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The piercing beep sounded its incessant warning. A sausage-sized finger, furred with coarse black hairs, nails clipped to the pink, poked at the touch pad. It hit upon the appropriate response and the noise stopped. Herman Schenk pushed away from the control panel of the commercial convection oven and shuffled over to the row of pegs by the kitchen door. He lifted off a freshly bleached apron, still generously dappled by a collection of faded stains, and struggled to tie it behind his back.

“Antonio,” he called, trying to lift his voice above the din of the exhaust fans. “Antonio.”

He moved to the stainless steel table laid out with the ingredients for the next batch of muffins. Schenk hummed tunelessly as he touched each item, taking stock. Two quarts of fresh cranberries that the boy had finished processing a few minutes ago, but this bowl was too large. Yes, a quart of orange juice, a pound of unsalted butter, the eggs¾yes, plenty left in the crate¾a pound of sugar, the orange zest, milk, but no flour. He poked his nose over the ten-gallon bowl set under the paddle mixer. Empty. What had he done with the dry mix? Forgotten? Skipped by it in a rush to get it finished? The boy had no concept of time, no patience, no sense.

“Good Morning, Mister Schenk. Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mrs. Reid asked, leaning on the kitchen door jamb, waving a dish towel flag at him. Startled, he hunched his shoulders slightly before turning around to face her. She was here early¾no, it was nearly five-thirty already.

“Oh. Yes, hello. Good morning,” he said, nodding, “Yes, thank-you. My cup is around here somewhere. Please.” He waved his hand around distractedly. “Have you seen Antonio?”

The large woman scooted into the kitchen, her cream colored smock swishing and her white oxfords making sand-paper sounds as she quickly investigated the likely spots for a forgotten mug.

“Just got in,” she said, cradling the cup to her white linen apron embroidered with Schenk’s Schwartzwald Bakery in chocolate brown script. She headed toward the door. “Haven’t seen him yet. But tell him I need to see him too.”

“Yes, okay,” Schenk said, running a large hand slowly up over the deep ridges of his forehead, nearly pushing the white cotton cap off the back of his head. He looked again at the clock above the door to be certain he had read it correctly, then stood shaking his head, arms crossed in front of him, waiting. How was it that, for as much as the boy dashed about here and there all the time, he always seemed to be waiting for him? It was purpose that he lacked. He had no feeling for the craft.

The large steel door in the back swung open. For a moment nothing else happened, then a cardboard box flew in and thudded to the floor, quickly followed by several others. Antonio came in after them and slammed the door behind him. He pulled off a knit cap and unzipped his stained black Raiders jacket as he hurried to the front, depositing them on one of the hooks. He grabbed an apron and slipped it over his head as he returned to the boxes.

“Ach, Antonio. Where have you been? The muffins will be now too late,” Schenk said to him, “Why have you not sifted out the flour? Where have you gone to?”

Antonio struggled momentarily to hoist a box onto his shoulder, then crabbed sideways between the wooden palettes of sacks of flour and sugar and deposited the carton on a rolling table near the heavy double door to the walk-in refrigerator.

“Had to bring this stuff up, Mister Schenk,” Antonio said, huffing, as he retrieved a carton of apples from the back and stacked it on top of the first. Schenk stood watching the wiry young man for a second, then waved his hand back and forth in the air with growing irritation.

“Yes, okay. But leave that alone now. That you can do later,” he leaned on the table and motioned for Antonio to come to him. “You must think of what must come first. Don’t just fly around throwing boxes everywhere.”

“We need the apples and raisins for the next batch.”

Schenk stomped his foot and thrust a finger into the air.

“Think about this batch now. Then later, the next. Now I show you orange-cranberry muffins. You must get the flour ready. It is already coming late.”

“I got it, Mister Schenk,” Antonio responded from the back, grunting under a heavier box. He flopped it onto the table with the others and hustled over to the mixer where Schenk was waiting, hands on his hips, his thumbs hooked under his apron strings. Antonio looked down, and his dark eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He put a fist under his chin for a moment, then snapped his fingers.

