my grandfather died at the age of forty—eight, it has been run by women ever since. Men don’t tend to fare that well in my family, as you might have noticed. After my own father died when I was eight, Mom started working at Bunny’s, too, alongside Iris and Rose. And after Jimmy’s car accident, I came on board as well.
I love the bakery, and the bread I create is proof of a beneficent God, but it’s fair to say that if circumstances were different, I wouldn’t work here. Bread, while deeply rewarding, is not my true passion. I was trained to be a pastry chef at the great Johnson & Wales Culinary Institute in Providence, just about a half hour from Mackerly, a tiny island south of Newport. Upon graduation, I snagged a job at one of the posher hotels in the area. But after Jimmy died, I couldn’t keep it up. The pressure, the noise, the hours…the people. And so I joined the Black Widows at Bunny’s. Unfortunately for me, the division of labor had been decided years ago—Rose on cakes and cookies, Iris on danishes and doughnuts, Mom on management. That left bread.
Bread—baking is a Zenlike art, not fully grasped by much of the world, and an art that I’ve come to love. I arrive at four—thirty each day to mix the dough, measure it out, let it rise and get it in the oven, head home for a nap around ten, then return in the afternoon to bake the loaves we supply to the restaurants. Most days, I’m home by four. It’s a schedule suited to the erratic sleep patterns that came home to roost when my husband died.
I find that I’m feeling for another whisker. If there was one, after all, there might be others. Nope. I seem to be smooth, but I check the mirror in the bathroom just in case. No more whiskers, thank God. I look normal enough…strawberry—blond hair pulled into a ponytail, light brown eyes—whiskey eyes, Jimmy used to call them—a few freckles. It’s a friendly face. I think I’d make someone a very cute mom.
I’ve always wanted a family, a few kids. Despite one errant whisker, most of the evidence still indicates that I’m still young. Or not. What if Aunt Rose is right, and menopause is lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce? One whisker today—a few months from now, I may need to start shaving. My voice may change. I’ll dry up like a loaf of bread left to rise too long in a warm oven; that which was once light and full of promise, left alone too long, now a hard, tasteless lump. That whisker was a warning. Crikey! A whisker!
I risk a quick squeeze to my breasts. Phew. The girls seem to be in good shape, no drooping or sagging yet. I’m still young. Fairly ripe. But yes, perhaps my shelf life isn’t as long as I like to pretend it is. Dang whisker.
Jimmy would want me to move on, to be happy. Of course he would. “What do you think, Jimmy?” I say out loud, my voice echoing off the industrial—size Hobart mixer, the walk—in oven. “I think it’s time for me to start dating. Okay with you, honey?”
I wait for an answer. Since his death, there have been signs. At least I think so. In the first year or so after his death, dimes would turn up in odd places, for example. Sometimes I’d catch a whiff of his smell—garlic, red wine and rosemary…he was head chef at Gianni’s, the restaurant owned by his parents. Once in a while, I dream about him. But today, on the issue of my love life, there’s nothing.
The back door opens, and my aunts and mom come in. “The cemetery was beautiful!” Iris announces. “Beautiful! Although if I catch those mowers cutting it so close to my Pete’s grave, I will strangle them with my bare hands.”
“I know it. I told the committee the same thing,” Rose cheeps. “Last year, they mowed right over the geraniums I planted for Larry. I thought I’d cry!”
“You did cry,” Iris reminds her.
Mom comes over to me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “That baby sure is beautiful, isn’t she?” she says, smiling.
I grin up at her. “She sure is. Congratulations, Grammy.”
“Mmm. Grammy. I like the sound of that,” she says smugly.
Iris nods in agreement—she’s already a grandmother, courtesy of the two kids her son, Neddy, and his ex—wife produced. Rose, meanwhile, pouts.
It’s not fair,” she says. “You’re so much younger, Daisy. I should’ve been a grandmother first.” Rose and Iris are well into their seventies; my mother is sixty—five, and Rose’s only son has failed to reproduce (which is probably a good thing, given Stevie’s propensity for stupid acts).
“Oh, Stevie will get some girl pregnant, don’t worry,” my mom says mildly. “I wonder, though, if he manages to find someone who’d marry him, if she’d die young, too.” Then, aware perhaps that this is a sensitive subject, the Black Widows turn as one to look at me.
You see, in my generation, the Black Widow curse has only struck me (so far). My sister lives in constant fear that Chris will die young, but so far, so good. Iris’s daughter, Anne, is gay, and for some reason, the Black Widows are confident that Laura, Anne’s partner of fifteen years, will be spared due to sexual orientation. Neddy’s ex—wife is also deemed safe. Both Ned and Stevie are healthy, though Stevie’s on the dim side (he once ate poison ivy on a dare. When he was twenty—two). The biological men in our family are spared…it’s just the husbands who seem to meet an early death. My grandfather, my great—uncles, my own dad, my aunts’ husbands…all died young.
Also, no Black Widow has ever remarried. The late husbands became saints, the wives became proud widows. The idea of finding another man is traditionally scoffed at, as in, “Bah! What do I need a man for? I already had my Larry/Pete/Robbie. He was the Love of My Life.”
Back before I was a widow, I thought that maybe the Black Widows almost liked being alone. That they were independent women, proud of how they’d coped. Maybe their disdain of remarrying was more a statement about their own security, independence, power, even. When I became a widow myself, I understood. It’s fairly impossible to imagine falling in love again when your husband’s life ends decades before you expect it.
The back door opens again. “Friday night happy hour has arrived!” calls a familiar voice.
“Ethan!” the Black Widows chorus, flattered and feigning surprise over his arrival.
“I hear from my sources that it’s a girl,” he says. “Congratulations, ladies.”
Ethan Mirabelli, my late husband’s younger brother, comes in through the back door, an insulated bag in hand. He kisses each Black Widow, with an extra—long hug and some murmured words for my mother, who beams and pats him on the cheek. Then Ethan glances at me. “Hey, Luce. Congratulations on being an auntie again.”
“Thanks, Ethan,” I answer, smiling. “I guess it’s not quite a cousin for Nicky, but close enough, right?” Nicky is Ethan’s son. Then I wince, realizing I may have just hit a sore spot. Nicky’s cousins would have to have been Jimmy’s kids…Jimmy’s and mine.
“Absolutely,” he answers, letting me off the hook.
“And how is Nicky?” asks Aunt Iris.
“He’s handsome, brilliant and has a way with the ladies. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Nicky is four, but everything Ethan says is true. My brother—in—law smiles at me, then unpacks his bag, something he found God knows where—a minibar, complete with martini shaker, small knife, shot glass and a few bottles of alcohol. “I thought French martinis today, girls,” he says, pouring the vodka. “They’re pink, in honor of the baby. I can only hope she’s as gorgeous as the rest of the Black women.”
As expected,
