Body and Bread

by Nan Cuba

  “Yeah, thanks,” Sam said, slouching.

  “Actually,” I said, standing, “this is a private conversation.”

  “No,” Sam said, “actually, it’s as good a time as any to tell you what’s going on.”

  “Yes, please do,” Saul said, signaling me not to interrupt.

  “Our family thinks Sarah should come home. We believe it’s your fault that she’s not.”

  “That’s it,” I said. “Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pulled Saul’s arm until he walked alongside me toward the door.

  “It’s a mad tea party, Sarah,” he yelled. Terezie put her face in her hands. “Time’s standing still.”

  Two weeks later, I phoned Sam.

  He said, “It’s time for you to get on with your life. You’ve been stuck too long in his fantasy world.”

  I told him about the books I’d been reading and my plan to start classes somewhere. Still suspicious, he reluctantly promised not to ask again.

  Sam and Terezie got married a week later in a miniature, gothic-revival cathedral. Its crude beams and freehand stenciling resembled decorations in a child’s playhouse. Guests filled the forty pews, the aisle a cultural divide. One side held coiffed women who whispered and blinked, waving to one another. The tanned men vigorously shook each other’s hands. On the other side, women sighed, heads bent, while being escorted to their section.

  Mrs. Cervenka sat in a handmade shirtwaist, watching as though a written test would follow. My grandparents, striding like another wedding couple, joined my parents, who could’ve been Neiman Marcus models. They all looked at the gladioli, their laps, the crowd, anywhere but Sam, who grinned when I stepped to my place in front, opposite Kurt. Hugh rocked on his heels next to Cyril, a nature boy in a tuxedo.

  Terezie wore a kroj, her pleated flax skirt embroidered with primroses and psychedelic doodles. Lace and eyelet trimmed her white cotton blouse; tissue paper packed its sleeves. When Mr. Cervenka bowed, leaving his daughter next to Sam, she swatted her arms, rattling the stuffing.

  The preacher was a ham radio operator whose monotone invited intermittent responses. Whenever he paused, Sam jiggled his leg. As the preacher droned, Sam kept his head low, his hands folded. After he kissed Terezie, he held her, cradling her head, grinning at the church’s dome, where a painted pelican pulled feathers from its breast.

  On their way down the aisle, they stopped in front of my parents. Terezie handed my mother a lily, while Sam pressed his forehead to our father’s shoulder, then hugged him. Mother whispered to Terezie, who smiled but watched the men at her side. Rising, my father patted Sam, saying, “Okay, boy.”

  Terezie surveyed the congregation then pulled Sam to her parents, who kissed both of her cheeks. He caressed their hands, talking through touch. Then my brother and his new wife strolled away.

  The Cervenkas had rented the National Guard armory for the reception, the fraternal hall having been booked for a family reunion. The head table stretched along the wall where targets usually hung for rifle practice. Kurt’s fiancée, a redhead popular for her culinary skills, pinned a sprig of rosemary, the fertility symbol, on each guest’s shoulder; the baby was still a secret. Though Sam’s trousers draped below his ankles, the guests noticed his sneakers. “Nice shoes,” my parents’ friends teased while moving through the receiving line. “Dobrý přίtel je nad zlato—A good friend is better than gold,” he said as he shook each person’s hand. Whenever anyone complimented Terezie’s dress, she grunted, “I stand by my man.” Once in a while, she clasped her mother’s arm.

  Friends and relatives of the Cervenkas served a buffet of roast pork, fried sweet potatoes, tomato relish, squash bread, and kolaches. My family’s guests waited in line as though lounging at a cocktail party. “NASA recently sent Holsteins into orbit,” Blair Corcoran said to Kurt as Saul and I walked up. “It was the herd shot round the world,” he cackled. Kurt winced then excused himself. Saul fidgeted. “Clever, yes,” he said, forcing a chuckle along with Blair, while the Cervenkas’ friends stared, such raucousness better than a picture show. Some of our group’s children grew suspicious of the food. “What’s that yellow stuff in the bread?” a little girl cried, yanking her mother’s skirt. “Yuck,” her brother moaned, his face contorting.

