Free Church of the Dog by Kaya McLaren Page B

the empty beer cans in his saddlebags. “Better let you get back to work. Hey, come on down to the Elks lodge tonight.”
    “The Elks?” I say in disbelief. “You always swore you wouldn’t.”
    “Yup. I’m an Elkoholic now. Raising money for children’s charities while getting drunk. Bring that hot teacher if you can,” he says.
    Ha! As if I would do that to my worst enemy. “I’ll get right on that,” I say.
    “My dad thinks I’m fixing fences, so kindly don’t let it slip I was over here. I snuck through that gate you and me put in when we was fourteen. I still keep a bottle of Jack stashed under a pile of rocks there if you ever need it.”
    “Thanks, man.”
    Then he mounts up and rides off.
    My secret place is at the top of the hay bales next to the window that looks out on the barnyard. There’s a loose board in the wall there that I move and pull out an old metal lunch box. I open it and inspect its contents: three small toy tractors and a dump truck, my mom’s locket with a baby picture of me inside, and a picture of my parents when they were teenagers. I flip the picture over and look at the date written on the back, 1978. I flip it back over and look at it even closer. I bet it never occurred to them the day that picture was taken that they would die young. No teenager ever thinks they’re actually going to die young. Then there’s a program from their funeral. I look at it very briefly, wince, and put everything back in the lunch pail. I shut the lid and take a deep breath. Then I change my mind, open the pail again, take out the photo and the locket, slip them into my shirt pocket, shut the lunch pail, and slide it back behind the loose board in the barn wall.
    From the window I can see Mara open the outdoor brick oven, shovel out some coals, and sweep the remaining ashes out. Grandma walks out of the house with some large balls of dough on a cookie sheet. Mara throws flour or something into the oven while Grandma places a ball of dough on a large wooden paddle. Mara picks up the paddle, places it in the oven, and jerks it so the dough slips off. I can hear their laughter and voices, but not what they’re saying.
    Mara pulls the cork from a bottle of red wine, pours two glasses, and lifts one to toast. Grandma lifts the other.
    “To bread!” Mara shouts.
    “To bread!” Grandma echoes. Huh? Grandma doesn’t drink.

mara
    I’ve been working on creating the perfect sourdough starter. I’ve been moving it around to different places on the ranch to attract a wide spectrum of molds.
    The fire is going quite nicely in the brick structure outside. When I’m sure it’s hot enough, I’ll put out the fire, then mop out the cinders and pop the dough in. I drool just thinking of the perfect crust.
    Edith has joined me for the christening of the oven. Instead of breaking a bottle of wine over it, though, we are drinking it. She and I sip our Italian table wine while we push sun-dried tomato chunks and garlic cloves into the bread. Is there anything better than focaccia bread? Not unless it’s focaccia bread with baked elephant garlic and extra-virgin olive oil all over it.
    “You know, Edith, I used to hate the word lady .”
    “Whatever for?”
    “Sit like a lady, act like a lady, talk like a lady. The word seemed like a club to beat women back into submission.”
    She just laughs at me.
    “But then my friend was teaching me to make bread dough and informed me that lady originally meant she who kneads the bread . She laughed and laughed at having turned me into a lady.”
    Edith laughs even more.
    I refill our wineglasses before we take our beautiful loaves over to the oven.
    Harvey watches us from his pen, sniffing the air and greeting us with little grunting noises that warm my heart.
    Edith sits on the picnic table, leaning back with her feet up, while I mop out the cinders. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore,” she begins to sing, and I join her.