Body and Bread Read Online Free PDF Page B

front door, but my sister-in-law, Randy, would think that odd, so I head toward the back. As I latch the gate, two Doberman pinschers appear, their hatchet heads jerking with each chopped bark. Kurt has always owned big dogs, so I stroll toward the door, acting unfazed, convinced that he, Randy, or one of his two children is watching, that my ability to arrive unruffled might be a test, one I hope to pass.
    Stooping, her thin leg a barricade, Randy wrestles the Dobermans away from the door. In the kitchen, cilantro, garlic, almond waft from a pot on the commercial range. Oriental lilies half fill a cut-glass vase; more lay on waxed paper, their perfume mixing with herbal steam. Silverware gleams in stacks on the granite counter. “Did I come at a bad time?” Maybe I have the appointment wrong. I thought Kurt said Saturday at 9:00.
    “No, why?” Randy says, clipping a lily, sliding it into the arrangement. “It’s Supper Club, no biggie. Can I get you anything?” Her cell phone rings; she swivels as though stepping into a dance routine.
    “Mom, you said…” Kurt Jr. whines while rounding the corner. He looks thirteen or fourteen, gangly, with droopy, obliging eyes.
    “And I’ll say it again,” she interrupts. “You need a haircut.” She checks the oven. “Now tell your Aunt Sarah hello.” She tips her auburn head in my direction, finally answering her phone.
    “Huh?” he says, scowling, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
    “You don’t remember me, but I’m your dad’s sister. The last time I saw you, you were a baby.”
    “No way. I’d forgotten Dad had a sister. That’s totally weird,” he says, snickering, his insult meant as a compliment. I almost hug him.
    “Hey!” Randy says, holding the receiver with one hand, snapping her fingers with the other. She checks her watch; the stove timer buzzes.
    “What-ev-er…”
    “Don’t be rude, mister.” Turning, Randy mumbles into the mouthpiece while walking to the pot; she stirs, adjusts the flame.
    “Can we bail then, Mom?” he says, huffy. “Dad’ll kill me if I’m late.” He leans on one hip, his legs like stilts, his hands catcher’s mitts.
    “Get your gear then,” she says, hanging up. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
    I don’t say how familiar this scene feels. Spooky. “Is Kurt home? Was he expecting me?”
    “Oh,” she says, checking her watch again. “He’s in his lair,” she sighs, stepping toward the doorway. “But we’ll have to hurry.”
    Randy talks on her cell, reading from a folded piece of paper she’s pulled from her slacks pocket as we pass through labyrinthine halls. “Horseradish,” she says, “yes, two.” She points to a door. “I told you I saw them together last week,” she says, wheeling, disappearing back down the carpeted passageway.
    Kurt sits cross-legged on the floor, next to his ten-year-old daughter, Emma, and behind a small transformer. A model train, its steam engine whistling, puffing smoke, whips over a track that winds under two bridges, through a tunnel, past houses, a diner, a loader that dumps miniature logs into one of the cars, and a gateman in blue overalls who comes out of his shanty waving a red lantern. Each time the train veers toward Emma, she kicks her feet, shuts her eyes, holds her ears. Kurt rests his hand on her back; she flinches, flapping her hands. “Here she comes,” he sings, “woo, woo.”
    “Train,” Emma says, blinking. She rises, shrieking, and steps toward the swerving caboose. Was the layout for him or for her? Whichever, Kurt’s tenderness is the issue. Fate, with its inexorable aim, has pierced his seemingly invulnerable heart. Even his international connections can’t give his developmentally challenged daughter a normal life.
    “Oh,” he says finally. “It’s you.” His face has lost its pudginess, but without glasses, he’s got his usual squint.
    When the train stops, Emma flops to the floor, swaying, biting her hands. “Em,” Kurt says kneeling,