Body and Bread Read online

  BODY

  and

  BREAD

  Engine Books

  PO Box 44167

  Indianapolis, IN 46244

  enginebooks.org

  Copyright © 2013 by Nan Cuba

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Every reasonable attempt has been made to identify owners of copyright. Errors or omissions will be corrected in subsequent editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Epigraph used gratefully with the permission of Ian Johnston, who translated the story for a 2009 collection titled The Metamorphosis, A Hunger Artist, In the Penal Colony, and Other Stories.

  Also available in hardcover special edition and eBook formats from Engine Books.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-938126-06-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012945051

  For Paul Barton Brindley, 1944-1970

  “No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone

  with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window

  and dream of that message when evening comes.”

  —FRANZ KAFKA, “IMPERIAL MESSAGE”

  PROLOGUE

  ZEUS OR YAHWEH, some metaphysical trickster, flipped a switch, and I stepped into Yopico, the fifteenth century Tenochtitlan temple. While I stood at its cave-like entrance to earth, agave cloth scraped my shoulder; the air reeked of copal, roasted corn. My feet, cloddish, reluctant, stepped around the sunken receptacle where supplicants left offerings to the soil. Inside the building’s packed dirt patio, I molded crushed amaranth (huāuhtli) and maize seeds, tepary beans, jicama, and blood into a figure bigger than any man: Xīpe Totec peering from beneath a flayed captive’s skin. The victim’s hands hung at the god’s wrists; the skin reached to Xīpe’s ankles. He wore a quecholli feather wig, golden ear plugs, and a skirt of tzapotle leaves. I tied a red bow at his forehead, a gold trinket in its center. The outer layer I painted yellow, the body underneath, red. The gummy dough smelled nutty, malt-like. I tasted that sweetness, heard fertility rattles at the end of a long staff, saw a shield with red and yellow feather spirals. His body was made to be broken apart: communion, transubstantiation.

  The face was startled, as if privy to sudden insight at the moment of death: the inner force of teōtl’s ceaseless self-generation.

  I waited.

  CHAPTER 1

  1958

  PLEASE HELP ME SAY THE UNSAYABLE: My first life ended when my brother Sam committed suicide.

  Before that, when he was thirteen and I was nine, he taught me his version of truth. We attended church services that May Sunday, ate lunch at my grandparents’ house, took a nap. Around three o’clock, we drove in two cars through the farm gate, past the tenants’ clapboard house, past the barn and slatted animal pens and patch-bald corral, toward our shaded table by the creek. Low-lying limestone cliffs bordered with cattle trails banked the water’s edge. Farther out, seasonal rains brought out bluebonnet clusters radiant as lakes, alongside prickly pear and bull nettle, whose thorns left stinging wounds.

  Freight trains, their whistles catastrophic, sad, slid like snaky sun gods across our property. Nugent had once been Texas’ central connection for the Gulf, Colorado & Santa Fe Railway. The ornate station house stood three blocks from the municipal auditorium. Each Sunday afternoon I checked for evidence of stowaway campers near our picnic table, hoping an engine would barrel past, freight cars slinking behind.

  My father parked the station wagon parallel to the tracks. They ran along a mesa that wound across our fields. I found a torn cotton shirt and a tiny pyramid of white pebbles. My legs stretched at awkward angles, beggar’s lice already dotting my socks, my tennis shoes pressed into ashes and dirt. Kneeling, I imagined a bare-chest man juggling the stones, then balancing them, one by one.

  My mother, whose name was Norine, moved close. “Look, Mama.” I pointed, then chewed a fingernail. “What is it, you think?”

  “Here, give me that,” she said, reaching for the bundled shirt, “and take your fingers out of your mouth.” Her brow pinched. “Look at this.” She tapped her loafer at burned branches, snatched a Snickers wrapper. She glared, bit her pouty lip.

  “But, Mama—” I pointed at the pyramid again. Still she didn’t see. I wouldn’t learn about hobos marking camping spots until years later.

