Cream Puff Read online

  “Turn it up,” Charlie would say instead, and the boy would ease the volume knob over and grin at him through batches of wet dough and air filled with the smells of toasted goodness.

  ****

  The vision disappeared. Charlie turned away from the vacant prep station and got back to work, but then set the spatula down. To hell with this.

  He’d been walking on eggs far too long. Time to do something he hadn’t done in quite a while. It was just too quiet in the place.

  He walked over to the bread table, flipped the switch on the old Panasonic, and was greeted with a “doo-wop” song from the Golden Age of rock-n-roll. Voices that once were young echoed off the walls, in perfect harmony and with just enough magic to make his skin tingle with nostalgia. All alone, he had to admit it was a little spooky, but the tune was a good one that took him back to a much happier time.

  It filled the bakery with his favorite music, but just when he started to sing along, he realized he had to pee. That little urge had increased in frequency following his fortieth birthday. Once fifty had come and gone, he rarely passed-up a toilet without paying a visit. And that was almost twenty years ago.

  His bathroom was all the way at the rear of the kitchen, so he untied his apron and hung it on one of the wall hooks along the way.

  A couple of minutes later, Charlie stood washing his hands at the sink in the tiny bathroom as the doo-woppers on the radio gave way to one of the heartthrobs—Ricky Nelson, he thought it was. No, wait a minute…that’s Buddy Holly. The tune was one of Charlie’s favorites, and he hummed along as it reached him through the door.

  Not knowing why, he suddenly yelled, “Turn it up, Tommy!”—and then wished he hadn’t as the emptiness of the bakery and the pain of losing his boy gripped him hard.

  Tears that he thought were long gone streamed down his face. Charlie leaned back against the wall, heart aching, and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to lower himself to the floor, but his arthritic knees warned him to stay on his feet. In the midst of the sobs, something made him pause.

  From the kitchen, the song on the radio grew louder.

  He cocked his head. His hearing wasn’t as good as it used to be, but he could tell the volume had gone up. The radio station was probably just coming in more clearly now that the rain storm had come and gone. That’s what it was.

  Charlie stepped back to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed cool water on his face. The music grew even louder as he dried his hands and was thunderous by the time he reached for the doorknob. Sudden uneasiness came over him as he turned it. Then he jerked the door open.

  Then nothing. Instant silence.

  Charlie was a statue. Someone had broken into the bakery and was hiding inside. The intruder had probably been skulking around in the darkness somewhere up front, crouched down near the display case in the lobby and just waiting for him to go to the bathroom or something before making a move. Before messing with him. Toying.

  Charlie had never been a big guy. He also knew that a man pushing seventy would likely be dead meat in a confrontation with a cornered burglar.

  But damn it, this was his place.

  He remembered hearing somewhere that sheer boldness could sometimes intimidate a criminal being caught in the act. Balls, his Dad would’ve called it. Gathering all his courage, Charlie took a deep breath and strode back through the kitchen on his way to the front lobby. Shrouded in blackness, the dark open doorway of the front lobby dared him to come.

  Along the way, his hand found the only thing he could grab without breaking stride: a rolling pin from one of the shelves. What’re you going to do with that, boy? Inner Dad said. Make him some sugar cookies? For a moment he found himself wishing he’d been a butcher instead of a baker, with a handy selection of knives and cleavers lying about. Then again, the intruder might’ve gotten to them first.

  The radio stood a silent vigil on the shelf of Tommy’s old prep table. Charlie refused to glance at it and kept moving. Had it picked that moment to blare loud music again, he would have flipped-out. Or maybe loaded his shorts. Either way, he was glad it didn’t.

  One catastrophe at a time, Dad used to say.

  He crossed the bright kitchen and could feel himself gathering strength for one hard swing as he closed in on the darkness of the open lobby doorway. Like a lumberjack with his axe, Charlie held the rolling pin high above his head and turned the corner into the unknown as fast as he could. Maybe it would be enough. His lungs filled with breath; ready to explode in a war cry borne of fear as his hand began the downward arc. Whoever was crouched around the corner in the black was at least going to know they’d been in a fight.

