Fiction
The Bread Man Is Having Trouble With His Wife
The bread man came twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays. An unsmiling man who looked like Ernest Borgnine, he delivered loaves of white bread devoid of nutrition, and as a special treat, our mother would buy us a six-pack of pink-frosted chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles. Everything he brought us was square — the bakery truck, the bread, even the cupcakes. He had a soft spot for our mother, who’d been left in a bad situation when our father drove to work on Christmas Eve, took a taxi to the airport, and never came home.
With five kids to raise and no husband, the convenience of twice-weekly bread delivery meant she could take something off her plate. She began offering him coffee in a companionable way, and the bread man gave her the day-olds at half price. They carried on quiet conversations that were over my head. But for a man who came to our home more frequently than any other adult male in my life, he never had a word to say to me.
Then, one afternoon before my brother and sister came home from school, the bread truck came back empty, and it sat in our driveway for a long time. When Mom came outside, she stood in front of the bifold door and he opened it. From that day on, she spent some time in the company of the bread man.
