The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  The trio took a seat and made sandwiches. Reba laid open the bread slices while Deedee doled out the turkey and Elsie the cheese.

  “Oops,” said Deedee looking down at the three piles. “No cheese for Reba.” She reached to take the slice away, but Elsie stopped her.

  “Nonsense! The girl has finally come to her senses. Besides, you’ve got to have cheese with pumpernickel. It sweetens the bitter bite.”

  Deedee cocked her head.

  Reba gave staccato nods and flipped the tops on. “Sandwiches are ready!” She passed them out.

  “She’s—how you say—a dairy dee-va these days.” Elsie took her sandwich and squished it hard so the meat and cheese held together.

  Deedee crossed her arms. “Really?”

  “I’m starving!” Reba shoved the sandwich into her mouth.

  Elsie nodded. “Powerful stuff—dairy. They say it changes the hormones. I saw on a health science television show.” She took a bite and continued talking. “A medical study found that women with the premenstrual syndrome had less emotional outbursts, depression, mood swings, and general bad temperament after eating more dairy. The doctors. They have documented.” She gulped. “And I believe in science. Reba is a case in point. She began eating dairy and her head cleared so she could finally make a decision about that fiancé.”

  Reba closed her eyes tight.

  “Um Gottes willen! It was about time.” Elsie crunched her pumpernickel.

  “I don’t believe I had to hear about my baby sister’s engagement from a seventy-nine-year-old German lady I met less than ten minutes before! Unbelievable!” Deedee paced Reba’s kitchen.

  Reba sat at the table, watching the moon outside climb steadily over the mountain ridge and wishing she were up there with it.

  “That’s the guy, isn’t it?” Deedee pointed to the kitchen drawer. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s your fiancé?”

  “Ex,” clarified Reba.

  “Whatever. You agreed to marry someone and you didn’t bother telling your family—telling me!” She slapped her chest dramatically. “Your sister!”

  Reba picked at the dark rind beneath her thumbnail—pumpernickel.

  Deedee inhaled. “Are you pregnant?”

  Reba snapped her head up. “God no. Deedee, this isn’t Jerry Springer.”

  “Well, I’m trying to rationalize why you’d do a thing like this.” She put a hand on each temple, pushing the pressure points and pulling her eyes into slits.

  “I knew you wouldn’t understand,” grumbled Reba. “That’s why I don’t tell you things.”

  Deedee took a seat beside her, leaning her cheek onto her fist. “What is there to understand? All you have to say is that you fell in love and I’ll get it. But you haven’t said a word!” She looked hopefully at Reba. “Do you love this guy?”

  Reba cupped her hands over her nose. They smelled like Swiss cheese. She didn’t know how to answer. It was complicated. She loved Riki, but maybe not enough. It was like cheesecake. She thought she loved it, but maybe that was only because she’d sworn it off. Now that she could have it openly, shouldn’t she want to taste all she’d been missing: cheddar rolls and créme-filled pastries, hamburgers and beef satay, buttermilk pancakes with corn beef hash, and whipped cream on everything? The world was at her palate. So how could she go back to nibbling old cheesecake, even if she craved it, even if it was her favorite thing in the world? And how could she make Deedee understand?

  She moved her fingers to cover her face and whispered through tented palms, “He’s cheesecake.”

  “Huh—what? Cheesecake?” Deedee huffed. “And that’s another thing. I thought you didn’t eat that stuff. You made me adopt a cow, for God’s sake!”

  Reba groaned. She couldn’t take it all at once. She buried her head in folded arms like she used to do during first-grade rest time.

  “Talk to me, Reba.” Deedee put a familiar hand on her back.

  It was quiet inside the shelter of Reba’s arms. Her steady breathing, the only sound. “I eat dairy now.” She had to start somewhere.

  “All right. Momma will be happy. It broke her heart that you wouldn’t eat her cheese fritters. You know she’s got a handful of recipes she considers prize-worthy, and all of them include cream, cheese, or a hunk of beef.” Deedee’s voice softened. “So how did you meet Riki?”

