Body and Bread (23 page)

“It’s nothing. Easy. You seen him on TV?”

“This may sound strange, Hugh, but we don’t have television here.”

“Sam’s seen him
in person
, in Waco.” He either didn’t know about Sam pawning our mother’s bowl to buy the ticket, or he’d wisely chosen to omit that part. “You ought to see
his
impression.”

“Sam plays the piano?” Saul asked, trying to reconcile that image with his perception.

“No, but he sounds
just like
Jerry.” He raised his hands, grew serious. “Really, you can’t tell them apart.” He shook his head, incredulous. “Sam says I should make a record.” He glanced sideways, checking my face. We knew our parents’ plan for his future, and it didn’t include music.

“That’s a great idea,” I said, and Hugh smiled, kicking the dirt. I slipped my hand into Saul’s. “What do you think of my boyfriend?”

“Okay, I guess,” he said, shrugging. When Saul awkwardly patted Hugh’s slicked hair, he ducked.

My parents had already strolled to the cider booth. Dad handed Mother a glass. Peering over the rim of her sunglasses, she studied Saul.

Dad handed us four glasses of dark cider, cloudy with apple pulp. “Tasty,” he said, nodding. His eyebrows had thickened, grown wayward.

“Saul knows the recipe,” I said, nudging him. “Don’t you?”

“A blend of bittersharp and bittersweet, with a small amount of crab apple.”

“Gives it that kick, I bet.” My father smacked his lips, the lower one faded, the top one folded under as though chewed.

“Has it been pasteurized?” my mother said, inspecting the cider through the side of her glass.

Appropriately swaddled, Elijah then ambled next to my parents. He invited my father to another of their theological discussions and smiled at my mother. She set her full glass on the booth’s counter
. Leader as avatar or Messiah
, she wrote in her notebook.

Elijah said, “I hope you’re happy with our new match.” He beamed at each of my parents.

Mother quit writing.

“New tennis courts?” my father said absurdly, searching the grounds.

“Elijah—” Saul interrupted.

“I’m referring to our loving couple,” he corrected, patting Saul’s sleeve. “They haven’t asked my counsel, but I’m hoping we won’t have long to wait for a wedding.” He pressed my arm, smiled again, and floated to the next group.

“I see,” my father mumbled, each word dragging disappointment. “Mama, looks like you’ll be getting your wish sooner than we thought.” Kurt, who was engaged, had decided to postpone his marriage until his last year of medical school.

“No, no, no,” I said, waving my hands. “Mom, don’t blow a gasket. I don’t know why Elijah said that.”

“Your daughter and I—” Saul interrupted.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever met Kurt,” my mother said through gritted teeth. “He’s Sarah’s oldest brother.” She flipped to a new page in her notebook. “And I’m going to call him right now.”

“Wait,” my father said, his mouth a slit. “Can we talk about this?”

Once my mother understood I wasn’t getting married, she reluctantly accepted the alternative: a relationship she hoped would go nowhere. Then, mid-summer, Sam and Terezie appeared in the cafeteria during lunch. He asked if I could sit with them in the sanctuary where no one would bother us. He had an announcement, he said. On the walk between buildings, he cupped Terezie’s rear-end, and when she squealed, slapping his arm, he tickled until she giggled, telling him to stop.

Inside, we pulled chairs from the front row, forming a loose circle. Sam alternately held Terezie’s hand and patted her leg. A shaft of light blazed through the windows, falling across the right side of Sam’s face. He angled his shoulder, blocking the glare.

“What’s your news?” I said, sounding more direct than I’d intended.

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said, reaching toward Terezie, “except this sexy lady…” he rubbed her belly, “is toasting a loaf.”

When he looked at me, I frowned, thinking,
I don’t get it.

“A bambino…a Porky Pig.” He flipped his eyebrows.

“She’s pregnant?” I asked, thinking,
This mistake’s too big
.
What’ll we do this time
?

Terezie was acting too happy. “So, this is good news?” I asked.

“Hell yes! Can’t wait to see my girl ripe as a tomato,” he said, nuzzling her.

