Friendship Bread (19 page)

As she approaches Main Street, she sees a Ford F650 Utility Truck. She’s never seen one in Avalon, which means it must have come from a neighboring town. A deck gun is mounted on board and Edie knows there are probably several hundred gallons of foam concentrate at the ready. A small crowd has gathered across the street, with officers managing the crowd and traffic. She sees two men, presumably the hazmat team, already dressed in fully encapsulated suits and getting ready to make their way into the police department.

This is the most thrilling thing to happen since she’s moved here. While Edie sincerely hopes that everything is fine and that no one is hurt, she knows this incident will be on the front page for at least a week.

Without even knowing any details Edie has an idea of how she can craft the story, something about the fragility of life and how, in this world, we need to help each other out. She may not be great with one-on-one relationships, but she’s all for the greater good. It’s why Edie signed up for the Peace Corps, why she spent twenty-seven months in Benin, Africa. She wanted to make a real difference in real people’s lives. Those two and a half years opened her eyes.

She loves being an American, but being an American overseas is quite a different thing. Edie was able to see herself, and her country, through other people’s eyes—through the eyes of aid workers from Europe and Asia, through the eyes of the people they were trying to help. She knows that Americans are often viewed as arrogant and frivolous, clueless about their own country, and she hates that this is true.

Edie remembers one night when she and two other Americans lost an impromptu game of pseudo-Jeopardy to a group of Swedes. The category: American history. The Swedes—Vilde, Max, and Frej—knew more about American government than they did: They could name the presidents, their term of service, why their presidency ended. Edie and her colleagues, one of them a history major from Vassar, held their own but in the end were still blown away. But the real clincher was when the Swedes offered them a bonus question, an all-or-nothing shot at winning the single bar of Hershey chocolate and tin of Pringles that was at stake.

Name the current president of Sweden.

They lost.

Later, when Edie recounted the details for Richard, he had laughed so hard that tears were running down his face. “Edie,” he said. “Sweden is a constitutional monarchy. They don’t have a president; they have a
king.
”

Edie was embarrassed, but it just drove home the point she was trying to make. It’s a big world out there, and everyone has a responsibility to make it a better place, everyone including Edie. The thing that really gets her is that it doesn’t take much. Does she really need a four-dollar cappuccino? Or a pair of shoes that cost a hundred twenty-five dollars, made in a sweatshop by child laborers in Indonesia? How does a country with so much consumer debt manage to have women running around getting boob jobs and highlights? Does she really need to be asking these questions?

“Chief Neimeyer, what’s happening?” Edie calls out over the din of the sirens. Several other people are asking the same question, and while they’re not reporters, their voices carry over hers. Edie pushes her way to the front of the line, her digital tape recorder already on. She repeats her question, louder this time, and catches the chief’s eye.

“Folks, just give the teams a chance to do their jobs, and we’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as we know something.” Chief Neimeyer signals for Sergeant Overby to take over so he can check with the fire chief and get the latest update.

Edie tries again with Sergeant Overby. “Sergeant, can you tell us what’s happening?”

“Sorry, Edie. Can’t do that.”

“Sergeant Overby, our phones are ringing off the hook. The people of Avalon are concerned.” Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but it’s possible. Her boss, Patrick, told everyone to come down and find out what they could, save Livvy and the receptionist. They’re holding down the fort.

Edie sees the rest of the
Avalon Gazette
team coming up on her rear. She wants this story—she
needs
this story. “Sergeant, please. Is there anything you can tell us?” The desperation in her voice is real.

He throws her a bone. “All I can say is that a woman was brought in carrying several items on her person, including a bag containing a suspicious substance. Under the circumstances, we though it prudent to call the fire department and let the hazmat teams investigate the substance and make a determination.”

“Can you assess the level of risk?”

“We were told that the substance would react to metal but we were unable to verify the validity of this statement before …”

Patrick runs to them, out of breath. Sergeant Overby straightens up, aware that he’s said more than he originally intended. He gives them both a polite nod and turns away.

