Lindsay’s Story: Amphetylcholemine Hydropyrinase-5
Chapter 2: Pastry
I woke up resolved not to think about all that, though the world was full of triangles: the three books on my end table, three perfumed black candles in stony skulls, three bottles of lotion on my dresser. But I was way behind on research into footwear of various countries, historical and contemporary, and I resolved to take a trip down to the library and see what I could find. It might be a bit obscure, but I’d check out what they had in cultural anthropology.
I had completely missed Jill. I called her up. Her voice, when she answered, seemed to echo from a cave. “Lindsay? How...how are? I mean, how are you?”
“I’m fine. Look, Jill, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I just fell asleep. I didn’t even think to call you.”
“I know. I mean, I talked to...your brother told me.”
I felt my face flush. “That’s nice. Hey, how’s the business? You said –”
She cut me off. “It’s fine, it’ll be fine, look, Linds, I gotta get off the phone, I’m...” It sounded like she hung up. That was weird. I looked at the phone for a minute. Well, she could call me back if she wanted to finish her sentence.
Sure enough, the library didn’t have anything specifically about indigenous footwear, but there were several books covering apparel, and I spent several happy hours catching up on customs and history of Madagascar and Guatemala, mostly. The library was quiet except for the buzzing of the white candlabras; the maroon chair beneath me shuddered, occasionally, like a baseball bat after the ball is struck. I let me mind drift into a state of deep contemplation. It was sad that Mitchell could never experience such a thing. He just didn’t have the concentration.
When I got home, there were beer bottles in irritating patterns across the kitchen, cups everywhere. Mitchell was in his room. I stormed in there without even knocking.
“Mitchell, what is the deal with the kitchen? There are beer bottles all over the place. I’m not your damned MAID, your know!” He wasn’t even listening, he kept looking back to his damned laptop. He had some kind of IM conversation going on. Well, he’d damned well have to cancel it. I strode over and yanked it out of his hand, pulling the power cord out.
“Sis!”
I stamped my foot. “Don’t call me that!”
“Lindsay, what’s wrong with you?”
My face was flushing again. “I’m not a servant. I have to do everything you say. I have to clean up all your beer bottles across the cave – the kitchen. I’m kissing your boots and you’re just talking to your friends, and they think you’re the big man around town. They’re eating out of your hand, they love you so much....” Tears were trickling down my face again. Damn it. I wiped them away with an angry hand, and before I could say anything else, I found myself collapsing in his arms, my chest heaving. I didn’t want to do that! But I needed him to hold me. I needed his strength. He patted nervously as I cried.
But I was only getting worse. I was starting to sob. I wanted to stop – what was it about, anyway? – but I couldn’t, it just kept getting worse, and all I could think was if I had some purple shoes with little stars, I would be OK. But I couldn’t say that to Mitchell. He’d never understand. He seemed so big and powerful, his masculine body nearby made me feel soft and little.
I cuddled up closer to him, and kissed the suns on his chest. “I love you Mitchell. You’re so big and strong,” I murmured. It was embarrassing, but I really just couldn’t help myself.
He dumped me on the couch and walked out of the room. I could hear him talking on his cell phone. “She’s flipping out. I’m not sure what to do, we must have kept her at it too long last time, or, I don’t know, maybe there was something bad in the shit I got from...yeah, I know, but this is weird. I didn’t want to...OK. But I just want to calm her down, OK? No weird stuff this time. Just make her normal again! All right, come on over. Yeah, you can do it better than me. I’ll give it to her right away. OK, bye.”
He came back with another drink of ginger ale. I do like it when he brings me drinks, and I was feeling so needy just then, the gesture seemed so generous, his face so transparently guilty. I sat up like a good girl and drank it down. Almost immediately, my mind started to clear. I looked up at him. “I feel so much better, all of a sudden,” I said. “Sorry to act so weird. I guess I’ve just been...feeling kind of strange lately. You’ve been so nice to me. I could call it that.”
He just looked worried. “Forget it, OK. I don’t...I mean, look, Cameron here is going to help you straighten out your head, OK?”