I shifted, looked at my hands. I didn’t like them pawing each other in front of me and my friends.

“Hey,” Terezie called, “Sarah doesn’t like that.” She pushed him back.

“When’s it due?”

“Not ‘til February,” Terezie said. “But our parents’ friends can count, so the wedding’s right away…July.” When she picked an eyelash off Sam’s cheek, he turned, his odor almond soap, barbecue.

“She’s wearing one of those costumes, with the sleeve things,” he pointed to my shoulder, “and an apron. I love those.” Terezie closed her eyes, shaking her head. “At the Czech Moravian Brethren.”

“What did Mama say?”

“What do you think?” he said.

“
My
parents—feature this,” she said, “wanted to have the wedding at the capitol, on the front lawn.”

Sam hugged her. “Let’s have our honeymoon there instead.” They laughed then he faced me, leaning on his thighs. “Sar, would you be our maid of honor?”

“Huh?” I said. “Really, I’m sure Terezie wants somebody else.”

“Sweet,” Sam said, “but it was her idea.” He looked at Terezie, and she nodded, about to speak.

“Great. Thanks, Sar. Terezie’s got it all figured out.”

Terezie sighed. “You think I’m ready for this?”

The double doors opened, and Saul walked toward us. “Pardon me for interrupting,” he said. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to say welcome.” He extended his open hand. “Good to see you again, Sam.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said, slouching.

“Actually,” I said, standing, “this is a private conversation.”

“No,” Sam said, “
actually
, it’s as good a time as any to tell you what’s going on.”

“Yes, please do,” Saul said, signaling me not to interrupt.

“Our family thinks Sarah should come home. We believe it’s your fault that she’s not.”

“That’s it,” I said. “Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pulled Saul’s arm until he walked alongside me toward the door.

“It’s a mad tea party, Sarah,” he yelled. Terezie put her face in her hands. “Time’s standing still.”

Two weeks later, I phoned Sam.

He said, “It’s time for you to get on with your life. You’ve been stuck too long in his fantasy world.”

I told him about the books I’d been reading and my plan to start classes somewhere. Still suspicious, he reluctantly promised not to ask again.

Sam and Terezie got married a week later in a miniature, gothic-revival cathedral. Its crude beams and freehand stenciling resembled decorations in a child’s playhouse. Guests filled the forty pews, the aisle a cultural divide. One side held coiffed women who whispered and blinked, waving to one another. The tanned men vigorously shook each other’s hands. On the other side, women sighed, heads bent, while being escorted to their section.

Mrs. Cervenka sat in a handmade shirtwaist, watching as though a written test would follow. My grandparents, striding like another wedding couple, joined my parents, who could’ve been Neiman Marcus models. They all looked at the gladioli, their laps, the crowd, anywhere but Sam, who grinned when I stepped to my place in front, opposite Kurt. Hugh rocked on his heels next to Cyril, a nature boy in a tuxedo.

Terezie wore a
kroj
, her pleated flax skirt embroidered with primroses and psychedelic doodles. Lace and eyelet trimmed her white cotton blouse; tissue paper packed its sleeves. When Mr. Cervenka bowed, leaving his daughter next to Sam, she swatted her arms, rattling the stuffing.

The preacher was a ham radio operator whose monotone invited intermittent responses. Whenever he paused, Sam jiggled his leg. As the preacher droned, Sam kept his head low, his hands folded. After he kissed Terezie, he held her, cradling her head, grinning at the church’s dome, where a painted pelican pulled feathers from its breast.

On their way down the aisle, they stopped in front of my parents. Terezie handed my mother a lily, while Sam pressed his forehead to our father’s shoulder, then hugged him. Mother whispered to Terezie, who smiled but watched the men at her side. Rising, my father patted Sam, saying, “Okay, boy.”

Terezie surveyed the congregation then pulled Sam to her parents, who kissed both of her cheeks. He caressed their hands, talking through touch. Then my brother and his new wife strolled away.

