The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  She’d sat down with a calendar immediately following the strassenfest. A pregnancy was possible. She hadn’t menstruated in months; a product of being on her feet too much and eating too little, she’d reasoned. Her cycle had stopped often during the war and this, she thought, was no different. There wasn’t time to be pregnant, she told herself, as Monday and another week began. During the day, her mind and hands were busy mixing, rolling, and taking orders. But at night, her fear of carrying a bastard child kept her awake.

  Her sleeplessness and physical fatigue made even climbing the stairs to her room a daunting task. Now, she stopped midway and leaned against the wall, fighting the urge to give in to gravity and let the weight of her body pull her back. She steadied herself with arms bridged to either side, then continued to the top.

  In her room, she lay fully dressed on her bed—just for a moment, to pretend sleep and perhaps trick her body into rejuvenation, but the pillow was hot. Her ear burned from the friction. She sat up, rubbed her forehead, and prayed for strength she was certain she didn’t deserve.

  “You don’t look well.” Mutti stood in the doorway. “Not keeping much down.” She nodded to the basin.

  Elsie had been careful to clean it immediately after each bout of nausea and assumed Mutti was too busy and preoccupied with Julius to notice.

  “I’ve got something,” she explained.

  “Ja.” Mutti stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “So you do.”

  The hairs on Elsie’s arms pricked upright. “Is Julius back from school?” She changed the subject.

  “He asked to go to his school friend’s house. Rory Schneider. Bitsy Schneider’s eldest son.”

  Elsie remembered them well. Bitsy and Hazel had been friends in school. From a poorer family, Bitsy married the blacksmith Henri Schneider, a friend of her father’s and twenty years her senior. They’d all pitied Bitsy at the time: her husband was too old to come to the Hitler Youth parties or join the SS forces. Now, three children later, with a fourth on the way and a husband safe at home, more than a few envied her flourishing marriage.

  Elsie’s feet were icy numb in her shoes. “It is good he is making friends.”

  “Ja, I gave him ginger and rose hips to take to Bitsy. She says the baby kicks her ribs all night. I told her it’s a sign of a strong boy. A blessing to have in these hard times.”

  Elsie nodded quickly.

  Mutti sat down beside her. “I’m sorry it’s going so badly for you. That’s normal at the beginning.”

  Elsie arms and legs went weak. “I don’t know what you mean, Mutti. I ate bad cheese.”

  Mutti laid her palm on Elsie’s abdomen. “I fear it is a great deal more than that.”

  Elsie couldn’t stand or move or speak.

  “You are with child.”

  The bluntness of Mutti’s words turned her to stone. Though she had thought it for weeks, hearing it said aloud made it real. But no, how could it be? She couldn’t have a child; she didn’t want one, not now, not like this. Her shoulders slumped forward, followed by her chest until her whole body lay puddled on the ground. She was too tired to cry. She hadn’t the stamina to produce tears or wail or beat her breast. All she could do was be still.

  “God, help me,” she whispered.

  Mutti knelt to the floor and put her arm around Elsie. “Do you want this?”

  Elsie closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mutti.”

  She knew it was a sin against God to not want her child, a sin against everything natural and sacred. She thought of Hazel: the pride she’d gleaned from her children; the ragged heartache in her last few letters. They had arrived the week before. Ovidia had been unable to mail them until recently. Elsie read what she could make out through the dirt and water stains, muffling her cries in the dark of night and wondering where Hazel could possibly have gone. She wouldn’t allow herself to consider that she was dead—couldn’t. The totality of her grief was too severe and fresh as an open wound. If she continued to let herself bleed with sorrow, she feared she’d lose herself completely to it. She wouldn’t show the letters to Mutti and Papa. It was the one promise she could keep to Hazel when in the end it seemed she’d failed her—failed Tobias, too, and now, failed her own child.

  “Shh. It’s not your fault.” Mutti smoothed the tears from Elsie’s cheek. “Dead or run off, Josef’s gone. He left you unprotected against …” She cleared her throat. “You’re too young to have your life ruined.”