  During dinner, the wedding couple sat between the sets of parents, who were flanked by the wedding party, including Saul who sat next to me, and Kurt with his fiancé, Randy, next to Saul. Our row of heads made a line-up for the shooting gallery, the lovebirds its bull’s-eye.

  “You and Saul have something in common,” I said to Kurt, hoping to get them talking.

  Kurt believed the scrawls in our mother’s notebook confirmed his suspicions. He squinted. “Oh?”

  “It’s true. You both like history.”

  “Is that right?” Kurt said, adjusting his glasses. “So, Saul,” he leaned, turning to stare, “what do you know about the Allies’ Operation Shingle in Anzio in ‘44?” His fiancé tugged his tuxedo cuff.

  Saul glanced at his plate then back at Kurt. “Didn’t the Army hold off the Germans there?” He wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m more interested in the Janowska concentration camp uprising in ’43.”

  “Are you Jewish?” Kurt said, squinting again. “I’m confused. I thought…never mind.”

  “It’s complicated, but—”

  “I really don’t want to know the details.” Kurt moved his chair back. “Excuse me,” he said and left, I guessed, for the bathroom.

  “Well, that was rude,” I mumbled to Saul.

  When guests began shoving aside their empty dessert plates, my mother excused herself then walked to Mrs. Cervenka.

  “Can you tell me the seasoning used on the pork?” she asked as though she’d caught the woman leaving milk at our back door. “I have to know.”

  Mr. Cervenka stood, scooted over. “Please,” he said, indicating his chair. His formality couldn’t hide his delight at her sudden attention.

  “Thank you, no,” my mother said, nodding a greeting at a nearby couple. “Is it sesame or caraway? It gives the meat an interesting flavor.” She wasn’t purposely being rude. She genuinely wanted to know this culinary secret and viewed her question as a compliment.

  Mrs. Cervenka folded her napkin, scooted her chair back, and rose until her head was almost a foot above my mother’s. “Is caraway, Mrs. Pelton.” Her voice was an empty well, her face an iron skillet.

  “I thought so,” my mother said. “Thank you,” she sang while she strode back to her seat, chatting with friends along the way. Meanwhile, Kurt had returned to the table. “Caraway,” my mother announced to her future daughter-in-law, who’d recently spent a week at the New Orleans cooking school. That was the only time during the night that my parents and the Cervenkas spoke.

  When the Snook Polka Boys started playing, Emil Kulhanek and Wade Nyank whooped and clapped, pumping their arms. “Wedding dance, wedding dance,” Wade shouted, until an older woman swatted his hands. He flinched, pretending pain.

  Hugh wandered to the portable bandstand, stopping in front of the lead accordionist. While the man’s right hand jigged across buttons and keys, his left pumped the bellows. Hugh leaned precariously close, until our mother dragged him back to his chair. His sulking ended when the music whined to a halt. Sam took the microphone.

  “This is the happiest day of my life,” he said, smooth as a Rotary Club chairman, and people applauded. “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said, pointing, and a whistle curled around the room.

  Terezie’s napkin became a curtain, hiding her face, revealing joy.

  “We want to thank y’all for coming, but we especially want to thank our parents.”

  Tense, hopeful, the couples glanced at each other.

  “But for the first dance,” he said, “I’d like Albina to be my partner.”

  “Excuse, please?” Mrs. Cervenka said, blinking. She asked her husband to explain.

  “And, Dad?” Sam continued. �
��Would you dance with my bride?”

  Mother drooped. “Oh,” she said, shading her eyes.

  “Hold your fire,” my father whispered. He patted her while he stood.

  Terezie glanced from Sam to her parents. “Sam,” she called, but he couldn’t hear.

  “And, Mother,” Sam continued. He held out his hand, beckoning. “Would you come dance with Josef?”

  Kurt grinned, covering his mouth. “Uh-oh,” Hugh said.

  “I know this isn’t traditional, but please. Just once.” While he walked to the head table, people turned their chairs to get a clear view. “Albina?”

  Tradition, I thought. He’d once described it as a habit without a reason.

  Mrs. Cervenka refused. “Sit,” she hissed, turning away. Sam knelt, coaxing, as my father guided Terezie to the open floor. “Stop that,” Mrs. Cervenka snapped at Sam. “If he does not,” she said to her husband, “I will be leaving.”