  Reba raised her chin to her forearm. “I did a story on immigration in the borderland. I interviewed him at the station where he works. He was so different from the guys back home. He wore cowboy boots and a Stetson and not because it was in the latest J. Crew catalogue. There was real mud and horseshit on them.”

  Deedee laughed and so did Reba.

  “And he treated me like I was … refined coming from the East Coast and having traveled places. He couldn’t believe we could drive two hours and be at the water whenever we wanted. He was fascinated by my photos of Sandbridge Beach, and hardly anybody’s impressed by the geriatric prominence of Sandbridge! But he’s been here all his life. Landlocked in the desert. He’s never seen the ocean. Can you imagine?”

  Deedee shook her head.

  “And most of all, he seemed to love me so much. I’ve never been loved like that. So hard, you know?”

  “I don’t. I won’t even go into how many nightmare men I’ve dated. In case you didn’t know, there are a lot of screwballs out there looking for a pretty face and a frolic.” Deedee seemed to sigh out all the angry air. “To tell the truth, I’m jealous.”

  Reba sat up. “Don’t be jealous! It’s downright terrifying.”

  “Too bad. I’m already green-eyed. I saw the photo. The guy’s hot.” Deedee smirked. “So I can’t wrap my brain around why you didn’t mention he asked to marry you. Were you embarrassed?”

  “No, not embarrassed.” Reba stared hard at the full moon now high above the craggy mountaintop. “Unsure. I didn’t want to tell anyone until I felt it back. Felt that kind of big love.”

  Reba pulled the necklace from its hiding place under her shirt and dangled the ring.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Deedee.

  “I never wore it.”

  “Why the hell not? If I had a diamond like that, I’d bling-bling it around town.”

  “It never felt right,” explained Reba.

  Deedee nodded. “Is that why you called it off?”

  “I guess. We never technically called it off. We had a fight and he moved out. I haven’t heard from him in over a month.” Something in her throat caught. Her eyes stung.

  “That makes it easier, right?” said Deedee.

  Reba turned away to hide the welling tears. She couldn’t stop them.

  “Ever try calling him?”

  Reba shrugged. How many times had she dialed all but the last digit? She prayed he’d call her, but he didn’t so she didn’t, and the days turned into silent weeks. She missed him, much more than she’d ever anticipated.

  Deedee took Reba’s hand and traced the bones fanning from her wrist to her fingertips. “You remember what Momma used to tell us when we were little. If you truly love somebody, you follow them to the ends of the earth; you give up everything you have, even your life—now that doesn’t mean you slit your wrists for some jack-about-town just because he makes your heart flutter.” She paused.

  Reba knew they were both thinking the same thing: that was exactly what their momma had done. Not in the literal sense, of course, but their entire lives, they’d watched her bleed herself, die a little each day, to keep up the family reputation on the outside and the pretense of normalcy within. Momma tried to hide the unsavory truths from everybody, even herself, but they knew. They always knew.

  “What I mean is, when it comes to the person you marry, you’ve got to know what you’re getting into.”

  Here it was: that old splinter come to the surface. Reba was tired of its sting. She wanted it out, for better or worse.

  “Do you think Momma knew what she was getting into with Daddy?” she asked.
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br />   Deedee blinked once. Twice. The right side of her mouth twitched. It was a subject that smarted them both.

  “Daddy had too tender a heart. The war tore it up and nobody, not us or Momma, could put him back together.” She sighed. “I guess you have to be ready even for that—for the person you love to leave you, in spirit or in body. Death comes in all kinds of disguises.”

  “A hungry wolf,” whispered Reba.

  Deedee ran a hand through her bangs, then continued, “I never doubted for a minute that Momma loved him. Whatever else might’ve been going on, they weren’t faking that.”

  Reba wasn’t debating the relationship between her momma and daddy. She remembered what they’d had. She remembered her daddy’s good days. Him and Momma strolling through the woods behind their house: Momma fanning herself with a maple leaf as big as a bear claw; Daddy’s arm around her waist. The way Momma looked at him across the dinner table like his laughter was music. Momma’s smile when he brought home bright bouquets of sunflowers. When Reba first moved to El Paso, it struck her as ironic that sunflowers grew wild, clinging to the edges of alfalfa fields. Weeds. It made her wonder if in other parts of the world, roses might live the same double life.

