The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  “Will you be my wife?”

  A ringing commenced in Elsie’s ears. Josef was nearly twice her age, a friend of her father’s, beloved as a kind uncle or older brother perhaps, but not as a husband. The sideways stares of the Nazi guests seemed to press in on her like a wooden-toothed nutcracker. Josef waited with casual confidence. Had he always seen her this way? Was she so naive that she’d missed the indications?

  The gemstones winked blood red in the candlelight.

  Elsie dropped her hands to her lap. “It’s too much,” she said.

  Josef forked the pig belly, piling stringy meat onto his plate. He took Elsie’s plate and did the same. “I know. I shouldn’t have asked tonight with so much going on, but I couldn’t help myself.” He laughed and kissed her cheek. “A superb Christmas feast!”

  Elsie focused on the food before her and not the ring on her hand. But the pork was so lardy she needn’t chew; the jelly rind slid down her throat; the potatoes were gray and mushy; the sausage mealy and under cooked. She washed it all down with red wine and tasted again her First Communion host. Acid crept up her throat. Bread. She took a bite of the buttered brötchen, the taste and smell familiar and comforting.

  She didn’t speak the entire meal. At the end of the main course, the boy’s musical performance also concluded. The orchestra, having had their break, returned to the stage in preparation for dessert and dancing. Elsie watched over the seated crowd as the SS guard marched her caged songbird to the back of the hall and through a service door.

  “That boy.” She turned to Josef. “Does he have to go back?”

  The silver candelabras reflected the empty cavity of the piglet’s body and Nazi uniforms at every other chair.

  Midair, Josef halted a last spoonful of potato spaetzle. “He’s a Jew.” He ladled the wormy noodles into his mouth before the waiter retrieved his empty plate.

  Elsie tried to sound casual. “He’s only half Jewish … and that voice.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to belong with the rest.”

  “A Jew is a Jew.” Josef took her hand, fingering the ring. “You are too softhearted. Forget those things. Tonight is a celebration.”

  From the candles, heat rose in wavy reflections. Elsie’s temples pulsed. The pitchy squeal in her head crescendoed.

  “Josef, would you excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and stood.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I need a minute to …”

  “Oh.” Josef nodded. “The WC is down the hall, to the right. Don’t get lost or we’ll have to send the Gestapo to find you.” He laughed.

  Elsie gulped and forced a feeble smile. She walked leisurely through the glittering banquet hall but quickened her pace alone in the shadowed corridor, past the sign marked Toilette until she reached the double doors leading to the back alley.

  ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY

  2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  NOVEMBER 5, 2007

  Reba’s cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” She read the text message: PROCESSIN VAN OF ILLEGALS. B HOME LATE. She sighed and tossed the phone back into her purse.

  “Problem?” asked Jane.

  “No, just more Rudy’s Bar-B-Q takeout for me. I’m a regular.”

  “I hear that, honey.” Jane tapped her fingers on the table. “Boyfriend?”

  “Not exactly.” Reba shuffled the items in her handbag, then zipped it.

  “Oh, come on. It’s just us girls.” Jane made like she was locking her mouth with a key.

  Reba paused. Again, Jane was toeing—no, pushing the line that separated the journalist from the subject. It wasn’t professional to talk about her relationships. The job was to get interviewees to talk about theirs; then she’d write it up and the magazine printed it a thousand times over for public consumption. She was known for her feature profiles. She could wheedle out intimate stories from just about anybody her editor put in front of her; but her life was private, and she meant to keep it that way. She’d just met this woman. Jane was a total stranger. No, completely inappropriate.

  But there was something about her, a calm intensity, that gave the illusion—correct or not—of trustworthiness. And the fact was, Reba didn’t have many friends in the El Paso. She didn’t trust most people. She’d been jaded by far too many who said one thing but did another. Lied, in essence. Not that she could point a finger. She lied too, every day, big and small, even to herself. She told herself she didn’t need companionship. She was independent, self-sufficient, and free. Riki had been the only one she dared trust here, and only to a limited extent. But lately, even things with him were going sour. She felt a budding loneliness, and with it came the familiar emptiness that once threatened to swallow her whole. She missed her older sister, Deedee, and her momma, too. Family. The very people she’d traveled thousands of miles to leave behind.