  “These people are tramps. Don’t touch anything.” I nodded, and she talked on, more to herself than to me. “I’d call the police if it would do any good.” Her elegant, hook-nosed profile belonged on a nickel. “I hope Gran doesn’t notice,” she said, turning. “That’s all we need.”

  I flinched whenever she spoke. Her Nile green eyes contrasted with my beady polka dots, and while I chose my shorts or skirts according to their buttons and snaps—the fewer the better—she stayed ahead of trends. Wearing her trademark silks, she applied face creams and liners in sponged and penciled stages, the whole job softened with a cosmetic brush. I’d never meet her standards for cultivated beauty. I hoped I wouldn’t be a disappointment.

  My brothers—Kurt, who was fourteen, Hugh, who was five, and Sam—checked for iron pyrite around the murky creek. When our mother wandered from the campsite toward the picnic table a few yards away, I didn’t follow. I cupped one of the pyramid’s stones. Chalky, I thought, like those rocks by the creek. I counted twenty-four, mostly round, one thinner, heavier, maybe an arrowhead. Indians, I marveled, may have once touched it. I tried to imagine walking in buckskin moccasins through burrs and wild rye in search of cottontails for dinner.

  I pitched up a small pebble then caught it with both hands. Some man maybe sat here waiting for a train, I thought, and he held this, probably rolling it in this way. I’d seen open boxcars passing through intersections, the bells clanging, a candy-striped arm blocking the street. Now I imagined bouncing on a smudged wooden floor, darkness split by threads of flashing light, wheel clicks, honking blasts. I pictured the stranger lounged on a cardboard cushion, his back pressing the corrugated metal wall, his sunburned ankles crossed. If I could sit beside him, he’d tell how he’d been to places beyond Nugent, how nobody could stop him even though he was illegally hopping trains; then he’d hand me a shelled pecan. Oh, I thought. His pyramid of stones had been a thank-you to my family, a gift he’d made. I balanced the pebble back on top.

  My grandfather rode his horse down the road from the barn. The animal, a thoroughbred grandson of Man o’ War, pranced, angling sideways, the reins so taut the stallion sometimes bobbed its long head and snorted, its nostrils ruffling, its agitated lips showing yellowed teeth. My grandfather, not looking his seventy-four years, rode as if floating, directing the animal with his knees. His legs squeezed, pressing, and the horse whinnied, pumped its head. My grandfather kicked, yanking the reins to his chest. The horse lurched then reared, waving its front hooves, working its tongue at the metal bit.

  I stepped back. My mother ambled toward the creek.

  My grandfather jerked the reins harder, gave another kick. The horse bowed then quivered, stumbling, sullenly righting itself. Its eyes bulged; blood drooled from the split corners of its mouth. A moment later, it padded forward, ears pricked. As they approached the table, my grandfather waved his fedora, a one-man parade, his pedigreed mount subdued. All of us except my mother pointed, calling out as we hurried toward him.

 
; He dismounted, and my father slapped the stallion’s neck. “You’ve been taking a few lessons?” he teased my grandfather. “Like a nice ride in the park,” he added, holding the reins, his grin a false note. I checked the tension around his eyes, thinking maybe I’d mistaken his irritation for teasing or that he’d somehow decided hurting a horse was okay. After all, his slap had been hard, even if it hadn’t drawn blood like my grandfather’s jerks at the reins did.

  “Fine animal,” my grandfather said. He rubbed its rangy forehead then smacked its flank; the horse flinched, shifted its footing. “He’s spirited but manageable.”

  “Yes, sir,” my father said, one hand behind his back, the other still holding the reins. His posture gave no indication of his feelings. Relaxed, his was the straightest back I’d seen. His flat expression and stiff back, though, made me sad.

  “I expect you to show him a thing or two, boy.”

  “Yes, sir,” my father answered, nodding in regimental rhythm, his gaze on the empty horizon.

  That look reminded me of the times he’d playfully hung me or one of my brothers over our second-floor banister, or once, when he pretended to shut Sam in the car trunk. I thought my brother would suffocate and begged, “Daddy, don’t.” My father wasn’t being mean. In fact, we all laughed when Sam tumbled out, our father tickling us both. But we were never to show that we were frightened. There were rules. I was sure they were meant to teach some lesson, since, at other times, he would pull me close and explain one of his “points of philosophy”:

  #1. Happiness is primarily an attitude.

