She took the belt in her hands. It was the first time she had touched it, but not the first time it had touched her. She remembered it around her wrists, her throat, and, later, its brisk strokes on her back and ass, stinging but not hurting. “You are a very bad girl,” the man she knew as Charlie told her in a low, strangely dispassionate voice. He didn’t really hurt her. That was his gift. That was why she wanted to see him again. He knew how to take a girl right up to the edge, how to make sex scary, but not too scary. He had very dark hair and lots of it—on his head, on his forearms, on his muscled legs, on his chest, but not on his back. He had tightened that belt around her neck and she had let him, never the least bit tempted to tell him to stop, trusting him to anticipate the perfect moment. No, she couldn’t be wrong. It was the same belt. But then—it was the same motel. Four weeks. It had been five weeks since Marissa had been here with him. Five weeks and five days. Five weeks and five days of going back to the bar by the river, but he was never there. She traced the initials on the buckle. CB.
“They call us the buckle on the Bible Belt.” That was what one editor after another said to Marissa the day she interviewed for the job at the Waco Times. The executive editor, the managing editor, the assistant managing editor, and, finally, Lou. They seemed to be warning her, or at least challenging her commitment. But Marissa needed a job and she had started the hunt late, given that she’d thought she would be at Columbia in the fall, getting a master’s in journalism alongside her boyfriend, with whom she had worked on the college paper. But he didn’t want her there. And Columbia didn’t want her there, which was almost as hurtful. Marissa decided to get a real newspaper job, show her ex that she was ready to do what he was only studying.
“They call us the buckle on the Bible Belt, Marissa. A little sleepy for young people, but it’s a great place to raise a family.”
The male editors all had families. Only Lou, married to her high school sweetheart, did not. The gossip was that Lou had the steady job in her household, that her husband called himself a developer but was just a man with a lot of raw land south of town.
The Waco Inn’s owner, Tatum Buford, father of this bastard black bean, reached for the buckle, but Marissa did not surrender it. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to find the owner.”
“We did,” Tatum said. “But he paid cash, and the name in the register, it wasn’t with these initials.”
“And when did you say this was?” Marissa asked.
“Four weeks ago. Maybe three. But no more than a month.”
Five weeks and five days. When he was done, he stood up and she watched from the bed as he dressed, fastening the buckle, tucking in his shirt. “See you around,” he said, and she had taken those words to heart. She didn’t care that he had ripped her dress under the armhole; the seams in old dresses gave way sometimes. She didn’t care that he spoke so little. She didn’t care if he was married, raising a family in this town that was so good for families. She assumed he was married. But she couldn’t imagine why he didn’t want her again. Had she been too compliant, too eager? Should she have fought more, pretended fear? If she could find him again, she’d do it however he wanted.
“You should let me photograph this for my story,” Marissa told Tatum Buford.
“Shouldn’t I pose with it? A photo of a belt is awful plain.”
“Oh, yes. But we’ll need a studio shot, too, and that has to be done at the office, with proper lighting.”
“You’ll bring it back? After it’s photographed?”
“Of course,” Marissa said.
She often made such blithe promises, only three months into what she thought would be her career. She promised to give back photographs, scrapbooks, any and all artifacts that were beloved by their owners, of no consequence to her. She promised to inquire how someone might buy a photograph once it was in the paper. Sometimes she did, and sometimes she didn’t, but it never worried her. It was just something she said, in order to get what she wanted. That was what reporters did. They said whatever it took, to get what they wanted.
In this case, she knew she wouldn’t bring the belt back. Because in this case, the man who owned the belt would call her and she would give it to him, face to face. Face to face.
“The silver has tarnished. You ought to shine it up for the photograph,” Buford said.
“I will,” Marissa said. “I will.”
She took it back to the newspaper, excited to have found a way into the story she had been trying to kill. When Lou came out of the afternoon meeting, Marissa was waiting at her office door, a puppy dog who had finally learned to play fetch. Here’s the stick! Love me! Pet me! Say I’m your favorite!
