At five AM Sunday most people are asleep under a mountain of blankets. But not Hannah Plecter. In the dim predawn murk she slaps the alarm clock to stop its incessant ringing. A few more minutes would be nice, but not today. She has to work. To wait on people who neither know her name, her story, nor why she greets every one with a smile. Everyone except that gruff old man she despises. The one she silently calls Obnoxious Otto.

Hannah pushes up from the warm bed and rests her feet on the wooden floor. Windows of her second floor apartment rattle as, only blocks away, an early morning freight train rumbles past. Even though seven years have elapsed since Hannah came to Cliffwood in 1951, that clack-clack, clack-clack still unsettles her. She closes her eyes and wishes she could do the same with her ears. Hannah goes into the pink tiled bathroom and shuts the door while turning on the water in the tub. It helps drown out that metallic vestige of a painful past.

A shower would be faster, but Hannah only bathes. Once, while walking home, an errant lawn sprinkler inadvertently sprayed her. Water droplets hit her head and face and arms. She froze, then raced home sobbing. It took hours for the tears to stop. From then on, Hannah would cross the street to avoid a repeat.

This particular morning Hannah bathes quickly and dons the dove gray uniform that hangs on the back of the bathroom door. Looking in the mirror, Hannah adjusts the white starched collar, then slips a hairnet over her head. Not a single strand escapes the nearly invisible netting. With her teeth brushed and a slight dab of rouge on each cheek, Hannah is ready.

The nine block walk to work is uneventful, as are most Sunday morning treks. Other than the occasional teenager trying to sneak back home after staying out long past their curfew, it is usually just Hannah, the newspaper deliverymen, and the random few headed to six o’clock Mass at St. Claire’s on Pomeroy Avenue. Today, the sidewalk is all hers clear to the bake shop.

The Village Bakery draws its largest crowds on Sunday mornings. Churchgoers mostly. Many have a routine. First, the paper store on the corner. Then, the bakery.

Hannah enters through the rear door. The aromas of fresh bread and warm cakes on cooling racks greet her. They offer Hannah a sense of security. She smiles at Herb who’s icing a row of cupcakes. The other bakers are busy rolling dough or decorating the perimeters of chocolate pies with fresh whipped cream.

Hannah stows her handbag in the small locker she shares with Ruth Buckmann. None have any padlocks on them because the honor system is respected. In her years here, nothing has ever gone missing. She lifts a clean white apron from a stack next to the lockers and loops it over her neck, tying the drawstrings around her waist. Hannah adjusts her netted hair and slides two order pads in the apron pocket. Though she rarely misses something on an order, it’s her way of keeping track. Just in case.

Ruth is already there. So are Esther, Magda, and Nora. Each understands the shop owner’s expectations of them. Basically, it is greet the customer. Ask what they would like. Fill the order quickly. Ring it up. Thank the customer and, without missing a beat, greet the next one.

Hannah glances at the clock above the doorway. Eight minutes to six. The rush will begin around seven and last until ten. Between those hours, the shop is packed.

The ticket machine near the entrance spews small white rectangles imprinted with red numbers. Behind the counter, the five women weave around one another in a silent ballet that belies the frenzy. No one, especially not the customers, is to see just how frenetic the pace is. Boxes are pulled from the stack, folded without even looking, lined with a sheet of waxed paper, and filled with eclairs, Napoleons, streusels, prune danishes, raisin buns with swirls of sugar icing, crumb buns. The variety seems endless.

The bell on the door now rings more frequently. Each jingle signals another customer. Good weather days, like this one, usually mean more people venturing out for fresh buns, bread, or dessert for later that day. Hannah and Ruth often team up, each overhearing the other customer’s request. Hannah will grab a few dinner rolls for Ruth, who in turn will slice a loaf of warm marble rye for one of Hannah’s customers. No words need be exchanged. They seem to intuit the other’s need at the moment. Perhaps it is their shared experience? Or, maybe just a simpatico that develops over time?

Regardless the reason, Ruth and Hannah help each other through the seven o’clock hour and even more so between eight and nine. When nine fifteen hits, so does the crush. There’s even a line for the ticket machine. If Cliffwood’s fire marshals worked Sundays, they’d usher a good dozen people outside. Despite the crowd, everyone is calm, polite, and patient.