“Oh yeah,” he said, “Sorry ‘bout that. No problem.” He reached under the mixer and deftly unsnapped the lock, swung the paddle up, then rolled the large brushed steel bowl away from it. Antonio pushed the bowl over into a corner where several others sat. He looked in one, then another, and then selected a filled bowl and slowly pushed it back toward the mixer.

Schenk shook his head at him, growing angry.

“Why is this over there?” he demanded.

Antonio jogged the heavy bowl back and forth to get it seated correctly under the mixer. He looked up at Schenk apologetically, but stood his ground.

“I can load the bowls quicker and easier back by the stock. Can get four batches of dry mix ready at a time,” Antonio explained. “Figure that’s why they make them with wheels.”

“Quicker,” Schenk shouted and slapped his heavy hand on the table top with a metallic thud. “Is not always better. Things must be done in the right way.” Schenk squinted at him and leaned closer to him, then pointed a finger in his face. “You. You have been smoking,” he said, shaking his finger slightly. “Go away and wash.” Antonio bowed his head and quickly backed up from the mixer, then went back to the deep sink.

“Makes you dirty, and your nose is ruined,” Schenk called after him. He reached up and pulled the mixing head down slowly, careful to not drop it on the bowl. Then he felt around underneath for the catch. Mrs. Reid leaned into the kitchen.

“Here you go, Mister Schenk, I’m putting it right over here,” she called out as she slipped a fresh mug of coffee onto the shelf by the telephone.

Schenk looked over his shoulder from where he was fumbling with the lock on the mixer, then waved his hand in her direction.

“Yes, okay,” he said.

Mrs. Reid looked around and saw Antonio back at the sink; she gave him a friendly wave and took a few steps toward him.

“There you are, Antonio,” she said, “Got some questions for you. How come I’m short a rack each of blueberry and poppy seed? I think the bagels might be a little short too. And I don’t have enough room for all the strudel.”

Antonio looked over at Schenk, then back to Mrs. Reid.

“Yeah. We’ve been tossing that many out every day. Cranberry and apple-raisin do better, and we can’t seem to make enough strudel these days. We talked about it, and that’s what first bake will be from now on. If you get down to a single rack, we’ll make another batch.” He cocked his head to the side, and scratched his chin. “Not sure about bagels. They should be the same.”

“What do I do with the empty space?” she asked.

“Um, how about splitting your stock in half, so the bottom of the rack facing the counter is filled up, or put the extra strudel in back until you need it.”

“Works for me,” she said, “Cup of coffee, hon?”

“That’d be great. Thanks,” he said.

Drying his hands on his apron, Antonio rejoined Schenk at the mixer. He was standing heavily, with both his hands leaning on the table top.

“Check that this is snapped,” he said, nodding his head toward the paddle mixer, his voice tired and still smoldering. “I can’t get it.”

Antonio knelt on one knee and rattled the safety clasp until there was an audible pop from the mechanism.

“Damn thing’s gumming up again,” he said, “I’ll clean it up good after the first batches are finished.” Schenk nodded.

“Yes, okay,” he muttered, “After the muffins.”

He went to the shelf by the telephone and wrapped his hands around the hot mug, then closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, savoring the earthy roasted aroma of the coffee. He nodded appreciatively, then took a long slurping drink. Antonio checked the temperature of the oven, then pulled several sheets of muffin pans out of the rack beside it and carried them back to the work table. He grabbed a spatula and mixing bowl and set them beside the paddle mixer, then dropped the butter into the bowl. Schenk held a hand up.

“Wait, Antonio. Don’t go rushing. We make them with care.”

Antonio shook his head slightly. He crossed his arms.

“A moment ago, you were in a giant hurry to get this batch in the oven. So which is it?” he said.

Schenk’s head snapped upward. He trembled slightly and his jowls shook. He came over, poked a fat finger into Antonio’s chest and glared up into the young man’s face.

“Don’t you snap at me. I’m not tolerating insolence.”

Antonio’s dark eyes went wide with shock and he raised a hand in reflexive defense, but when he made contact with the heavy finger he did not brush it away. He dropped his hand and took a small step backward.