“The last thing I need is some big geek to come straighten out my head, Mitchell.” I took a deep breath. “I’m starting to understand what happened, though my emotions are numb for the moment. You were exploiting me – you and your buddies. Your good-old-boys. They all wanted to mess around with me, and you wanted to be the big man, you gave them the chance. You’re so insecure, Mitchell, that you did this to me. I get it. I’ll be OK in a little bit, I just need to –”
Cameron was here. He interrupted. “Look, Lindsay,” he said. He was reading from a Post-It note. “I need you to focus over here. Because there are a whole lot of pastries to make. There are several kinds: eclaires, turnovers, buns, pots-de-creme, caramel hutches, coconut macaroons, and six kinds of pies. Ah, pecan –”
Mitchell interrupted. “Cameron, she sounded almost like herself a minute ago, do we need to –”
“Of course we do,” said Cameron, “or all her conditioning will be ruined.”
“But I don’t want –”
“Mitchell, I’ve already started. Anything we say now is going straight into the mix, dude, you got it?”
“Cameron, come on, I don’t think we all need to be here for this. I just want to get her back to normal, man.”
Cameron sighed. “Mitchell, you need to grow some balls. First of all, we’re both in this together. You’re the one that gave her amphetylcholemine hydropyrinase-5 yesterday, and if we don’t get her properly conditioned, you’re the one that’s going to jail. Because if she’s not conditioned, she’s going to prosecute you, and abuse of AH-5 is a very serious charge. You’ve got to accept that. Second of all, we’re not going to hurt her. We’re just going to complete the conditioning process in the way that the documentation says. And it says we’ve only got nine more minutes here, so let’s get going. The second day is easier. It’s too late for you to turn chicken. OK.” He turned back to me. “Six kinds of pies: pecan, apple, lemon meringue, key lime, chocolate cream, cherry. You got that?”
“Sure,” I said. The front door opened.
My brother jumped. “Who’s that?”
“I invited the other guys,” said Cameron. “They won’t hurt anything. Don’t worry about it.”
“Cameron! You said you’d –”
“Ssh!” hissed Cameron. “She’s in the full effects, right now Mitchell. So everything we say from here on out is part of her conditioning. It’s all in the mix. So stick with the program.”
“Shit,” said Mitchell. “Can’t you –”
“You’re a great pastry chef, Lindsay,” said Cameron patiently. “A great pastry chef. There are many steps involved in making pastry: mixing the sugar and butter, beat egg whites and egg yolks, the measuring, the blending, the whisking and baking and...um, tasting. Cornstarch needs to be mixed with sugar before it’s mixed with liquid, liquid needs to be added to dry, or it’ll never be smooth. Never. There are separate measuring cups for liquid and dry, which is convenient, because your dry measures never get wet, and they don’t need washing so often.
“Lindsay, we’re all very happy to know you, and we can’t wait to taste the products you’ve been working on. This is very exciting to all of us, and we’ll all have a great time. Not too long, this time, just right. OK?”
“OK,” I said. At least I knew what was happening. I was being conditioned. And pastry was good. I loved pastry.
“Now, can you show me the pastry you’ve been working on?” said Cameron. “Please?”
“But where –”
“Oh, it’s in your pants, silly,” he said. The others were trouping back through the house, I could hear every footfall. I know it sounds unlikely, but I could actually tell which feet belonged to whom: Jose’s feet, heavy, in his brand-new Nikes, Jerry’s stylish boots, and – but Cameron was talking again. “Here, let’s get a good look. We’ve got a little longer this time, and we should be able to get a good look at your pastry. Which is it, the eclaire, or...?”
I opened my pants and took them off to show him the pastry. “This is an eclaire,” I said. “See the white cream? I cooked –”
“No fuckin’ eclaire,” said Jose, pulling the eclaire off me and down my to feet. It got cream on the carpet. “We wanna see the real pastry, Sis.”
“I’m not your sister!” I said, standing up with my hands on my hips. “I hate being called –”
“We’re very sorry,” said Cameron hurriedly, pushing Jose back with one hand, as if to protect me. “We’ll all call you Lindsay, won’t we guys? Lindsay’s a great chef, and she’s agreed to show us all her buns and her turnover, and the other, ah, delicacies, and let everyone taste them. Now, be nice –”
“I wanna bite,” said Jose, pushing forward.
