At half past noon, they packed up but left behind their offerings and two geranium blooms from Reba’s hat. On the walk back to the parked car, Riki stopped suddenly before a grave decorated in a blanket of orange marigolds and children’s toys: a worn soccer ball, a plastic airplane, a stuffed tiger with fuzzy stripes. The day before had been Día de los Inocentes, the day of remembrance for lost children. Riki’s hand dropped away from Reba. The block stenciling on the wooden white cross read VICTOR GARCIA.
Riki’s Victor, Reba thought, and clasped Riki’s hand tight in hers. She wanted him to know she was there with him—in good times and bad, in joy and in sorrow.
Though it was Sunday, Jane opened the bakery from 2:00 to 5:00 p.m. so customers could visit Elsie’s dedication altar. Riki and Reba were there at quarter till two, rapping on the glass door.
Jane opened it with a welcoming laugh and tinkling bell above. “Mom would be so pleased!” She gestured to Reba’s scarlet-flowered hat and ushered them in. “I can’t say Sergio and I dressed with such flair, but we did our part.”
A large baking tray of glazed bone-crossed buns cooled beside the register.
“We baked all night.” She snatched one up and offered it to Riki. “You’re the expert. Don’t pussyfoot. Tell me if they’re up to snuff.”
Riki took the pan de muerto, turning it round. “They sure look like Mom’s.” He bit in. “Taste like them too,” he mumbled.
Reba winked at him and skimmed her hand down his back. Stumbling on Victor’s grave at Panteón San Rafael had been a surprise. Riki confided that he hoped to make some reparation to the Garcia family one day. Not that he could change anything. But perhaps in the acknowledgment of their suffering and loss, they could all find healing. Reba agreed. She’d learned that the past was a blurry mosaic of right and wrong. You had to recognize your part in each of those and remember. If you tried to forget, to run from the fears, the regrets and transgressions, they’d eventually hunt you down and consume your life like Daddy’s wolf did his. Reba was not her daddy. She was stronger, and she’d met people who showed her how to forgive and be forgiven. She was glad to be by Riki’s side at Victor’s grave. He would do the same for her.
“Good!” Jane clapped her hands. “That’s what I was aiming for.”
In front of the pastry display case was a café table turned makeshift altar. A picture of Elsie and a teenage Jane stood center, their faces oddly similar to the black-and-white photo on the wall. Beside it was a photograph of Doctor Albert Meriwether, dressed in his army Class-A uniform. Around the pictures were sugar skulls, candles, a white rose, letters tied with baking twine, an Edelweiss pin, a cowboy cartoon, a weathered book, and two lebkuchen hearts.
“You’ve got quite a spread,” said Reba.
“I decorated with all her favorites.” Jane fingered the wooden frame of Al. “So my dad, of course, and then some things I found in an old tin in Mom’s dresser. This pin, a cartoon ad for baked beans, and letters—mostly from my grandma and Lillian, but there are others too.”
Reba nodded. “No explanation needed for the lebkuchen. Specialty of the house.”
“Mom would come back from the dead and snatch me bald if I didn’t have gingerbread.” Jane smiled.
“What about this?” She lifted the book, vaguely making out the worn title on the coverless page. “A Boy’s Will. Frost? I read this in high school.”
“Lillian gave it to me at the funeral. She said about a year before, a man named Tobias Zuckermann mailed it to Elsie at the Schmidt Bakery in Garmisch. Of course, Mom wasn’t there. The new owner mailed it to the only address he had—Lillian in Wichita. She had it in mind to mail it here, but Mom passed before she had the chance. She brought it to the funeral,” explained Jane. “But here’s where the story gets good. He wrote a letter to Mom with the book. He was a Jew detained at Dachau during World War II. Apparently, Mom and one of her neighbors saved him from the Gestapo. Mom hid him in her bedroom wall, and somehow, they got him out of Germany. Can you imagine? Mom never said a word about it to me.” Jane shook her head. “I guess she used to read this book of poetry to him. He marked his favorites.”
Reba opened the book to a down-turned corner, “The Trial by Existence”:
Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise.
She cradled the flimsy copy, feeling the gravity of age, hope, and fear pressed into the willowy pages.
“Tobias wrote that he immigrated to California, got married, and had a bunch of kids. He even named one of his daughters after Mom. It’s all right over there in the letter.” She pointed to the stack tied with twine. “I figured she might want to read her mail today.” She winked.
“Amazing.” Reba considered the stack, her curiosity eating away at her.
“You can read it later if you want,” said Jane. “Mom wouldn’t mind. I think it says a lot about the kind of woman she was, then and now. She broke the mold.”
“She sure did,” said Reba.
“Jane—Reba,” Sergio called. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, a celebration toast! You bring the libations, and we’ll bring the food.” Jane snapped a set of tongs together.
Riki smiled wide at them and followed Sergio into the kitchen.
“Riki’s in fine spirits,” said Jane. “I’m guessing Citizenship and Immigration Services has been a nice change of pace for him, eh?”
Reba nodded. She was sure that played a part. “The work is good. Bert Mosley’s brother-in-law is the acting deputy director. With all of Riki’s Border Patrol experience, they were more than happy to have him and he was glad to be on the other side—welcoming people in, instead of kicking them out.” She traced the soft edges of the book in her palm. “So much has changed since a year ago. Sometimes I look in the mirror and can hardly believe how good I have it. Riki is going to meet my family at Thanksgiving. Finally!”
“That’s right, you two are eastbound for a spell.” Jane carefully peeled a sticky bun off the tray. “Did Sun City have any objections? You been back now what—five months?” She placed the bone-crossed bread on a pewter platter.
“Those are the perks of being the managing editor. It isn’t like I’m a stranger. It’s a new hat on an old head. Plus, I’ll only be gone a week.” Reba swiped her finger across the pooled sugar on the tray, licked it clean, then continued. “I don’t want to be away any longer than that. Riki’s mapping out all kinds of travel plans, but I want us to hurry back home so we can snuggle up on the porch and start living—really living.”
“Sounds like you’re a new head in an old hat, if you ask me.” Jane clapped her tongs approvingly. “I hear you, lady. The winds have changed these days. I hardly notice the trains and planes anymore. I guess when you’re happy where you are, the grass don’t seem so green on the other side of the fence. Maybe it never was.” She shrugged with a smile. “Y’all flying or driving east?”
“It’s a road trip.” Reba drew a clumsy outline of the United States in the sugar icing. “Up across the panhandle”—she walked her fingers along the tray—“through Nashville and over to Virginia.” She licked the frosting clean. “It’s been too long, and there are things I have to discuss with my family. I want Riki with me when I do. It’s important he know the whole truth of me.” She moved the tray aside for Jane. “The last stop is Virginia Beach. Riki’s never seen the ocean.”