“I… I’m not…” he said. His voice faltered and his eyes watered slightly. He waited another moment to regain his composure. Schenk’s hands shook as he wrapped them around his mug and raised it to his mouth and took another loud sip of coffee.

“You should be more grateful. We have given you this chance,” Schenk said.

“We? You mean Mrs. Schenk.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my Katerin.” He shoved Antonio, splattering him with coffee. Antonio stumbled momentarily, but quickly regained his balance. He looked down and brushed at the droplets on his chest, smearing the stain into streaks of amber. Schenk’s eyes darkened, then pooled with tears.

Antonio stood perfectly still. He folded his hands in front of himself, gripping them so tightly his knuckles whitened. His chin twitched and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He lowered his head and pinched his chin between a thumb and forefinger for another long moment before he quietly said, “I… ah… I didn’t mean to…”

“Remind me she is gone,” Schenk said.

“Mister Schenk,” Antonio began again, slowly, “I meant no disrespect. I apologize. I am grateful. To both of you.”

“Yes, okay,” Schenk said, nodding slowly.

“But I’ve been working for you for nearly two years now. You have to let me help you more. I know what you want, and how you want things. Believe me when I say that I can do this.”

Schenk put an unsteady hand on Antonio’s shoulder. He peered at him, searching for something in the lean angles of the young man’s face. What was it that Katerin had seen in the expectant, sometimes troubling darkness of Antonio’s eyes?

Antonio had been like a stray puppy she opened her heart to. She couldn’t help herself. It was her nature to find the good, to believe in the possible, where others saw only difficulties. Her optimism had carried Schenk from disaster and led to his contentment here in this country. Katerin created his life.

“You. You are a good boy, Antonio,” he said finally, “And you should see that you must let me help you. Now, I show you, we make orange-cranberry.”

“I got it,” Antonio said. He said it gently, not wishing to rekindle the old man’s anger. “I’ve done these dozens of times.”

The old man hesitated, then erupted in a mirthful, chortling laugh that ended in a wheezing cough. He patted the younger man on the back.

“And I have done these before, for decades of times,” he said. “We will do this next batch. Together.”

Schenk had Antonio recite the exact measures of flour, salt and baking soda he had sifted into the bowl. Then, standing by his shoulder, slowly sipping away his coffee, he instructed Antonio step by step as the other ingredients were added to the batter. Occasionally, he would grab Antonio’s shoulder. “Not too fast. One egg only at a time.”

“Yes, Mister Schenk.”

Or he would give an encouraging pat on the back. “Yes, good. Fold them in. Don’t make it mash.”

“I got it, Mister Schenk.”

When the batter was ready, Antonio scooped it into the large, metering funnel, while Schenk readied the muffin tins.

“Look here, closely,” Schenk said to him, as he pushed a thumb into one of the cups, indicating a level. “Here, is not enough. It will be flat. Up here, is now too much, and you will make a mess. Right here,” he said, fixing Antonio with his cloudy blue eyes, demanding his attention. “Right here, is where you must fill them, so that you get a nice big cap. This is happy. This is what everyone is looking for.” He stepped back and made a series of rising, wide circles with his hands; his eyes gleamed, and his voice grew louder with each gesture. “Large muffin, swelled up, enthusiastic, popping with berries, you see?”

Antonio smiled at him and nodded quickly, then said, “Smelling warm and sweet, golden and optimistic as the new morning.”

The old man was taken aback. His brow furrowed deeply and his jowls shook, but for only the passing few seconds when it occurred to him the young man might be mocking him. Then he eased, and smiled, and nodded slowly.

“Heh, heh, yes,” he said. “Optimistic. Yes. Very good, my boy. Optimistic.”

“I got¾ I understand, Mister Schenk,” he said.

Antonio leaned over the baking sheets with the funnel tucked awkwardly under his arm and began to drop dollops of precisely sized batter into individual muffin cups. Schenk watched closely from behind, humming to himself, then rotated the sheet for him when a side was filled up. While Antonio was filling the second sheet, Mrs. Reid hurried back into the kitchen.