Damn
. He probably would have told her more if Patrick hadn’t shown up. Now she’s going to have to wait like everyone else.

Edie chews on a nail, thinking quickly. In an hour this will be old news. Television crews will be here soon. A write-up in a small town paper may as well be used to line the bottom of a bird cage if Edie doesn’t figure out a way to spread the word first.

“What’s the scoop?” Patrick pants. There’s mustard on the corner of his mouth.

She gives him a quick rundown, and in that instant knows what to do. She steps away, leaving Patrick to crane his neck in an attempt to peer into the police station.

She calls Livvy. “Livvy, it’s Edie. I need you to do me a huge favor. Are you up for it?”

“Are you kidding? Please put me out of my misery. What do you need?”

Edie rattles off several Web addresses for news stations, then tells Livvy what to type. It’s possible that being the first to share the news will give her a way in, too. Just as she’s finishing with Livvy, she sees the hazmat team coming out, hoods off.

“Hold on,” she says. She runs back just as Chief Neimeyer nods his head and turns back to the crowd.

“It’s all right,” he says in a loud voice. “The hazmat team has determined that the substance in question is not harmful or dangerous.”

An audible sigh of relief tinged with disappointment sweeps through the crowd.

“Chief Neimeyer,” Edie calls out. “Any idea what the substance is?”

He hesitates. “It’s batter.”

There is a murmur of confusion.

“Badder than what?” Edie probes.

“BATTER. Dough batter. Cake batter. Hell, I don’t know. It’s for something called Amish Friendship Bread. Apparently it’s been circulating around town.” He turns around and storms back into the station.

Edie tries to make sense of this in her head, but she can’t. What is Amish Friendship Bread and why is it circulating around town? More important,
how
is it circulating around town?

“What should I write next?” Livvy wants to know.

Edie notices a burst of conversation in the crowd upon hearing Chief Neimeyer’s news. “Hold on, Livvy.”

“Hate the stuff myself,” someone says. “Someone in my office always tries to pawn it off on me.”

“Really? I love friendship bread!” someone else declares. “Twice a month I bake a couple of loaves. My kids can’t get enough.”

“My kitchen smells amazing when I bake it.”

“Don’t the instructions say you’re supposed to leave it out at room
temperature? That doesn’t sound like safe food handling to me. There’s milk in there!”

“It’s like a sourdough starter,” comes an exasperated reply. “It’s
supposed
to ferment.”

“What’s Amish Friendship Bread?” someone wants to know. “Where can I get some?”

As the people around her begin to talk and quibble, Edie tells Livvy to forget about it. A hazmat false alarm isn’t much of a story, and the TV reporters have it covered anyway. Besides, she has an idea for a better one.

A much better one.

The answering machine is blinking when Hannah gets home from the store. She takes her time putting away the groceries, humming Jean Sibelius’s Impromptu, Opus 78. Maybe that’s what she’ll do, play her cello and then check her messages. She misses playing and yet she doesn’t. She feels drawn to the music room but then veers away, heading toward the living room or kitchen instead, finding something else to do.

The machine blinks a digital 2. Two messages. From Philippe, no doubt. She’s curious, but she doesn’t trust herself to listen to the messages in case he says something that could ruin her day or, worse yet, make her call him back. Hannah has never been good at expressing her feelings and she isn’t going to try to do this over the phone. If Philippe has something to say, let him come to Avalon and say it.

She gets a glass of water and a slice of Amish Friendship Bread. It’s made with zucchini and Hannah found the recipe by herself online. The first batch had been too wet and took twice as long to bake. Hannah was about to call Madeline when she decided to consult
Joy of Cooking
and discovered that she should have squeezed some of the moisture out of the zucchini after grating it. Hannah plucked a second bag of starter and tried again, this time with more success.

So now she has four loaves of zucchini bread, two bags of starter, and she couldn’t be happier.

Well, that’s not true. Hannah wishes she weren’t alone, wishes her husband was with her and still in love with her. She’s struck by the sad truth of her situation. Despite what he’s done, despite what he’s doing, she’d take him back in a second if he asked her to.

