Becoming Ellen Page 7

  It seemed to be a single bulb, dangling from a mass of wires and ducting. The light it spewed was feeble, enough to illuminate a single chair, of the discarded, armchair variety, in fact one of its legs was gone and had been replaced with a precarious stack of bricks. A few feet away, on what seemed to be a piece of plywood supported by cinder blocks, was a dirty sleeping bag and a few blankets.

  Ellen caught her breath. Something, no, someone, stirred in the chair. What Ellen had taken to be a discarded blanket had moved. And now Ellen could see that, curled up under that rag, was a boy. Ellen guessed he was maybe twelve, but it was hard to tell. In the insufficient light, his face was slack and sallow.

  Ellen watched for a few minutes almost impassively. Lost, destitute, and unwanted people were a reality common to her. An overpass in her old neighborhood had offered insufficient shelter for a fair number of homeless people, many of them families with children. Sharing the sidewalk with them as she passed to and from her home had made it impossible to simply look away and pretend they didn’t exist, as most people chose to do. She had also personally known three young boys and one girl who had run away from foster homes and of the abuse they had suffered during their time there. Though she had only discovered what became of one of them, she had always suspected the other two had found a fate similar to this, possibly worse.

  Backing up a few steps, Ellen dug in her bag. It had long been a precaution of hers to never be without snacks, and today she had brought a banana, a package of Rice Krispies Treats, and a granola bar. They were all wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. Very carefully, Ellen tested the grating. She slid both her little fingers in opposite corners and tugged gently. It moved, swinging hinge-like toward her. Pulling it open as noiselessly as she could manage, she laid the bag just on the inside, and pushed the grate closed, so that the top of the bag was caught between the metal and the brickwork. The offering dangled just beyond the pattern of metal.

  Silently, Ellen backed up and went on her way. Emerging onto the avenue, she glanced up at the round window of her room and smiled. Mine, she thought. This word was new and risky for her. Possession had always made her vulnerable because she had never had much she could call her own, and what she did could be taken from her in an instant. But now she was beginning to trust, cautiously, a feeling of permanence, though with an understanding that only those who have truly had nothing can know. Everything in life was borrowed, really. And she was all right with that.

  She crossed the wide street at the pedestrian crosswalk and continued down the main avenue. It was one of her favorite kind of nights, not quite raining, but the mist had added a silvery black-and-white luster to the world, like an old-time photograph. Ellen loved these nights that glowed softly.

  Turning left onto a street lined with commercial shops and restaurants, she walked along, staying as far from the light of the shop signs and windows as possible. The shops were closed and deserted at this hour. On the corner was a funky neighborhood café. It was the kind of place Ellen thought she would have liked if it wasn’t for the fact that people were there. The café sold sandwiches and pastries, had shelves filled with books and knickknacks for sale—mostly used—overstuffed armchairs in dark corners, and very few customers. She would have enjoyed sinking into one of those chairs, the size of which would have welcomed, and even enveloped, her. She would have delighted in browsing through the books and picking out a new world, a new voice to speak to her as she read the chapters inside. She loved dog-eared, well-read books the best. The idea that others had been there before her made her feel a sense of kinship.

  Drawn to the very notion of the place, Ellen found herself floating toward the store’s display window.

  Cookbooks. They might interest someone who could actually cook, but Ellen liked stories, and here there were none. She was turning away when a title caught her eye. Best Baking for Beginners. Ellen liked Bs, they were round and soft, the overstuffed sofas of the alphabet, and felt good when you said them quickly in a row. Buhbuhbuhbuh. Below those friendly Bs was a picture of cupcakes, stacked on a three-tiered glass cake stand.

  Ellen felt in her pocket. She had come out with some cash, as she always did, just because, well, you never knew when you might need an emergency snack. She fingered the ten-dollar bill and looked at the price tag on the well-worn, secondhand book; three dollars.

