Body and Bread

by Nan Cuba

  “Yeah, great. And she’ll get her transplant, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Really? That’s not what Kurt says.”

  “Look, Terezie just has to sign that agreement. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s only money, Hugh. Why are you willing to let it endanger this girl’s life?”

  “There’s an important principle at stake.”

  “What, that Terezie’s no longer a member of the family? That Cornelia’s not related?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Those people aren’t my responsibility. My job is to be a good steward of God’s gifts. ‘A man can receive nothing, unless it has been given him from heaven.’ Through God’s grace, we were given our inheritance, Sarah, and now we’re obligated to be good managers of that.”

  I’m not going to argue that Sam and his heirs deserve a share, and that God intended them to have it. Instead, I decide to try a different tack. “Wouldn’t Christ share what he had if it could save a life?”

  “My obligation is to provide for my wife and daughter. God’ll take care of Terezie and Cornelia.”

  “Maybe sharing our inheritance is part of God’s plan.”

  “No,” he says, standing. “I see this as a test of my responsibility as a steward, and I won’t do anything that’ll hurt my family. I just won’t.” Turning, wiping his face again, he marches toward the children.

  I hear their voices, the water’s slap against the dock, but the only image I can muster is Hugh’s face as a boy, confessing that he’s been with Sam right before he committed suicide. Hugh, I now think, had to know what Sam was thinking. Why in hell didn’t he stop what happened next?

  “You’re all murderers,” Terezie yells, backing out the door. She holds Cornelia, who slumps, sobbing.

  How, I wonder, does Terezie know what I’m thinking? All these years, I believed she blamed herself for Sam’s death.

  “You’re the only one stopping that transplant,” Kurt says, watching Terezie motion me over.

  That’s when I realize that I left them alone in the house.

  “If you and your shyster brother weren’t so greedy,” Kurt says, leaning against the doorframe, “you could do the responsible thing and get your daughter into surgery.”

  Cornelia wheezes and stumbles with Terezie toward the side of the house.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I shout at Kurt. “I don’t know you people.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AS I PULL UP TO THE FARM GATE, I notice it has the same chain, now casually wrapped around an adjacent pole. Once inside, I allow the car to creep down the dirt road. Buffle, goat weed, and blue stem grow alongside, overtaking the fields like a forest. From the plank bridge, the creek bed is stony, trashed, vanished as childhood.

  A slight young woman has appeared on the road, obviously the buyer, who has seen me from the house. I step from the car, the door ajar, ignition dinging.

  “Hello,” I say, extending my hand. She rakes me with her eyes: my cropped gray hair, jeans, stretched henley. I wonder how she feels about the sale’s postponement. Does she know about Terezie? Cornelia? What are her plans for the place? “I’m Sarah. My parents own a small farm up the road,” I lie, hoping she’ll speak freely. I point toward the highway.

  “Oh.” She shades her eyes. “Hello.” Asian-American, probably Taiwanese.

  “You’ll be neighbors,” I say. Her small fingers soften my formal handshake. “I heard the Peltons were selling the place.” In the distance, a broken fence droops against sagebrush, and behind, a ledge must be railroad track. I picture my grandfather’s peach trees. “I remember,” I say, “when another family lived here.”

  “Would you like to see the house?” she asks. Broad-faced, dark-haired, she has ethnic features but no accent. Unlike me, she probably says y’all.

  “Yes, thank you. I would.” I close the car door, and we step between wavelike ruts dried hard as limestone. “When will you begin work on the place?”

  “We started Thursday, but we’ve been out here a lot, hoping, you know.” She turns, her elbows locked, her arms swinging. “My name’s Lilu, by the way.”

  I nod but am confused. “So the sale is going through?” Maybe, I think, our Thanksgiving fiasco convinced Terezie to give up and sign the settlement agreement, forfeiting her claim to the coastal house. Or, worse, maybe Cornelia’s health has deteriorated. A lot can happen in a week.

  “There’s a question about a will, but their lawyer says not to worry. It shouldn’t take more than a few months, so Hugh told us we could move in. You know the Peltons?”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I straddle a rut, then keep walking, thinking I’m going to have to move fast to get this farm sold. Cornelia won’t wait another month.

