They say that silence is golden. Sometimes, it's more of a gilded cage. Our very first gig as dessert caterers was that afternoon, and I was terrified that we wouldn't have enough time to prepare. My fear was so palpable that I called Claire at 11 last night and demanded she come in and assist. We had been working non-stop for three hours, and the oppressive silence was weighing on me.
"This is ridiculous," I said. "Usually, we're chatting and joking while working."
"Usually, you haven't called me into work five hours before my shift starts. Sorry that I'm not sufficiently entertaining."
I sighed. She was right. Of course, she was right. If making her come in to assuage my fears put me firmly in terrible boss territory, expecting her to make me feel comfortable at the same time was like running for public office. Maybe not as the governor or a mayor, but I was definitely up for a seat on a school board.
"I don't know if this is even possible, but I somehow feel like the smallest person in the world as well as the biggest asshole."
She didn't say anything, but she did crack a smile. It was barely deserving of the word, but I'd take whatever victories I could find.
After another fifteen minutes of silence, Claire said, "Did you watch the first episode of that new show on HBO last night?"
"No."
"You should check it out; it's wonderful" She waited for a few beats then said, "Do you want me to grab another bag of sugar? The bin is running low."
"I can get it. You put this batch of cream puffs in the oven." I grabbed a huge bag of sugar and schlepped it across the kitchen. "What's the show about?"
"Two childhood friends running rival gangs. William Fichtner is the lead."
"Who?"
"He was in that show about breaking out of the Birdcage."
"Could you get more eggs and cream? I need to make more of this filling," I said.
"Okay."
"Wasn't Wentworth Miller in that?"
"Yeah, but I'm not talking about him." Claire's voice was muffled slightly by the industrial fridge's thick walls. "I'm talking about the PRT guy who tries to catch him." She brought out the eggs and cream and put them into the floor-mounted mixer.
I poured in flour and sugar and activated the mixer. "Are you sure Wentworth Miller isn't on this show?"
"Positive."
"I think we should take a moment to reflect on the implausibility of the name 'Wentworth Miller,'" I said.
"Let me know when you're done making fun of the man; I'd like to get back to what I was talking about."
"I'll be good."
"Okay." Claire carried a tray of éclairs into the fridge. "So, William Fichtner is this big time gang boss. I don't know if he's a cape, but all his capos have powers."
"Capo?"
"Gangster lieutenants."
"Look at you, Ms. I-Know-Mafia-Terms. You're not hiding a villainous past from me, are you?"
"Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do," said Claire, affecting a ridiculously cheesy movie gangster voice. "Capisce?"
I grinned. "So what does this show have besides William Fichtner and gangsters?"
"There's this one scene where William Fichtner is talking to his lackeys in his penthouse suite. The camera moves past him, through the window and across the street to Gabriel Byrne's—"
"Gabriel Byrne?"
"He's the rival boss. Anyway, the camera moves into his office across the street, and the scene continues over there. All of this without a single cut. There has to be a rogue working on the show."
"What was it called?"
"Sodom and Gomorrah. I don't know why it's called that, but the first episode aired an hour before you called me in." She shrugged.
"Sorry about that."
"I'm over it, but I'd still better get a great performance review."
"We don't do performance reviews."
"Well, there goes my one incentive for not slacking at work."
We continued bantering while we worked on the wedding order and the bakery's daily selection.
As the hours dragged on, and we gradually ran out of the usual conversation topics, we found ourselves forced into more unusual fare.
"I'm telling you, E.T. is a metaphor for Scion. People don't like talking about it because, you know, pchoo"—Claire mimed an explosion with her hands—"but it makes perfect sense."
"You're going to have to explain this one to me."
"Okay, so you've got this weird alien dude who just appears one day and is all glowy and heals a bunch of people. And after he appears, these kids can suddenly fly? Yeah, nice try, Spielberg. We all know what the movie was really about."
I had a vague feeling that E.T. predated Scion, but I didn't really know what was happening and she sounded so confident. In the end, I just kind of agreed with her and let the conversation move on.
We were putting the final batch of tarts into the fridge when Ruth arrived.
