Swift Horses Racing

by Victoria Kazarian

  Our country started to rise again. We saw impressive buildings and great airships like the Graf Zeppelin cruising across the sky with that mark—the mark that is now so hated—we watched it proudly, as a symbol of ourselves and our new power.

  The summer that Britain entered the war and the attacks started, I turned twelve. My mother made me a cake out of ingredients she’d taken from her bakery job and gave me a new school bag she’d saved for.

  My father put in my hands an apple he had picked from the tree in our backyard. I remember feeling nothing but disappointment looking at it. An apple? I could have picked this myself.

  I still see the color of it and feel the coolness of it in my hand. The last thing he gave me.

  That day my mother was at the bakery. My father as usual stayed at home, lying down in the dark on a cot so his head didn’t hurt, sometimes working on the small garden he kept in the backyard. Perfect rows, marching like soldiers, with carrots, turnips and beans strung up on poles. It was hard for him to kneel with his leg. My mother had given him a bench to sit down near the plants. He tended the garden carefully and the food helped us in the hard times in winter. His father had been a successful shopkeeper in town; his brother Hermann had gone to university in Berlin, received his doctorate and worked for the Reich in aeronautics research. My father grew vegetables.

  I walked home as usual from school with my friends, talking and racing down the road. Peter Gruber and I were both very competitive and liked to show off, especially for any girls that might be watching. We were set to run a relay race on athletic day at school the next week. That’s all we were thinking about—and we’d run the race a dozen times before we were set to actually compete.

  I ran up the front steps, full of energy. As soon as I entered the house, it was as if I had run into an invisible brick wall. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck.

  Something was different.

  Everything was normal in the front hall and kitchen. Bread from the bakery sat out on the counter, ready for dinner. I called for my father. I heard no response.

  I heard water dripping in the bathroom sink, so I pushed open the door. My father lay across the floor, a pool of blood around his head, his eyes open. There was blood on the edge of the tub, dark red running from his mouth.

  The rest of the day moved in slow motion. It was as if everything from that day and afterwards moved in a slow progression toward my destiny.

  I ran to our neighbor, Herr Muller, and told him. Frau Muller kept me in the kitchen, while he went to get my mother.

  When she came, she called for me first. I couldn’t move from the kitchen table. It would hurt too much to see her face. I felt bad for that afterwards, that I couldn’t look at her. She had wanted to see me, to have the reassurance that her only child was okay.

  Then I heard loud sobs from the bathroom.

  My Uncle Hermann and Aunt Uli and my three cousins came for the funeral. The day after the service in the old church and the burial in the cemetery, my mother and I went back to the still, dark house. My dad had been a soft-spoken man, but the absence of his voice created a silence that was unbearable. Without his care, the garden became a mass of rotten vines and leaves.

  For six months my mother drifted between work and home like a ghost. When influenza came through town, she was one of the first to catch it. I found her one morning in her bed, her eyes glazed, her skin hot to the touch. She died at the hospital that night.

  Within a week, I was sent to live with Uncle Hermann in Peenemunde, the location of the Peenemunde Army Research Center, the Heeresversuchsanstalt or HVP, where Hermann worked—the Reich’s secret weapons development facility.

  His eyes stinging, Duke Sorenson shut the clothbound journal. He’d known Karl for decades, talked with him about any number of things. He was only now hearing the story of his childhood.

  He took a deep breath.

  That was enough for tonight.

  22

  Tiffany’s car smelled like sweaty workout clothes. Since Reyna was shortest, as usual on these after-work get togethers, she got the back seat. As she slid over on the seat, she tried to avoid stepping on the empty Red Bull cans littering the floor mat.

  “When’s the last time you cleaned out your car, Tiff?”

  “You could have offered to drive, Reyna.” Tiffany snapped back from the seat in front of her.

  Reyna hadn’t offered to drive her Land Rover, because it didn’t always start up. Jimmy had been trying to delay replacing the engine. They didn’t have the money yet. That’s all they needed, a group of women after a couple rounds of drinks, stuck in a parking garage after dark.

