Oh, of course you can stay if you want to."
"No, I didn't - I was just kiddin'." Her overnight bag was by the door. She'd have to smuggle it out without Sharon noticing in order to save her pride. "I'm sure you've had enough a' me."
It was the perfect opportunity to reassure Brenda that she was welcome and wanted. Instead Sharon moaned, "He's supposed to be in Vegas. So what does he want? Besides laundry service."
Brenda turned to stir the soup, which had not heated enough to need stirring. She was becoming seriously uneasy. "Never mind about the movie. You're so tired, we can do it another night."
The skin at the corners of Sharon's eyes tightened. "No, no. I'm sorry, Brenda. I'll be better company."
"I didn't mean that. I just -"
"No, I want to."
Their eyes met, and Brenda decided it was the first completely sincere thing the other woman had said since walking through the door. The cold spot at the pit of Brenda's stomach warmed a little.
"You should have some bread. It's still a little warm."
"If you'll have some too."
Brenda Leigh cut two thick slices and prepared them just the way Mama used to, with fat dollops of butter and drizzled in honey. All the effort, the epic battle with the yeast, was worth it to watch Sharon's eyes widen as she took a bite. "Oh, my God. Brenda, this is fantastic."
The blonde beamed. "Mama's recipe." It occurred to her that Sharon spoke very little about her extended family; all Brenda knew was that her parents had a timeshare in, where was it? Park City? If her parents were even still living. That was definitely the kind of thing you were supposed to know about a close friend, someone who had opened her home to you. "Do you use any of your mother's recipes?"
"My mother's?" Sharon echoed, sopping up a stray drop of honey. She sounded grimly amused. "No. She isn't much of a cook."
That surprised Brenda, although she couldn't say why. Sharon seemed not to want to talk about it.
There were no awkward pauses at dinner, because Rusty filled them with eager chatter about his upcoming break between summer school and the beginning of the fall semester. Brenda felt Sharon relax, at least momentarily, and was a little surprised to realize she intuitively knew why: Rusty sounded like a normal, average teenager, not a material witness or an ex-prostitute. Lord, the amount of time the captain must spend worrying about him, Brenda thought.
After dinner Brenda curled up on the couch where Jack Raydor had been sitting an hour earlier. As Sharon settled in, tucking her feet beneath her and glancing over with a smile, the blonde fiercely thought, I'm allowed to be here. I'm invited. She wants me here.
It was ridiculous to be so competitive, but Brenda had detested the man's insouciant manner and proprietary air toward all things Sharon. She was so glad he was gone that she wanted to open a window or burn some sage. And it was equally ridiculous to feel like she needed reassurance that Sharon really did still want her there, want to be her friend.
"Oh, before we get started -" Sharon rocked back to her feet. "Do you have any laundry?"
Brenda looked horrified. "I am perfectly capable of washin' my own clothes."
An eyebrow arched. "Rusty," Sharon specified, "do you have any laundry? I need to do a load. Pick a movie; I'll be right back."
Rusty vaulted over the side of the armchair to go get his soiled t-shirts or whatever. Brenda was left alone with her mortification.
Logically, she knew Sharon didn't think of her as some sofa-sleeping, laundry-doing freeloader, but the parallels were a little too glaring. Had she over-stayed her welcome? As a Southern girl, she'd been raised to think that was just about the worst social sin one could commit. That and inviting yourself places.
Oops.
But Mama, she justified, I baked bread!
A moment later Sharon returned. Brenda watched as she drifted around the periphery of the room, straightening a throw pillow, picking up a discarded glass. The blonde sighed very softly. She couldn't force it, no matter how much she might want to.
"I should probably get goin'," she said, rising. "Let you get some rest."
Sharon frowned. Brenda could have sworn she looked disappointed. "Oh, you don't want to watch a movie? They added Pane e tulipani - Bread and Tulips," she translated. "It sounds better in Italian."
Impossible, confusing woman. "They have The Thin Man too."
"Oh, I love The Thin Man." Sharon looked on while Brenda buckled her shoes. "You're really going? I thought you would spend the night."
Brenda took in Sharon's wistful expression and felt a throb of irritation. "No use wastin' a perfectly good hotel room."
"Oh." The brunette frowned again. Brenda knew her well enough to read the hurt on her face. Sharon hadn't seemed to want her here all evening, yet now that Brenda was leaving, she was the bad guy? She shouldered her black tote bag.
"Don't forget your bread."
"I baked it for you. If you don't like it, I'm sure Rusty'll eat it."
"I do like it. Thank you, Brenda. That's very kind."
She had to pick up her overnight bag, and there was no way Sharon wasn't going to notice. Brenda set her mouth in a grim line and bent over.