  On quiet El Paso nights when Riki was working late, the loneliness would sometimes consume her like it did in her childhood, and she’d pour a glass of wine, open the kitchen window, and let the desert breeze kick up the linen curtains. It made her think of her last August Sunday in Richmond. Deedee had come over with two bottles of Château Morrisette. They’d drunk barefoot on the fresh-cut lawn, green clippings stuck to their toes. By the second cork pop, wine wasn’t the only thing being poured into the night. Tipsy on illusive dreams, they forgot all their girlhood tears, talking of quixotic futures until even the lightning bugs turned off their lights; and for once, they understood why their daddy drank bourbon like lemonade. It was nice to pretend the world was wonderful—to gulp away the fears, hush the memories, let your guard down and simply be content, if only for a few hours.

  Reba rubbed the twitch in her forehead. “He’s my fiancé,” she relented.

  “Really!” Jane leaned back in her chair. “Where’s the ring?”

  Reba reached for the chain at her neck and pulled the suspended solitaire from beneath her shirt.

  “A sparkler,” said Jane. “How come it ain’t on your finger?”

  “It makes it hard to type. Too tight, I think.”

  “You can get that resized, ya know.”

  Reba picked up the recorder and fiddled with the buttons.

  “When’s the wedding?” Jane kept on.

  “We haven’t set a date. We’re both pretty busy.”

  “When did you get engaged?”

  “Uh.” Reba flipped her mental calendar. “August.”

  Jane nodded. “You best start planning. These days it takes a while to get all the doodads together. I can show you our wedding cake portfolio so you can get some ideas churning.”

  Reba regretted having said anything and immediately evoked a tried and true journalism tactic: the redirect.

  “Are you married?”

  Jane pulled the cleaning rag off her shoulder and waved it around like a gymnast’s wand. “Ha. Not this old lady. I’m past my prime.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Never mind that nobody’d be good enough in Mom’s eyes unless he had trim on his shoulders. ’Course she’s never said nothing of the kind, but I always got the feeling she wanted me to marry a military man like my dad—US Army, the German Luftwaffe, or something. But I’m no soldier girl. All that ribbon and starch drives me batty. Don’t get me wrong; I respect what they do. I appreciate their service and sacrifice for our country. It’s an honorable profession, and each time Fort Bliss has a troop homecoming, I take all our breads and pastries over to the fort—no charge, mind you. But I don’t want one in my bed, and I don’t want to marry one.” A silver strand fell over her eyes, and she pulled it hard behind her ear.

  “I never even brought a boy home. Didn’t see the point.” She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head, looking hard at Reba. “But I got somebody. Been together for years. Since I was a skinny thing with freckles. Never asked to marry me. Now, that might not sound good but trust me, if you knew, you’d see it takes a lot for a person to be faith
ful when you can’t put a label on it—can’t say, this person is mine. Takes an awful lot.”

  Jane focused on the ring in the middle of Reba’s chest.

  Reba readjusted in her chair, trying to shake off her stare. She cleared her throat. “It sounds like we’re the same suit in a pack of cards. I’m not racing to the altar either.”

  “It’s a pretty ring,” said Jane.

  The bell on the door clinked, and a man in a gray army sweatshirt entered.

  “Can I help you, sir?”asked Jane. She stood, picked up the lavender spray, and returned to the register.

  “Yes.” He frantically scanned the glass display case. “My wife wants me to order a cake. It’s for my son’s birthday. She tried to make one, but it kind of fell flat. His party’s in a few hours, so I came here.” He balled his fists and rubbed his knuckles together. The talon of a bald eagle tattoo stretched over his right wrist. “I’d appreciate anything you can do. She’s from Germany, my wife. We moved to Bliss last month, and she doesn’t know anyone. All her friends and family are back in Stuttgart. She said she couldn’t find the right ingredients at Albertson’s, and she threw out the frosted sheet cake I picked up this morning. She wants the cake to taste like home.” He looked up at Jane, his blue eyes pleading. “I just want her to be happy. If you’ve got an extra German cake in the kitchen …”

  Jane nodded. “Let me talk to my mom. She’s got a knack for making things out of thin air.” She went back through the curtained doorway.

