The Baker's Daughter (45 page)

Footsteps echoed on the stairs; a slice of light fell across the bedroom floor followed by the tangy aroma of onion and caraway seeds.

“Schwarzbrotsuppe,”
said Papa. He and Lillian each carried two bowls.

Mutti squeezed Elsie's hands still clasped round the letter bundle. “These are yours and always were,” she whispered.

“Bread soup warms the soul,” said Lillian. “Isn't that what you say, Opa?”

Mutti ran her hand over his arm. “My Max. A finer husband a woman could not have prayed to have. Thank you.”

Papa cleared his throat twice, but his voice failed him.

“Eat, Elsie,” she instructed. “It's been a long trip, and I want to hear
about Jane and Albert and your bakery. Can you believe it, Max? Our daughter is a baker and businesswoman. The girls today.” She smiled at Elsie and winked at Lillian. “The world holds so much promise for them.”

Papa looked to all three; his chest expanded with approval.

They sat around the bed together clinking spoons in bowls, laughing and listening to Elsie's stories of home. But while they filled their stomachs warm, Mutti ate nothing, her soup congealing on the night table.

T
he funeral parlor was crowded and balmy hot from too many bodies pressed against one another. In the center was a stone urn containing Elsie's ashes and beside it, an ornate gold plaque inscribed:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ELSIE SCHMIDT MERIWETHER, BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER, TRUE FRIEND AND BAKER. JANUARY 30, 1928—MAY 7, 2008
. The simplicity of the urn and the opulence of the plaque contrasted. Reba figured the funeral home had supplied the latter. It matched the gold thread curtains and brocade rug.

Reba had taken the first flight from San Francisco to El Paso, but it made little difference. By the time she had seen the Franklin Mountains out the plane window, Elsie was gone.

While Jane arranged for the cremation and funeral, Reba wrote up and sent out the obituary to every newspaper in Texas. She knew it only mattered locally, but somehow that didn't seem enough; besides, it gave her something to do, unlike now. She paced between the memorial wall and the urn, bumping elbows and hips and making awkward conversation with strangers.

When she spotted Riki on the funeral home's burgundy couch, she made a beeline for him.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

She sat heavy in the cushions. “So many people. I don't know anybody.” There was a bowl of butterscotch candies on the side table. She reached across Riki to them and caught a whiff of his spicy aftershave. Her heart leaped in her chest. She missed everything about him.

He scanned the crowd. “Are all these folks customers?”

“Maybe.” She unwrapped an amber disk and popped it in her mouth. “Kind of wonderful to think something as simple as bread can mean so much to people.”

A towheaded woman walked toward them and gestured to the couch. “Hallo, may I join you here?”

“Of course,” said Reba. Her candy bobbled on her tongue.

The woman pulled a program from her purse. The funeral home generously printed a dozen in German and the rest in English. She read the German.

“How did you know Elsie?” Riki asked in casual conversation.

“I am her niece, Lillian.”

“Her niece?” Reba crunched the candy and swallowed jagged pieces. “I had always thought Elsie was an only child.”

“No,” said Lillian. “My
mutter
—Elsie's sister, Hazel—died in Germany during the war. Tante Elsie was, in her way, the mother I never had.”

“Have you come all the way from Germany?” asked Riki.

“No, Vich-ita.”

“Wichita, Kansas?” asked Reba.

She laughed. “Ja, a German fräulein in the American heartland. I moved to the US for university studies and met my husband during my thesis work on the Lebensborn Program. He's a professor of German history. Tante Elsie is how I came to America. My opa passed nine months after Oma. Our family bakery was willed to Elsie, but she asked me to sell it to our head baker and use the money for school. It would not have been possible without her generosity. I would not have met my husband or had my children. It is because of her that I am who I am.”

“I understand,” said Reba.

An elderly man and his wife entered. Their gazes moved across the room and settled on Lillian.

“Excuse me. I'm looking for Miss Meriwether, Elsie's daughter. Might that be you?” asked the man.

“No, unfortunately not,” said Lillian.

“This is her niece,” Reba explained.

“The family resemblance is great.”

In the crowd's center, Jane's head bobbed. “That's Elsie's daughter.” Reba pointed and the well-wishers moved on.

Lillian smiled. “I could not receive a higher compliment than that.” She rose. “Would you please pardon me? I must pay respects to the memorial.”

“Of course,” said Reba. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I consider Elsie and Jane family, so that would include you, too. I hope we meet again.”

Lillian nodded appreciatively and left. Alone, Reba leaned into Riki's shoulder and looked out over the crowd. People were laughing and smiling, telling stories of Elsie and remembering her as more than a friend, as family.

“The only other funeral I've been to is my daddy's. Everything was different. It was like being locked in a closet of a burning house. Not like this.” She shrugged. “It feels … nice.”

Riki took her hand in his. “She'd have liked it this way. She made people's lives better.”

Reba nodded, then slipped her hands behind her neck and undid the chain. “A while ago, Elsie told me to either wear your ring or give it back.” She fingered the gold band.