Lou just looked at the belt and said, “Come on in.”
Her office was small, windowless, without much in the way of personal touches, quite unlike the offices of her male colleagues, which were filled with evidence of the families that thrived in Waco. The young women who worked for Lou surmised that she believed she was not entitled to a private life, or even photographs of one. Lou had to prove, every day, that her head was in the game.
Lou turned the buckle over and over in her hand while Marissa talked about how it was the only interesting thing she had uncovered, that it would be better to focus on the discovery of this one beautiful object, that the owner might come forward and then they would have another story.
“From the Waco Inn?” Lou asked. “And the belt’s owner never called and the motel didn’t call him?”
“No, he never called and there’s been—some screwup. They’re not sure who left it there. The maid forgot to write down the room number. Or she didn’t turn it in right away. I’ll have to check my notes on that one detail.”
“And they couldn’t match it to the initials in the register?”
“No, but it could be an heirloom. The man might not even have those initials.”
“It’s tarnished,” Lou said, tapping it with a manicured finger.
It was. “I need to shine it, I guess.”
“Yes, you do that.”
Marissa did. She polished the belt, she polished her story and turned it in, structuring it like a mystery, a safe one, the kind of breathless tale that the Happy Hollisters might take on. The assistant city editor thought it was good, for what it was. But the story didn’t run and it didn’t run and it didn’t run. September continued hot; it felt like summer to her. Suddenly it was October, which was hot, too. When she finally asked Lou when they were going to run her story, Lou said: “Oh, it doesn’t feel timely anymore.”
“What?”
“Summer’s over. We don’t have a hook.”
“It’s really not so much about the lost-and-found boxes, the end of summer, not anymore. It’s about this beautiful belt left at a seedy motel, whether it will be reunited with the owner.”
“The Waco Inn isn’t seedy. It’s just—fighting a tough location. Tatum’s doing what he can to bring it along. He’s even going to add a Continental breakfast.”
“Still, if we could reunite this buckle with its owner—”
“That’s another thing. How are we going to evaluate the claims that come in? Any man with the initials CB could say he owned this and how would we prove he didn’t? I don’t know, Marissa, you did a good job, but I was wrong. It’s not a story.”
“What should I do with the belt?”
“Tell photo to send it back.” But photo had lost the belt, as it turned out.
Unexpectedly, Marissa stopped being Lou’s unfavorite about this time. The steady diet of black beans went to Veronica now, poor thing. Marissa even got to share a byline on Jonathan’s story, when the state police lab determined that the girl in the ditch had a blood alcohol level of .02 but death had been caused by strangulation. The rape kit had been ambiguous—evidence of sex, but not force.
One day, an almost autumnal Friday, Marissa had a hankering for taco salad and talked Beth into going to the Mexican place, despite knowing that Lou would be there
with her one frozen margarita. Veronica, firmly entrenched as the unfavorite, wanted no part of the escapade, but Beth agreed. The taco salad was a good one, the bottom of the shell-bowl giving way at just the right moment, the perfect combination of crunch and moisture.
Lou was alone with her margarita and they waved at her warily, fearful she would summon them for company, but she didn’t seem at all interested in them. A few minutes later, a man joined her. A dark-haired man, very thick hair combed straight back from a widow’s peak.
“Damn,” Beth said, “I’d be the breadwinner, too, if I could go home to that. Even with that werewolf hair.”
Marissa watched as Lou drank three margaritas that day, then led her companion out of the restaurant, giggling girlishly. She stopped by their table on the way out. Bumped it, actually, with her hip, miscalculating how much space she took up.
“Girls, I don’t think I’ve ever met my husband. I mean”—another fit of giggles—“I don’t think y’all have ever met my husband. Charlie, this is Beth and Ma—Ma—”
“Marissa,” she supplied, staring at the man’s midsection. At his belt.