  #2. Even Moses was punished when he made his one mistake.

  #3. Problems can be corrected through a systematic identification of facts.

  Although I couldn’t give a reason for not saying sometimes you scare me, I always kept silent.

  Sam approached, pulling back the horse’s lip. “Is his mouth cut?”

  “No, boy,” our father said, pushing Sam’s hands. “Go see if Gran needs help unloading the car.”

  “Where’s Norine?” my grandfather asked, waving in her direction. “Hey, girl, I’d like to see you ride,” he shouted.

  Sam frowned then turned toward the creek.

  My mother squatted at the bank. She wore a frayed straw hat and looked through cat’s-eye sunglasses over her shoulder, swatted the air twice then turned back.

  She’d bragged that her name appeared by itself on the farm deed. While my father was overseas tending wounded soldiers during the war, she’d moved in with my grandparents and scrimped each month to pay the token fifteen-dollar mortgage before buying necessities for herself, Kurt, who was a baby then, and Sam, who arrived a few months after our father left. “Investment,” my grandfather had reminded her. “Consider it my thanks to a son’s faithful wife.”

  Now, as he watched her, the horse nudged him off balance. He shoved back, and the animal thumped its rear hooves, yanked its head.

  “Ho,” my father said, holding out his hand. I wondered if he always believed Granddaddy was right. Would he do anything his father asked? I hoped not.

  “You go then,” my grandfather said, his face red, puckered. “Get Hugh, there, and convince me I wasn’t wrong to pay good money for that sorry piece of horse flesh.”

  “Yes, sir,” my father said, calling Hugh.

  “I’m checking the peach trees,” my grandfather said to no one in particular as he waded through broomgrass toward a small orchard my father had planted on the other side of the road.

  Once he’d plopped Hugh behind the saddle horn, my father swung up, their bodies snug in the leather seat. “That way,” Hugh said, signaling toward the barn. “Cows. Daddy, hurry.” He waved as they swayed with each of the horse’s steps, their hips ticking right, then left.

  My mother strolled toward a mass of vines below the train trestle, then disappeared, collecting mustang grapes in a coffee can. My grandmother headed for evening primroses clustered next to a crepe myrtle.

  “We don’t like lemonade, I hope you didn’t bring lemonade,” Sam said as my grandmother snapped flower stems, discarding all but perfect blooms.

  “Whoever perished, being innocent?” she said, pity shaping a smile, a typical condescension whose source was mysterious. Then she sang, her reedy voice garbling lyrics, except in the occasional clear note, the words “blessing” and “thou.”

  “Last one to the water—” Kurt yelled; then he, Sam, and I raced each other to the creek. My brothers had worn bathing suits under their jeans, so they peeled off their pants, left them on the bank. Stripped to my panties, I stepped into the cool water, and Sam dove past me into the shadowed depths. Kurt soaked me with a cannonball dive. Fine silt blackened our bottoms as we slid from algae-slick rocks to mud soft as feathers. If I stood flat-footed in the small swimming hole, the top just covered my head. We slapped water at each other, and I barely escaped their pinches and efforts to push me under.

  We forgot we were two boys and one girl with rules we’d learned about how one should behave with the other. Just three children in the water and mud, our tanned arms and legs gleaming, sharp stones pricking our toughened feet. Every so often, one of us called another’s name, and these shouts, mixed with giggling and thwaps of splashed water, echoed back toward our mother, father, grandparents.

  By the time my grandfather had returned to the table with a basket of peaches, we’d put on our jeans again, and we raced toward him. My grandmother joined us, strands of gray hair stuck to her damp face. Kurt and Sam threw their pits at each other as our father and Hugh came riding up.

  “I want one,” Hugh cried, reaching toward the basket, slipping, tumbling to the ground. He whimpered, clutching his arm; my father stepped down.

  “Guess we could amputate, just about here,” he teased, the side of his hand slicing above Hugh’s elbow.