  Elsie’s chin fell to her chest. She knew she should tell Mutti about Robby, but she’d never been able to talk to her about such things.

  Mutti stared straight. “It is probably three months along. We caught it in time to stop it.”

  Elsie had heard of women who nearly died from inserting ice picks, razors attached to cigarette holders, and knitting needles into their wombs. She winced.

  “I have a special tea.” Mutti’s eyes remained wide and fixed. “Brewed pennyroyal and cohosh. Six cups a day for five days. On the sixth day, the bleeding starts. As normal as every month.”

  Elsie swallowed hard. A tea? It seemed so pedestrian and benign. “Have you used it?”

  Mutti pursed her lips. “Like I told your sister before you. Men and war don’t change. Things happen that are out of our control. It doesn’t mean we have no control. Your father was not the first man I was with.” She bit her bottom lip. “What happened to you happened to me, too. During the first war, Russian soldiers came to the house.” She twisted the apron of her skirt. “I had never been with a man, and they took that from me. There was nothing to be done. I never told your papa. Only you and Hazel. When Peter died and Hazel found herself pregnant with Julius, she had a choice. Her baby was made of love. But yours and mine …” Her voice broke. “If only I had come sooner. I should have protected you better. I swore my children would never know that kind of suffering.”

  Elsie’s whole body throbbed. Almost thirty years later, and Mutti’s guilt remained. Might the same fate be true for her?

  “You did the best you could,” Elsie reassured her, then crossed her arms over her belly.

  Mutti sniffed back tears and blotted her eyes with the apron. “It’s summer. Pennyroyal is in bloom.” She kissed the crown of Elsie’s head. “We won’t speak of it again. No one need know. We’ll go on and pray for God’s mercy. That’s all we can do.”

  Elsie leaned against Mutti’s arm. She smelled sweetly of dried herbs and honey milk. Elsie wished it would wash over and through her. Slowly, she nodded.

  EL PASO BORDER PATROL STATION

  8935 MONTANA AVENUE

  EL PASO, TEXAS

  MARCH 5, 2008

  Riki arrived early to the station with baggy eyes from sleepless nights. Dreams. The kind that left him anxious and uncomfortable despite the soft nightfall and fleecy sheets. The apartment didn’t feel like home. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d dreamed. As soon as he awoke, the visions vanished into the stucco walls.

  His mother used to tell him that dreams were the spirit world’s communication with the living. He’d believed that as a child until one day he dreamed that his mother died in a plane crash. He decided there could only be three rationales: (1) the spirit world was full of liars, (2) it was nonexistent, or (3) dreams were complete fabrications of the subconscious. The last was most practical considering his mother had never been on a plane. She died a decade later of TB, followed by his father. Upon their deaths, he wished he still believed. He would’ve liked to see them again, if only in his dreams.

  Even more, he wished Reba were there now. He wasn’t the sort to lie to himself. He missed her. Her sleeping body and tangle of hair had once been a comfort, and for as long as he’d slept next to her, his nights had been deep and dreamless. He’d tried to imagine her next to him and perhaps conjure serenity, but the bedside was empty and bitterly cold.

  Riki had purposely not returned most of Reba’s calls and e-mails. He’d hoped that the weeks after Jane’s wedding were
a new beginning, but it was abundantly clear that Reba didn’t see her future with him. He wouldn’t force her—shouldn’t have to. But his mind and his heart were at odds. Work gave him something to do, but even that had become an alienating duty.

  At 5:00 a.m., he got up, ate a bowl of Corn Pops, showered, shaved, and headed to the station.

  Bert was already at his desk with a large cup of coffee.

  “You got the report?” Bert asked.

  Riki dropped down in his chair, his bones too heavy and energy too little.

  “Report?” He clicked on his computer and had to look away from the flashing start-up icon. His eyes burned.

  “Yeah.” Bert slurped his cup. “I got the call at eleven last night. Didn’t you?”

  Riki’s cell phone was off. He’d been charging the battery overnight and had forgotten to turn it back on when he woke.

  “Nope. Phone was charging.”

