The Baker's Daughter

by Sarah McCoy

  “Hush now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Riki had brought home a lost Chihuahua when they first moved in together. He named it Nacho and bought a minisombrero for it to wear. He would have kept it had the owners not come a week later. At the time, Reba had been up against deadline and was annoyed by both Riki and the puppy-pawed visitor prancing about their kitchen. But Riki had loved the idea of raising a pet together. She smiled at the memory, though it stung of so many regrets.

  She went inside and retrieved the leftover Chinese takeout. “You like shrimp?” She held up a curly tail.

  The dog sat on its haunches and cocked its head to the side. “Good boy,” said Reba, tossing the shrimp over the six-inch balcony divide. He caught it midair.

  Reba took another saucy shrimp and popped it in her own mouth. “You know,” she mumbled, “I just came from your neck of the woods. Have you ever been to Chihuahua?”

  Suddenly conscious that she was conversing with a dog, she leaned over the railing to make sure the neighbors weren’t sitting in their living room getting a good laugh at her expense. The lights were off, the door securely closed.

  The dog stood up on its hind feet and overlapped his paws; a practiced trait, she could tell.

  “Very nice!” Reba threw him another shrimp, and the dog eagerly noshed on the reward. “You got a name?” She searched his collar for a tag but found none.

  “That’s all right. How about a nickname?” She pulled another shrimp from the container, deep in thought. He didn’t look like a Rover or Max.

  The dog stood on his hind legs again, pencil tail thwacking the wooden balcony.

  She held up the food. “Shrimp?”

  He excitedly bobbed his paws like panning for gold.

  “Hey—that’s not a bad idea. What do you say, Shrimp.” It seemed to fit. She threw the tail to him and licked hoisin from her fingers.

  Docking, the ship blew its horn again, but the sound seemed to echo less than before. The sailor on the deck was gone.

  “Do you like kreppels?” Reba asked. “Some people say they’re kind of like churros. Maybe I’ll make us a batch.”

  Shrimp licked his chops and let his tongue loll out in something like a smile.

  —–Original Message—–

  From: deedee.adams@gmail.com

  Sent: April 14, 2008 5:43 P.M.

  To: reba.adams@hotmail.com

  Subject: RE: It’s raining here … AGAIN

  Reba,

  Forget the flowers, you sound like a drowned cat! I hate hearing you so gloom and doom. It’s not healthy. Get your head out of the puddle. Remember what I said: Look up, kitty, or you’ll miss the rainbow! I wish for a second you could see the Reba I see. You’re a fighter, strong and determined. I’ve always admired that about you. Don’t let yourself crumble from within.

  Yes, Momma is going with the Richmond Junior League to Washington, D.C., for Independence Day. The ladies are honoring Vietnam Vets with red, white, and blue garlands made out of recycled clothing. (Don’t ask me—it was some big “material drive” for our “brave men in uniform” a month back. They’ve been channeling Betsy Ross ever since.) So it’s no use you flying in. She won’t want to talk anything but apple pies and John Philip Sousa then. There’s no other time this summer you could come? How about in the fall—Labor Day or Columbus Day? Try, Reba. Please.

  I’m sorry to hear that you and Riki are in another rough patch. Long-distance relationships are difficult. Not that I know, but none of my girlfriends have been able to keep them up. I’m rooting for this Riki, though. If you and he make it work, an introduction is long overdue. Yet another reason to get on a plane. This is your big sister speaking: no more excuses. Bring Riki home with you. Maybe you need to get away together. We can make the weekend one big therapy session.;)

  Smile, baby sis. Whether we’re standing on the shores of the Pacific or the Atlantic, the water is the same.

  Love you, Deedee

  AMERICAN ARMED FORCES R&R CENTER

  19 GERNACKERSTRASSE

  GARMISCH, GERMANY

  AUGUST 7, 1945

  Elsie balanced heavy plates of meatloaf on the serving tray. Following the departure of the Ninth Air Force squadron, the R&R Center was notably quiet. Robby declared the kitchen crew on a minihiatus and announced “Mom’s Meatloaf Special” as the set menu. Late the previous evening, they’d mixed, baked, and frozen over two dozen meaty bricks in preparation. The gigantic bowl of ground beef had nearly sent Elsie running for the toilet, but she wouldn’t risk vomiting Mutti’s tea.