“Hey, where are the cranberries? I’m opening up.”

“Yes, okay, Mrs. Reid,” Schenk said, then gave the young man a nudge and added more jovially, “You must not rush Antonio. He knows this must take time.” He wiped a splatter from the table with his thumb, then tasted it. “Good,” he said, “It’s okay. The muffins will be ready in thirty minutes. Okay?”

Mrs. Reid shrugged and walked back into the store, shaking her head. When the cups were all full, Antonio quickly slid the prepared baking sheets into the oven. The old man pulled a stool out from under the table and eased down on it, resting his coffee mug on his belly. He nodded slowly, a wistful smile on his face.

“Antonio,” he said, “you shall make the next batch on your own.” He seemed about to nod off, but then roused himself, and put an index finger to his temple. “And, yes. I forget. We make less bagels each morning now too.”

He didn’t love her anymore. He knew, but it ate at him knowing she didn’t love him either. She may have been a hot tamale when it came to Carver, but was a cold fish to him. She tossed her head towards him as she spoke with vehemence, as if she were saying who the hell are you and why am I even talking to you.

Reconciliation seemed unlikely.

Kip could remember the way he had loved her. It was an easy thing to do. Curry had soft red hair that spilled over her shoulders and down her back, a tawny waterfall that swished and twisted in Syracuse’s steady breeze. She had a way of widening her eyes when she made a point that hypnotized him. Beautiful by any standard, she never seemed completely comfortable about it. He loved her the first time he saw her outside the Carrier Dome collecting canned goods for operation rescue. He’d brought a can of favabeans and some Beefaroni he’d foraged from the cupboard.

Curry didn’t notice him or his beans. She was drinking in the sparkling water of college life. Having grown up in smallish Oyster Bay, she was enjoying her first taste of freedom. She ate everything up.

Kip got a second chance to make a first impression at a Halloween party given by a fraternity his lab partner belonged to. They had driven into the country and bought a patch-full of pumpkins from a muck farmer at a sagging roadside stand.

“We’re making jack-o-lanterns,” Kip had said to him. The farmer had just nodded. Kip was startled at the amount of flesh they scooped out of the pumpkins.

“I always thought they were hollow, but there’s orange goop in them,” he related to the other partygoers after they had returned with the gourds. Unfortunately, Kip’s pumpkin trek had taken so long Curry had already come and gone from the party. Her best friend, Chanterelle, had pulled out a filling on a bite of candy apple and needed emergency dental treatment. So while Kip was talking pumpkins, the two girls were sitting in an antiseptic waiting room flipping through two-month-old People magazines and enduring the subliminal music.

Other near misses followed. He’d get a passing glimpse of her on the street or in the pizza line. Kim felt like he knew her somehow. She was the apple of his eye. Somehow, he felt they should end up together.

Kip chewed the ear off of anyone who’d let him talk about her to them. He was transfixed and frustrated by her. How can I meet this girl, he plotted. How?

Kip’s next break came when he took a job delivering vegetable kabobs and assorted baked items for the Earth Easy Food Works. It was a new place run by a Pakistani named Shi’is. Kip barely understood him but shared his passion for unusual food. Shi’is used to bake crisp little tarts with dates and honey that made Kip’s mouth water. They were busy but not rushed so Kip sampled the entire menu over the few weeks he was the delivery guy. Everything was luscious.

One night, as he stood there with an order of watercress sandwiches on fresh oat bread, the door opened and there she stood. She positively sparkled. In a pair of Levi’s and a loose gray T-shirt with Hershey across the front she looked like she could be on the cover of a fashion magazine. A lump grew in Kip’s throat. Curry smiled at him. It was a warm welcoming smile that seemed to say hi, how are you, I think I could be in love with you soon.

She said, “Hi.”

He said, “Hi, I’m Kip from the Easy Earth…no…I mean the Food Worths…Works. I have oat sandled cretht sandwiches for you to use.” Beads of perspiration popped out of his forehead. His legs shook and his face burned. She continued to smile that radiant beam of hers but a tiny crease formed in the brow between her liquid green eyes. She leaned slightly away from him, a heavy breathing puddle of perspiration.