  Bert reached over to the fax on the stand. “Seriously, man, you’ve got to keep the phone and radios on 24/7. Technically, they’re government property. I understand you have to charge but …” He huffed and tossed a handful of faxed pages onto Riki’s desk.

  “What is it?” Riki rubbed his eyes.

  “Juárez kid got shot,” said Bert.

  On the top page was a news report.

  “El Paso Times wanted a quote for the morning paper,” explained Bert. “Damned reporters. They smell blood in the water—I guess it’d be blood in the Rio, right?” He yawned and scratched his neck. “I told them ‘no comment’ until we get more info from the Chihuahua side. They’re latching on to something about the kid and his family being deported by our station back in November. Sure as shit they’re going to spin it like we’re as guilty as the guy who pulled the trigger.” He took a container of antacid tablets from his desk drawer and tapped out two. “Damned liberal media. Don’t they know what the word ‘illegal’ means? It’s simple English. They got no respect for the people trying to protect them.” He popped the chalky disks.

  Riki picked up the newspaper copy:

  EL PASO, Texas—Residents on both sides mourn the loss of innocence today. A 9-year-old boy was caught in the crossfire between Customs and Border Patrol agents and a group of Mexican nationals crossing illegally into the United States, administrators stated.

  Monday evening at 7 p.m. near the Paso del Norte Bridge, CBP agents on bikes were assaulted by rock-throwing members of a group attempting to enter the U.S. through a gap in the border fence, said Special Operation Supervisor Adrian Rodriguez.

  “They threw rocks at United States agents,” said Rodriguez. “We train our men to respond in self-defense.”

  A CBP agent fired his gun several times. While the bullets missed their intended victims and halted the group of Mexican nationals, a stray bullet made its way across the divide, killing 9-year-old Victor Garcia who stood watching the scene on the Mexican side of the bridge’s embankment.

  “We use gunfire as a scare tactic,” explained Special Agent Marsha Jenkins, spokeswoman for the FBI in El Paso. “This is a most unfortunate accident.”

  The Border Patrol did not identify the agent who fired. He has been placed on paid leave, Rodriguez said.

  The Mexican Secretary of State today condemned the death. Mexican officials said they want the U.S. to conduct a full investigation into the events that prompted the shooting.

  The use of firearms in response to a rock attack is a “disproportionate use of force,” stated Mexican officials.

  Deported in November 2007, Garcia’s mother, Carmen, a resident of the Barreales District, was unreachable for comment. His father, Felipe, is currently incarcerated at Juárez County jail on drug-related charges.

  The Customs and Border Protection Agency reported 398 border deaths for 2007. Garcia’s marks another distressing count in this year’s fatality sum as the border wars continue.

  Riki ran his finger over the facts: Carmen and Victor Garcia; Barreales District. His heart quickened. He got on the computer, flipped through the deportation files to November, and there they were. Carmen, Victor, and Olivia Garcia deported November 12, 2007. His head reeled. He felt sick and tried to stand to get to the restroom. His knees gave way.

  “You okay, Rik?” asked Bert.

  He shook his head. If only he’d done things differently, he thought. If only. Unlike the raid, there was no one to blame. No offense or defense. No right or wrong, good or bad. The facts stared back at him in black and white: Victor was dead, and he had been the one to put the boy in harm’s way. Unthinkable; unbelievable; it couldn’t be true. He dropped his face into his hands. It wasn’t his fault, but somehow, it was.

  EL CAMINO VILLAGE

  APARTMENTS

  2048 EL CAMINO REAL

  SAN FRANCISCO, CA

  —–Original Message—–

  From: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Sent: April 12, 2008 12:18 P.M.

  To: deedee.adams@gmail.com

  Subject: It’s raining here … AGAIN

  Deedee,

  When we skipped around to the Mamas and the Papas, I never imagined the flowers in my hair would be drowned by the rain. Obviously, they were smoking something floral because this place is not the promised summer love-in.

