The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

“Here.” She threw Shrimp the rest of the bread and listened to him lick and chew. “Glad somebody’s enjoying those things. I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe I overmixed or maybe I didn’t mix enough. Who knows!”

  Suddenly, Shrimp came to attention on all fours, ears perked high, tail lifted like a radio antenna. The sliding glass door on his balcony slid open and a man walked out from the dark apartment. Shrimp scurried to him doing crazy eights between his feet.

  “Hey, Jerry-G, looks like you already got dinner.” The man held a bowl of kibble in his hand. A half-eaten crust lay beside his wing-tipped shoe.

  “Crap,” Reba whispered to herself and gulped the last of her wine. “Uh, hi,” she said as she rose from her rickety lawn chair. “I’m Reba. I just moved in—well, back in February—so I can’t really say just. But considering we’ve somehow managed not to meet until now, I might as well have just moved in. But your dog and I are old friends. I kind of got the impression that he’s alone a lot too, so I thought we’d keep each other company. Anyhow …” She took a deep breath. “Hi, neighbor!” She stuck her hand across the divide. It looked more like a wobbly butcher’s knife than a welcoming hand.

  He laughed, set the kibble on the ground, and flipped on his balcony light. “Reba, you said?” He shook. “Jase DeLuca.”

  Any relation to Dean and Deluca? She almost asked, but the fraction of her that was semisober exercised restraint.

  Jase looked like something off the cover of GQ magazine. He had to be near her age, perhaps a little older. His collared shirt and tailored slacks remained pressed and neat even at the late hour; his rolled-up sleeves exposed tanned, tight forearms; his chiseled jaw hadn’t even a hint of shadow; and his sandy blond hair was casually coifed to perfection. The guy was tall and debonair as a movie star. A crème brûlée on her doorstep!

  Reba’s stance swayed, and she wondered if this was how it felt to swoon. Maybe Jane and Deedee were right and love came at you like a lightning bolt—BAM—hello, love.

  “I’m new myself. We must’ve moved in around the same time.” Jase lifted Shrimp with one hand. “This is Jerry Garcia. But I guess you’ve already met.”

  She laughed to herself. A Chihuahua named Jerry Garcia?

  “Jerry-G for short.” The dog had retrieved the remaining hard crust and gnawed furiously on it.

  “Oh! I shouldn’t have, uh, given him that.” She swallowed hard.

  Jase held Jerry-G so the dog’s beady eyes were level with his own. “So this is why you’ve been stinking up the place for weeks, eh?” Then he turned to Reba. “You know you owe me.”

  “I’m so, so sorry.” She flushed a sweat and smelled the booze in it. “Whatever you want—I mean if he got sick or something because of me.”

  “An air freshener.” Jase smiled.

  Reba rubbed away the moisture on her upper lip. “You want the plug-in or the spray?”

  “A plug-in offer? Fancy.” Jase laughed. “You know what, I take it back. It’s been a hell of a day. You share a glass of whatever you’re drinking and we’ll call it even.” He set Jerry-G back on the ground.

  “Umm …” Reba turned to the bottle, embarrassed to admit it was empty. “I’ve got more in the fridge. Do you want to come over?”

  She’d momentarily forgotten about her plumbing problem. Catching a glimpse of her swamped kitchen through the glass door, she wondered if she should ask him to bring galoshes. Could that come off sultry? Her head was fuzzy. She really shouldn’t have any more wine, but she owed him. It was neighborly. Plus he made her stomach cartwheel. It was the first happy feeling she’d had in months. She didn’t want to let it go so fast.

  Jase ran a hand through his mane. “I would, but I ordered a pizza from North Beach,” he explained. “Have you eaten?”

  The can of tuna and the remaining hockey puck biscuit sat beside her chair.

  “Kind of … not really,” she said.

  “I got the Coit Tower: mushroom, sausage, salami, and pepperoni. Tell me you aren’t a vegan, raw foodie, or one of the thousands of California dieters.”

  “Pshaw—not me! No, no, no.” She wagged her finger like a flirty school-marm. “These days I’ll eat anything you put in front of me. No holes bar—holds barred, I mean.” She rubbed her eyes to focus.