"You didn't have to go to so much trouble," Sharon continued. Her hands were jammed into her pockets, fingers clasping and unclasping.
"It wasn't any trouble." The polite lie didn't roll off her tongue as easily as it should have. Instead it was tinged with hostility and hurt feelings.
Sharon's shoulders drooped. "I'm sorry if Jack's presence made things - awkward."
Brenda blinked. No, you're doin' a good enough job of that on your own, she thought.
Standing just inside the door, they gazed at one another for a too-long, too-solemn minute. Sharon's tongue peeked out, moistening her lips. Brenda's stomach clenched.
"Well, good night." Her voice came out false and high, but she was in too much of a hurry to care. She yanked the door open and set off at a swinging trot, both bags knocking against her thigh. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, she made a beeline for the stairs. She hadn't heard the door close so she knew Sharon was still there, watching, but she didn't look back.
She'd call her realtor first thing in the morning and tell him she'd almost made a terrible mistake.
2.
Sharon waited a couple of minutes, for form's sake and to allow Brenda to sit down at her desk, before knocking.
"I thought you might like this." She placed the grande mocha on the edge of the desk within easy reaching distance, and didn't step back. As she spoke, her weight pressed into the front of Brenda's desk. "Extra syrup and whipped cream, right?"
"Chocolate shavin's?" the younger woman returned guardedly, and Sharon nodded. Brenda picked up the drink. "Thank you."
"It isn't homemade bread." Sharon smoothed her hands over the sides of the dark brown dress she wore. It had no pockets. "Brenda, I owe you an apology."
Before meeting Sharon's eyes, Brenda's flicked toward the top left-hand desk drawer. Candy drawer, Sharon noted. The blonde's fingers closed around the metal handle and rested there. "You didn't do anythin'."
"Exactly."
Brenda sipped her sweet coffee, her hand curled protectively around the paper cup.
Sharon watched her intently, too intently, and then swallowed audibly. "I - I tend not to react well when Jackson turns up unexpectedly, particularly not twice in the span of one summer."
The blonde nodded but said nothing. She wasn't going to let Sharon off that easily. There was more to it; there had to be.
"If I made you feel unwelcome last night - and I'm very much afraid that I did - then I am very sorry. I hope this hasn't damaged our friendship."
Brenda couldn't help it; she cracked a smile. "Are you always this formal when you apologize? 'Cause if you are, the UN could use your services."
Sharon flushed and again groped for her absent pockets. "I - It's - I'm not very good at this."
"Oh, what?" Brenda asked innocently, beginning to enjoy the moment. "Admittin' you did somethin' wrong?"
The older woman was still blushing - again it was easy for the blonde to imagine a young, studious, awkward Sharon - but she warned, "Hey, don't push it, Johnson."
Brenda's smile gentled. They regarded one another for a little too long. "Wanna sit down?" Brenda asked belatedly, gesturing at her visitor's chair, which was buried beneath a teetering stack of (very boring) files.
"Oh, I can't stay. But, ah -"
The captain was still so evidently nervous that Brenda waited in fascinated suspense to see what would come next. Jack hadn't done all this ruffling of her calm surface, Brenda was sure. But what else could there be?
"Rusty's summer break starts after his exams - He finishes up tomorrow, you know."
Sharon's comment pulled Brenda up short before a truly dreadful avalanche of possibilities could begin cascading through the blonde's mind.
"He has worked so hard - not just during summer school, but all of last year; and he hasn't had any sort of vacation at all. With these letters, I know he feels like he's in jail. Well, I've raised two teenagers; that is their general state of being."
Brenda felt her brows knit in a frown. The woman was babbling nervously. It was so very not Sharon.
"And he's never gotten to go anywhere, really, at all. So I thought I could take him up to San Francisco for a long weekend. This weekend."
"That sounds nice."
"And so if you - if you wanted to -"
"Oh, I'll be fine at the hotel. Don't worry about me." This was not nearly as interesting a development as Brenda had hoped. Disappointment curled around the taste of the sweetened coffee.
"I thought you might come with us."
Oh. Well, that was more interesting.
"Oh - I wouldn't want to intrude."
"We could go up early Friday, come back Sunday evening? We could walk across the Golden Gate, eat dim sum, show Rusty the Redwoods, introduce him to my brother, you know, tourist stuff."
Brenda blinked. "You have a brother?"
Behind her glasses, the captain blinked back. "Yes. Michael."
"Older or younger?" the blonde asked, leaning back and steepling her fingers in delight.
"Much younger. So, do you -?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Oh. Okay." Sharon's sudden, bright smile appeared startled, as if she'd expected Brenda to refuse. Was Brenda supposed to refuse? "Well… I'll call you tonight and we can work out the details?"
Brenda Leigh grinned. "Sure," she said. "I can't wait to work out the details."