  Four puppies, shorthaired, compact as cinnamon rolls, come yapping. A carport skeleton, its wood sap-smelling and blonde, stands next to the house, which has rotten boards at the windows; half of the roof is gone.

  In the doorway, a bare-chested man stands with a little boy, who giggles and arches backward in his father’s thin arms. The man darts into the house. The boy runs to Lilu, and when she picks him up, he stares, thumb in his mouth. The man reappears, a starched cotton shirt tucked into his Bermuda shorts. He’s combed his hair, which is shaved around his ears and across the nape of his neck.

  “This is Sarah,” Lilu says, enunciating carefully, motioning. An overbite makes her Ss whistle. “Her parents have a farm down the road.”

  They whisper in Mandarin. She waves an arm; he glances, looks away.

  “Small,” I say. “Over there.” I point north.

  “Fong,” the man says, tapping his delicate chest. “How do you do.” He dips his head.

  “Are you going to live here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Fong says, bowing. He sweeps his arm toward the house, caved barn. “Not much, but we can fix.” He finds a bottle cap, puts it in his pocket.

  “Will you work the fields?” I ask. When a puppy tugs at my pant leg, I thump its nose. Lilu claps her hands, hisses. She sets down the boy, who squeals after the dogs.

  “No, we have restaurant, El Taco Taipei. Enchiladas, egg rolls too, we got.” Fong pats his arm.

  When they invite me in, I know I should leave, but climb the creaky stoop instead. The boy clambers up, his sticky hands a nuisance, the top of his head a purple thistle.

  Wallpaper has been partially stripped from the first room, which contains two low, thickly varnished tables, a straw mat, four cushions, a wire-screened cabinet holding jars, ceramic jugs. A curtain of beads painted with a mountain hangs in the doorway to the next room. When Lilu passes through, the beads shimmer then reconfigure, a glass pool reflecting an imagined landscape. She returns with a bowl of scraps; the boy scurries outside, calling “hssst, hssst” to the puppies. I think of our farm’s clattering turkeys, played with, fed, then eaten.

  “You remember?” Fong asks, pointing to the walls.

  I picture Mr. Cervenka on the boxy sofa, his mottled hands folded in his lap. “A god, he was, next to them bees,” Sam told me he said. Now both men are dead. Otis spent time here too, his work shoes dusty, pruning shears tucked in his overalls pocket as he stood at the door.

  I admire the room’s sparseness, the owners’ easy welcome, their possession of the farm already natural. They could be Confucian, judging by the shrine in one corner. Draped in red silk, the table holds a teapot, a bowl of Texas sage, another of sliced bananas, a clock with Chinese numbers, a small stack of dollar bills, sticks of incense burning in their holders.

  In the center leans a smudged photograph of a woman walking barefoot, carrying yams and coconuts in baskets hung from a long pole balanced across her shoulders. Instantly, I admire her: her splayed toes and makeshift rag hat, her open-mouthed concentration. But her eyes are dark holes, familiar, tugging. “If I was gone,” she seems to say, “they’d be able to…” her voice trailing.

  It’s been seven months since Terezie first came to see me. Ku
rt now speaks through his attorney, while Hugh pretends he never offered to pay Cornelia’s hospital bill. They fired their first attorney when he made it clear that Sam’s adoption wouldn’t bolster their argument. All the while, I return to the same thought: Sam wasn’t the brother I knew. And what does that say about me? Digging out the truth has become the hardest thing. My father loved Ruby enough to risk losing his family, countering his most closely held beliefs. And why was my mother willing to adopt Sam? Why did Ruby give him up?

  Now, Cornelia’s spending more time on dialysis; she might at any moment carry out her threat. I shouldn’t have any trouble persuading my brothers to sell me their farm shares at a slightly reduced rate. Then the Taiwanese couple can have their new home, and Terezie can get what’s been hers from the start. I can’t worry about whether she’ll give up the rest of the estate. Right now, minutes count. I’ll have time to stop by Hugh’s house today if I hurry.

  “Would you like some iced tea?” Lilu says. “We’ve got a thermos.” She steps toward the curtain again, dragging her son, who’s hugging her leg.