  “Maybe not, but there was a hell of a lot of other acting going on. Momma deserved an Oscar.” Reba bit her bottom lip to keep it steady. “I think about us as kids, and I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. It makes a person feel like her mind’s warped. Makes me understand how Daddy must’ve felt.”

  Deedee readjusted in her chair. “Daddy … had a rough time of it.”

  “A rough time?” Reba laughed. “God, Deedee, you make it sound like it was a bad day!” All the years of resentment piled inside her like kindling, and Deedee had just lit a match. “You always did that. When you left for boarding school, you pretended everything was peachy keen at home—well, it wasn’t. Far from it. Daddy was seriously depressed. I found his medical files. He had ECT treatments. Do you know what those are?” She put a sharp finger to her temple. “Bolts of electricity to the brain. I don’t know what you classify as a rough time, but I’d say that’s more than a rough time. And he did things in Vietnam, Deedee. Horrible things. I read one of his therapy notes. There was a whole other person in there we never knew.” Her mind raced faster than her lips could form words. “Remember—remember when I told you about him hitting momma. You told me it was a dream. A dream! You were the one dreaming! Pretending our house was fine when Daddy was clearly in need of help that didn’t come from a whiskey bottle. But no, everybody was content to either pretend it away or leave. I’m happy for you. Happy you got out of there—got to live the Miss Prissy Perfect life at school, but things weren’t going well at home, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. You knew. I know you did!” Her face was hot. “He killed himself, Deedee!” She choked down her sobs. “Momma’d already cut down the rope when I came home from school. She was on the phone with the police. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it. And the worst part was, he didn’t even look dead. He looked like he’d just passed out after a spell.” She’d never spoken of that night. It made her feel like a bonfire out of control, flaming to the sky. “When the ambulance came, and they said he was dead”—she covered her eyes with her hand—“I was relieved. Relieved, Deedee! I loved him so much, but I was afraid of him too. How can that be—you can’t love what you’re afraid of, right?”

  Tears coursed down Deedee’s cheeks, but Reba couldn’t cry. The burning inside was too great.

  “We never talked about any of it,” Reba went on. “It scares me still because I feel so much of Daddy inside me.”

  “Oh, Reba.” Deedee took both of Reba’s hands in hers. “I’m sorry.”

  Sister to sister, their gazes met. Reba’s pulse steadied from a boil to a simmer.

  “I didn’t want to leave you.” Deedee bit her bottom lip. “But I had to get out of there. I wanted to be free of all that sadness. I was so scared and hopeless.”

  Comprehension fluttered in Reba’s chest. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

  “You were a little girl.” Deedee sniffed. “I thought I was helping by keeping it from you. Whenever Daddy went on and on about his fears, his demons, it upset you so. I didn’t want you to worry any more than you already did. I wanted you to think everything was okay, but then, it all got to be too much. I had to get away—for my own sanity. I wanted to protect you from my pain, too.”

  “What about Momma? He was hurting her.”

  “Momma understood Daddy far better than either of us.” Deedee cleaned away her runny mascara, smudging it between her fingers. “The law has taught me that despite all the facts we think we know, the truth can be an awfully hard thing to get a hold on. It’s muddled by time and humanity and how each of us experiences those.”

  “Truth is truth,” Reba whispered.

  “It is and it isn’t,” said Deedee. “Every day, I walk into the courtroom with my truth in hand and it never ceases to amaze me that the other attorney is doing the same. Who’s right?” She shrugged. “I’m thankful I’m not a judge.”

  “So are you saying we accept anarchy? We throw up our hands and live in delusions, never facing reality? Look how much good that did Daddy.”

