Bread

"When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord suddenly took Philip away..."

I

"Berhanu, will you have some to eat?"

The man and wife sat across from one another in a rundown barn, the early morning sunlight not yet warm so that she shivered from time to time.

"My wife, once more three years have slipped by, and you are more beautiful to me than ever before." He took what she offered and ate. "Your words are few."

"Yes. What can I say in such a short time as we always have?" Sarah looked to the end of the barn, where she could see the undulating opening.

"I know your thoughts. They are like mine; I long for these moments, yet my words do not now come, and I know the door will soon close. Hours are not enough."

"Why?"

At the question, their eyes met. His were liquid and black, hers a blue that reminded Berhanu of the light of a summer sky, both wide and piercing. He reached out to touch her arm, and the muscles under her skin relaxed and gave in to his fingers.

"We don't know. From time beyond time, the door opens and closes. My fathers have known of it, but not of its origin." His hand did not move but Sarah became conscious of its warmth. "It has called me from my own childhood, as you know, and my joy is more and not less because of it."

Sarah looked away for a moment.

"You bear the sorrow more than I." Her blue sky reached out again to his liquid depth. "Sarah, I would stay -- "

"No -- " her breath caught in her throat, "I would have you, Berhanu -- " she couldn't finish, but glanced at the contrast of their interlocked arms.

"Yes. And I would stay but for my aging parents." He paused and waited. "What news of the boys?" 

"Tom and Sal are well. They grow." Her face did not flinch from his as she said, "They lack a father."

"And what of returning with me?"

"My mother. She's sick."

"Sarah, we will be together soon."

The day passed while the man and wife ate the bread she had baked and drank the wine he had brought. Their words lessened with the waning light and the knowledge that the door would close. Soon, the sign they both dreaded came: at the far end of the barn, what seemed to be a doorway of falling water began to pulse and throb.

They spoke words to one another as they walked toward the wonder that was the door to Berhanu's home. He embraced her and she did not shrink back. The waterfall enveloped him, and for a time she saw his eyes as he looked upon her. And then, as she knew would happen, the gateway was gone -- dried up like a passing mist.

"Give us today what we need for today."

II

In the pitch-like darkness of the predawn morning, two boys lay on the floor of a small living room. Tom had just flopped down on his pillow, and his eyes hadn't closed before his brother said, "I dreamed, Tom. That -- it was strange -- that we'd been up all night baking." Tom shifted enough so that Sal knew he was still awake. He kept talking. "Yeah, and before that we'd gone through some of Momma's things. Some boxes. There were notebooks from a long time ago -- diaries."

Tom sighed. He was in the place between sleep and awareness, the place where Sal's voice floated in and out. "Hmm."

"They were strange, too. You didn't want them read at first, but once we started readin', we read 'em all, Tom, and we sat together without fights. That's one way to know it was a dream." Sal laughed softly at that. "But the dream went on and on. We read here and there until we decided to read them all in order." Sal laughed again and sat up on his elbow. "I almost asked you just now if you remembered what happened next. Don't real-feeling dreams do that, Tom?" He stopped smiling, for the thought that it was only a dream came over him; he was glad for the darkness then and he had to wipe his face several times.

Tom rolled over and sniffed, but he didn't say anything. He heard Sal for a moment, and then soon after that he didn't.

"You awake?" Sal fell to his back and tried to see, but everything was still black. "I'm tired. Like I could sleep all day, Tom. You?" When he got no answer, he thought about the dream -- about how the two of them read their mom's notebooks from cover to cover. "She started writin' when she was nine. I liked those first ones the best. She said she met Dad three years before, and they played in the field because the light was "like gold" -- that's what she said in that one, Tom, that the light was like gold." He knew Tom was asleep, but he talked anyway; he wanted it all said aloud. "Have you ever read words in a dream, Tom? I never thought I could before. But it's like I still see 'em."

Just then all the pigeons outside in the barn started up at once. It made Tom jump in his sleep, and Sal listened until his ears strained and began imagining sounds.