  He stepped through fast and lunged. And there was no one there.

  His free hand found the wall switches and bathed the front lobby in daylight as he looked quickly in every direction, expecting to be blindsided. There were only the glass display cases, cash register, and the stool where he sat to ring-up the orders. The bright overhead fluorescents and the dead-bolted front door left no doubt he was alone.

  Still, he couldn’t shake the uneasiness. The intruder must have somehow slipped past him and was now hiding somewhere in the kitchen. He held his breath and listened for almost a minute, waiting for any footstep or accidental jostling of bakeware. Nothing.

  “Quit messing with the radio!” he yelled, more from nerves than anger. He had no idea who he was supposed to be talking to and cringed at the echo of his own voice. Still, it felt better to yell. “I mean it!”

  He walked back to where the music had been blasting from the prep table just moments ago and for an instant saw Tommy standing there just as he had over a year ago; rolling bread dough and singing along to a radio that now sat quiet. Charlie’s eyes blurred again from tears and he wondered again if he was losing his mind.

  Get hold of yourself, Dad said.

  Yessir. Charlie wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

  He went back up front and flipped off the lobby lights while he still had the gumption to do so. Could leave them on, he thought, but that would likely attract the attention of local cops cruising by at this hour. Good guys all, but he didn’t have time to be socializing with the boys in blue tonight.

  So much to do.

  Charlie leaned against the doorway and closed his eyes. Pearl’s gift, Ruby’s wedding—it was all just too much. When you start having hallucinations, he thought, you’re pushing way too hard.

  He walked back to where the unfinished cake was waiting. Maybe it was time to turn the whole operation over to Kathy, he thought. She could handle it, and maybe he’d finally get that dream vacation and start enjoying life.

  Five feet from his workstation, he froze. The seven-story tower of vanilla cake was right where he’d left it, held together with raspberry mortar. But sitting next to it as if it belonged there was a crumpled little brown pinstriped bag.

  Charlie’s hands trembled and his heart began to jackhammer.

  He tried to remind himself that he was a grown man and didn’t believe in spooky things. Instead of allowing himself to wonder where it came from, he focused on putting things away in an orderly fashion. And fast.

  He hustled the cake into the cooler with as much care as possible, feeling unseen eyes on him the entire time. Then he shut off all of the lights, locked the back door, and headed for the car. Both hands were shaking as he chucked the bag containing what he knew was Pearl’s beading wire into the dumpster. He watched to make sure it went in.

  It wasn’t meant to be her anniversary gift anyway.

  Charlie distinctly remembered throwing it out the car window on the drive into town. His logical side wanted to analyze how it had reappeared in the bakery, but to do so might mean he really was having some sort of nervous breakdown. Considering the circumstances of the last year it would be understandable, but he wasn’t ready to accept that.

  He wouldn’t be able to handle any more ridicule and he sure didn’t want anyone’s pity. Charlie was unaw
are as he got behind the wheel that he was talking to himself. Every so often, he answered.

  Chapter Eight

  It had been dark for some time when Charlie drove back out of town in a daze. If a policeman pulled him over at that exact moment, he’d probably be mistaken for drunk or stoned. Maybe even arrested.

  Had he completed Ruby’s cake after getting the bejeezus scared out of him? He suddenly couldn’t remember. There was an empty place where that knowledge should’ve been, and it bothered him so much that he signaled and pulled the car to the curb. He looked at his watch. One-thirty in the morning.

  Geez.

  He recalled last glancing at his Timex on his way to the john back at the bakery—before all the fun happened. It had been close to ten then. Somehow he’d lost track of time. Over three freaking hours worth.

  Aggravated, Charlie was about to turn the car around and go back when it suddenly came to him. He had stacked the cake layers—unfrosted, he remembered—and placed the naked cake in the cooler. The experience with ghosts and boogeymen had apparently shaken him up more than he realized.