  “No,” said Deedee. “It means we let God be the judge. It’s too big a job for you or me. We have to stop being afraid of the shadows and realize that the world is made up of shades of gray, light and darkness. Can’t have one without the other.” She squeezed Reba’s hands. “Daddy went wrong by judging his own past with an iron fist and allowing those judgments to condemn his present. There was nothing any of us could’ve done for him except love him as best we knew how. You can’t make someone else believe your truth, nor can you force forgiveness. We can only be responsible for ourselves.” Deedee pulled Reba against her shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I’m sorry it’s taken us so long to talk about Daddy’s death.”

  Reba leaned into her. “I’m sorry too.” And for the first time in what seemed like forever, there were no pretenses between them. With that came a peace Reba had longed for all her life.

  “Deedee.” She let the weight of her head rest wholly against her sister. “I don’t want to be like Daddy.”

  Deedee leaned her own heavy head atop Reba’s. “His biggest mistake was he couldn’t see how big our love was for him.”

  Reba thought of Riki, and the center of her chest began to ache. “Riki’s the most genuine man I’ve ever met … and I do love cheesecake.”

  “Ah,” Deedee whispered. “Cheesecake.” She nodded. “Well, maybe he’s not cheesecake. Maybe he’s the milkman.”

  They quietly giggled in each other’s embrace.

  “I never understood your whole dairy-free phase. It just didn’t fit you.” Deedee kissed Reba’s forehead.

  “I was trying to be what I wasn’t,” said Reba, and she smiled, feeling the lie lift. The truth as buoyant as air.

  SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI

  56 LUDWIGSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  MARCH 23, 1945

  The sunlight was as weak as the dandelion tea Mutti made from the premature blooms she picked that morning. A storm at dawn had left their heads limp and bowed over like dejected schoolchildren. Now, the breeze was raw and wet and carried with it the scent of earthworms writhing beneath the hibernating strawberry vines. The mineral chill stuck to the back of Elsie’s neck no matter how many scarves she wore or how quickly she worked. The usual crowd had already formed a line, their stomachs and voices grumbling at the workday ahead, the smell of bread, and the whispers of German defeat.

  Elsie tossed stale rolls and loaves into cloth sacks and paper wraps, trading trinkets, coins, and promissory words alike. They were already running low. The brötchen bin was near empty, and Frau Rattelmüller hadn’t come for her customary purchase.

  “I paid for three,” said a man in a stiff fedora. “You gave me two.” He pointed a hard fing
er at the rolls in brown paper.

  “I’m sorry.” Elsie handed him another, and he left in a huff, mumbling under his breath and wrapping his scarf tight around his throat.

  The next customer ordered, but Elsie failed to hear. Frau Rattelmüller’s absence had unsettled her routine. She was uneasy; her mind drifted past the carousel of morning customers and down the lane to the frau’s door. She wondered what had kept her.

  A shifting of seasons was in the air, and it was more than spring. The Gestapo patrolled the streets night and day with rifles slung over their shoulders; news trickled in that Allied forces were at the Rhine and certain to cross over any day; the Volksempfänger said the Americans, Brits, and Russians were coming to rape and murder them, but Elsie wondered how much worse they could be than their own soldiers. Since Achim Thalberg’s murder many more people had been quarantined, arrested, or simply shot. Having Tobias under her roof was grounds for immediate termination, for herself and her family; and with Julius constantly underfoot, keeping Tobias’s presence a secret had become a daily labor.

  Initially, Mutti proposed that Julius share a room with Elsie. The mere suggestion had precipitated the first of Julius’s fits, which they soon learned were habitual. He refused to sleep anywhere near the opposite sex and bristled at all displays of affection between Mutti and Papa, be it a held hand or a kiss to the cheek. It was baffling considering Hazel’s loving nature. Mutti made excuses, saying, “He’s been raised with the highest morals of the Reich. Perhaps we all need a lesson in propriety.” Papa had nodded but frowned.

  In an attempt to appease Julius, Mutti fashioned a mattress out of old tablecloths and straw and cleared the kitchen pantry closet of its few remaining items. This was to be his bedroom. He wasn’t thrilled but accepted it as the only extra space available. Sullen and ill-tempered in his new surroundings, he spent a majority of his days therein lining his toy soldiers in the grooves and divots of the wooden floorboards. Like curdled milk, he seemed soured with a great sadness no one could alleviate.