  “No,” Hugh whined, rubbing. “It’s okay, honest.”

  We laughed and shoved him, but our father’s message was clear.

  My grandfather took the horse’s reins in one hand and used his other to motion again in wide arcs. “Now, Norine, I’d like to see what you can do.”

  She’d gathered stalks of purple horsemint and wispy old man’s beard in a peanut butter jar and was leaning over the table, but she stopped, her arm a warning flag. “No. Thank you,” she said, her words heavy as the heat, and set down the flowers.

  My grandfather dropped his hand and watched her poking her arrangement. “Now, Miss Norine, come on, girl.” He stroked the horse’s neck. “No reason to be afraid. He’s a thoroughbred, but a baby could handle him.”

  My mother stiffened. Only her head turned. “It’s not that I can’t ride him,” she said. “I just don’t care to right now.” She rubbed the table with a cloth.

  My grandfather stood, a corner of his shirttail hanging, and removed his fedora, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. We all grew still. “You want everybody to think you can’t ride a little ol’ horse, I guess that’s your business.” He replaced his hat, pushing it back, not looking at her.

  She faced us—her straw hat’s brim a halo, her sunglasses white horns. She marched over, reached toward my grandfather, snatched the reins, and swung onto the saddle.

  My hands went to my mouth. I winced, ready to cover my eyes.

  Leaning right, she flicked her heels. The horse twirled, cantered, then galloped toward the trestle at a high speed. At the edge of the field she turned, hunched into the wind, and aimed at us, her finish line. As the horse gathered speed, its rocking gait smoothed into a streak. When they stopped, dust and dirt kicked our feet. Dismounting, my mother tossed the reins back at my grandfather. “I told you I could ride him,” she said through clenched teeth. “What I said was that I didn’t want to.”

  “Yeah, she told you,” Sam whooped.

  But to me, a child whose world was still family, my mother’s defiance was like cursing God in the middle of a sermon. I’d never seen anyone, particularly a woman, talk to my grandfather l
ike she had. Even Gran called him Dr. Pelton, and she never questioned anything he said or talked back. Neither did my father. The church taught about resurrected saints, betrayals in the garden, so I knew that committing a sin was scary; Dad’s switch had proved it. But this time, I knew my grandfather was wrong, and, sin or no sin, I wanted to tell him that, but couldn’t.

  My grandfather slapped his leg with his hat then repositioned it. He led the horse toward the creek for a drink. My mother rolled up the cuffs of Hugh’s jeans then gave a hugging laugh while patting his bottom. Why wasn’t my grandfather mad? Had my mother known she could talk to him like that? Maybe there were times when rules could be broken. But which ones, and how? At least, now, I knew to ask.

  “Sam, I need my number one helper. Over here, please,” my grandmother called. “Will you carry some things from the car?” She brushed a damp curl from her forehead.

  “Only if I can hold your hand,” Sam said, clutching hers. My father, my mother, and Hugh followed them to the Cadillac.

  I escaped with Kurt upstream, our cane fishing poles in tow. We guided our rods between trees, past clumps of scrub and brushwood, leaving behind the adults and my questions. Insects dotted the stream’s surface, bringing perch and bass up from the bottoms, but Kurt, as usual, lost patience. A typical firstborn, he conjured images of snappy salutes, troops marching in coordinated steps. He’d forgotten his glasses again, so his face wrinkled from habit into an ornery squint. “These fish are either stone dead or geniuses,” he said, frowning, flipping his line back and forth.

  When Sam appeared, he slid my hook through the back of a cricket he’d found under a rock, then swung his own line next to the far bank. “Over there, Sar,” he said, pointing at a quiet water hole to the left. I aimed, then consulted his broad, full-lipped face. He nodded.

  Unlike Kurt’s tight-cornered ways, Sam had an impish quality, like a pet parrot that flirts while maneuvering to snatch someone’s food. His laugh was a high-pitched giggle that wrenched from his body like a spasm, his face all creases and teeth, his arms flailing until he hugged his stomach. He loved to talk, though his conversation was never easy. At any moment, he might do something that I had to think about.