  Rocio the receptionist slid in next to her. Alicia with her long legs took shotgun. Tiffany pulled out onto the expressway, heading for Santana Row, the upscale luxury mall and night spot in Santa Clara.

  Reyna hadn’t been out with the girls from work since before Thanksgiving. Energy buzzed through her. She was free tonight. Free from making sure Jacky got his homework done, free from trying to put together an inexpensive dinner Jimmy and Jacky would both eat, free from doing dishes and cleaning up. Jimmy would take care of dinner for him and Jacky. Even if that was something she didn’t approve of. She didn’t even want to know what fast food Jimmy would pick up. She had no one to think of but herself tonight.

  When she got home, she’d pay for the evening out by having to go over the kitchen one more time and picking up whatever Jacky left out in the living room. Socks, books, felt pens and construction paper scraps from school projects. Things left out didn’t bother Jimmy; he seemed incapable of seeing them.

  Tiffany barreled down Stevens Creek, a woman on a mission. A Hyundai sedan full of young guys looked over at them and waved. Tiff, Alicia and even Rocio laughed.

  The car kept pace with them and at the stop light at Stevens Creek, the guy in the front passenger seat rolled down his window and waved to them.

  The women in the car, except the quiet, older Rocio, exchanged glances and started laughing. As soon as the light changed, Tiff floored it, leaving the car of guys behind. Reyna felt her stomach muscles go soft, trying to keep from laughing.

  They pulled into the parking garage at Santana Row and because it was a weeknight, found a decent spot on the second floor. The night felt sharp and cold. There was energy in the air. Santana Row made Reyna feel rich.

  You could walk the streets past shops full of things you’d never be able to afford, sit down in a Tesla and dream of owning one, as you listened to the music of street performers and bands playing. The smells of pasta, gourmet tacos, and French food seeped out of the restaurants. You could walk the streets for free. Reyna had talked Jimmy into bringing her here once. He didn’t like it. But she felt wonderful walking under the lights, seeing all the beautiful things. It felt like Hawaii had—beautiful and unreal.

  “Mexican or French?” Alicia threw the choice out to them as they walked down the main boulevard.

  It felt extravagant to have a choice, but Reyna would have to watch what she spent.

  “French,” Reyna called out. Champagne, even if she could only get one glass. She still had memories of New Year’s replaying in her head, and she needed a break from sadness. She had heard someone say once that it was impossible to drink a glass of champagne and feel unhappy.

  “Aren’t you fancy,” Tiff shot back at her.

  They walked into the restaurant and were seated at a table in the bar. Reyna ordered her glass of champagne and looked around the room. It smelled like warm bread and onion soup, both of which she wanted to order. She had a new Visa card in her purse, to be used for emergencies.

  Tiff took off her jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “Night classes start next week, so I’ll miss our nights out for the rest of the semester.” Her face looked mysterious in the dim light of the restaurant. “Let’s make this one count, ladies.”

  “Jimmy’s watching your son?” Rocio smiled politely across the table at Reyna. She was
a tiny woman with hair cut short, circles under big, round sad eyes. They had never asked her age; Tiff said she was in her fifties, Alicia guessed thirty-five.

  Alicia groaned. “He’s not ‘watching’ the kid if he’s the dad. It’s called parenting. Let’s not act like he’s doing something above and beyond here.”

  “Jimmy makes sure Jacky gets his homework done and gets to bed.” Reyna spoke up. “He won’t do dishes or clean, but he’s great with Jacky.”

  When the ladies went out, it often became a slam fest, everyone competing to put down their husbands and boyfriends. Jimmy had his issues, but being a father was not one of them.

  The waitress brought their drinks. Rocio’s diet coke, Alicia and Tiff’s rum and cokes and then Reyna’s champagne, in a crystal glass that flared at the top like a trumpet. Tiny bubbles raced up from the bottom of the glass in lines.