The Cervenkas had rented the National Guard armory for the reception, the fraternal hall having been booked for a family reunion. The head table stretched along the wall where targets usually hung for rifle practice. Kurt’s fiancée, a redhead popular for her culinary skills, pinned a sprig of rosemary, the fertility symbol, on each guest’s shoulder; the baby was still a secret. Though Sam’s trousers draped below his ankles, the guests noticed his sneakers. “Nice shoes,” my parents’ friends teased while moving through the receiving line. “
Dobrý př
ί
tel je nad zlato
—A good friend is better than gold,” he said as he shook each person’s hand. Whenever anyone complimented Terezie’s dress, she grunted, “I stand by my man.” Once in a while, she clasped her mother’s arm.

Friends and relatives of the Cervenkas served a buffet of roast pork, fried sweet potatoes, tomato relish, squash bread, and
kolache
s. My family’s guests waited in line as though lounging at a cocktail party. “NASA recently sent Holsteins into orbit,” Blair Corcoran said to Kurt as Saul and I walked up. “It was the herd shot round the world,” he cackled. Kurt winced then excused himself. Saul fidgeted. “Clever, yes,” he said, forcing a chuckle along with Blair, while the Cervenkas’ friends stared, such raucousness better than a picture show. Some of our group’s children grew suspicious of the food. “What’s that yellow stuff in the bread?” a little girl cried, yanking her mother’s skirt. “Yuck,” her brother moaned, his face contorting.

During dinner, the wedding couple sat between the sets of parents, who were flanked by the wedding party, including Saul who sat next to me, and Kurt with his fiancé, Randy, next to Saul. Our row of heads made a line-up for the shooting gallery, the lovebirds its bull’s-eye.

“You and Saul have something in common,” I said to Kurt, hoping to get them talking.

Kurt believed the scrawls in our mother’s notebook confirmed his suspicions. He squinted. “Oh?”

“It’s true. You both like history.”

“Is that right?” Kurt said, adjusting his glasses. “So, Saul,” he leaned, turning to stare, “what do you know about the Allies’ Operation Shingle in Anzio in ‘44?” His fiancé tugged his tuxedo cuff.

Saul glanced at his plate then back at Kurt. “Didn’t the Army hold off the Germans there?” He wiped his hands on his napkin. “I’m more interested in the Janowska concentration camp uprising in ’43.”

“Are you Jewish?” Kurt said, squinting again. “I’m confused. I thought…never mind.”

“It’s complicated, but—”

“I really don’t want to know the details.” Kurt moved his chair back. “Excuse me,” he said and left, I guessed, for the bathroom.

“Well, that was rude,” I mumbled to Saul.

When guests began shoving aside their empty dessert plates, my mother excused herself then walked to Mrs. Cervenka.

“Can you tell me the seasoning used on the pork?” she asked as though she’d caught the woman leaving milk at our back door. “I have to know.”

Mr. Cervenka stood, scooted over. “Please,” he said, indicating his chair. His formality couldn’t hide his delight at her sudden attention.

“Thank you, no,” my mother said, nodding a greeting at a nearby couple. “Is it sesame or caraway? It gives the meat an interesting flavor.” She wasn’t purposely being rude. She genuinely wanted to know this culinary secret and viewed her question as a compliment.

Mrs. Cervenka folded her napkin, scooted her chair back, and rose until her head was almost a foot above my mother’s. “Is caraway, Mrs. Pelton.” Her voice was an empty well, her face an iron skillet.

“I thought so,” my mother said. “Thank you,” she sang while she strode back to her seat, chatting with friends along the way. Meanwhile, Kurt had returned to the table. “Caraway,” my mother announced to her future daughter-in-law, who’d recently spent a week at the New Orleans cooking school. That was the only time during the night that my parents and the Cervenkas spoke.

When the Snook Polka Boys started playing, Emil Kulhanek and Wade Nyank whooped and clapped, pumping their arms. “Wedding dance, wedding dance,” Wade shouted, until an older woman swatted his hands. He flinched, pretending pain.

Hugh wandered to the portable bandstand, stopping in front of the lead accordionist. While the man’s right hand jigged across buttons and keys, his left pumped the bellows. Hugh leaned precariously close, until our mother dragged him back to his chair. His sulking ended when the music whined to a halt. Sam took the microphone.