Hannah hopes Obnoxious Otto doesn’t show up because whenever he does, his demanding attitude and condescending tone have everyone uncomfortable. All to buy one cheese pastry. His Teutonic accent only reinforces his disturbing presence. Thankfully he hasn’t appeared - yet.

Hannah surveys the growing gathering. Some customers are unknown, while many others are regulars. Hannah, or any of her coworkers, can pretty much predict their orders.

One such regular arrives with his young son. The pair scans a glass display case filled with pies and pastries. The boy tugs his father’s sleeve and whispers something that does not rise above the din of customers placing orders, the clang of baking trays, and the non-stop ringing of the cash register. Hannah grasps a thin chain suspended from a box on the wall behind her. The number in the opening changes and Hannah calls out, “Forty-seven. Forty-seven.”

The man with the boy steps forward. “Morning. How are you this week?” he says while handing Hannah his ticket which she drops in a can under the counter. Hannah acknowledges his greeting and asks what he would like. Frankly, other than the dessert selection, Hannah has his order down pat. A loaf of seeded rye sliced. Half a dozen dinner rolls. Two salt sticks. Four marzipans. Sure enough she has it right again this week.

“Dessert today?” she asks.

The man looks down to his son and repeats Hannah’s question. The boy whispers while pointing to the display case. The man bends over to hear what the boy is saying. Awaiting his choice, Hannah does the same on the other side of the glass case. A piece of tissue paper and a box at the ready, she watches the boy’s eyes roam from one shelf to the next, left to right and back. She rotates one of the trays on which several small tarts sit. Lemon, cherry, blueberry. The boy again whispers. This time it appears he isn’t speaking with his father about the confections. He seems intrigued by something else in the case.

Still squatting, Hannah looks up to the father, who, while shaking his head, speaks to the boy softly. The boy mutters, “Okay, daddy.”

“Four charlotte russe, please,” the man tells Hannah.

The boy is still fixated on the dessert case. In that moment Hannah surmises what holds his attention. She eases four pastries into the white box. As she stands, she grabs a cookie with the tissue paper and silently asks the man if she may offer it to the boy. He mouths, “Thank you.”

Hannah leans over the case and extends her arm to the boy. His eyes follow her every move. Hesitant, the boy accepts her treat only after an approving nod from his father. Even with the cookie in hand, his eyes watch Hannah’s arm return over the case.

Hannah knows why, but says nothing.

She turns to wrap the box in string she pulls from an overhead spool. With the deftness of a stage magician, she secures the box. After confirming his order is complete, Hannah rings everything up and places it in a large brown bag with the words “Village Bakery” emblazoned on its side.

“Thank you,” Hannah says.

“See you next week,” the man replies. With the bag in one hand and his son’s hand in the other, the man exits. Hannah watches through the front window until the two disappear.

The morning rush begins to slow. Though customers still come and go, the bakery is again quiet. The crew refills trays of cookies, stacks boxes, sweeps up crumbs, and prepares for the next day. Hannah and Ruth’s shift ends at two in the afternoon. They toss their aprons into the laundry bin, clock out, and, after removing their handbags from the locker, saunter out the back door.

They walk together for several blocks. Hannah is about to mention the little boy’s curious fascination from earlier that morning. Ruth would certainly understand. But before Hannah can, Ruth talks about a refrigerator she and her husband are buying from a cousin in Garfield. By the time Ruth finishes, they are at Third Street where Ruth will head east to her place. Knowing they will see each other on Tuesday, the women bid farewell.

Hannah finishes her journey alone, all the while thinking about that boy. She wonders what, if anything, his father will tell him.

Back at her apartment, Hannah unbuttons her uniform and hangs it in the closet before sitting at the small kitchen table by the window that overlooks an alleyway. Hannah peers down at the numbers tattooed on her forearm, the very same ones that had riveted that little boy’s attention. Someday he’ll understand.

But for now, those numbers remain Hannah’s constant reminder of why she gets up every day grateful just to be alive.

Michael Anthony is a writer and artist living in New Jersey. He has published fiction, poetry, illustrations, and photographs in literary journals and commercial magazines. Most recently these include The Coil Magazine, ARC Journal, Pigeon Review, Potato Soup Journal, The Sock Drawer, and The Quiet Reader. His work may be viewed at: MichaelAnthony.MyPortfolio.com