  For the past week, Mutti had brewed batches each morning and bound the herbs in petite cheesecloth sachets for Elsie to take to work in the evenings. Purple puffs of pennyroyal and leafy cohosh hung from the kitchen window to dry. Papa had nearly made himself a cup, mistaking the pennyroyal for lavender, so Mutti tied the stems with red yarn as an indicator.

  This was Elsie’s fifth and final day on the tincture. So far, the tea seemed to do little more than give her a yellow complexion and full bladder.

  “Last order up for Table 2!” called the line cook. He handed Elsie a plate slathered in extra ketchup and wilted onions, and she hoisted the loaded tray onto her shoulder.

  Five soldiers drank frothy steins at the table. Hungry eyes brightened with her approach, but before she reached them, something between her ribs and pelvis spasmed, then knotted hard. She doubled over. The plates slid forward to a crash.

  Unable to collect herself from the pain, two of the men lifted her off the floor. A third brushed slimy vegetables and tomato sauce from her apron while the remaining pair picked up broken plates. Their faces contorted; their mouths moved, but she heard little. The sound of crashing still echoed. The knot twisted tighter inside. She clutched her stomach and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Robby held her chin and strained to see the pain Elsie could not and would not tell him. He spoke to someone behind him, and then everything began to swirl like cinnamon mixed in cake batter. She was going to vomit but remembered the tea and leaned her head back to keep it all down. Quickly, she realized the room wasn’t spinning. She was moving, being carried out of the dining hall through the kitchen into the back linen closet.

  Robby made a long bed of stacked cream tablecloths and a pillow of folded napkins. She pulled her knees to her chest and begged to have her dirndl undone. Robby hurried the men out and did as she requested.

  “Elsie, we’ve got to call a doctor,” he said.

  She gripped his arm, digging her fingernails into his wrist. A doctor would alert him of her pregnancy. “Nein.” She understood what was happening. She only wished Mutti was there to validate her symptoms. “My mother,” she whispered, but then remembered where she was and where she was supposed to be. She still hadn’t told her parents about her job with the Americans. “Never mind.”

  Another cramp kicked so hard, she knew it could only be the baby writhing within.

  Robby put his hand to her belly. “It hurts here?”

  The pressure of his palm relieved some of the pain, and she wondered if the child felt his pulse through her thin skin. Her eyes stung and blurred, and she prayed for forgiveness.

  “A new guy just arrived with the last recruits. He came to play pickup football the other day. Said he was a doc. I could get him. Nobody would know,” said Robby.

  Before she could refuse, he was gone, and she was alone. The closet lightbulb dangled from a cord above. A fat moth flew round, occasionally touching the hot white, then fluttering back, touching and fluttering, touching and fluttering, desperately diving into the brightness. Its powdery wings pattered against the round glass barrier. Elsie wished she could catch it in her palms and release it outside, so the true moonlight might set its path straight. Her cramps began to ease with each passing minute.

  There was a knock and though she gave no permission, it opened. A tall man with russet hair falling over his brow entered. He stood out from the other soldiers with their tight regulatio
n crew cuts; his face was older but softer by the framing.

  “This is Doc Meriwether. I told him you’ve been feeling bad for weeks. He’s going to fix you up,” said Robby.

  “Fräulein Schmidt.” Doctor Meriwether nodded, then knelt by her makeshift bed and opened his Red Cross rucksack.

  “Nein.” She pulled away and tried to stand, but the pain returned.

  Doctor Meriwether felt her forehead. His fingers so tender and careful, she immediately lay back.

  “A little warm.” He turned to Robby. “Mind stepping out while I examine the lady?”

  Robby shifted his weight on either foot. “Elsie?”

  She nodded, and he left.

  “How’s about you tell me where it hurts,” said Doctor Meriwether.