Ruth stared at the fruits of our labor. "What happened to the plan, Madison? You were supposed to bake throughout the day."
"I may have panicked and subsequently mismanaged our time," I said.
"Poor Claire looks dead on her feet."
"I'm fine." Claire's eyes were bloodshot and slightly unfocused. She was swaying very gently.
"If I opened a window, the breeze would probably knock you down."
I ran my fingers through my hair. "I hate to agree with Ruth, but you do look awful"—Claire opened her mouth to interject—"and I know that I probably look worse. We should both get some shut-eye."
Ruth grabbed my arm as I was walking to the door. "I know you wanted to make the delivery yourself, but this is too big to get wrong. If you're not back by 12:30, I'm sending one of the girls in your stead."
I nodded and left. The drive home was uneventful. Once I got there, I shambled into the bedroom and fell face forward onto the bed. Sleep called to me. I welcomed it like an old friend.
###
I didn't make it back on time. My disappointment over missing the delivery was tempered by Ruth's assurances that it was a success in all other regards.
"I just wish I could have seen their faces" It was tempered, not eradicated.
"We get it," said Mary.
"Hell, we got it before you; we were awake for the delivery," said Meadow, acclaimed deliverer of pastries.
I groaned and sank deeper into the chair. "Aren't we supposed to be celebrating? All you've done so far is make me more miserable."
"Fire them all and replace them with obsequious toadies, honey." Taylor walked into the tea room carrying a pile of vinyl records. "I found Mrs. Goldstein's old collection. Does the gramophone still work?" When we purchased The Busy Bee from her, she had only two requests: we never open on Saturday, and we keep the gramophone on display.
"There's only one way to find out." I took the top disc from the pile and put it on. Fred Astaire's unassuming voice filled the tea room.
My beloved caressed my jaw and smiled. "It's a crime to listen to Cheek to Cheek without dancing." Taking my hand, she pulled me into the area formerly occupied by tables. I couldn't manage cheek to cheek, so I settled for leaning against her shoulder and gazing up at her. We held each other and swayed like we were still awkward teenagers.
"You're beautiful," I whispered, enraptured by her inner glow.
She blushed and turned away. My heart clenched. Despite years of affirmations, she had never managed to shake the feelings of inadequacy brought on by our adolescent cruelty. She wasn't a pageant queen, but conventional attractiveness offered such a limited perspective of beauty. It left no space to appreciate things like joie de vivre or a caustic wit.
I sang along with Fred Astaire. My approach to singing was to aim for the general vicinity of the right note and hope for the best. What I lacked in technical ability, I more than made up for in moxie. A sudden stray thought had me in a fit of giggles.
"What?" asked Taylor.
"I just realized that if I'm singing Fred Astaire's part, you'd be Ginger Rogers. It's not really all that funny; it was just unexpected." The music faded, and I excused myself to acquire a drink.
I sipped my glass of orange juice and surveyed the room. The close of business had turned into an impromptu celebration, with workers mingling with the remaining customers. Mary and her boyfriend, Sean, were talking to a pair of yuppies who could have walked right off the set of Wall Street. Taylor, who didn't know anyone besides Ruth and me, had latched onto her the moment I left. Meadow was dancing with some random teenybopper. Of the customers who weren't at that moment engaged in some fashion with one of my employees, only two were alone. Mr. Jones, who liked to pretend to be curmudgeonly, and a waif in a hoody. She had been playing with a slice of Saint Honoré's cake for the better part of twenty minutes. There was something vaguely familiar about the girl, but I couldn't place it.
At around 6:30, I called for the music to be turned down.
"I just want to thank you all for being here. Patrons and staff, this place wouldn't be possible without you." I paused to a smattering of applause. Is it weird to applaud yourself? "The Busy Bee is incredibly important to me. I wouldn't have become the woman I am today without it. It gave me my livelihood and my wonderful wife. So, you know, thanks."
Taylor hugged me fiercely and said, "When it comes time to hand out awards for the greatest orators of all time, I'm sure you'll get a ribbon for participation."
"Shut up and kiss me."