Southern Legitimacy Statement: I grew up near the South Side of Chicago, nestled into one of the small suburbs where we couldn’t truly say we LIVED in Chicago, even though we could see the Sears Tower hanging in the not-to-far distance. But we also couldn’t deny that we were from Chicago, that the city had it’s claws in us. Now that I live in Virginia, “The South” has such a different connotation than “The South Side”, and I find myself again wondering…do I live in the south? Or does the south side live in me?
The Final Proof
The pastries and breads were all laid out in their cases, and the store lights turned on. Winnie swept the already pristine lobby once more, just to feel satisfied, and sat back at the register to await her customers.
But after a few hours, she had to admit to herself. No one was coming. It never used to be this way. Winnie and her staff used to sell out of everything by noon, and she could be home sipping her tea by 3:30 PM, just in time to finish it before the news at four.
So what had changed? Sure she had to let go of some of the…well…all of the workers to cover her legal fees. But the recipes hadn’t changed, her location had never moved, and her hours returned to their standard times immediately after the case closed. Perhaps folks didn’t realize she was open again?
Walking down the street, rather hurriedly, was Pansy Warins, one of her regulars. Winnie smiled, slipped two loaves of her rosemary focaccia in their crinkly paper bags, and rushed out to stop her. “Pansy!” she called, “I have bread for you!” Pansy froze in her steps, almost as if she was unsure of whether she would turn around or not. Slowly, she rotated to meet Winnie’s eyes.
“Oh…Winnie, you shouldn’t have…” she said reluctantly, but her hands did not move to take the loaves, despite Winnie’s outstretched arms.
“Nonsense!” She laughed, “Two loaves on Monday, pastries on Friday, I know the routine! And now that I’m open again, it’s just business as usual!”
“Is it though?” Pansy said quietly.
“I’m not sure what you mean-”
“Oh cut the crap, Winnie. The courts may have declared you innocent, and sure, you may have done nothing wrong…”
“I did do nothing wrong.”
“A girl is dead Winnie,” Pansy winced as the words left her mouth, “a girl is dead. And it doesn’t matter who forgot to unlock whatever door, or who may or may not have set the code-”
“I went through an entire trial to PROVE I did nothing wrong!” Winnie shouted, cutting off Pansy’s tirade, “Are you saying the jury chose wrong, is that it? Because their decision was unanimous!” She threw the loaves of focaccia down, the bread spilling into the street, naked from their bags. Pansy took three measured steps towards Winnie, her face dark and drawn.
“The courts can say whatever they want Winnie. You can believe whatever helps you sleep at night. But if you think anyone in their right mind will ever eat at your bakery, knowing what happened in your freezer, then you’re crazier than we all thought.” With that, Pansy pulled her coat up tight around her ears, as though to ward herself from whatever response Winnie was cooking up, and she continued her march down the street.
“But-” Winnie cried out helplessly, a sob catching in her throat “I didn’t do anything.”
The wind blew back at her, her words echoing down the street, hitting Pansy like a bullet to the back, causing her to stiffen and turn once more.
“That’s the problem, Winnie.” The wind spun her hair in a rage as if to give her the strength to yell, “You didn’t do anything.”
And the wind picked up again, lifting the bread wrapper high into the sky, towards nothing in particular.