  “Sam,” Mr. Cervenka said, his voice heavy as a tree trunk, sharp as a saw, “your mother now you should look to, please.”

  “Albina,” Sam pleaded, “why? You know you want to. It’ll be fun.”

  “Get up,” my mother said, stretching across the table, trying to catch his arm. Hugh slumped, disappearing. “Sam, what’s wrong with you?” she said. “Everyone’s watching.”

  Sam stared as though having to translate, then turned back to Mrs. Cervenka. “Just walk to the floor with me. We’ll stand there, not even move.” He pressed her back. “I’ll have an excuse, finally, to give you a hug.”

  When Mrs. Cervenka walked away, her husband left with her.

  My mother sighed, her shiny nail picking at the tablecloth.

  Terezie ran, sleeves rustling, after her parents. Cyril followed her down the hall.

  Then my father came toward Sam. “What’s going on?” he asked, his back stiffening.

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “For some reason, Albina got mad.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  Mother leaned on her elbows. “She didn’t want to dance, but Sam, as usual couldn’t leave it alone.”

  “What now, boy?” my father commanded. His body became a wall.

  I thought of the times he’d whipped Sam, of their near fistfight in the study.

  “What would be the right thing to do?” my father asked, glancing sideways, his voice a cracked chord.

  Sam’s jaw flexed; then he ducked and ran.

  During the next half-hour, I visited each table with Kurt, his fiancé, and my parents. “What’s that boy up to, Owen?” my grandfather said, tossing his napkin. “Doesn’t look good.” My grandmother’s eyes narrowed, while Ruby, who’d come with them, raised her chin like a flag.

  “Nothing to worry about, Dad,” my father said.

  My grandfather grumbled, “Expect you to take care of it.”

  “Sam’s got everything under control.”

  We assured the guests that the couple was fine, that they and Terezie’s family would soon return. Most people pretended to go along. Mrs. Cervenka’s sister, though, tapped her plate with a fork, saying, “Craziest boy ever I seen.” If Sam hadn’t appeared, I’d have gone looking for him.

  At first he sat, studying his guests. Mrs. Cervenka clutched her purse, wiping her mouth with a Kleenex. Terezie leaned, whispering, until he draped his arm around her, pressing her close.

  At midnight, the band took a break, and a group of married women led the bride to a chair in the center of the tin building. Sam, ignoring Kurt’s attempt to stop him, stood close by, his stance a military at-ease position. The women began slowly, somberly, singing a Czech song—“Včera’s měla z růží věnec/ A dneskaj už máš, a dneskaj už máš/ černý čepec, Yesterday you had a crown of roses but today you have a black cap”— while they removed Terezie’s white veil and hid her hair’s crimped ends inside a čepec. When they finished, she slumped, patting her head. Amidst cheers, Sam broke through the circle, pulled his wife to her feet, then kissed her mouth’s knobby scar.

  Terezie was four months pregnant when she miscarried. For days, she and Sam cried, hugging each other and whoever else was nearby. They never mentioned their grief after that. He did, however, send a postcard with a cryptic message: “Don’t trust anyone who wants to forgive you.” In place of his last card’s sketched legs was a doll figure, and underneath it, Troll. I worried that I’d somehow offended him. I asked about it, but he walked away, saying, “How do you know it came from me?”

  One year to the day after Terezie lost the baby, I started commuting from Palestine to Waco for an anthropology course at Baylor. Conversations with Saul became heated while I read Dostoyevsky, Nietzsche, Heidegger, and a 1959 translation of the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas. I studied Coptic, and a professor’s rare mimeographed transcriptions of other texts from the Nag Hammadi papyri sent me to Saul with more questions.

  One day after lunch, Saul and I sneaked to our secret spot. He’d resisted because my questions of late had resulted in testy exchanges, sometimes exciting us until we flirted, aroused; other times we shouted, one of us leaving, silent, provoked. But this afternoon, before he could spread the blanket he’d brought as usual, I pulled him to the ground. The gray sky held us in a steamy cave; the pine brush cushioned our backs. For the first time, I became adventurous, guiding his mouth, hands. Afterward, Saul cupped my chin, pulling me to his downy chest.