  “That’s fucking beautiful.” Alicia stared over at the champagne, mesmerized. The overhead light shining on it made it look golden. She looked about ready to cry. “Jesus.”

  Reyna raised the glass and everyone lifted theirs.

  “To girls’ night out!” They clinked their glasses over the tabletop.

  After they’d ordered their food, Tiff began talking about her recent move to an apartment in Gilroy, after her divorce.

  “I’m paying $400 less a month. But I’m driving over an hour into the office in the mornings. If I drop Aiden off at early childcare at 6:30, it’s not so bad. Maybe fifty minutes. If he gets sick, I’m screwed. I don’t have my sister down there to take him. Tag, I’m it. Out a day of work.”

  “Is it worth it?” They all knew Alicia’s husband was a software engineer, and they owned a house in Mountain View. She turned to Tiffany, and said, “Maybe it makes sense to tough it out in the valley. Find a cheaper place.”

  Tiff took a gulp of rum and coke and glared at Alicia. “Nothing is cheap here. If I had a husband who made money like yours—“

  “Can you get more child support from Jeff?” Reyna asked. “It’s not like he had to move or anything. Why should you have to move with Aiden, when he’s still living up here with his girlfriend?” He’s the one who couldn’t keep it in his pants, she wanted to add, but she wasn’t sure she had a right to say it.

  Tiff waved her hand dismissively. “We came out here to have a good time, not talk about our problems. Let’s have some fun.”

  The champagne was starting to have an effect on Reyna. She felt like she was floating, suspended a few inches above her seat. The lights outside and the lights inside made everything around her seem to glow.

  Tiff leaned in over the table, whispering. “Look at the bar. The guy near the end.”

  As Alicia turned around in her seat to see, Tiff nudged her with the menu. “Don’t all look at once.”

  Rocio, who had been quietly sipping her diet Coke, even turned to get a look.

  “You’re all being so obvious.” Tiff hissed through her teeth.

  “Oh my God. Oh, my God!” Alicia turned back to them, her eyes wide. “I haven’t seen a guy like that around here in—forever. He has that SoCal look.”

  Reyna looked up from her onion soup and saw the man, listening to a woman at the bar. He wore a thin black sweater and she could see the muscles in his arm as he leaned against the edge of the bar. There was something familiar about him.

  “What do you think he does for a living?” Tiff asked nobody in particular.

  “A guy like that’s not in tech, that’s for sure,” Alicia raised her eyebrows and they all laughed. “It looks like he’s with somebody.” A blonde woman with exotic features sat on the chair next to him, looking like she wanted to be somewhere else. From the frown on the man’s face, he wasn’t enjoying the discussion.

  They watched him for a while, until their food arrived and they began eating. Reyna finished her soup and bread and took delicate sips of the last half of her champagne. She’d make it last as long as it could.

  “Hold on.” Tiff looked over their heads to the bar. She kept her voice low, like a commentator on a golf show. “The blonde has left the bar. I repeat. The blonde has left the bar.” They all turned to watch the blonde woman, purse slung over her shoulder, make her way hurriedly to the front of the restaurant and out the door.

  All four women looked back to the bar. Rocio wiped her lips with her napkin and sat back calmly, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Then suddenly, to their horror, the man raised his head from his drink and looked down the bar directly at their table.

  Tiff made a gargling sound. Alicia sucked in her breath. Rocio turned around to face the table, seeming to bow her head in prayer.

  Reyna looked right back to face the man.

  “I know him.” She smoothed her hair back. “That’s Officer Flores. We met him the night of the shooting. He’s investigating the old man’s murder.”

  The man looked back at their table with a crooked smile, then ducked his head down as if he were shy. Reyna smiled back. When she looked at him again, he was talking to the bartender, and she was relieved. He’d moved on.