Finally, the words came back to him. "So, when she was nine, she also said that she remembered how Dad had stood in the shadow of the barn that day -- she said it was the second time she'd seen him, the day she turned nine. And then she remembered how they'd played in the gold light. That's why she started writing, Tom, because she realized that she'd forgotten the day she met him, and she didn't want to forget again."

Sal thought for a long time about forgetting and about how long it would be before his memories were too faint. He wanted light then. The black reminded him of things he didn't want to remember.

"That ninth birthday of hers sounded like fun with cake an' all like that, but she wrote that she had friends over and they didn't want to play with Dad. They whispered the trash kids on the playground do -- I've heard it before, and I know you have too -- but when I read it about Dad, I couldn't bear it, Tom, and you wanted to just rush through it. But we read it. She cried and wanted her friends to go, but Big Grandma said it wouldn't be nice to send friends home on account of someone who ain't invited. She said she guessed that was so, but she cried again that night when Dad wadn't nowhere to be found."

Sal stopped. He hadn't heard anything this time, only smelled something. Even though it was dark, he closed his eyes and took a big sniff. He thought for a moment. "Now m' nose is imagin'n' things," he said to himself.

He began again. "Well, the notebooks went on from there, but nothin' about Dad for awhile. She had trouble at school, but not like we do. Kids at school liked to laugh at her shoes and at the same dress she always wore -- which I wonder if I ain't mixin' real stuff now with the dream.

"The next time she wrote about Dad was after her 12th birthday. No one came to that. Except him. She wanted him real bad, she said, and she wondered if her wantin' company was what brought him. He didn't talk much, just listened to her go on as they walked along in the meadow and down by the creek. She said his smile was so white she could see it that night after she turned out the light.

"That's when she got the ache." Sal paused again and tried to pry apart reality from the events of his dream. He knew his mother pined for her husband, indeed, he'd heard townspeople snigger behind their hands because she let herself go in so many ways -- all because she thought about him so much. He'd seen the actual faraway look in her eyes and grew to understand her ache. Tom and Sal both knew that ache, too.

And now they felt it double over on them.

People sniggered for other reasons, too. With Big Grandma gone, there was no one to speak up for their mother when the topic of Dad came up. Questions that sounded innocent enough to Sal seemed to make her want to shrivel and disappear. "So, Sal, Tom, where's your father today?" And the one that made her face red one summer morning at the laundromat, "I do wonder, boys, where you got your beautiful dark skin? Just look at your momma's fair cheeks!"

"Tom? How many more hours till mornin', Tom?" Sal waited until his heart stopped beating in his neck, and then he tried to bring the dream back to cover the questions that haunted him. Tom didn't answer, so he talked.

"Those notebooks were full of her ache after that. Even when she didn't write, we could tell somehow. There were long months where she didn't write.

"She saw Dad again when she was 15. He came and found her that birthday morning. He tapped on her bedroom window, and when she opened the curtain he didn't recognize her. For a moment, she didn't know what to say because he stared at her with a look none of the other boys gave her. She said he should stop, she was sure he was makin' fun of her somehow. He soon made her see that he wadn't though.

"Tom, from then on it was hard to tell if that ache was better or worse for her. At times it seemed better, for sure, especially when she thought of that look he gave her. But then, even on the same day, when she'd just been sayin' nice things and rememberin' the gold light an' all that that she seemed to ache the most. And even now that I say it it seems like days in my actual memory. I never heard her say much outright about Dad, but her face told me all I needed to know. She missed him, Tom. I'm little an' all, but I know'd that from long ago."

After a moment he sniffed a long sniff. "I ain't so sure anymore that I'm thinkin' that smell, but that I'm smellin' it." Just like he had before, he closed his eyes and tried to pick out the aroma that filled the room. "Seems stronger now. Tom, what is it?"

But Tom still slept.

"It reminds me of those times Momma used to stay up all night mixin' and risin' and bakin' biscuits for her birthday. Was it every birthday, Tom?" And again his mind seemed to mix dream and memory. "If you'd just wake up you could tell me. I know in the dream it was for him that she made those biscuits, and I know I remember one night before her birthday a few years ago that she was up all night with the batter. You remember that? Her hair was white along with the gold -- I know that. But what'd she do with those biscuits, Tom?"

