By Jerrice J. Baptiste
The sky grows from shades of gray to black through the windowpane of the bakery. Vincent unties his favorite forest green apron around his waist, pulls the strings away from his body, avoiding layers of flour that consumed it. He removes it through the loop over his head. Scent of a chocolate cake with raspberry filling enters his nose. He glances at the moist icing and slides the cake in the refrigerator, and knows his day is done. This cake will please his customers, Mr. & Mrs. Salomon who’s nine-year-old daughter April will be returning home from the hospital after her cancer treatments. Vincent removes his latex gloves, and washes his hands and face in the bathroom sink. He reaches for his oat-colored towel, raises his head, catches a glimpse of his eyes, dark green skin of an avocado color in the bathroom mirror. It was as if he was seeing his face for the first time. In the subtle lighting he was reminded of his father’s looks. Vincent had inherited his father’s oval shaped face, sturdy nose bridge, and ears big enough to resemble a newborn elephant’s. If there were no cartilage, they would flap in the wind. Vincent wipes water from the faint wrinkled lines around his mouth and lips. A hesitant smile appears. That’s what I look like to my customers? he whispers to himself. He didn’t think he could attract any woman to marry him, so he focused his time on the bakery. His dream was to sail around the world, not to be a lonely, childless baker all of his life. He settled for running the business when his father retired. Since his adolescent years working at the bakery, his father would tell him, Baking is in your veins, son.
*
It’s time to leave to enjoy the summer night. He grabs his keys off the hook on the left side of the door, surveys the shop one more time, shuts the lights, closes the bakery door. After work, he always calls his father Frank, a thriving eighty-year-old living in an independent home. Hey dad, what did you have for dinner? The answer is always the same. Some whiskey and a piece of my favorite chocolate cake, the best slice of life, he laughs with a booming, gritty voice. Vincent tells his father, I finished April’s cake dad. She comes home tomorrow. I’ll be dropping it off first thing in the morning. Frank says, Don’t you let the Salomons try to sneak one dollar into your pocket son, they’ve been through so much this past year with April. Don’t you worry, dad. Now, go eat your meatloaf that I left in the fridge. Vincent hangs up the phone, and walks downhill to the Oblong Creek, a quarter mile away from his bakery. The parked sailboats rock on the water. The silver shimmer of moon and stars helps him reflect on his day. He recalls that April, the spunky nine-year-old who wears cherry red scuffed boots with blue jean shorts all year, even in winter, walked into his bakery and said, I want to work here someday. Vincent looked into her determined eyes and tossed her a white apron and said, April, now, you’re my assistant for fifty dollars a week. Is that cool? April’s voice screeched to the ceiling, Oh, yeah, that’s so cool. April asked slyly, Can I have a chef’s hat too? Vincent replied, Don’t you push your luck.
*
Three days ago, he visited her at the hospital. Did you bring the chocolate star anise biscotti, Vincent? she questioned. No, I brought you a hard star anise chocolate sailboat that I made. She jumped up out of bed, and wrapped her long twig arms around his neck. You’re the best baker around Vincent, she tells him. Her white smile glowed again against her mocha skin just the same as he remembered that first day when she came to work after school. The bus stops in front of his sign that reads Blue Belle Sailing Bakery. Before it was Frank & Son’s Bakery. April dominated Vincent’s mind on this night by the boats like a daughter he didn’t expect to ever have in his life. He had taught her how to spread icing, and write names or wishes with precision on many cakes, how to make biscotti with flavors of vanilla, double chocolate, orange mandarin, and turmeric. For Vincent’s birthday last December, April arrived at the bakery, begging him to close his eyes. She stood up on a step stool behind him that allowed her to reach his neck. She dressed him in a forest green apron. Go look in the mirror, she insisted with her hands on his back, pushing him towards the full-length shabby oak mirror in the bathroom. He looked and saw the words, I-Am-The-Best-Baker. April hugged him, and shouted, I want to be a baker like you when I grow up. I want to make a difference in the world with chocolate. Then, she sat facing the window, biting into a crunchy, salted caramel-coated biscotti. From that moment, Vincent understood his father’s passion, which didn’t reach him until April became part of his life. Nowadays, each person who enters the bakery smiles. They comment on his forest green apron, I see, You’re the best baker? He always responds, I guess I am! An angel who loves chocolate surely thinks so!
* * *
Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet and author of nine books. Her most recent prose & poetry book is titled Coral in The Diaspora published by Abode Press (August 2024). Her writing has been published or forthcoming in One Art Poetry, Wax Poetry & Fiction, The Write Launch, Urthona: Buddhism & Art, Mantis, The Yale Review, The Caribbean Writer, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & The Arts and numerous others. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for 2024 by Jerry Jazz Musician Magazine & Abode Press for 2025, and as Best of the Net in 2022. Her poetry and collaborative songwriting are featured on the Grammy award nominated album: Many Hands Family Music for Haiti.