  Slipping sideways until she was at the edge of the next window, through which she could see into the coffee shop, she saw the only person there was a small woman behind the counter.

  Ellen listened to her heart pound for thirty seconds. Then slunk to the corner, where the door opened at an angle, and slipped inside.

  She went to the counter and stood, uncertain. The woman, who was cleaning the coffee machine, took no notice of her. Gathering her nerve around her like clear armor, Ellen focused hard on the counter and spoke without looking up. “Uh, excuse me.” In her peripheral vision, Ellen watched the woman turn and lift her head with a swift jerk that told Ellen she had not been detected until she had used her voice. Though this reaction was familiar to Ellen, it still left her feeling naked and unprotected.

  “Oh, you startled me!” the woman exclaimed. “Sorry. Good evening, what can I get you?”

  Out of a lifetime of habit, Ellen kept the left side of her face angled away from this unknown human. “Uh, I want to buy that baking book in the window.”

  “Okay, you can go ahead and grab it, and I’ll ring it up for you.”

  Relieved to turn her back, Ellen retrieved the book and returned to the counter. She laid the ten on the counter with the book. The woman rang it up, and then stood there, holding out the change. Ellen wished that she would just set it on the counter where her eyes were fixed. But the woman seemed to be waiting for something.

  Hesitantly, Ellen looked up. The woman was waiting, and what she was waiting for, Ellen realized with a jolt, was eye contact. “Here you go, have a nice night. Enjoy!” Her eyes, warm and eloquent, said much more than the simple words. She handed over the change. Ellen fumbled it into her pocket, picked up the book, then retreated, resisting the impulse to run.

  As she hurried down the street, Ellen thought about the stranger’s determination to acknowledge her. It was unlike what Ellen had come to expect. Fleetingly, she wondered if her face had still been the scarred image of a year ago if the woman would have reacted with the repellence Ellen had come to anticipate. Somehow she thought not; that woman’s gaze had been unflinching. It had been . . . brave. But bravery was rare—Ellen knew because she paid attention—there were very few truly courageous people in the world. And that fact had made it necessary for her to move unseen and unnoticed through life.

  It was an enigma that puzzled Ellen until she entered the park and was swallowed by the solitude and the darkness. She made her way to a bench surrounded by a favorite stand of trees. In that spot, light from the streetlamps filtered through the bare branches. Resting the cookbook on her knees, Ellen ran a hand across the glossy cover.

  She opened the book to a random page, and there, on her lap, was a recipe for cinnamon buns with a full-page photo across from it showing the delectable treat still hot and steaming from the oven. Ellen’s chest twitched with longing. The image moved her to joy. She did not consciously recall the moment, ever, but a package of cinnamon rolls—tossed to her when she was five years old and starving—had been a turning point in her life. It had been sustenance, relief, and the most delicious thing she had ever eaten. Even now the sight of sweet pastry wrapped in cellophane sent its unconscious message to her. Eat me and you will be safe.

  And here was something beyond that message. Something that said, Make me and you will be happy. On the next page, a further series of pictures illustrated the preparation, which included kneading the dough—which Ellen imagined to be like wet, soft fabric—and shaping the buns. She felt a craving to try it.

  The enticing pictures made h
er hungry, and the fact that she had given away all of her emergency food formed a thin sheet of panic crust on Ellen’s rib cage. Closing the book, she placed it carefully in her bag and headed for home, though she decided to take another route.

  It did not take long to cross to the opposite side of the park, past the baseball diamond, along the fence of the deserted dog run, and emerge on the street that ran parallel to the one from which she had entered the park. Three blocks later, she was on the sidewalk outside of Tami’s bakery.

  It was closed, being almost midnight, but bakers worked at night, and Ellen knew from being employed on the night shift herself that the delivery trucks made their rounds a couple of hours before dawn. She knew from her “borrowing” that the bread was best then, the warmth of the oven still lingering on their paper wrappers.