  “Not right now,” I say and start to add that I must go, but the impatient, dignified woman in the photo fills me with longing. Cornelia’s going to leave, I now realize, once Terezie has her money. Never again will she sashay into my office saying “Hey, Doc,” then sit on our bench, breathing into my chest. Who else will ever do that?

  I pick up the photograph, wondering if the woman is Lilu’s mother or grandmother.

  Didn’t Debbie say Cornelia has longer than six months? Terezie is bound to prevail in court. After all, Genius is nothing but a greater aptitude for patience. I finger the snapshot like a charm, rubbing its slick surface. Pocketing the photo would be easy, but, no, a violation, impossible. I must put it back.

  “Ours,” the boy mutters, snatching the picture, hugging it to his chest, glaring, his hunched shoulder an accusation.

  Stooping, I say, “Thank you for letting me hold it. Is she your grandmother?”

  “Don’t,” he says. “Noooo,” he shrieks, jumping into his mother’s arms.

  “Don’t speak to Dr. Pelton like that,” Lilu whispers. When she pulls his fist from his eyes, he kicks her stomach. “She’s a professor. Show respect.”

  Fong replaces the photograph on the altar. Incense coils toward the open roof.

  “Well, I’ll be,” I say, plopping onto a cushion. “How did you know?”

  Lilu sits, folding the boy into her lap. “Pictures from the newspaper, at the library.”

  “So what else are you not telling me?” Next, she’ll say she’s a fashion designer or a dental assistant.

  “I don’t give a flip about your family’s problems,” she says, her gaze a threat, “but you’ve got to work things out with that sister-in-law. I mean it. Y’all better sign those papers.”

  “Lilu, what happened to your manners?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Look. Whether you like it or not, this is going to be our home,” Lilu says, her Ss whistling.

  Fong clears his throat.

  “So tell me: What exactly do we have to do to get it?”

  The roof hole angles sunrays like a heat lamp. A ginger aroma mixes with paint, motor oil. “Just ask,” I say, shrugging, surprisingly reconciled, while their altar clock chimes twice.

  The barefoot woman in the photograph shifts and stares, her blue irises transparent. Her body mutates, now naked, made of granite speckled with seed-shaped red garnets. She lifts the pole from her shoulders and sets the baskets on a sunken patio surrounded on four sides by adobe rooms with a reed roof. She squats, defecating on the packed earth. I don’t live in your Cihuacalli. I’m not looking for protection, I tell Tlahzolteōtl. I need a different kind of help. Her hands move behind, grasping ground while she balances on her haunches. Her collarbone extends, encircling her chest and shoulders. I kneel, and those eyes follow, each a miniature cosmos. She licks her lips, grimaces. I loved my brother too much, I say. I couldn’t help it. The letters take shape, are coated in mud then float toward the goddess. Her hands snatch; her mouth gobbles. I hurt him, I saw it in his face. And then he died. Something scrapes my heart. Please, please forgive me. Mud rings Tlahzolteōtl’s mouth and drips from her chin, her hands. She smacks, licks her fingers, my confession swallowed, my guilt gone.

  A hummingbird appears in the roof’s hole, moving backward, hanging like a star, then lifting. I point, thinking Sam, knowing the bird’s appearance is coincidental but enjoying the idea just the same. I laugh, my stomach muscles hugging. I move toward the couple’s beaded curtain, conscious of my breath—lungs filling, releasing, filling—glad to be standing inside this broken house with people who are giving it new life. I don’t need to know why. Suffering can’t be explained or accepted, so I’ll live with questions. Sam taught me to recognize my obsession with the spiritual, to move outside my head. The Mexihca believed balance was the way to “gain a face” during this struggle-filled life. Will I always believe this? Maybe not. Transformation is inevitable, destruction necessary in order to create. I’ve destroyed the myth I created about Sam and can love this truer brother. In this way, I will keep him alive.

  As I send the beaded mountain swinging, the thistle-headed boy comes running, his sticky hands outstretched. I dodge, laughing again. “No!” I say, shaking my finger. He grabs, and together, we clap.

  BOOK GROUP

  DISCUSSION GUIDE

  Sarah’s university colleagues close their office doors when she walks past, her brothers haven’t spoken to her in years, and she lives by herself in a sparsely furnished house. She has no friends, and she hasn’t been involved in a romantic relationship for years. Do these facts make Sarah an unsympathetic character?