  Alicia began telling a story about scrambling around the office to look for a missing scraper while a patient lay, mouth wide open, in the chair trying to continue a conversation with her. Alicia had told the story before, but it was funny, and they all laughed. Reyna looked over at the bar, and there he was again, looking directly at her. When their eyes met, he had a guilty look on his face, as if he hadn’t wanted to be caught looking her way. Then he smiled. He was good looking—something she hadn’t noticed that night.

  She liked the attention. She enjoyed looking at him. But she was out with the girls, and they all knew Jimmy.

  Five minutes later, a waiter came to their table with a glass of champagne on a tray.

  He set the flute down in front of her and took her empty glass.

  “Compliments from the gentleman at the end of the bar.”

  Reyna’s cheeks felt warm, and a feeling like electricity raced through her body. Everyone at her table was looking back and forth between her and Flores, and nobody was being subtle about it.

  “Reyna! Oh, my God.” Alicia started giggling so hard, she had to put a hand over her mouth to stop herself. Tiff laughed and whispered something to Rocio, who smiled. All three looked at Reyna to see what she’d do.

  Reyna nodded to Flores, raised her glass slightly and smiled her thanks, making sure to keep her response restrained.

  “I’m going to find the restroom.” Reyna set her napkin down on the table, grabbed her purse and got up. She expected at least one of the ladies to follow her, as usually happened on these nights out, but Tiff had launched into a story about a guy she’d met at the grocery store, and everyone was leaning forward, listening.

  She headed down the aisle to the back of the restaurant, where she saw the script on the doors Les Hommes and Les Femmes. Ben Marsden had described a business trip to Paris after one of his cleanings. Someday she would visit. Musicians in the streets, beautiful buildings, and everyone dressed so well. After that, when she’d picked up school supplies at the dollar store, she’d found a coin purse with an Eiffel Tower on it. She bought it and kept it in her purse, a reminder. She would go someday.

  When she wanted something, she knew how to make it happen.

  She scrimped, shopped frugally. One of the dental patients told her where she could invest some money. After five years, they had been able to afford a house of their own. Jimmy made a decent income as a cop. He didn’t know how to plan, to save and invest. She, not Jimmy, had put them in a position to buy the house.

  She pushed the Les Femmes door, opened a stall, pulled the lid down and sat. She needed space to herself. To quiet the noise in her head. She felt at the edge of something, a change coming. She wasn’t sure what it was, but at this point, she wanted it. Almost no matter what it was.

  She heard a cough and footsteps. Someone else had come into the restroom. Reyna stood up, flushed the toil
et and went to the sink. After the woman went into her stall, Reyna looked up at herself in the mirror. Brown eyes, oval face, the thick, black wavy hair that Jimmy loved and asked her not to dye or highlight like her friends did. On that, he had been right. She’d stopped doing that after she moved out of the house in San Jose.

  She washed her hands and looked down at the long fingernails with French tips that she guarded so carefully. Refined and understated, not the hot pink polish that she’d worn when Jimmy had first met her. She had learned a lot in ten years. She had always wanted more, but back then she hadn’t known what more was.

  She went back into the restaurant, as French accordion music played in the background. As she opened the door, he was still at the bar, a drink in one hand, his phone in the other. He had a ragged look about him, and from this angle, his hair looked a little greasy.

  Maybe it had been the champagne. She still felt that light feeling, as if she were gliding down a smooth, silver track. It led her to the bar.

  “Officer Flores. I thought it was you.”

  He looked up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Mrs. Ruiz.” He broke into the easy, lopsided smile men got when they’ve had a few drinks.

  “That sounds so formal.” She laughed. “My name is Reyna. You probably forgot.”

  “Oh, I did not forget.” He put down his phone. Up close, he looked paler than she remembered him. “I was trying to be respectful. Looks like you’re out with the ladies tonight. Can I buy you another glass of champagne?”

  She looked back at her table. The women were whispering, their heads leaning together, as they watched her and Flores. Alicia said something and they all cracked up.

  Reyna had to be careful. Too much champagne and she couldn’t trust her judgment. She was on a tightrope right now.

  “I’m fine with what I have, Detective Flores.”