  The front of the store was dark, the sign inside the window said SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. But down the street, Ellen could see light coming from the back windows. She made her way toward them. Unlike earlier in the day, the windows were shut. Placing one hand on the opaque glass, she was surprised to find that it was not cold, as she had expected, but radiating heat from inside. On impulse, she pressed an ear against the smooth warmth.

  She could hear the whir of a machine, a mixer maybe, then a rapid clinking, like a spoon against a metal bowl. The savory, enticing scent was present, too. Ellen moved farther down the side of the building, hoping for a glimpse into that magical world where sugar and carbohydrates were transformed into delicacies. There was a word for that, Ellen thought, a word she had heard or more likely read that described what went on in there. As she reached the corner, it came to her, alchemy—that was it. This was the closest thing she knew to turning base metal into gold. Halting, she leaned forward so that she could see into the alley behind the bakery. She was not surprised to find a back door giving easy access for loading in supplies, or bringing trash out to the two huge dumpsters looming in the shadows of the far wall. What she had not expected was to find it propped open.

  She stared at the door in some confusion. She could not see into the kitchen from this angle, but if she positioned herself so that she could, she would open herself to detection. Still, she wanted very much to watch those wizards at work again. As she hesitated, someone came out, opening a second metal-grated security door, and Ellen shrank back. It was one of the bakers, and he was carrying a tray on which were a few crescent-shaped pastries.

  “Okay, guys, croissants are up,” the man called out. And Ellen was surprised to see two men with straggly beards and skin so long unwashed it was black in the light from the doorway, emerge from where they had waited motionless in the shadows of the dumpsters. They shuffled, anxious and apologetic, toward the offering, mumbling humble thanks as the baker balanced the tray on a trash can, wrapped three of the treats for each of them in paper, and handed them over. The surplus humanity barely raised their eyes to the baker. Then they hurried away, clutching their treasures.

  The baker watched them go. As he turned back toward the kitchen and the light fell across his face, Ellen could see the sadness on it. He went in, the security door locking with a click behind him.

  After a moment, Ellen crept forward and stood, watching through the metal mesh for a long time. There were three bakers tonight, two women and the man. They moved around one another and the equipment with easy grace. Speaking quietly, laughing occasionally, they went about their work. Everywhere around them were the divine smell of baking bread and, Ellen felt sure, the certainty that what they did brought happiness—the bonus prizes of their profession, the invisible benefits. Ellen felt a small shiver of envy.

  Perhaps, thought Ellen, this is what people mean when they say they’ve found their place in life. Ellen liked her job okay, she guessed, because it was solitary for the most part and she could be independent while remaining invisible. It was what she had found that suited her, had protected her from welfare or homelessness, but equally important, it was employment that would have her, and she’d never really considered, or aspired to, anything more. But now Ellen watched the bakers and felt her heart longing.

  This, she decided, was what it looked like when you were given that magical gift of doing what you loved. Joyful work that turned simple basics into something complex and beautiful.

  Alchemy.

  8

  When Ellen reached her own alley, she checked the grating. No light came from the basement inside, but the bag had disappeared. Good, she thought. He ate tonight. Ellen climbed the stairs to find Temerity still up. She’d stayed late after the concert for a birthday celebration. She was standing at a window that she had cracked open. Her face was flushed.

  “Isn’t it a great night?” she enthused. “So moist and fluffy.”

  “Speaking of which,” Ellen said quietly as she moved toward the window, “I was wondering about something.”

  Temerity rocked a bit and a huge, silly smile cracked her pretty face. “Shh. Just a second. Listen.” Ellen turned her head and, sure enough, she could make out the piano music floating up from the loft below over the quieter nighttime street noises. The melody was sad yet lovely. It made Ellen think of someone crying with a smile on their face, as if remembering another time or person, long gone, but recalled with fondness. The music ended, and Temerity held her hands out the window and began to applaud. When she stopped, a voice came up. “Thank you! I’ll be here Thursdays and Fridays. Don’t forget to tip your waitress!”

