Chapter 2: Butterdoodles

I swung open the door and stopped just inside the bakery to savor the feeling of the AC cooling my sweaty skin. The room smelled like old vanilla and musty wood, but there was enough left in that smell to remind me of when the whole bakery smelled like fresh pastries and cinnamon. It was the smell of childhood. Anyone who had been in Poppy’s bakery as a kid would remember it.

“Hey sweetie!” Gram called from behind the display case, where she was bent over with a trashcan, dumping out a few old trays of untouched pastries.

“Hey,” I said, breathing out heavily. Coming home; that was a bittersweet feeling. The warm memories of the past, then the blow over the head that so many of them were gone forever. The desperation to hold on. Then the eerie awareness of inevitable change that might be coming. And finally the required gratitude that at least you had something you were sad to lose. Some people didn’t even have that. This was how I felt every time I came back to the bakery.

“Where were you?” Gram asked. I crossed the bakery. The only customer was elderly man drinking a cup of coffee and looking at a magazine; the remaining faded chairs and tables sat vacant.

“Down at the beach,” I said, leaning on the display case. “How have things been over here?”

“Oh, you know,” Gram said, wiping out the display case with a rag, bits of her black-gray hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead. “Maybe two or three people stopped by. No one really bought anything. I think everyone’s infatuated with Izby’s…” we both glanced disappointedly out the window and across the street at the ice-cream parlor with it’s sign hanging “CLOSED” as if it had barely made it through the day. Bill was outside sweeping off the sidewalk and I could see Maybelle’s silhouette wiping things down inside. They never had made it down to the beach.

“Where’s mom and Dad?” I changed the subject.

“They went to the bank.” Gram stood up and wiped the hair out of her face. Her lips were pursed in a resigned way.

I felt my heart clench up. Mom and Dad had been to the bank a lot lately. I didn’t understand a lot of how money worked, but I knew the amount of stale cookies dumped in the trashcan was not a good sign.

Gram put a hand to her forehead and leaned against the display case. “I wish there was more I could do… but everything extra I have is already in this bakery and I need the rest for retirement.”

I did not like the sound of my grandma giving up.

“It’ll work out,” I said, “Izby’s won’t be so popular forever.”

Gram gave a tight grin and patted my hand. “Thanks sweetie.”

I could tell she didn’t agree with me. I wanted to say something about Poppy wanting her to stick it out, but I knew that would do more harm than good. Plus, maybe it wasn’t even true. Maybe spry, adventurous Gram was actually getting old and it was time for her to settle down in Wells the way old people did.

“I’m gonna head up to my room and change out of these sweaty clothes,” I said, smiling as reassuringly as I could.

“Okay,” Gram said. “I’m gonna start on dinner. Come down and help me if you get bored.”

I nodded and skipped towards the staircase at the back of the bakery. I stopped at the end of the counter where the cash register sat next to a large, friendly cookie jar. It was the shape of a fat vase with a rim extending out like the petals of a flower and a rounded lid sporting a little daisy shaped handle. The jar was an old white color with little orange and yellow flowers spattered onto it.

I peeked inside and felt that bittersweet feeling again when I saw it had two butterdoodles in it. Suddenly I was seven again, standing at that exact spot with little Bill and a few other kids next to me. Poppy was behind the counter, leaning on one elbow and holding his hand over the lid of the jar.

There was the sound of old men chatting in the foyer behind us, and the sound of bowls and pans clashing in the kitchen. Mrs. Henning, my old piano teacher might be playing some chorded monstrosity or Bach variation as us children all squealed and clambered towards the cookie jar.

Poppy! I have a good one!

Poppy can I go first?!”

He went first last time, I never go first!

You always say the same one!

Mines the best.

Poppy would stay quiet though, an eyebrow raised. I was always the first one stop squealing. I would look up into his brown eyes knowingly, and give a little smile, waiting for the others to catch on. As soon as they all were quiet but squirming with excitement, Poppy would smile and say, “Alright,” and choose someone, regardless of who had gone first the last time or who’s was the best. I don’t think he kept track.