  “What have they been teaching at Baylor?” he said, sliding one hand behind his head. Trees cast turbulent shadows. “Can you register for a second course?”

  I laughed. “Apparently, environment shapes sexual behavior.” I waved toward the garbage hill.

  “All right, all right.” Saul stood, tucked his shirttail under his belt.

  “Another Garden of Eden. Like Adam and Eve, all that begetting.”

  He grabbed the blanket, pine needles scattering, and lurched up the slope.

  “Some serious hanky-panky at that house,” I shouted. “The Bible never explains that.”

  My parents hosted a Saturday dinner celebration of my twentieth birthday at their house. Everyone came, including Sam, Terezie, Kurt, his fiancé Randy, and Saul, whom I’d tried to convince to stay in Palestine. My mother served vegetables from a garden she’d planted; my father cooked steaks on the gas grill. We sat at the same dining table where my brothers and I had grown up, a parent at each end. Mother had been sitting there the first time she’d told us about Otis; years later I’d mashed gravy into her blouse. Tonight, our three new members would sit with us, and knowing how my older brothers felt about my boyfriend, I wondered whether there’d be more fireworks. I told myself to play the role my family expected (innocent female) and not to pop off when conversation got tense.

  My father graciously invited Saul to say the blessing, and, surprisingly, no one seemed to mind. Dad sat stone-faced; his distraction was understandable, though. My grandfather lay dying in the hospital. I’d asked if I could visit, but he’d said, “Why? It wouldn’t do any good.”

  I was the only one who could tell Saul was nervous, his mustache twitching while he studied our faces. He talked to Hugh about Bob Dylan. I complimented Terezie’s hair. She ate two helpings, her farmer’s hands slicing beef like a butcher. “This has a lot of marbling,” she said, chewing. “It must be USDA Prime.”

  Sam was unexpectedly quiet. He seemed to hear what people said, but he wasn’t listening. The effect was unnerving, like wondering if you have the flu. Since he majored in psychology, I asked, “So, Sam, have you sat in on any therapy sessions at school yet?”

  “Huh,” he muttered, “oh.” He squeezed his eyes closed then blinked. “A few,” he said.

  “You’d be surprised what you might discover about yourself,” Saul said, and the room became an echo chamber. He cleared his throat; his mustache quivered. “The unconscious is not just evil by nature. It’s also the source of the highest good.”

  My parents glanced at each other, waited.

  “Exactly,”
I said.

  Kurt leaned across the table. “Your fanaticism doesn’t belong here.”

  Saul raised his hands. “Forgive me, I—” he said.

  “Kurt, really,” I snapped.

  “Saul was quoting Carl Jung,” Sam said, expressionless. “So who, then, would you say’s the fanatic?”

  CHAPTER 15

  BY CORNELIA’S FOURTH VISIT, we’ve established the idiosyncratic habits of friends. “Hi, Doc,” she says, leaning on the doorjamb, holding a giant cup of juice. “How’s our desperate non-housewife?” I know she’s alluding to a TV show, although I’ve never seen it. “Discover any new species lately?” Sipping from a straw, she sinks into a chair.

  “Have you considered that I might be busy? Maybe I’m on my way to class.”

  “You’ve got exactly,” she checks her cell phone, “two hours and twenty minutes. Great!” She coughs, rising again, “Lunch.” She pulls an apple from her fanny pack, takes a bite. “Will you still love me without kolaches?”

  We walk toward our bench outside the building. When we reach the exit door, she puts on rhinestone-framed sunglasses but also shades her eyes with her hand. Wearing shorts and a Joan Jett tee, she looks like the throngs walking past or lounging on the grass, except each slow, sandaled step favors the heel. “You move our bench, Doc?” she says. “That must’ve been a bitch.”

  When we finally sit, she coughs. “Aargh,” she says, imitating a malevolent pirate, slapping her chest, then taking a slug of juice.

  “Mmmm,” I say, stretching, covering her need to rest, “this is just what I like.” The tower clock chimes like a pipe organ: 2:30. A group of students walk past, bantering

  “I have a theory,” Cornelia says, crossing her legs, her sandal dangling like a stripper’s glove. “You study other cultures so you can understand yourself.” She sets her cup on the bench. “Actually, it’s Mom’s theory.” She presses her side, closes her eyes.