  Temerity laughed with delight, turned to Ellen, and said, “You gotta love a musician with a sense of humor!”

  The pleasure on her friend’s face gave Ellen such a warm sensation in her chest that she thought, I already do.

  “Anyway, wondering is always good.” Temerity pointed a finger accusingly at the air. “People should do it more.” She crossed to the sofa and sat down, letting her head fall back where it rested on Mouse, who was curled on the top of the cushions. He made an annoyed sound but didn’t move. “Ouch,” Temerity said. “You think you’d be softer with all that flab.”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess,” Ellen responded.

  Temerity snorted a laugh. “I meant the cat.”

  “Actually, we’re both pretty squishy,” Ellen said, having no illusions, about that anyway. “But I meant I guess more people should wonder. But I don’t really know that many people.”

  “You know more about people than anyone else I know,” Temerity said. “Most people are so involved with themselves they don’t see anything else. Anyway, what were you wondering about?”

  “Can you teach me how to use the oven?”

  Temerity reached around behind her, picked up the big cat, and set him in her lap. She cocked her head to one side, thinking. “It depends on what you want to use it for. I mean, I can show you how to set the temperature. It talks, you know, for my benefit. Just turn the dial and it will tell you what degree you’ve set it on. What do you want to make?”

  Fixing her gaze on the big windows across the room, gilded by the lights of the city outside, Ellen said, “Gold.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, uh, cupcakes, maybe, and . . . stuff.”

  “Sweet! And I mean that both literally and metaphorically. It’s a little late to start baking tonight, what brought this on?”

  “I bought a book,” Ellen said, holding it up for absolutely no reason, since Temerity couldn’t see it. “I’ll get the ingredients tomorrow night at work.”

  “Or, we can pick them up tomorrow day while we’re out in the burbs.”

  “The . . . what?” Ellen was confused.

  “The suburbs. I found an address for the Rushes in Highland Park, and we’re going to check on Lydia. Remember we promised?”

  Ellen distinctly remembered Temerity promising, but she didn’t say so.

  “Shall we go in the afternoon? Say around three?” Temerity suggested. “Will that give you e
nough time to sleep?”

  “Okay,” Ellen said. Though the very thought of going somewhere unfamiliar made her insides feel like they were being whisked with a rusty eggbeater, she knew Temerity would not be deterred.

  Temerity stood up, grunting with the effort of lifting the eighteen-pound Mouse, who hung limp in her arms, making a sound like an idling motorboat. “Here.” She handed the huge cat over to Ellen. “I know he likes to sleep on your feet.”

  Ellen grinned. It was true. Temerity said good night and made her way to the hall doorway, singing and zigzagging a bit as she went. Ellen looked down at Mouse. He was watching Temerity go with something like annoyance. She set him down and he pretended to groom himself and not care.

  Ellen made a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich and put it on a plate with a few cookies. She poured a glass of milk and headed upstairs, pausing at the door for Mouse to take his sweet time sauntering through. When she was in her room, she pulled her chair over in front of the window and watched the different apartments as she ate her snack.

  One particular woman, Ellen had noticed, was often awake at this time. She was standing in her open window, looking out, but she never looked at Ellen, which was usual. Ellen recorded this and everything she’d seen tonight—the baker’s generosity, the woman at the coffee shop, the child in the cheerless basement. When she was done, she began to close the book but paused. The pen did not want to leave her hand. Ellen turned to a clean page and sat looking at it. There was nothing more to report, but somehow, Ellen felt, there was more to say.

  And so, she began to say it. For the very first time, Ellen not only recorded what she had seen and the possible reasons for it, but she allowed herself to envision what might be. Having learned long ago that if she expected nothing she was far less likely to be disappointed, projecting had always been a restricted activity.