  At end of the first chapter, Sarah raises her hand to block out everyone in her family except Sam. Why does she do that, and why does she feel close to this brother?

  When Sam guts the fish, his actions seem grotesque, even cruel. He says that sometimes you have to do ugly things. What does he mean, and what does this imply about him?

  Sarah’s mother, Norine, seems strong willed and independent in chapter one when she throws the horse’s reins at the grandfather. But when she tells the story about Otis dying, she seems racist and wants Sarah to submit to gender expectations. How do you explain this change?

  When Sarah recalls Otis telling his Master Sam stories, she says she hopes he didn’t skew them according to what she wanted to hear. Later, when she sits in the USO with her girlfriends and the two soldiers, she admits she’s confused about how to act with Tyrone, who is black. Is Sarah racist?

  References to a steam engine and a fish act as motifs throughout the novel. What do these images symbolize?

  Why is Sarah having hallucinations? What triggers them, and why do they always include a Mexicha god? How do they operate as a structuring device in the novel?

  Sarah’s research focuses on rituals that include an iziptla. What is an iziptla, and how does it relate to Sarah and Sam?

  What does Sarah’s life-long interest in the Mesoamerican culture, various theologies, and metaphysics reveal about her? Is it an admirable pursuit or an obsession?

  Sarah’s father is a moralist, biblical scholar, traditionalist, and dedicated physician. How could someone with his convictions become romantically involved with Ruby? How would you describe his feelings about Sam? Some of the scenes between Sarah and Cornelia incorporate humor. Can you find any other passages that are humorous?

  What is the source of Sam’s ambiguity, rebelliousness, and unpredictability? Is his behavior an emotional reaction to his parentage, could he be suffering from a mood disorder, or do you detect something else?

  When Sam’s taxi drives off the ramp, is that an accident or does he do it on purpose?

  Why does Sarah press against Sam in the pool during water therapy? Is she sexually aroused, or are her actions a manifestation of her longing for an emotional connection? Would you describe her actions as immoral?


  Do you agree with Kurt and Hugh that since Terezie has started a new family and the Peltons haven’t seen her in thirty years, she does not have a claim on the grandparents’ coastal house?

  Do you agree with Kurt that he has a moral obligation to be a steward of his inheritance, even if his commitment jeopardizes Cornelia’s health?

  What does Sarah’s story suggest about family relationships, a balanced mind/body connection, and the effects of suicide?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, Victoria Barrett, for including Body and Bread in your stellar lineup at Engine Books. Thank you, too, for being the rare editor with talent and initiative to become a true partner. You have made certain that my little book is the best that it can be. And how do you thank an agent who has believed in you for eight years? It’s impossible, but here goes. Thank you, Esmond Harmsworth, for your wisdom, tenacity, and sense of humor. I’ve wanted, for a long time, to feel I earned your faith in me. I hope this book makes you proud.

  Surely, my teachers already know how grateful I am, but thanking them publicly is an act of vanity I can’t resist. Remarkable mentors all: Robert Boswell, Chuck Wachtel, Richard Russo, Douglas Unger, and Mary Elsie Robertson. I hear your voices still.

  When you’ve worked on a book for twenty years, there are too many people to name. Generous friends have read and commented on stories that became the manuscript and later the novel in its various permutations. I thank them all. Here are a few: members of my first writer’s group, Daedelus, and fellow students in the MFA Program at Warren Wilson College. Close readers include Alison Moore, Grace Dane Mazur, Dale Neal, Helen Fremont, Faith Holsaert, Elizabeth Brownrigg, Susan Sterling, and Margaret Kaufman. For their inspiration and support, I also thank Martha Rhodes, Debra Monroe, Naomi Shihab Nye, Barbara Ras, Joan King, and Robert Ayres.

  I am grateful to Dr. Veronika Tuckerova for her assistance with the Czech translations. An Analytical Dictionary of Nahuatl by Frances Karttunen was an indispensible guide. Thank you, Dr. Karttunen, and I apologize for any mistakes. The Nahuatl inclusions were meant to honor the people, their language, and their history.