“That boy.” She turned to Josef. “Does he have to go back?”
The silver candelabras reflected the empty cavity of the piglet’s body and Nazi uniforms at every other chair.
Midair, Josef halted a last spoonful of potato spaetzle. “He’s a Jew.” He ladled the wormy noodles into his mouth before the waiter retrieved his empty plate.
Elsie tried to sound casual. “He’s only half Jewish … and that voice.” She shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to belong with the rest.”
“A Jew is a Jew.” Josef took her hand, fingering the ring. “You are too softhearted. Forget those things. Tonight is a celebration.”
From the candles, heat rose in wavy reflections. Elsie’s temples pulsed. The pitchy squeal in her head crescendoed.
“Josef, would you excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and stood.
“Is everything all right?”
“Please, don’t let me interrupt. I need a minute to …”
“Oh.” Josef nodded. “The WC is down the hall, to the right. Don’t get lost or we’ll have to send the Gestapo to find you.” He laughed.
Elsie gulped and forced a feeble smile. She walked leisurely through the glittering banquet hall but quickened her pace alone in the shadowed corridor, past the sign marked Toilette until she reached the double doors leading to the back alley.
Chapter Four
ELSIE’S GERMAN BAKERY
2032 TRAWOOD DRIVE
EL PASO, TEXAS
NOVEMBER 5, 2007
Reba’s cell phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” She read the text message: PROCESSIN VAN OF ILLEGALS. B HOME LATE. She sighed and tossed the phone back into her purse.
“Problem?” asked Jane.
“No, just more Rudy’s Bar-B-Q takeout for me. I’m a regular.”
“I hear that, honey.” Jane tapped her fingers on the table. “Boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.” Reba shuffled the items in her handbag, then zipped it.
“Oh, come on. It’s just us girls.” Jane made like she was locking her mouth with a key.
Reba paused. Again, Jane was toeing—no, pushing the line that separated the journalist from the subject. It wasn’t professional to talk about her relationships. The job was to get interviewees to talk about theirs; then she’d write it up and the magazine printed it a thousand times over for public consumption. She was known for her feature profiles. She could wheedle out intimate stories from just about anybody her editor put in front of her; but her life was private, and she meant to keep it that way. She’d just met this woman. Jane was a total stranger. No, completely inappropriate.
But there was something about her, a calm intensity, that gave the illusion—correct or not—of trustworthiness. And the fact was, Reba didn’t have many friends in the El Paso. She didn’t trust most people. She’d been jaded by far too many who said one thing but did another. Lied, in essence. Not that she could point a finger. She lied too, every day, big and small, even to herself. She told herself she didn’t need companionship. She was independent, self-sufficient, and free. Riki had been the only one she dared trust here, and only to a limited extent. But lately, even things with him were going sour. She felt a budding loneliness, and with it came the familiar emptiness that once threatened to swallow her whole. She missed her older sister, Deedee, and her momma, too. Family. The very people she’d traveled thousands of miles to leave behind.
On quiet El Paso nights when Riki was working late, the loneliness would sometimes consume her like it did in her childhood, and she’d pour a glass of wine, open the kitchen window, and let the desert breeze kick up the linen curtains. It made her think of her last August Sunday in Richmond. Deedee had come over with two bottles of Château Morrisette. They’d drunk barefoot on the fresh-cut lawn, green clippings stuck to their toes. By the second cork pop, wine wasn’t the only thing being poured into the night. Tipsy on illusive dreams, they forgot all their girlhood tears, talking of quixotic futures until even the lightning bugs turned off their lights; and for once, they understood why their daddy drank bourbon like lemonade. It was nice to pretend the world was wonderful—to gulp away the fears, hush the memories, let your guard down and simply be content, if only for a few hours.
Reba rubbed the twitch in her forehead. “He’s my fiancé,” she relented.
“Really!” Jane leaned back in her chair. “Where’s the ring?”
Reba reached for the chain at her neck and pulled the suspended solitaire from beneath her shirt.
“A sparkler,” said Jane. “How come it ain’t on your finger?”
“It makes it hard to type. Too tight, I think.”
“You can get that resized, ya know.”
Reba picked up the recorder and fiddled with the buttons.
“When’s the wedding?” Jane kept on.
“We haven’t set a date. We’re both pretty busy.”
“When did you get engaged?”
“Uh.” Reba flipped her mental calendar. “August.”
Jane nodded. “You best start planning. These days it takes a while to get all the doodads together. I can show you our wedding cake portfolio so you can get some ideas churning.”
Reba regretted having said anything and immediately evoked a tried and true journalism tactic: the redirect.
“Are you married?”
Jane pulled the cleaning rag off her shoulder and waved it around like a gymnast’s wand. “Ha. Not this old lady. I’m past my prime.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Never mind that nobody’d be good enough in Mom’s eyes unless he had trim on his shoulders. ’Course she’s never said nothing of the kind, but I always got the feeling she wanted me to marry a military man like my dad—US Army, the German Luftwaffe, or something. But I’m no soldier girl. All that ribbon and starch drives me batty. Don’t get me wrong; I respect what they do. I appreciate their service and sacrifice for our country. It’s an honorable profession, and each time Fort Bliss has a troop homecoming, I take all our breads and pastries over to the fort—no charge, mind you. But I don’t want one in my bed, and I don’t want to marry one.” A silver strand fell over her eyes, and she pulled it hard behind her ear.
“I never even brought a boy home. Didn’t see the point.” She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head, looking hard at Reba. “But I got somebody. Been together for years. Since I was a skinny thing with freckles. Never asked to marry me. Now, that might not sound good but trust me, if you knew, you’d see it takes a lot for a person to be faithful when you can’t put a label on it—can’t say, this person is mine. Takes an awful lot.”
Jane focused on the ring in the middle of Reba’s chest.
Reba readjusted in her chair, trying to shake off her stare. She cleared her throat. “It sounds like we’re the same suit in a pack of cards. I’m not racing to the altar either.”
“It’s a pretty ring,” said Jane.
The bell on the door clinked, and a man in a gray army sweatshirt entered.
“Can I help you, sir?”asked Jane. She stood, picked up the lavender spray, and returned to the register.
“Yes.” He frantically scanned the glass display case. “My wife wants me to order a cake. It’s for my son’s birthday. She tried to make one, but it kind of fell flat. His party’s in a few hours, so I came here.” He balled his fists and rubbed his knuckles together. The talon of a bald eagle tattoo stretched over his right wrist. “I’d appreciate anything you can do. She’s from Germany, my wife. We moved to Bliss last month, and she doesn’t know anyone. All her friends and family are back in Stuttgart. She said she couldn’t find the right ingredients at Albertson’s, and she threw out the frosted sheet cake I picked up this morning. She wants the cake to taste like home.” He looked up at Jane, his blue eyes pleading. “I just want her to be happy. If you’ve got an extra German cake in the kitchen …”