Far Far Away (34 page)

Perhaps an hour had passed. In her cell, Ginger was stretching her arms. They had all eaten their food and drunk their water,
and then Jeremy and Ginger had disappeared into their showers and come out in fresh clothes. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Headache fifty percent contained.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said. “I feel a little more normal, too. Or at least as normal as you can feel when you’re locked up in somebody’s dungeon.”

Ginger was looking down at her clothes—a yellow shirt and blue shorts, both of the type she might typically wear. Jeremy’s clothes—old denim pants, white T-shirt—might also have come from his own closet.

“Guess he’s been planning for our visit,” Ginger said.

Across the room, Frank Bailey was poking fresh irises into his vase. “Mr. Blix plans everything,” he said quietly.

Jeremy and Ginger looked at him.

“I’ll give you an example,” he said. “On the way to the airport, before he gave me the knockout tonic, he had me write some postcards. He said he was afraid I’d get so caught up in school that I’d forget to write.” He tucked the last stalk into the vase and sat on the edge of his cot. “He had me write really general stuff. ‘Working hard, doing fine, weather iffy, sunny one day, cloudy the next’—that sort of thing. I remember one he dictated. ‘Puff-pastry assignment really tough, but my baked Alaska was best in class.’ He laughed at that one and told me to put an exclamation mark at the end of it. Then he had me sign and address them. When I was done, he said, ‘There. Put those in your suitcase and just pull one out every few days and send it.’ ”

Through the bars Frank Bailey gave Jeremy and Ginger a mournful look. “I think he’s been sending those cards to my mother so she’ll think everything’s okay.”

“She
does
think that,” Jeremy said. “I talked to her the other day. She thinks you’re out in California at that cooking school.”

Frank was immediately attentive. “You talked to her? Is she okay?”

Jeremy nodded. “She’s fine. She misses you, I could tell, but she’s fine.”

“He did the same thing to us,” Ginger said. “About the postcards, I mean. Only he had us write letters like we’d run away from home. I wrote my granddad that I’d jumped a train and was happier than I’d ever been.” She issued a dry laugh. “When my granddad gets that letter, he’ll probably be happier than he’s ever been, too.”

“I wrote that I was in Arizona,” Jeremy said. “And my father might believe it, because he knows I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

Based on yesterday’s date and on the date Frank Bailey departed for the airport with the baker, they computed how long he had been down here: twenty-three days.

“Oh my God,” Ginger said. “That’s a long, long time.”

“Seems longer,” Frank Bailey said. “I would’ve guessed two months or something.” He exhaled deeply. “The morning I left, I was so anxious to go that I hardly said good-bye to my mom.” He looked down. “I knew she wanted me to hug her, but, you know, with Mr. Blix standing right there …”

After a moment, Ginger said, “But she knew, Frank. People who love you always know.”

He looked across the room at her. “You think?”

“Yeah, I do. I really do.”

And so they kept talking, mostly about what might be going
on in town, who might already be missing them, and how they might soon find them, but the questions they returned to again and again were two: Why was the baker doing this? And what did he mean to do with them?

“Maybe he just wants to have us to talk to,” Frank Bailey said. “I mean, if he was going to do something to me, wouldn’t he have done it in twenty-three days?”

“He abducted us, and we know it,” Ginger said. “That’s the big problem for a kidnapper. Once the abductee knows who the abductor is, there’s no going back.”

“Yeah, but he’s got all these potions and stuff,” Frank Bailey said. “He could just keep us here for a while, then erase our memories and have us wake up stupefied in the woods.”

Ginger stared at him. “This isn’t science fiction, Frank.”

“No,” Frank Bailey said. “There’s a drug that can actually do that. They use it in cancer treatments so people don’t remember the pain and will do it again.”

Ginger turned to Jeremy, lying on his cot. “How come you’re so quiet?”

He stared at the pale blue ceiling. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how to get out of here.”