  “Good, then grab the wine and come over to my place.” Jase opened his condo door and Jerry-G tried to follow. Jase nudged him back with his foot. “You know you aren’t allowed inside, bud.”

  The dog gave a weak whine.

  Reba briefly wondered what good an air fresher would do outdoors, but then Jase said, “Meet you in five minutes?”

  “Cinco minutos,” she echoed while Jerry-G walked in tight circles on the balcony.

  When Reba awoke in Jase’s apartment the next morning, he was already gone. It was quarter till noon. Panicked and with a hangover to beat all hangovers, it seemed a colossal task to steady her fingers and dial Leigh on the phone by the bed.

  “I’m sick,” she told her, and she wasn’t lying.

  After hanging up, she stumbled to Jase’s toilet and vomited spicy bits of salami and cheese. When she went to rinse her mouth, the confetti of russet hairs ringing the sink made her dry heave once more.

  “Oh, God,” she swore. “Never again.”

  Trembling from head to toe, she gingerly made her way around Jase’s bedroom, a precautionary hand towel under her chin, covering her nakedness.

  She wore only her underwear: a fact that partially contributed to her queasiness. Her head pounded like a ticking clock. A countdown to what, she dared not imagine. She found her pants tangled in the sheets falling over the side of Jase’s bed; her shirt on a cushioned chair; a single pink flamingo flip-flop in the middle of the floor. She gathered her things as quickly as possible without disrupting her stomach, slipped into her button-down shirt and decided to make a fast, pantless dash home.

  She cracked the bedroom door. Though she knew he was gone, everything about the morning felt like a violation, and she didn’t want to get caught. She’d never experienced the collegiate “walk of shame” and had always raised an eyebrow or two at those who did. Now, over a decade later, she was the one tiptoeing down the hall and praying to escape without notice.

  Outside on the balcony, Jerry-G rested his head on his front paws like a daydreaming child. He didn’t notice her behind the reflective glass door. The empty wine bottle sat on the mahogany coffee table beside the pizza box with one last slice of congealed cheese and diced meats. She looked away, imagining the smell of peppermint to keep from gagging. Her flip-flop twin lay haphazardly under the table. She had to retrieve it or risk Jase bringing it over. The last thing she wanted was that conversation, though at this point any conversation would be awkward.

  Careful not to attract Jerry-G’s attention with brisk movement, she reached beneath the table, pinched the sandal’s thong between her thumb and forefinger, and did a fluid pirouette back around, nearly knocking into the bookshelf: a Bobby Kennedy biography, a worn copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, a blue vase with fake cherry blossom twigs, and a photograph of Jase holding two little girls. The picture was too small for its four-by-six frame, cut with scissors to square off the trio.

  Reba picked it up and examined closer. A silver band on his left hand. She winced at the girls’ gleeful smiles and fat bows tying back blond locks. They took after him—like child models in a Macy’s catalogue. A husband. A father. Her stomach lurched.

  “Oh God,” she whispered and put the frame back on the shelf.

  Fleeting memories of the night returned: Jase inviting her over for pizza; grabbing a chilled bottle of pinot grigio; laughing over dewy glasses; the smell of baked bread and cheese; the taste of saucy kisses; his hands on her bare back; the bedsheets twisted round her ankles.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Still clutching her belongings, she sat down on the coffee table, knocking the empty bottle to the jute rug beneath. It rolled off onto the oak floor with a clin
k. Jerry-G sprang up and furiously yapped at the sliding glass door.

  The tabletop stuck to her thighs, sticky with residue. She thought she’d be sick again, so she stuffed her face into the rumpled folds of her pants. They smelled like home, like the springtime laundry detergent Riki liked to use: all with bleach. She missed him so much. Even in the midst of betrayal, she wanted him there; to hold her and say he still loved her despite all her flaws, present and past.

  “Riki,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” Instinctively, she reached for the ring at her chest, but her fingers grazed her collarbone. She’d taken it off the day before and left it in the little bottle of blue jewelry cleaner to soak. No doubt it’d sparkle like a star now. She grasped at the invisible, pressing her fist against her breastbone.