Sal closed his eyes, but this time it was to think it all out. "And you told me of a couple times you remember her sittin' in that barn with bread on her lap, and she would feed you bites as she sat there. Did I dream that she wrote about that, too? That she made it all for him when he came to her on her birthday?"

Sal cried again for the frustration of it all. "Is it because I want it all to be true that I can't figure it?"

"Don't be so loud, Sal. We only got but a few more minutes to be down, and then we gotta work more. Hush up."

"Tom? Hey, don't go to sleep again. Please. I need to know, Tom -- "

"Need to know what?"

"What's real. What do I remember and what did I dream?"

"Dream? You ain't had time to dream, Sal. Just shut up." Tom raised up and threw his head back down on the pillow.

Sal sniffed again. "What's that smell on you, Tom?"

"When that bell rings in the kitchen, you get it."

"Just tell me, Tom, listen and tell me what's dream and what's real!" He sobbed and swallowed back a full-throated cry.

"Tell me, Sal."

"I told you while you was asleep that I dreamed about Momma's notebooks and her meetin' up with Dad in the barn every so often -- tell me it wadn't a dream."

Tom pushed himself up off the floor. "Come to the kitchen." Through the dark they managed their way. When they got to the south window, Tom threw open the curtain, and even though the light was still blood red, they had to shield their eyes because it filled the small room. Sal saw what his eyes wanted to see.

"But how?"

The whole kitchen was covered in flour, and the floor with what looked like egg and footprints made out of salt and more flour. Not only that, but on the table in the corner sat a box that slumped to one side; out of the top poked a few colorful notebooks, and on the chairs and tabletop more notebooks lay open, their pages smeared with batter.

"Sal," Tom started off real slowly. "Sal, you okay?" He reached out and placed his hand on his little brother's shoulder. "You're real tired, but you didn't dream, Sal. Like I said, you didn't have time to sleep because we've been up."

Sal cried with both hands over his face, not all for sadness.

"It's all real, Sal. See? The both of us is standin' here."

"Tell, Tom. Why did we do all this bakin'?"

Tom smiled. "We realized somethin'. As we read, we was mad because Dad didn't come so often and didn't stay. But then we had a revolution in our minds, Sal, and we remembered Momma stayin' up all night on a few birthday eves -- and you know what else? She wadn't ever mad at him. Well, maybe she was, 'cus she was married to him an' all, but we didn't remember her ever sayin' so. An' then we looked at when Dad came -- always on her birthday, but not always, you know?"

Light continued to fill the kitchen all the while Tom talked, and now Sal's mind began to clear.

"Yeah, I remember."

"And do you know how old Momma would be today?"

"Yeah, I remember: 30."

"That's right -- and that's today, Sal, it's today." The bell on the stovetop rang, and both boys jumped out of their skin. "And that bread is ready!"

The two boys sprang at the oven. Tom threw open the door, and Sal grabbed the nearest pot holder. They were both smiling, but Sal began to laugh and couldn't stop.

"Hey, careful now." Tom watched Sal giggle and pull out three sheets of lopsided biscuits, some golden, some darker brown, and some almost black. The two of them were soon working so hard at finishing the job that they didn't at first hear the pounding on the door.

"What's that?" Sal finally asked. His stomached flipped, and he saw in Tom's eyes a mix of hope and fear.

"Don't know -- hey, Sal, don't go runnin' to the door! Wait!" But Sal was off before Tom could grab him, and when he'd turned the corner he saw his brother frozen on the front porch.

"Well, y'all are here." Tom knew the face and the voice. All his hope died, and he thought he'd be sick there in the hall. "Whatcha been up to -- hold on there!" Sal had tried to run back into the house, but the newcomer, both quick and strong, yanked Sal back by the collar.

Neither Tom nor Sal had needed Momma's notebooks to know about Mr. McBale; not only was he known for his large share of land surrounding theirs, but also for his empty smile and crooked laugh.