  Reba waited for a bang or a yell, but there was none.

  Jane returned within a minute. “Can you give us a couple hours?”

  He exhaled and relaxed his fists. “The party’s at three.”

  “It’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this,” the man said. He turned to leave. Jane stopped him.

  “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Gabriel—Gabe.”

  “We’ll put it on the cake.”

  “My wife would like that. Him too. Thank you again. You have no idea how much this means.” He left, the wind banging the door behind.

  “Now that’s love.”Jane laughed. “Man’s all aflutter trying to help his missus pull off a nice party for their kid.” She scribbled the name on a sheet of paper. “I’ve never been fooled by the romantic, grand gestures. Love is all about the little things, the everyday considerations, kindnesses, and pardons.”

  Reba had always imagined love as wild and untamed. True love was a passionate flame that burned bright until it was snuffed out. It didn’t flicker and dim, weakened by the banalities of daily life. Reba thought about how she and Riki acted these days, every word so carefully chosen, so frustratingly polite, like actors with scripted lines. She tucked the necklace and ring back into her blouse.

  “Now that we got this order, I’m not sure Mom’s going to be able to talk today. Could you come back?”

  When she’d walked through the door, Reba had the goal of getting all she needed in one trip, but now, after being there only an hour, she didn’t mind returning. Actually, she thought it’d be kind of nice.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll bring my camera next time. The magazine will send a photographer, but I’d like to take some photos myself, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The neat stacks and colorful sweets in the display case would make a pretty shot. Her mouth watered.

  “Can do! Here.” Jane opened the back of the case. “You waited so long. Take something. Mom always says you’re never lonely with a strudel.” She picked up a slice oozing cream cheese icing.

  “No, I can’t,” Reba said appreciatively. “I don’t eat dairy.”

  Jane stopped. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t they have medication for that?” She realigned the slice in its row.

  Reba shook her head. “I’m not lactose intolerant. I can eat dairy. I just don’t. I was involved with PETA in college—animal rights, milk sucks, and all that.”

  Jane raised both eyebrows high. “Milk sucks?”

  “It was a PETA campaign,” explained Reba.

  “Oh.” Jane pursed her lips together. “Well then, how about lebkuchen? They’re Mom’s specialty. She uses almond oil. No butter. That’s the family secret. You got to promise not to tell.”

  Jane obviously wouldn’t let her leave without something, so Reba agreed. “I promise.”

  That night, Reba sat alone at her kitchen table nibbling on the edge of the lebkuchen. Decorated with almond slices fanned like flower petals, the squares were almost too pretty to eat; but it’d been a long day and she had no remaining self-restraint. The rich molasses and dry cinnamon stuck in her throat, so she poured a small tumbler of skim milk, froth bubbling on the surface and coating the glass pearly white.

  When she’d first gotten home, she’d set the German bakery box on the kitchen counter, committed not to eat any, but she was unable to throw the cookies away. The sweet smell permeated the kitchen, the den, up the condo’s stairs to their room where she sat in bed transcribing notes. Finally, after the sun melted into the desert and the autumn moon rose orange like a Nilla wafer, she gave in to the loneliness, came down, and found solace in the sugary snack.

  She wondered if she ought to leave a cookie for Riki, but then he’d ask about her day and she hadn’t the energy to explain how she’d talked to Jane for an hour without getting a word on record. Inevitably, he’d want to know what they’d talked about, and she refused to open Pandora’s box. But she couldn’t seem to get Jane and the bakery out of her mind, or mouth.

  She dipped the last square in the milk, popped it in, and chewed. Out of sight, out of mind—wasn’t that the mantra? She gulped the milk and rinsed the glass, leaving no evidence.