  Without warning, the front door swung opened.

  “Oh, hey, I thought by now—” Jase checked his watch, then took a big breath. “I guess you didn’t make it to work.” He laughed nervously. “I barely made it myself. I came home during lunch to grab a few things I forgot in the morning rush. What a night, huh?” He cleared his throat and jingled his keys.

  The only thing within reach was her clothing and the pizza, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to sacrifice her Tommy Hilfiger sandals at his expense. So she flung the take-out box as best she could. The cardboard did a lackadaisical flap in the air with just enough volition to slingshot the pizza slice facedown onto his shoes. Reba couldn’t have been more gratified.

  Seething, she stood tall. She couldn’t take back whatever had happened between them, but she could be responsible for this moment. With every ounce of composure she could muster, she marched toward the door.

  “Wa-wait a second!” He lifted both palms in front of her without touching. “Nothing happened, Reba. You totally passed out before …” He smirked.

  She lifted her chin. “You are a royal dickhead.”

  He flipped his coiffure. “Baby, if you’re going to call anybody names, you better start with Señorita Wine-O.”

  It was meant to be a joke. Reba didn’t think it funny. She punched him square in the gut. He lurched forward.

  “You”—she pointed to the photograph across the room—“should be ashamed! Tell me. Is that your wife? Are those your children?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said as he coughed, still at a ninety-degree angle.

  “It’s what? Compli—” She dropped her clothes to the floor and pummeled his ribs with both hands. “Complicated my ass! Yes or no!”

  “We’re divorcing,” he said, then grabbed her wrists and held them at bay. “That’s why I moved here.”

  “I may be a lousy drunk, a shitty girlfriend, a neglectful sister, and a second-rate daughter,” she raged and wrenched free. “Hell, I might even be a rotten neighbor, but at least I know exactly who I am and who I’m not! I am Reba Adams, damn it!” The words burned her lips. “And I shouldn’t be here.” Her eyes brimmed. “You—you are”—she pointed back at the photo again—“not the kind of man I deserve.”

  Jase frowned.

  “I had better!” She squatted down and snatched her fallen pants and shoes, sniffling back emotions she hadn’t meant to spill. Jerry-G stood with paws on the glass, ears erect. “Shrimp deserves better, too! You can’t keep him locked out because it makes your life easier. It’s cruel!”

  She stomped to the sliding door and opened it. Like a wound top, Jerry-G leaped inside, bounding over the living room carpet and skittering down the wooden hallway.

  “Hey, that’s my dog!”

  “Then start acting like it!”

  She left Jase chasing Jerry-G and slammed her apartment door behind her. Through the wall came strings of profanities and furniture thuds. Reba put on a James Taylor CD and the shower and sang her heart out when “Fire and Rain” played.

  Feeling more herself afterward, she latched Riki’s ring back around her neck and slipped into a faded pair of jeans and a worn Richmond Flying Squirrels jersey. She mopped the kitchen, straightened the apartment, and called the superintendent for a maintenance appointment. She felt better. Inside, everything was neat and orderly. Outside on the balcony sat the sour can of tuna and a stale biscuit. She left them where they were.

  “The flies can have ’em,” she whispered, tossing back two Aleve and nestling into her couch with a glass of cucumber water and Gone with the Wind on TV.

  Just after Scarlett threw the vase at Rhett, Reba’s cell phone jangled in her purse. She dug through change and peppermint stars, lipsticks and pens, old business cards and crumbled rolls of antacids until she felt the familiar rectangle, buzzing and singing. One missed call from Jane Meriwether. She muted the television and redialed.

  On the third ring, Jane answered. “Reba?”

  Reba hadn’t been able to eat all day, and her head felt light at the familiar sound of Jane’s voice. She lay back on the couch.

  “Oh, Jane, I’m so glad you called.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to count up days and weeks since they’d last spoken. The numbers jumbled, so she gave up. “I’ve missed you—I’ve missed all of you so much.”

  “Mom’s in a coma.”

  Everything stopped, as though the words carried bolts of electricity.