One by one the children would deliver a joke or anecdote to Poppy’s straight face. His eyes twinkled for every single one, but that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until his mouth cracked into a wide smile and his laughter cackled you knew you’d gotten lucky. He’d throw his head back for a good laugh, then lift the cookie jar and take out the bakery's signature treat—a freshly baked butterdoodle. These buttery cookies, with dried cherries and a thick swirl of cinnamon, were not for sale. They could only be earned in by a good laugh, and because of that, most people outgrew them. But some people, like me and Bill, kept trying, right up till the last day Poppy ever stood behind that counter. It was hard to tell whether Poppy was laughing at the jokes themselves, or the delivery, but as long as you could bring out that glorious laugh, a cookie was yours.

I sighed again, nibbling slowly at the cookie and opening the door to the stairwell.

Up the stairs was the apartment where my family lived. On one side was my grandma’s apartment with her one bedroom and a minuscule sewing room. Through a door was a living room just big enough for one couch, one squatty arm chair and an old tube tv with a VHS player attached. We owned three VHS’s total: Bambi, Old Yeller and Free Willy. I guess that was all we had room or time for. On the other side of this living room was my family’s apartment, which had two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. Me and my little sister June shared the tinier bedroom. It was painted a faint green and had one small dresser and a twin bed that we shared. The best part was that the window faced east toward the ocean and the morning sun. Airy white linen curtains danced in the hot breeze that got in through the screen. June was in Portland for the summer staying in a friends cabin. She didn’t have friends in Wells like I did so the older she had gotten the more time she spent away in the bigger cities. I never minded sharing the room with June. We had never fought or felt too crowded. And now that June was gone so often the room was starting to feel like it was just mine. It was a lonely feeling having your thirteen year old sister leave the house before you.

My dad and mom shared the slightly-less-tiny bedroom. Still, their bed filled up most of it and the rest of it was crowded with my dad’s paintings leaning against the wall. He used to sell his art straight from this bedroom online, but recently he had saved up enough to purchase a small studio space in Wells and now all the paintings were lined up waiting to be moved over there as soon as he finished cleaning and painting. In the meantime my mom, who taught high-school English in Wells had to crowd her livelihood into the remaining half-square-foot of the bedroom in the form of an oak desk stacked with books and her laptop. She didn’t mind. Her and my dad were just as in love as the day they had met and though she didn’t let onto it too much, she was infatuated with his artistic skill and romantic—albeit disorganized—personality.

I went into my and June’s room and flopped down backwards on the bed. I landed sharply on the corner of Gone with the Wind which had gotten buried under the covers after I fell asleep reading it. I jerked it out from under me and stared up at the ceiling. Slowly my mind cleared and a smile crept over my face as I remembered the somewhat magical events of the day. Something Michael had said on the beach… when I told him I didn’t feel confident in groups of people… What did he say… I had no reason not to be confident? No, he said I had no reason not to be confident around him. I couldn’t help a small smile from creeping across my face—

I jolted out of it. Someone was tapping on the door.

“Hey,” said a voice, “It’s me.” Bill cracked the door open. He was eating a butterdoodle.

“Hey,” I said, sitting up. “You had the same idea as me,” I nodded towards the cookie.

“I know, I still feel guilty just taking one though…“

“…me too…”

“…Mind if I come in?”

“No,” I said.

He sat down next to me.

“Did you just now finish up at Izby’s?”

Bill sighed, running a hand through his hair. I noticed his clothes were still splattered with ice-cream. “Yup,” he said. “That poor Maybelle’s sure got her hands full.”

I laughed, “Oh my gosh, Maybelle,” I said, remembering that episode.

Bill chuckled slightly, catching my vibe. “Don’t be too hard on her,” he said. “She’s having a rough time of it.”

“I’m know,” I said. “But you have to admit she was a little… unique?”

“What do you mean unique?” Bill said, “she was basically a clone of Dolly Parton.”

“THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT!”

Bill was finally giving in to his satirical side which was both slightly more true to himself and enjoyable for me.

“AWWLLLLL-RAAAT…” we both drawled at the same second.

“Jinx!” at the same time.

“JINX!”

After a hearty laugh: “Soooo… how was the beach?”

Me and Bill locked eye contact for a second, eyebrows raised—a stalemate as per usual.

“Good,” I said, stifling my blush.

“Mm-hm?” Bill said, naughtily.

“Stop.” I lightly slammed him with my pillow.

“Anything exciting happen?”