“Leave it –” Mitchell was trying to stop him. How sweet.
“It’s too late, Mitchell,” I said, but I shrank from Jose, so big and hard. He was on me, his beery breath warming my face, and I almost stumbled as I tried to back away.
Cameron interposed himself again. “Come on, man, give her a little space,” he said. “You can have a taste, but look, you’re scaring her, and we won’t get the best results this way. Remember, there’s a lot to win here if we play our cards right, OK, Jose?”
Jose’s face twisted. “Is it for real, what you said about her conditioning?”
“Totally, man. You’ve just got to wait, get her through the whole course of training, and you can have –”
“All right, all right.” He reached out for my turnover. I let him take it. His fingers probed the doughy sides, the central filling, the tasty tidbit in the middle. He could be gentle when he wanted to, and I felt myself warming again – but pleasantly. Nothing out of control. Cameron was right, the second day was easier.
Cameron and Jerry had each taken a bun, and they were squeezing them appreciatively. “I think the buns came out nice and soft,” I said. “Soda-raised, but it’s all about the flour. I used soft white wheat, and let them rise for several hours without punching them down.”
Jose was mauling the turnover. He could be gracious with it, it took a lot of work.
“Gently,” said Cameron. I looked up at him gratefully, my face rosy red. My eyes locked into Cameron’s as Jose touched the turnover, less brutally, across the surface of it, the crusty exterior edges, the squishy insides with their apples and berries. Cameron said into my eyes, “What kind of pastry is it?”
“Turnover,” I breathed. Jerry was stroking my buns from behind. “Apple and berry filling, puff pastry crust.”
“Touch the turnover softly,” said Cameron. If he eyes left me, I would fall. “Be nice –” But Jose was bending down to taste it. I spread my legs. I wanted to sit down, but I’d have to ask Jerry for my buns back, and he was enjoying them. “Tell us about how you made it,” continued Cameron, his bug-eyes on my wares, as Jose spread the crusty edges and touched his tongue to the juicy filling.
The warmth was spreading down my neck now, down onto my chest, and across Jerry’s head. I could feel us glowing softly together. “While they’re looking at your pastries, do you mind if I have another look at your boots?” said Cameron. “I’ve been thinking about the symbols on them.”
I smiled at him, his face like a honey baklava, and I wanted to kiss him. I just glowed at him. It was so very, very pleasant to be among Mitchell’s friends lately. So warm. “Please,” I said, taking out the boots, “have another look.” I was secretly hoping he would touch the boots, maybe even kiss them, and he did not disappoint me. His hands stroked gently along them, smoothing the stitching, and slid along the baseball bat on the left boot, like a batter lifting his bat for the inning.
I could tell Jose was enjoying his turnover, he snorted and snuffled at it, and he’d eaten most of it, but there were more where it came from. “Jerry,” I said, “don’t you want a pastry as well? A turnover or a chocolate mousse? The eclaire’s ruined, I’m afraid, but I have a very nice banana-cream pie?”
“Yeah, banana-cream pie sounds terrific, Sis,” said Jerry.
My face suddenly glowed hot, hot. “Don’t call me that!” I thundered. My voice shook the house. My turnover got too hot for Jose’s mouth, and he had to pull away for a minute. He blew on it.
“It’s just that we share you now,” said Cameron. As an aside to Mitchell, he added, “With all that repetition, it’s too late to argue any more.” And back to me. “We’re all your brothers, and we all take care of you now, Lindsay. We’ll all take very good care of you, and we really appreciate your boots and your pastries, and everything. OK?”
“OK,” I said, panting. “Just don’t call me Sis.” The heat from my anger had spread, and spread, to my arms, my hands, my legs, to the turnover Jose was licking out the last of, and to his head. It glowed red, like the taillights of a car ahead of me at night, when it’s raining. I pulled Jose closer. I was pulling his hair, couldn’t stop myself.
“Finish it!” I groaned, and with a final chomp, he did. I swayed as I stood there, leaning on a chair, looking at Cameron, surrounded by rainbows. Cameron leered back, like I was a danish myself, and he was eating the cream cheese filling, and tossing the rest.
Soon afterwards, they let me get to bed. Thank God. They were very sweet, but the whole thing left me just exhausted.