"I said, whatcha been up to? You lookin' filthy, not that that's a change. And that nice smellin' smell? I'll just come in and set awhile, and you two lookers can start talkin'."

"No!" Tom had opened his mouth, but it was Sal who said it.

"Now, that ain't no way to treat comp'ny, is it?" Mr. McBale's face twisted just so to one side. "And I ain't askin'." He shoved Sal forward and caught Tom on the way through. "Well! Look at this place. You made breakfast. And to think you'd have turned me out with biscuits on the table. Shame on you both." He sat down at the table, his body sending up a cloud of flour dust. "I'll take one of them biscuits," he said, and pushed Sal toward the counter. When Sal didn't do as he was told, he snorted. "What? You thinkin' 'bout runnin'?" The smile came back on his face. "Well, I called the state office last night, and they's sendin' someone for you both -- don't matter what you do."

Tom and Sal looked at one another from across the room.

"I don't aim to let you two squat here anymore. This is my house now."

Sal began to cry, but Tom said, "Says who? This here place is still --"

"Your momma's?" The question hung in the air with a weight that was too much for the boys. Mr. McBale sneered. "Give me one a those." He reached for the biscuits, but Sal screamed and reached for the rolling pin.

"No! Those ain't for you!" Sal swung at Mr. McBale's elbow, and caught it square. After the sickening crack, the fullness of the large man came down out of the chair. For a moment the boys stood over the groaning heap, and then they grabbed at the bowl full of their night's labor and were out the door.

"Get back here!" The shout came after them like a shot, but they were well down the path and headed for the barn.

"What'll we do?" Sal managed to ask between gulps of air.

Tom didn't answer. The barn door was cracked open enough for them to slip through without slowing, and he pushed Sal through. "Don't know," he finally said. They looked at one another for a moment, and Tom found a quick smile as he said, "You really wholloped him, Sal."

"I didn' know I was gonna', but he was 'bout ta to put his grubby hands on Dad's bread." His own smile came and went. "Now what?"

Tom shook his head.

"You think this place is really his now, Tom? And that lady that came a week ago, is that who he's talkin' 'bout?"

"Be quiet a bit, Sal." Tom put his free hand on Sal's neck and pulled him close. "I thought I heard the pigeons fly up."

"Whyn't they do that when we ran in?"

"Hush. It coulda been McBale." They listened.

The crunch of footsteps on the dirt path made them tense. They held their breath.

"I know y'all are in that beat-down barn -- come on out!" A couple moments passed in which Sal realized the light above their heads had an odd quality he couldn't place. "I said come on out! You broke my arm, and I intend ta whip you, boy!"

Another set of footsteps crunched the ground from the back of the barn, and the boys heard McBale curse whoever came around the corner. The next sound was like a whistle followed by a deep grunt. A crack of something like wood breaking came next.

"Look, Tom." During the confusion of sounds, Sal had turned around to see what made the light seem strange. He pointed. At the farthest end of the barn, a rectangular section of the wall shimmered. "What's that, Tom?" It reminded Sal of all the times he'd sat and stared into the pond.

"Don't hold me so tight, and we'll go see." Tom hesitated, but McBale was quiet, and the pulsing wall gathered his attention. Soon they stood in front of it and tried to resist touching it. "Sal," Tom whispered, "what was it Momma said about the first time meetin' Dad?"

"The light was gold."

"Yeah."

From behind them, and close by, a deep voice said, "Yes, the pale rocks do seem gold in the bright sun."

Sal yelled and Tom jumped around.

"Will you hit me with my breakfast?" The man smiled a full white smile. His left hand stretched out with his question, and his right hand held a long staff.

Tom put his hand down. Neither boy could speak.

"Tom, Sal, how I've wanted to meet you -- I can't express." He sighed. "I know you've waited, and I know you've lost, well, many loved ones."

"We made these for you," Sal said.

In the silence, they watched as their father accepted a biscuit and ate it. When it was gone, the door at their backs seemed to twist and shrink. "The way closes soon. Come." And like men who lived a waking dream, Tom and Sal stepped through the gateway to the home they'd never seen.