“Did anybody order food? I think there’s a food guy here,” she shouted over her shoulder. He breathed at her as he looked into her house. This was where she lived and slept and showered and…other things, he thought. He was losing his composure. She turned back and flashed him a glimmer of the dazzler she had first offered.

“I think you might have the wrong place,” she said, “Sorry.” He felt his moment slipping away. He needed to say something intelligent, anything cool, right now or all would be lost.

His lip quivered. Curry shifted a little in the doorway, her smile faded to uneasy grin. She squinted at him.

“Oh…wow, I’m mmmm um sorry,” he mumbled.

“At’s akay. See ya now,” she chirped, relieved of the suddenly uncomfortable situation. Her front door latched with a thock that echoed down the empty hallway.

They had met and the earth had not stopped spinning.

He skulked away embarrassed and angry. The bag of fresh food had somehow become crushed and moist in their encounter. Kip never returned to the restaurant. He missed Shi’is’ tarts and realized he’d probably be forgiven for ruining the order but his heart had gone out of it.

He wrote letters to her that he knew she’d never see. He missed classes. He found himself hanging around places she might have frequented. He followed her home one night just watching her from afar.

“She lives in a wonderful way,” he thought. She was so nice to people, so cheerful. He watched as she brightened the evenings of strangers she met along the blocks leading to her apartment.

He learned that she had two roommates, both girls. All three were future teachers and they all came from the same area on Long Island. He could see into their apartment from the roof of the building across the street. Kip would sit there nights with his 50 power army field glasses and a bag of cinnamon crullers, munching away the time and waiting for the arrival of his intended. Sometimes he had chips as well. She never disappointed him. Usually later rather than sooner she’d come floating along the avenue, almost dancing home after another day of being wonderful. Often she’d have some friends along with her and sometimes she was alone. Occasionally she had just one friend with her, a male friend. She had a boyfriend.

Kip imagined she didn’t care and was just stringing him along until someone better came along. But he noticed that they seemed to be spending more time together as the semester wore on and fall became winter. His nightly perch became a more cold vigil. Kip brought along a thermos of coffee or hot chocolate to go with his rooftop snacks. “What dedication I have for you Curry,” he thought, “If only you knew.” It was around this time that he withdrew from school. He had missed too many classes to pass any of his courses anyway, and his life had lost focus. He needed money. His rooftop habit had eaten away the cash from home. Once this difficult time with Curry was passed, he felt everything else would sort itself out too. This was very particularly difficult of her. They needed to meet again. Next time he would be smooth and sweet like maple syrup, and she would fall for him. They would have to meet again someday.

Then she saw him and the world really did change. Curry got the creepy feeling someone was following her sometime around the Halloween party she and her friend Chanterelle had gone to. She told her about it on one of their frequent trips to the dentist. Chanterelle had a mouthful of expensive orthodontia requiring frequent attention, but was a coward when it came to dentistry. She often had Curry along for moral support.

“Like a stalker?” Chanterelle asked, excitement making her voice quiver.

“I don’t know. What’s a stalker like, really? I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I guess, just creepy.”

“You should get a PI, girl. You know, like a bodyguard? Someone to watch out for you in case that maybe this guy is real or something, not just a creepy feeling and maybe a real creep!” Chanterelle bobbed her head angrily. When she gave advice she meant for you to take it.

“Maybe I will. I don’t know. Just be on the lookout for any weirdo’s, okay C?”

“I’m telling you what you ought a do, so maybe you should listen sometimes, huh Curry? Her eyes flashed and the bobbing took over her whole body. Curry thought maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned this to her. Before she had felt a little creepy but now Chanterelle was making her paranoid.

She saw a shadow on the adjacent roof one evening when she happened to glance out the window as she dug through a closet, rummaging for a light bulb. She wouldn’t have noticed except that the living room was 60 watts dimmer than normal so she could see through the front window. Up on the roof there was a smudge against the sky, a smudge that appeared to move.

“Maybe it’s the wind,” she thought, her mind racing. She went to the front door. It was already locked. She turned out some more lights. The shadow sat there. She called Chanterelle.