“Weekenders due by two, girls, to make the bulldog,” Lou said. “Hank is editing, though. I’m going to take the afternoon off. I don’t feel so good.”
She winked at them. Beth would regale the others for weeks about that wink, but Marissa never joined in the laughter.
Charlie Baker nodded at Marissa and Beth, courtly and regal. “You be good to my wife, girls. Treat her right. She’s very precious to me.”
Lou wobbled out of the restaurant, Charlie steady in her wake.
A few weeks later, a black bean appeared in Marissa’s mailbox.
Marissa, Tatum Buford has done such a good job fixing up the Waco Inn. How about a little profile on him for the Sunday paper? Don’t forget to mention the Continental breakfast. Best, Lou.
On her way to the Waco Inn, Marissa took a detour down Robinson Road, finding the spot where the Baylor girl’s body had been dumped. The road, also known as US-Texas 77, eventually led to Rosebud, home of Lou Busbee Baker. And, by inference, home of her husband, Charlie Baker, her high school sweetheart, a man who took girls to the Waco Inn and wrapped a belt around their necks until they told him to stop.
Maybe he didn’t always stop.
Marissa turned around, but instead of driving to the Waco Inn, she went to her apartment, a dowdy duplex full of secondhand furniture. She put everything she owned into her car, just piled it in willy-nilly, and began driving north, then east. Five hours later, she called her notice in to the night assistant editor, Hank, from Texarkana, making sure she was on the Arkansas side of the line. She then called her parents in Philadelphia and said she wanted to start law school that January, if possible. And if she had to defer until next fall, then she wanted to work at her father’s office, doing whatever she could to be useful.
She sat in her motel room, hugging her knees, shivering despite the chugging space heater beneath the window. Follow the money. Follow the belt buckle. A motel owner finds a belt with a distinctive buckle, one that he recognizes, evidence of nothing more than an indiscretion. He makes sure that an editor at the newspaper knows that he has it. But he couldn’t know what had happened, why a man might leave a room in such haste that he would forget his belt. And Lou can’t know, either. Can she? The husband, reunited with his belt, forgiven by his wife, will be more careful in the future. Won’t he? It was an accident. Wasn’t it? There are no stupid questions, Lou had told her. But there are terrifying ones.
When Marissa checked out the next morning, she left some of her clothes behind. Not the ones she had been wearing the day before, but a vintage black sundress with a ripped seam and a pair of high-heeled sandals. Let them end up in the lost and found, in a sagging cardboard box, where they could keep company with all the other things that were torn and stained and shameful.
WAR SECRETS
BY LIBBY FISCHER HELLMANN
The chill that ran through Davood Sarand had little to do with the frigid winter air. Where was Julia? He had been knocking so long his knuckles were raw. He was to have tea with her parents at four. It was half past the hour now, a gloomy dusk settling over the city of Leipzig, stealing its colors and shapes.
The Goldblums lived on the third floor of a stone-facade building just west of the city, not far from Rosental Park. Once an elegant example of Jugendstil architecture, the building was silent and worn, as if the weight of time, and now the war, had crushed its Art Nouveau pretensions. Davood peered over the landing at the staircase below. He was about to go hunt for her when the outer door squeaked open.
Julia.
Davood smiled, the way he always did when he saw her. A few fat snowflakes had settled on her brown hair and coat. She was carrying a small cardboard box tied with string. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes luminous. Was that because of him? Or merely the result of the cold? He let out a relieved breath. “Where were you?”
“At the bakery, my love.” She held up the box. “Herr Bruchner wasn’t supposed to, but he gave me some wonderful pastries. You won’t find anything better—even in Vienna.” She studied his face, then ran the back of her hand down his cheek. “Davood,” she crooned, rising to her toes. “Please do not worry. I am fine.”
He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Yes, well, what about your parents?”
“They won’t open the door if they do not know who’s there.” She shrugged.
Davood’s smile faded. “I want to tell them, Julia. Today.”
“No. Not yet.” She shook her head.