Riki frowned and reached out his hand, but Reba held the ring tight.

“She had me pegged at the beginning. She saw right through my talk.” A lump caught in her throat. She dropped her chin to her chest. “I've made so many mistakes, Riki. I don't know how you'll ever forgive me for them, but I hope you do.” She had to get it out now while she had the courage. “San Francisco was awful. I was so lonely and then there was this guy. A stupid, stupid guy.” She shook her head. “But I'm not going back. I know for sure what I want. I see myself clearer now than ever in my life.”

Jane interrupted with a whistle. “Listen up, folks! Mom couldn't have stood to have everybody weeping and wailing round her grave. So I want to invite ya'll over to the bakery. We can celebrate Mom's life proper—with a mouthful of food!” She laughed, wiped her eyes, then picked up Elsie's urn.

It didn't take long for the room to empty, leaving only Reba and Riki.

“I know it's asking a lot, but I'd like to give it another try.” Reba bit her lip and turned the ring over and over. “Third time's the charm?”

Riki gently took the ring from her. “I quit my job.” He cupped her hand in his. “Everything was wrong.”

Reba tried to breathe, but her lungs pinched. She knew there was a possibility he wouldn't forgive her—that he'd moved on. “Wrong,” she repeated. She tensed her forearms. She didn't know what she'd do if he turned her away.

“I see my life clearer too, and I want something else. Something that's right.” He squeezed her hand.

“Okay. So”—a hot flash swept from her ears to toes—“what feels right? I understand what I told you about San Francisco is probably a shock. But I'm in love with you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life—if you want that too. Still. But if you don't feel that's right”—she gulped—“for you then …” Her voice pitched upward, and she had to stop before she talked herself to crying.

His scowl softened. “I didn't say
you
weren't right for me. I said my job wasn't.”

“Oh,” she said and realized she'd pulled out of his grip and was wringing her hands. She laid them palms down in her lap. “I'm sorry. I'm a mess.”

“We both have things we're not proud of, Reba. You say you've made big mistakes? Well, I've made them too. I let people get hurt. It's hard for me to live with that fact.”

She understood. Her daddy carried a similar burden. Only this time, she wouldn't stand by and pretend it didn't exist. They could find forgiveness together, and that possibility made her heart bloom.

“Do you still want to marry me? Because I still want to marry you,” she said firmly.

He looked over her face, smoothed a wavy lock behind her ear, then slipped the ring on her finger. “If you'll have an unemployed Chicano.”

The fault line running through her core shifted, and she collapsed forward onto his chest, burying her face in his neck and the comforting scent of him. “Yes,” she whispered and pulled herself closer. “A hundred percent, yes.”

Tenderly, Riki pushed her back so they were face-to-face. “We got a long road. Both of us.”

Reba nodded. “Tell me.”

He dug in his pocket and retrieved a worn copper penny.

“A little boy named Victor gave this to me. He was part of a family we detained and then deported to Juárez.” He smoothed his thumb over the face. “They shot him—
we
shot him. He's dead for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's dead because nobody did anything to save him from drowning in violence.
I
didn't do anything, except kick back under the current.”

Then Riki told her the story, the way he saw it. The story the rest of the world didn't know or didn't want to or maybe a little of both. As he spoke, Reba threaded her fingers through his. The white diamond on her hand fractured the light into a perfect rainbow on the wall.

D
ead leaves blanketed the cemetery in a patchwork quilt of umber. Briefly disrupted by spade strikes, and mourners' cries overhead, the sleepy tenants soon returned to rest, the grounds silent and empty once more, the new mound of dirt settling inch by inch, hour by hour, as the living pressed on, press on.

During the burial, Elsie had taken Papa's hand in hers, their rolling pin calluses aligning perfectly.

“I love you,” she'd whispered.

He'd pulled her close with trembling arms and kissed her temple. “My Elsie. Forgive me.”

She'd only the strength to nod and weep until all the stale years and regrets crumbled under the weight of his embrace.

“I'll take Opa home,” Lillian had offered at the end of the funeral. “You stay as long as you want.”

And Elsie had, hours after everyone else; after even the priest had gone inside, his hands red and raw from the wintry wind.

The chapel bell rang out five strokes. The sun began to set, dissolving into the Black Forest ridgeline. In less than an hour it would be dark, and she'd be forced away from this spot, and night would come and go, and she'd board her plane in the morning, flying a half a world away, back to
her daughter's smile and her husband's kiss, and tomorrow would follow tomorrow leaving behind this moment and all within it.

So she hung on, reading the granite headstone over and over, trying to make it feel the way she thought it ought, trying to brand it inside herself.
Luana Schmidt, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1897–1967. Luana Schmidt, Beloved Wife and Mother. Luana Schmidt, Beloved. Luana Schmidt. Luana
. Mutti.

It was a modest epitaph. The way Mutti would have wanted. Yet so small in comparison to the life it eulogized. In the spring, blades of grass and wildflowers would bloom anew without ever knowing the life that nurtured them. For years to come, those who came and went would never perceive what depth of love lay beneath their tread.