  It all started as such a small lie: pretending she didn’t eat dairy. Now, she’d been doing it so long, she didn’t know how to stop.

  It began in college. Reba’s roommate, Sasha Rose, the daughter of expatriates in Singapore, was a petite girl, passionate about two things: veganism and Italian art. She didn’t take part in the midnight pepperoni pizza binges or the all-you-can-eat chicken wing buffets. Instead, she nibbled dainty bowls of pebbled edamame and ruby organic figs while studying Botticelli and Titian.

  On family weekend their freshman year, Sasha’s parents had flown in from overseas. Her mother looked like her twin with silver-streaked hair and a distinctive British accent.

  “How I’ve missed you, darling,” she cooed, and she held Sasha so close and true that Reba had to look away. It pinched her chest.

  Sasha’s father, originally from Tallahassee, was tall and tanned with an infectious smile and a happy spirit. His charisma radiated like the Floridian sun. Sasha had flown from her mother’s arms to his, and Reba had watched Mrs. Rose for the smallest flash of jealousy, fear, or resentment; but the reflection of Sasha in her father’s embrace only seemed to make her glow.

  “Reba, you’re coming with us to dinner!” Mr. Rose had insisted; but when he put a gentle hand to Reba’s back, she’d flinched so noticeably that he’d made the addendum, “Of course if you have other plans, we totally understand.”

  She hadn’t, but the moment was marred by a discomfort she feared would persist throughout the meal.

  “I have a test on Monday,” she’d lied, and by the way his smile softened at the corners, he knew it.

  Reba’s momma and sister, Deedee, hadn’t come that weekend—schedule conflicts. Momma had a Junior League reception. Deedee was busy with graduate courses. Initially, Reba had been thankful, but seeing Sasha with her perfect parents, she felt an aching desire for kin—for Momma, Deedee, even Daddy. It was a hopeless longing.

  “Good luck studying,” said Mr. Rose. With his girls on either arm, the trio had strolled out.

  Closing the door behind them, Reba caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror nailed to the back. The image seemed in such stark juxtaposition to the pretty Roses that she immediately threw on a hooded sweatshirt and burrowed in the blankets of her d
orm bunk like a rock vole.

  She’d always been melancholic and unsatisfied with nearly everything about herself. Thick in places that should have been thin, flat chested and too tall, she’d never fit in with the high school cheerleaders and Glee Clubbers—the little sisters of her sister’s friends. At sixteen, when her daddy died, she pulled away completely and spent her lunches and afterschool hours in the journalism room over quiet newspaper spreads and silent photographs.

  During Reba’s first semester in college, Deedee suggested she take up a self-improvement activity: yoga, dance, swimming, art. Make a new beginning, she’d said. Reba profiled the university boxing club instead, lacing on a pair of gloves and sparring with a trainer. Everyone on campus knew her from the photographs in the Daily Cavalier: her lips bulging on the mouth guard; fuzzy, dark hair matted beneath the headgear; gloves up and ready. They thought she was an anomaly coming from the Adams family. Daughter of a commemorated Vietnam veteran and great-granddaughter to one of Richmond’s largest ironworks owners. Deedee had been a celebrated debutante. Rosy-cheeked and always smiling, smart and witty, she was already in law school. While Reba … Reba was scribbling in her notebook and playing dress-up with the boys. She felt she was always letting her momma and sister down.

  Thus, in a sudden strange twist of reason, she resolved to emulate Sasha, learn from her and hopefully channel her sophistication. First step: veganism. She did a quick library search on the lifestyle and diet. The basics were hard to swallow. No animal products. Period. Reba decided it might be worth it to be connected to a cause, to truly stand for something, but all of the animal kingdom seemed radical. So she chose cows. No yogurt or cheese, butter or beef. She’d save a cow with each declined bowl of ice cream—and did so for nearly three weeks.

  Then Valentine’s Day arrived, and Sasha reminded her that dairy cows were sucked of their mother’s milk for the production of chocolate. Sasha and her boyfriend attended a PETA “Veggie Viagra” event, while Reba stayed home.