  A deep breath to clear his head, a check of the mirrors, and he was putting the car back in gear. With the wee hour, he had the road to himself again. He thought about reaching for the radio to help stay awake when the cell phone in his shirt pocket vibrated.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Daddy!” Ruby said. “You okay?”

  “Uh…yeah.” What was she doing up at this hour? “Fine, honey. What’s up?”

  “Mom was worried about you and was wondering when you were coming home, so I told her I’d call and check on you.”

  “That was sweet, sugar. I’m okay. Really.”

  “Good, ʼcause we worry about you, ya know?” A pause, then, “I’m also supposed to remind you to bring home some cream puffs.”

  Surprise, surprise. He’d already anticipated that. A sack with a half-dozen of the delicious custard-filled gems rested in the passenger seat beside him.

  “Way ahead of you, baby girl. Anything else?”

  “Where are you?” she said. “Sounds like you’re outside or something.”

  He had rolled down the windows moments before. A slight breeze wafted through the car and the engine (in dire need of a tune-up) grumbled like a disgruntled worker.

  “In the car, girlie. Heading home.”

  Charlie was surprised to find either of the LaRue women up so late. Pearl was notorious for falling asleep at the drop of a hat. Come nightfall, she was practically in a coma. And Ruby, well…like mother, like daughter.

  Knowing them like he did, it came down to individual motivations. Ruby was most likely worrying about the fit of her dress, griping about whether or not the dye job for the shoes matched, and pulling her hair out over a multitude of things that really didn’t matter. With Pearl, it was hunger.

  Neither ever seemed to be satisfied with what they had, but then he reprimanded himself. Was he any different?

  “So, heading home, then?” she asked.

  Does the girl even listen? “Yep. Just left the bakery.”

  It was still nice to hear concern coming from his daughter, even if there was an ulterior motive. He’d begun to wonder over the years if she really cared about him at all.

  “Oh, okay…soooo…how’d the cake turn out?”

  He-heh…there’s my girl.

  “Almost done. It’s gonna be gr—”

  “Almost?” she said, suddenly becoming unglued. “Are you serious? Daddy, the wedding is today!”

  Charlie sighed. “Relax, Punkin. I’ve got to go home to get the top tier anyway, and I’ll be up early to finish it.”

  “But Daddy, how could you have waited until now? You’re gonna oversleep. You have no idea what this is doing to me!”

  He’d heard this song and dance numerous times over the years; she was waiting for an apology and was going to bitch him out until she got one. Usually, she did.

  “Daddy?”

  Charlie was almost at the end of Ninth Street. The familiar arch that marked the entrance to Mt. Hope Cemetery was coming up on the right, looming out of the darkness like a black statue. He’d made the trip there many times during the past year to visit Tommy’s grave and knew the place well, but he wasn’t prepared to see the familiar shape sitting in front of the ornate iron gate. The big gray cat with the white face licked at one of its paws in the approaching headlights and turned to look at the car. No, at him.

  Charlie slowed down. The cat turned then and slipped between two bars of the tall gate, disappearing into the darkness of the cemetery.

  “Daddy?”

  “Uh, yeah, I’m here,” he said as he hit his turn signal and coasted to the turn-in.

  “Daddy, I didn’t make a big deal about you deciding to use the cake as your wedding present, and I think I’ve been a pretty good sport about—”

  “Daddy’s gotta go, sweetie,” Charlie said, barely hearing her at all. “Got a stop to make. Don’t worry…it’ll all be fine.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, but her voice was fading as he lowered the phone. “Daddy!”

  He hung up and tossed the cell into the console as he made the turn and drove through the entrance. The iron arch, still overgrown with ivy that seemed to renew every spring, gave Charlie a feeling of reverence that always made him slow the car to a crawl. At night it was more like an ominous sentry that demanded respect.

  The buzz of his phone on vibrate went unnoticed as Ruby tried to call him back. Charlie may as well have been on auto-pilot as the Chrysler wound its way along the narrow pavement toward the rear of the landscaped grounds.