She gave him a small, unhappy laugh. “Yeah? What have you got so far?”

“Not much: Keep breathing until we find a way out.”

Again she gave a sour laugh.

Frank Bailey spoke up. “I have an idea about the staying-alive part.”

Ginger turned. “And what’s that, Frank?”

He turned his soft eyes to Ginger. “Be nicer to Mr. Blix.”

This time Ginger’s laugh was even more bitter. “Be
nicer
to him? My God, Frank! Where is Baileyville, anyhow—on one of the moons of Jupiter? In case you missed it, Sten Blix is a psychopathic sleazeball who’s been passing himself off as the jolly baker. Not exactly the type of guy I want to be nice to.”

Frank Bailey shrugged. “Okay, but just so you know, one time I got mad and was rude to him, and he left and it stayed dark for so long that I began hearing sounds and started to think I was starving to death
and
going crazy.”

Ginger did not respond to this. She lay down on her cot and stared at the ceiling. After casually rubbing her eyes with both hands, she left them there for a few seconds so they covered her eyes. Perhaps the others could not guess what she was doing, but I could: she was saying one of her little prayers.

When she was done, she sat up abruptly and looked at the other two captives. “Okay, listen up. We can’t just lie here stewing and worrying. We each have to figure out a way to help us pass the time.”

Frank Bailey suggested a game called Twenty Questions, which they played for a time before they grew bored.

Ginger suggested exercises, which they did for a time before they grew tired.

Then Frank Bailey and Ginger turned to Jeremy, who looked like someone who had just been asked to sing for his supper.

“I don’t really know any games or anything,” he said.

Ginger had pressed several strands of hair between her lips. “Maybe you could tell some of those old stories of yours.”

He started to decline, but I jumped in.
Yes
, I said.
It is a good
idea. It is in the old manner of passing the time. And if you forget something, I will prompt you
.

“Okay,” Jeremy said. “I can try, anyhow.” He glanced at Ginger. “I mean, if you both want to listen.”

“Sure,” Frank Bailey said. “We could use a good story,” and Ginger said, “As long as it’s got a happy ending.”

So Jeremy lay back on his cot with his arms folded behind his head. “This is the story of the Three Feathers,” he said, and every now and then, when he was uncertain about what happened next, I would provide details. Never had the tale seemed so endearing, for it kept the prisoners distracted from their circumstances, and when the story was over, Frank Bailey and Ginger asked for another, and then another.

And so in this way the time was passed until, almost to my surprise, the groan of the swinging wall could be heard, followed by footsteps and the squeaking wheels of the baker’s cart.

“Hallå! Hallå!”
the baker called out. “Dinner is served!”

With his signature flourish, he swept the white cloth from the cart to reveal a stewpot, a plate of fruit tarts, and a full loaf of freshly baked bread, from which he began to cut slices with a long serrated knife.

I will admit, it all smelled heavenly.

“Sourdough bread,” the baker said. “Frankie’s favorite. And beef stew, also Frankie’s favorite.”

He glanced at Frank Bailey, who shrugged, as if embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s really good. But I like your turkey pot pie, too.”

The baker gave an appreciative laugh. “It is settled, then! Pot pie tomorrow!”

After he’d given each prisoner a portion, the baker sat in his rocking chair between the cells and watched them eat. When they were nearly finished, he questioned each of them, beginning with Frank Bailey.

“Good, yes?” he asked, and Frank Bailey said yes, it was scrumptious.

The baker turned then to Jeremy. “Good, yes?”

Jeremy stirred his wooden spoon through the peas he had left at the bottom of his bowl. Without looking up, he said, “Yeah, the food was good.”

This seemed to satisfy the baker, who now regarded Ginger. “Good, yes?”

Ginger stared back at him with a contempt that could not be disguised.

“Oh,” the baker said with a fallen voice. “But you see, my dear girl, if you are not an agreeable guest, I cannot be an agreeable host.” He paused. “Do you see?”