Knowing this only makes her feel worse. Hannah knows it’s the sort of thing spineless women do, the ones who are afraid to be on their own, but let’s be honest—that sums up Hannah pretty well. She doesn’t like being alone, doesn’t want to be alone. She isn’t built like these superwomen she reads about—women who start their own businesses, who make bold decisions, who take risks. She knows she’s smart, but she doesn’t have that fearlessness that seems to be a staple requirement for these sorts of women. She’s just Hannah, a woman with a musical gift, a woman with a marriage that might be over. And she has no idea what to do.

Hannah wishes her mother were alive. She’d know how to counsel Hannah, how to keep her calm and focused. Her mother wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type—she was practical and highly efficient—but Hannah knows her mother loved her and that knowledge would be enough to give Hannah the courage to figure out the next step.

Her parents were like every other set of Chinese parents—they set the bar high, pushed their children to reach it, and didn’t accept anything less. There wasn’t any discussion or choice about the matter—you just did it. Her father, in particular, demanded a high level of excellence. Hannah’s mother was the soft one, adding little bits of laughter to their otherwise solemn household. If Hannah was taking a break from practicing or Albert wanted to play outside with the neighborhood kids instead of studying, it was her mother who would relent. Her father? Never. He would complain that Hannah’s mother was too yielding with the children, which she wasn’t. She would just give them a break every now and then, give them a small bit of childhood they would have otherwise missed.

Hannah saw the way her father would defer to her mother whenever there was something she felt adamant about. Sometimes it was a big thing, like helping relatives who were struggling financially, or a seemingly inconsequential thing, like celebrating Christmas.

For many years all they did was hang a simple plastic wreath on the door, more for the benefit of the neighborhood than their family. No lights, no decorations, no tree. She and Albert received one or two gifts each, and that was it until Hannah turned nine. Suddenly her mother began to rally for a full-blown Christmas. They were living in North Carolina at the time, their first white Christmas.

“We are going out to buy a tree,”
her mother called out to her father in Chinese as she ushered an overwrapped Albert and Hannah toward the garage.

“Shenme?”
Hannah’s father came barreling out of the study where he had been preparing his lecture notes.
“No! No tree! They’re too expensive! We do not need a tree!”

“
We
do
need a tree,
” Hannah’s mother informed him coolly as she put on her gloves.
“And I am getting Christmas lights, too. You can put them up when we get home.”
She wasn’t going to budge and Hannah’s father could see this.

“Next year,”
he suggested in an attempt to compromise. Albert rolled his eyes behind their father’s back.
“We’ll buy everything the day after Christmas, when it’s marked down. Buy a fake tree and plenty of ornaments then.”

“We are getting a live tree,”
her mother said.
“And we are getting it this year. I want the children to have Christmas. Albert is almost a teenager and Hannah will be ten. We are celebrating Christmas this year.”
And with that she marched out the door with the children in tow.

They returned home four hours later, the car filled with Christmas paraphernalia Hannah never dreamed she’d see in her own home. For the first time she and Albert had Christmas stockings. Albert didn’t seem to care for his, but Hannah loved hers. She loved when they got home their father had the ladder out, the hammer and nails. Hannah didn’t know if this had been part of a larger argument than she had witnessed, but her mother looked smugly satisfied as she handed him the six boxes of lights. When he finished putting them up, he went out and bought five more boxes, using the excuse that the stores were already starting to mark down the prices and they may as well buy
them now. Hannah’s mother didn’t say anything, just prepared the
huoguo
—Chinese hotpot—for dinner, her father’s favorite and something that was ordinarily reserved for guests.

Hannah knows her parents’ marriage might not have been perfect, and yet at the same time it was. She can’t imagine them without each other, and even when her mother passed it never occurred to her that her father might remarry, which he hasn’t. Maybe Hannah is more like him than she wants to admit—she wants to stay loyal to the person she first said yes to.