  I already wrote you about work. It is what it is. The stories make me yawn. You can only read so many essays on the week’s newest Bordeaux before you want to crack a bottle over your head. B.O.R.I.N.G. At the very least, you’d think they’d send the magazine some samples. Maybe the reporters are drinking it all before it gets to me. Being an editor is a completely different animal from feature writing. You should see my desk—it’s a paper monsoon! It matches the weather and my mood.

  And no, I haven’t forgotten. I’m checking my calendar for a weekend to fly home, but it isn’t looking good. I have next-to-no vacation allowance, and it takes almost a full day’s travel to get to the East Coast. I’m trying to find a long weekend when I can dovetail my vacation onto the end of a magazine holiday, but I’ve already been tasked with being the editor on call for the Memorial Day events. Maybe I could fly home for the 4th of July, but didn’t you say Momma’s going up to see the Capitol fireworks with the Junior League? Let me know so I don’t waste energy planning.

  Riki’s doing fine, I guess. I called him last week, but he was in the middle of something at the station. He sounded preoccupied. I don’t know what’s been going on with him or us this past month. All I know is that he feels … distant. Did I make the wrong decision, D? I ask myself that at least three times a day, like meals.

  That’s the cruddy view from the Pacific coast this week. How’s the world facing the Atlantic? Miss you.

  Love, Reba

  At dusk, Reba watched a ship come into harbor. The raging nimbus clouds had abated and the temperature was mild enough to sit outside on her balcony; however, a ghoulish fog rose from underfoot, climbing higher and higher until it blocked the sun and moon entirely.

  Reba hadn’t gone with so little sunshine since Virginia, where she’d felt the urge to cry every January to April. In college, Sasha had asked if she had SAD, seasonal affective disorder. Reba thought it some kind of gibe until she took Psychology 101 and her professor devoted a whole lecture day to its symptoms and treatment. Too closely resembling her daddy’s depression, she’d denied any association and kept her tears at bay when Sasha was around. With an average of 302 sunny days a year, El Paso had been unknowingly therapeutic.

  Now, she felt the familiar ache times ten. Her lips trembled; her eyes burned to expel the weighty sadness that filled her like the rain in her balcony’s empty flowerpots. She couldn’t blame the weather entirely. The feeling remained even when the California sun twinkled on the bay and the sky above Crissy Field was painted true blue. Then, it seemed even worse, and a tear or two would make its way out.

  In the harbor below, the ship seemed no bigger than a toy boat, a winding streak of charcoal-colored waves in its wake. A man stood on the
empty deck, a miniature tin soldier with a splinter of wood between him and the deep ocean. His small size made Reba feel small too.

  The magazine was bigger than she’d expected—so many bylines, deadlines, and word counts, she barely saw the same people twice in the coffee room. Unlike at Sun City, San Francisco Monthly expected her to work exclusively from the office, never at home. She spent many long nights eating kung pao shrimp at her cubicle desk, the sour smell of garlic the only thing permeating the gray fabric walls. She didn’t know which was worse: alone in her office or alone in her apartment. Sitting at home watching Sex and the City reruns was a blatant reminder that there was no sex in her city, no glamorous life of martinis and columnist fame. The tragedy was that she didn’t particularly long for it. Instead, she daydreamed of Riki, Elsie, and Jane. She had talked briefly with Jane a few weeks before and felt a surge of nostalgia at the sound of pans banging in the background.

  Riki had been increasingly reserved in their sparse phone conversations. His e-mails were nonexistent. Since March she’d felt the distance pushing them further and further from the course she had hoped to set. She wanted to ask if he was seeing someone else, but was afraid of the answer. Everyone seemed to have moved on but her. It was ironic. She’d finally reached her big city dreams and felt more stunted than ever.

  The ship blew its horn, long and mournful. Reba wished she could join its cry, and she might have if a sudden burst of yips hadn’t sounded from the adjoining balcony. Tethered to the neighbor’s wrought-iron café table was a black Chihuahua.

  “I hear you, fella,” said Reba.

  The dog’s triangular ears perked in her direction. She stepped forward and it leaped at her, the leash choking every other bark.