  Elsie couldn’t distinguish what was different in his voice. There was a slow twang to his English, like honey drizzled off the comb.

  “Woman’s business.” She hoped he’d leave it at that and be done. Instead, he put a palm to her lower belly and pressed down firmly. She gasped as something inside came loose. A warmth spread between her thighs.

  “Uh-huh.” He widened her eye between his fingers and peered. “Look right at me.” And she did.

  In fact, Elsie couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked so closely into another person’s eyes. Yes, she met the gaze of everyone she spoke to and sometimes remembered that their eyes were very light or very dark, but there was more she’d never noticed until Doctor Meriwether. His eyes weren’t merely brown; they were gold flecked and gave way to green and yellow near the perimeters. His pupils were no ordinary darkness either; their centers glimmered light and reflected an entirely different world. She wished she could fly straight into them. Her heart beat fast.

  “Sergeant Lee says you’ve had chronic vomiting, lack of appetite, fatigue.” He paused and waited for a response.

  Elsie nodded.

  “When was your last menstruation?” He turned his face away when he asked, and she knew he knew.

  She bit her lip to hold back the tears.

  He moved to the end of the bed. “I’m sorry, Miss Schmidt, but would you allow me?” He gestured to her skirt.

  She closed her eyes and lifted it to her knees. It only took a moment before he pulled it down again.

  “You’ve miscarried a child. Did you do anything to yourself?” His voice was gentle. “I only ask because I need to know if there’s a puncture wound. You’ll die if you bleed out or develop an infection.”

  “I drank tea,” said Elsie.

  He frowned with concern.

  “Pennyroyal and cohosh.” Her voice broke. Another cramp seized her, and she pulled her knees up again.

  “Stay here.” He left the room for a moment, returning with a slice of bread and two glasses of water, one clear and one gray.

  “First, drink this.” He handed her the gray.

  Elsie sipped and spat back in the glass. The water was gritty and tasted of charred wood.

  “What is it?”

  “Carbon. I promise it won’t hurt you. It doesn’t taste good, but you have to drink it all. Pennyroyal’s got a mean bite if you use it wrong. This will help carry the poison out of your body.”

  “Poison?” Elsie gulped down the bitter drink. “I thought I was losing the baby.”

  “You did.” He gestured with his chin for her to finish the silty bottom of the glass.

  She swallowed hard. The charcoal bits scraped her back molars and sent goose bumps down her spine.

  “The herbs. They poisoned you both.” He took the glass from her. “I can’t do much about the child now, but I can help you.” He set the glass to the side and pulled a pillbox from his rucksack. “This will help the pain and cramping.” He handed her a chalky tablet and the clear glass.

  She drank them down together and swore water never tasted so sweet.

  “Now eat something or that’ll tear a hole in your stomach.” He passed her the bread.

  It melted in her mouth, and she was thankful to find comfort in familiar tastes.

  “The pain should be better in a few minutes, but the bleeding could go on for a while.” He sat on the ground beside the makeshift bed and studied her thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Ha.” He scratched his head. “Just a kid.”

  “I am not,” she contested and sat up the best she could.

  Doctor Meriwether pushed a hand through his wavy hair, and it fell back like apple tree leaves shifted by the breeze. “When I was seventeen, I was mucking the stalls of my daddy’s barn, still wet behind the ears with a milk mustache. You’re too young to be mixed up with all this—war and these fellas,” he said, reminding Elsie that Robby waited outside.

  Sweat trickled between her breasts. “With respect, Doctor, I have lived through more than you could ever imagine. I thank you for your help, and if I may ask for one more kindness: do not tell him. Please.” She looked to the door.

  Doctor Meriwether followed. “Oh. I see.”

  “No one can know.”

  Their eyes met and held. The moth overhead pattered against the bulb. He smiled sympathetically, and she knew he’d keep her secret.

  “I’m sure he’s eager to know how you are.” He stood.

  Surprising them both, Elsie grasped his hand. “Thank you.” She didn’t want to let go, and he didn’t pull away. His fingers in hers felt as natural as her own body. She released before she grew too accustomed to his steady pulse.