“What does he look like? Lock the door. Where is Kelly and Angela? Does he have a gun? Call 911. Get the cops before something happens. Oh girlfriend! I told you to get somebody to look out for you.”

“I did get somebody, but Carver’s not here tonight. Nobody’s here. Look C, I’m not sure if there’s really anything up there. Could you just please go and get him at the sub shop, and come over and we’ll go up and look. It’s probably nothing but I’m scared.”

“Carver Asado?”

“Yeah.”

“Ooh, he’s cute! When you start seeing him?”

“A few weeks ago. I met him at the longhorns game. He took me to Pastabilities that night. He’s nice.” Maryann twisted the phone cord as she looked out into the darkness.

“Just go get him and come over, will you C?”

“Okay, I’ll see you in a few. Don’t go out. Do you want something while I’m going?” Chanterelle asked.

“Sure, get me half a turkey sub with no mayo, please.” “You want cheese?”

“Na… Just lettuce and tomato, thanks.”

“Okay, we’ll be over in a half hour. See you.”

The five-story building across from her apartment had been vacant since the seventies. Some time before then it was a commercial kitchen appliance warehouse. You could still see some huge metal bowls and other large scale utensils through the dusty windows. Most of the building, though, was empty except for the rubbish strewn throughout its rooms. The rear fire escape was rusty and old, but sturdy. The iron rails clanked when the three of them pulled the escape’s ladder down to the alley pavement. Quietly, they began to climb. Chanterelle was the first to break the silence.

“What if he’s got a gun? What do we do then? What if there’s a whole gang?” she whispered, though not softly enough to prevent her voice from echoing off the alley walls.

“Shhh,” Curry warned, “he’s gonna hear us coming up.”

They finished the climb to the roof in silence. It was spongy with black tar, windswept, dirty and thoroughly empty. The roof did offer a commanding view of the neighborhood, Curry thought. It was cold and she wished she’d worn a better coat. She could see all the way to downtown from here. She could see the Dome from here and she noticed, with a little chill running down her spine, that she could see directly into her house from here as well. Was somebody watching her? Why? Why her? What was going on? She looked down and counted the orange discs of streetlight that shown on the pavement like gumballs zigzagging down the block. What should she do? Why her?

“There’s no one here,” they announced. She imagined them thinking that there never was.

“We did find these, though. Not really proof of much, but who knows.” Carver reached out some wrappers to her. Fig Newtons. Fig Newtons, Oreos, and a tattered Little Debbie snack cake box. She couldn’t quite make it out but it looked like crullers to her. She guessed cinnamon. Could have been Swiss Cake Rolls but it was hard to tell. Someone had been on this roof in the not too distant past. He was gone now but someone had definitely been here. She had him now. All they had to do was wait. She would meet this mystery man, this spook. This peeping Tom creep weirdo rooftop snacking as he watched her, her and her roommates. Well his snacking and peeping days were over for sure. He was dead meat. They went right down and called the cops.

Kip had never seen a light as bright as the one they shown into his eyes that night. It was like looking into a spot light in the middle of the night. He was returning from the store where he had restocked with Chips Ahoy, a bag of Sun chips and some Spicy Slim Jims when they had caught him. Just as soon as he settled back in for his nightly vigil that light came on behind him. Boy, was he surprised.

They asked him question after question, and Kip slowly realized that he was probably in some trouble. How could she have done this to him? If only she had known him better she wouldn’t be doing this. This was really a mix up, a mix up really.

She ascended to the roof. Even with the light and the circle of questions he saw her. Her hair was beautiful at night in the wind. She was unhappy, he saw. Their eyes met. He could see it all there. She was angry at first but then was touched when she heard of the purest simplest dedication he had shown her. He thought he saw fire in her cool green eyes. Things would be different from now on. He thought he might offer her a Slim Jim.

She turned away from looking at him.

“I suppose that’s him officer, but I never really got a good look at him. You’re still going to arrest him, aren’t you? Good. Thank you so much. This is really an enormous weight off. Would anyone like some hot chocolate?”