Silence filled the dungeon.

“Do you see?” the baker asked again in his most patient voice.

“Yes,” Frank Bailey blurted, “she sees! She definitely sees what you mean!”

The baker did not break his gaze from Ginger. “Yes? She sees?”

Ginger’s face remained as stone. “The prison food’s fine,” she said.

For several long moments, the baker stared at her with a fixed, frozen smile, but then his expression softened and he said mildly, “Good. That is a start.”

From his cart, he took out a long-stemmed clay pipe and smoked it quietly until the prisoners had finished their pastries. Then he rose and regarded the painting on the wall that I have mentioned before: the happy family seated before a cozy fire, while through the window, one can see the gently wafting snow.

“Swedish,” the baker said of the painting in a reflective tone. “Swedish through and through. The painter is Swedish, the scene is Swedish, the love of warmth and family is Swedish.” He turned around, a wistful smile almost hidden within his white beard. “But not everyone can find warmth in Sweden.”

Well, here is a small something to report: while the baker had been staring at the painting, Jeremy removed all of the peas from his bowl and slipped them under his pillow.

The baker settled again into his rocker and repacked his pipe. “I will tell you all a story,” he said. Smoke slid through his lips, and he directed his gaze at Jeremy.

“I know that you like the old tales, full of fantastic events and intrigue, but the story I am about to tell you is as strange as any fairy tale.” Again he pulled on his pipe and let white smoke float through his lips.

“It will at first seem ordinary,” he said, “the simple story of a boy whose father fished in the sea. The boy had troubles in school. He was clever, but none of his schoolmates saw his cleverness. They saw only his plumpness and shyness, and the more he craved their friendship, the more the other children withheld it. When the boy was seven years of age, the fisherman took him from his schooling and put him to work mending nets and
cleaning fish, so that now the boy was not only plump but also foul-smelling. Wherever he went, people stepped away, so strong was the smell of herring that clung to his skin and to his clothes.”

The baker paused to draw smoke. “The boy ran away,” he continued. “Who could blame him? He was a clever boy, and in a faraway village he found work at a bakery, where”—the baker’s eyes twinkled—“plumpness was no liability.” He nodded. “Yes,” he said, “things were finally going well for the boy, but this is where the tale takes a mysterious turn.”

He smoked as he composed his thoughts.

“So … This bakery was run by a big-hearted man and his handsome, hard-eyed wife. They taught the boy everything about the trade, even its most particular intricacies, for he was a boy who listened and forgot nothing. The baker taught him the secrets of
Prinsesstårta
, which he prepared as a sweet commemoration whenever a villager died, and he taught him his method of announcing the arrival of this delicacy with green smoke. The boy forgot nothing. He heard whispers of the woman’s receipt of a large inheritance, and he forgot nothing. He heard them whisper how wonderful a baker the boy had become and how much money he was making for them, and he forgot nothing.

“Several years passed, and the boy grew into manhood. He was made to work even harder, beginning long before the sun rose, while the baker and his wife slept. Still, he loved the bakery, and when he was friendly and smelled like baked goods, people no longer stepped away from him. In fact”—and here the baker chuckled—“when the proprietor was not in the room, the proprietress leaned very close.”

The baker paused, as if savoring this part of the story.

“One wintry day, the woman’s husband fell gravely ill and
did not recover. The
Prinsesstårta
were prepared, and the green smoke rose. The baker’s wife grieved less than might have been expected, and before long, she had drawn the boy into the business as a full partner and sole heir. But in only a year, the woman grew into a terrible and jealous hag, and before long, she, too, fell ill. She tried to speak before she died, but her throat had tightened. She could only grunt and groan and point wildly at the boy, who shed big tears as he tenderly held her hand. ‘She is trying to say that I am to carry on with the bakery if she should die,’ the boy explained to the attending nurse. ‘I think she is afraid it might fall into the wrong hands.’