  Doctor Meriwether opened the door. “Alive and kicking,” he announced.

  Robby came in rubbing sweat from his temples. “She okay?”

  Elsie didn’t flinch. She trusted the answer before it was given.

  “The little lady just needs rest and good food. You boys here will have to do without her pretty face for a week,” said Doctor Meriwether.

  Robby patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll cook up some chicken noodle soup ASAP. And uh—” He turned them so their backs were to Elsie. “Command might get the wrong idea so … I was hoping this could stay between us. Patient-doctor confidentiality and all.”

  Doctor Meriwether slung his rucksack over his shoulder. “I am well aware of the rules, Sergeant.” He turned to Elsie. “Stay off your feet until the cramping stops. Tonight and tomorrow, rest,” he instructed. “You’ll need to drive her home after you close up the kitchen,” he told Robby. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

  The light of his eyes shimmered, and her breath caught. She wanted to follow him. She didn’t care where. But the tenderness of her belly and the moistness of her skirt shamed her still.

  EL CAMINO VILLAGE

  APARTMENTS

  2048 EL CAMINO REAL

  SAN FRANCISCO, CA

  MAY 5, 2008

  After a long Monday, Reba sat on the balcony with a full glass of cheap white wine, a can of tuna, and two buttermilk biscuits baked from scratch the day before. The recipe was called “Shoofly Biscuits.” Deedee had clipped it out of one of Momma’s southern hospitality magazines and mailed it with the note:

  There’s a lot of wisdom in that old song. I can’t help smiling when I’m eating these. Thought I’d share. Skip to my Lou, my darlin’.

  Reba was willing to give anything a shot. The little blue devils of April had matured to full-grown doldrums come May.

  She sipped her wine. “Freelancers have to understand that a deadline is a deadline,” she explained. “When they’re a day or two late, it means I have to cram all my work into the week before it goes to press, so there’s bound to be oversights.” She pulled the crusty top off a biscuit and threw it over the balcony railing to Shrimp. “I’m not superwoman! And where was Leigh? Shouldn’t she be double-triple-checking all our work before it goes to press? Isn’t that the job of an editor in chief? No, no, she’s too busy shaking hands and going to luncheons at Chez Panisse Café. Meanwhile I’m editing these ignorant, fluff-ball pieces about celebrity diets, fashion foo
twear, and restaurants using organic butter! Where are the real stories about real people?” She took a bite of bread, pulling hard with her teeth. “Hmm … a little dense. What’d you think?”

  Shrimp had finished the biscuit and had proceeded to sniff the ground for misplaced crumbs.

  “Of course you like it. You lick your balls too.” She ripped off another piece and tossed it over. “What was I saying?”

  It was her fourth glass of wine. The day had been particularly hard: Leigh had admonished her in front of the whole office for allowing the May issue to be published with the profiled celebrity chef’s name incorrectly spelled; Riki hadn’t returned her call from over a week ago; Deedee e-mailed that she’d met an attorney named Davison and though she’d never ascribed to it before, she now believed in love at first sight; and to top it off, her kitchen sink had a leak that flooded the linoleum with an inch of standing water. She was convinced the cosmos was out to get her, so she prescribed herself a bottle of wine and escaped to the balcony.

  “The take-home message for you, my little friend, is work sucks, love sucks, life sucks. I was better off in El Paso.” She set the glass down and forked tuna from the can. “By the way, where are your people? You live alone over there? No, somebody’s got to be cleaning up after you. Lord knows I feed you.” She retrieved her glass to wash down the fishiness. “God, I hope I can’t get sued for feeding the neighbor’s dog. Hey, how about you run some laps round the balcony. Work off those biscuits. Can’t have you getting tubby—like that guy who sued McDonald’s for making him fat. I’m no McDonald’s.” She nodded to herself.

  The night sky was coppery from the city lights. Artificial white, yellow, and orange stars globed together around the bay. She missed the moon, among so many things in El Paso.