“Honestly we pretty much played frisbee. Then we sat on the beach for a half-hour or so and watched Pete and Franky try to do handstands. And then me and Jenny walked home.”

“Michael wasn’t doing handstands?”

“No, he actually sat and talked with me and Jenny,” I defended him.

“Really?” Bill’s inflection was drawn out. “I never took him for an intellectual.”

I laughed. “He can actually hold a pretty good conversation.”

“I don’t know, he seems really good at small talk but can he actually have like a conversation conversation?”

I took this comment particularly hard. It was true, Michael’s forte was definitely more body than brain related. He didn’t talk a lot, other than small talk which he was exceptionally good at. He was the kind of person who never seemed offended because he never seemed aware of any deeper undercurrents that ran through a short exchange of words. But I loved his boyishness and innocence so much it could make me sick sometime. I was convinced that there was something mysterious about him, that he had untapped depths and that all his friendliness and casualness was only a guise for one of the most intellectual and wise men imaginable. The question had always been how to get to it when I was absolutely horrible at small talk and spent most of my time wandering my own untapped depths.

Looking at Bill it suddenly struck me that he must not understand at all how seriously I actually liked Michael. He probably thought of it as a small and weightless crush. It made me embarrassed for how much I actually did like Michael. But also ticked off at Bill for making light of it. I don’t know, once again, it was confusing inside my head.

I think Bill could tell he had upset me somehow. He changed the subject. “Sooo… have you thought anymore about U of Maine?”

I flopped backwards on the bed again and smooshed the pillow over my face.

“What?!” Bill said, looking down on me I assumed from beneath the pillow.

“This summer is turning out lousy.”

“What do you mean, it’s barely started?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t realize everything was going to change so much.”

“Like what?”

“Graduating, the ice-cream shop, trying to decide where to go to college— or if to go to college? Dad’s new studio, June’s gone, Gram’s depressed…” I stopped, not wanting to say the worst of it. “I think Mom and Dad are gonna sell the bakery.” I whipped the pillow off my face to see Bill’s expression. His eyes and eyebrows were widened.

“Really?” He said, with that sound in his voice that said his unending optimism had finally sunk into realism.

“I don’t know, they’re always at the bank and Gram’s always sad, and I mean we have no customers…”

“Yeah, I noticed that…” Quiet. “Dang, I’m sorry Nunie…”

“It’s fine,” I whimpered. “It doesn’t help that you’re siding with the enemy!” I cocked a brow playfully.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bill grinned.

“Well you’re basically helping run Maybelle’s shop.”

“Oh geez, come on Nunie,” Bill laughed. “I was just being friendly, you saw her in there, she was in distress.”

“I know…” I said. “But I still wish you wouldn’t be so nice to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she’s my rival now. Her family runs the shop that’s putting my family out of business.”

“Oh gosh,” Bill said. “I’m sorry. But it’s not like the bakery was doing so great the last few summers anyway.” He pursed his mouth in honesty.

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I can’t help but think it might bounce back if it wasn’t for ‘Izbaaay’s’—” air quotes around my impersonation, “—at least, I think that’s what’s making my family give up.”

“Well don’t you give up just yet,” Bill said. “Besides, things have to change eventually, as much as we both hate it. We’re growing up, like it or not.”

“I don’t like it,” I said, slamming the pillow over my face again. “And to answer your question, I still haven’t decided about U of Maine,” I muffled. “Gram and Dad think I should apply for the Manhattan School of Music.”

“Manhattan?! Well I still think you should come to U of Maine,” said Bill. “I’d certainly have a lot more fun if you came.”

“I know, it would be fun. It just feels like such a bad time to be leaving Ogunquit, right when the bakery needs me most.”

Silence from Bill.

“Dinner’s ready!” Mom poked her head through the door. I guess they were back from the bank. “Hey Bill!”

“Hey Mrs. Moons,” Bill answered.

“Bye Nunie.”

I was still hiding under the pillow.

“You can stay for dinner if you’d like Bill,” Mom said.

“No, it’s alright, I’d better be getting home. I’ve… gotta rinse off.” He gestured at his sticky shirt.

“Oh my,” Mom commented.

“Yeah… it’s been a long afternoon.” They chuckled.

“Alright then,” Mom said, “have a good evening!”

“You too,” said Bill, and left.