  “She’s in the hospital,” Jane continued. “I wanted to take her in last Friday when her hands started shaking, but she refused to go until after Cinco de Mayo. She wanted to surprise Sergio with conchas. Stubborn woman.”

  Reba listened to Jane breathe over the line and realized she wasn’t.

  “Then this morning, she was rolling dough and dropped. Just like that. When I went to help her up, she was a rag doll, babbling in German. Scared me so bad I closed the bakery on the spot and drove her over to Thomason’s ER. The doctor says she had a stroke.”

  Reba turned onto her side and buried her face in the cushions.

  “I should’ve taken her when I saw her hands. I should’ve made her go. I should’ve done more,” lamented Jane.

  “It’s not your fault,” Reba mumbled, then righted herself on the couch. “You can’t force a person to do what you want—even if you think it’s for their best.” Her breath caught. “You are a good daughter. You love her. That’s what counts.”

  Reba was speaking to Jane and herself.

  “Sergio and Riki are with me,” said Jane. “The doctor doesn’t think Mom’ll …”

  Reba brought her knees to her chest, wishing she were there and not here, wishing she’d never left in the first place. She couldn’t put the phone down after Jane hung up. So she scrolled through numbers until she came to her momma’s, then she dialed.

  “Hello?” came her momma’s southern lilt.

  How Reba had missed her despite everything. She sighed long into the receiver. She had so much to say but couldn’t seem to form the words.

  “Reba, honey, is that you?”

  Reba nodded and hugged the phone close, love and hope stretched tight across the miles.

  —–Original Message—–

  From: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Sent: May 6, 2008 11:50 P.M.

  To: deedee.adams@gmail.com

  Subject: Leaving for El Paso

  Deedee,

  Elsie had a stroke. She’s in a coma, and the doctors don’t think she’s going to make it out. I wish I weren’t so far from home. Riki’s with Jane now, and I can’t help but love him even more for never ceasing to be there—even when I didn’t ask or expect him to, even when I think he isn’t, he is. You were right when you said you couldn’t force someone to see your truth. I assumed you were talking about Daddy, but I was the one who needed to open her eyes. I’ve made so many mistakes. I should never have left. I called Momma. She told me to book myself on the first flight back to El Paso.

  I leave in six hours, but I can’t sleep. My bags are packed and looking around my apartment, I could leave for good and not miss a thing. I thought I was finally reaching my dream in San Francisco, but that was my head lying to my heart. I know wh
ere I’m supposed to be—whom I’m supposed to be with. Momma says love can forgive all things. I think I believe her, or at least I want to, and that’s a start.

  I know you’re a praying person, D, so could you say one for Elsie? One for me too.

  Love, Reba

  AMERICAN ARMED FORCES R&R CENTER

  19 GERNACKERSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  AUGUST 13, 1945

  It was her first night back on shift, and though she felt physically recovered, she declined Robby’s offer to help him bake Moravian Lovefeast Buns. She wasn’t in the mood. Besides, she’d never been completely taken with his recipes—too rich to have routinely. So she claimed she was still under doctor’s orders to rest, which was partly true.

  The summer night was clear enough to make out each wink in the Milky Way and to witness a star burst like corn from its kernel. Its lunar tail streaked the sky as it soared, and Elsie wondered if anyone else had seen the celestial flight. She walked with eyes cast heavenward to the mercurial constellations, feeling light and pain free for the first time in months. So stark and new was the sensation that she believed at any moment, she might rise up on hidden wings and join the angels. How nice that would be, she thought, and sighed to herself, knowing too few nights like this remained before winter returned. So she slowed her gait, relishing the warmth on her skin.

  Her bicycle was parked beside a stack of rain-warped milk crates in the kitchen staff parking lot. She backed it out, but stopped when the wheel caught on something—or rather, someone. Doctor Meriwether.

  “Oh! My apologies.” Her cheeks flushed hot.

  “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” He wore civilian clothes: a white, open-collared shirt and wide pleated trousers. Elsie thought she’d never seen a more handsome man in all her life.

  “I was walking. Beautiful night. Moon’s out.” He pointed up.

  The moon hung bold and glistening above, like a silver coin fixed in the sky.