  In a daze, he absorbed the somber scenery. Enormous oaks cascading with ringlets of Spanish moss lined the meandering drive and reached through the beams cast by his headlights with long, windblown fingers. They caressed the car as it passed.

  Beyond them, transplanted evergreens from the Midwest held aloft the nighttime sky as he neared the newer section of the property; the area that held the bones of the more recently dead. And the final resting place of his son.

  The cat he’d followed through the gate was nowhere in sight. It was out there somewhere, of course. Or maybe it was another figment of his over-stressed imagination.

  Great. The cake wasn’t finished, he still hadn’t found Pearl’s gift, and now he was hallucinating. He felt exhausted, but with Tommy on his mind so much lately, a quick detour might be just what the doctor ordered.

  Charlie had found over the last year that visiting his boy’s grave seemed to calm him down and keep him centered. It also tended to keep the pain of losing him fresh, which, while probably not recommended by most psychiatrists, was a price he was willing to pay. It made him feel closer to Tommy.

  Come tomorrow there’d still be plenty to do (actually today, he realized), but right now he was going to see his boy. He eased the sedan around the last gentle turn and parked at the curb, right near an old dogwood. It was a spot he could have found blindfolded.

  Tommy’s grave was nestled in the shade of a big blue spruce; its flat stone hidden among several taller ones that seemed to encircle it like a protecting family. Charlie walked through the maze to find someone had beaten him there. The cat was curled up on the marble marker and showed no fear as he approached.

  “Comfortable?” Charlie said.

  Mt. Hope was one of those cemeteries that encouraged visitation at any hour. In the half-light from one of the few solitary lampposts scattered throughout, Charlie thought the stark white face of the cat gave it an eerie intelligence. Its eyes regarded him with kindness and he didn’t feel offended at its chosen resting spot.

  Charlie’s legs weren’t as good as they used to be, but he knelt down anyway. The cat got up and met him halfway. It began to purr as it fell on its side at his feet.

  “Okay, fur ball, you’re not here by accident. I figured that much out on my own. Wanna tell me what you’re doing here?” What I’m doing here?

  Charlie ran
his hand along the furry back and scratched the cat behind its ears.

  “Well, if you’re real that means…she is, too.” He stopped petting. “Isabelle.”

  The cat’s ears pricked up at the name.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know. Either that, or I am going nuts.”

  He’d never been superstitious, but something in the cat’s expression and the events of the last twenty-four hours had Charlie willing to believe just about anything. He pulled himself to his feet and grimaced at the gunshots from his knees. His weary legs managed to steady and he looked down at the gray. It flipped its tail and stared back up at him.

  “Okay, pal,” he said. “What’s the story? Let’s have it.”

  If he actually answers, I’ll crap myself right here.

  The cat got to its feet again and trotted off behind the evergreen a few feet away.

  “Hey, wait!”

  The animal rounded the fir with Charlie close behind. On the other side, however, he found nothing. No boogeyman, no answers—and no cat. The gray had vanished. In every direction there was nothing but tranquil, close-cut grass dotted with stones and trees in a world of shadow. Then he remembered how fast the cat had seemed to move when they first met downtown, traveling half a block in the blink of an eye.

  He returned to his son’s grave with his mind in a muddled fog that cleared just enough to recognize something out of place. Silent and blasphemous—sitting right beside Tommy’s grave marker—was a crumpled brown paper bag. He didn’t have to see the pinstripes to know.

  Charlie almost screamed.

  It had been thrown away behind the bakery just as he had tossed it out the car window before that, but something told him if he reached down and grabbed it now, that little paper nightmare would be as real as the fur on that cat. Against his better judgment, he bent over.

  It crackled in his grip. He slid his hand inside and his fingertips recognized the feel of the spool (nylon-coated stainless steel—a very strong wire!) without him having to see it.

  “H-how?” he mumbled. Then he looked around and spoke to the silent graveyard. “What’s this for…what’s it supposed to mean?”