“Why not? You know, I know. The times… you can’t… we might…”
“Today is not the right time. They are just meeting you.”
“But if they know—it may put their minds at ease.”
“Cheri,” she said—the French term made him feel sophisticated and worldly, and she knew it—“It’s enough that you’re Persian. They won’t be able to take in the rest.”
“I’m Kurdish.”
“Yes, of course, mon chien. But they are old. One step at a time.”
Inside, Julia made introductions. “This is the man I’ve been telling you about.”
Davood shook their hands and offered Frau Goldblum the bouquet of flowers he’d brought. Although they were nearly frozen, her mother seemed pleased and put them in a vase. They sat in a parlor crowded with dark, overstuffed furniture.
Julia was right. The Goldblums were old. Herr Goldblum was stooped with arthritis, his skin pasty, and his shaggy white eyebrows reminded Davood of his grandfather. Her father had been a successful furrier, Julia had said, until the Nuremberg Laws in ’35. He’d tried to save his business, first by turning its management over to a Gentile friend, then watching his “friend” steal it at a rigged auction. They would have left in ’36, and again after Kristallnacht, but for Julia’s mother. A frail wisp of a woman, she’d had scarlet fever as a child and never completely recovered. She’d married late, had Julia even later, and always seemed to be ill from one thing or another.
Julia poured tea and passed around the pastries, chatting about the bakery and the wonderful aromas emanating from the shop. Davood let her finish, then turned to Herr Goldblum.
“Please don’t think I’m being rude, sir, but given what you’ve suffered these past years, why do you stay in Germany?”
Julia’s eyes flashed a warning.
Goldblum eyed Davood with suspicion. “Why do you want to know? Who are you?”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Julia said. “He is a friend.”
Her father stirred his tea, then set the cup and saucer on the tray. He sniffed. “Where would we go? We have no connections in England, America, or Shanghai.” Palestine wasn’t an option, either, he went on. “We are Reform Jews and have no special allegiance to the Homeland.” Goldblum paused. Then his spine stiffened and his eyes narrowed. “Why do you care? What do you know about our lives? You”—he sniffed again—“are a scienti
st for a Nazi. And you’re Muslim. I must confess, young man, that the only reason we agreed to this—this meeting is because our daughter insisted.” Goldblum swiveled away from Davood, effectively cutting him out of the conversation.
Davood felt the heat on his cheeks. He’d just been put in his place. Julia pursed her lips and changed the subject to a Beethoven symphony she’d heard on the radio. Her parents chattered as if they’d heard it, too. Davood’s frustration grew. They should be talking about important matters. It was 1939. War had been declared, although so far people were calling it der Sitzkrieg, the Sitting War, or as the English said, the phony war. There had been little fighting and no major attacks, but the sense of impending doom was as real as the snow blanketing the city. It was difficult to be in Germany. More difficult to be a Jew. They should be talking about how to escape, not Beethoven’s Fifth.
But Herr Goldblum hadn’t finished. “A Persian…” he mumbled. “And a Muslim.” He shook his head. “You know, of course, where the shah got the name for Iran.”
Davood looked down.
“Yes,” Herr Goldblum hissed. “You know. Aryan. Iran. He and Hitler have a ‘special relationship.’ ”
Davood looked up and met his eyes. “Not everyone in my country feels that way, sir. Most Persians have tolerance and respect for all. For example, I myself am a Kurd. But I have never felt excluded because of it.”
“You may think that way now,” Goldblum huffed. “But you are young, and young people have dreams. They won’t last.”
Davood thought about Herr Goldblum’s words as he made his way to the lab the next morning. Just six months ago he had come to Leipzig as full of hope as the summer flowers that flanked the dusty roads outside the city. He, the star physics student at the University of Tehran, invited to work with the famous physicist Erich Schröder in Leipzig. The first Kurdish student to achieve such an honor. His parents were, of course, elated, but threaded through their joy was a note of warning.
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