The evening the baker fell off his balcony, the townspeople whispered of murder and suicide, but only one girl knew the truth. 

She had been walking home late after dinner at the church’s fish fry, delighting in the respite from her grandmother’s complaints about her parents. The girl’s mother was not religious, and her father had been despondent for as long as she could remember. He did not leave the house, sometimes staying in his bed for days at a time. 

Bring them food, the grandmother ordered the girl. She wrapped styrofoam plates of fish in cling wrap. 

The girl did not see the baker until he shouted at her, drunk, from his balcony. Where is your mother, girl? It seemed that the question had always haunted her. She peered up at him. He was like a sad balloon animal, and she wished he would leave her alone. Then, he leaned too far over the railing with his large bottle and crumpled quietly into the green patch of earth below. The girl dropped the food and ran home to her mother who was eating a loaf of the baker’s bread.

The baker is dead, she announced as she slammed open the door. 

Her mother spat the bread out on the table and ran to the other room to call the neighbors. That night, the girl dreamt of the sky turning red. 

At church, the priest spoke of the baker finding his place in Heaven. Like others in the town, he was convinced that there had been murder plot. He condemned the murderers to Hell. When the girl asked her grandmother what Hell was like, she said it was a fiery place so hot it could burn your eyes. The girl grew terrified, but her grandmother assured her she would forever be safe from Hell’s grasp if she confessed all her sins. 

She was so scared of Hell she went to confession and told the priest the bad things she had done: lying to her mother about stealing candy from the corner store and sneaking out at night to throw rocks at the moon with the boy next door. She wanted to tell him about the baker, too. She wanted to tell him that there was no murder, that she had just been there, that she just wanted him to leave her alone. She did not wish him dead. But he was dead now, and she was afraid of Hell. These were all things she did not say. The priest gave her a penance of two Hail Marys and an Our Father. 

That summer, the girl played with the boy next door. They rolled down the hill above the church and built forts out of mud in the rain. The mother tended carefully to her garden, growing leafy greens, plump tomatoes, and an assortment of berries. She cooked elaborate dinners with the vegetables from her garden and bread from the new baker. The father and mother laughed at dinner, and the girl prayed quietly she would not go to Hell. Sometimes the grandmother joined them and complained about the bread. The mother preferred it to the old baker’s.

One evening, the father ordered the girl to pick berries to bring to his bedside table, so she took a large bowl to the backyard. She heard hideous noises from the garden and hid in the bush, afraid. Her mother never saw her, but the man she was with did, and his smile haunted the girl as she fell asleep. It was the smile of the Devil. He was the first to gaze at her the way men did at her mother.

The day after, she bled for the first time. Then, the leaves began to fall.

The girl soon grew discontent with her unfamiliar body. She tried to stop eating as if that would reverse the changes. She wore baggy shirts to hide her growing chest, and her mother told her to stop wearing boys’ clothes. One day, she came home from school to see her mother burning her clothes. Stop hiding yourself. You are a beautiful woman, her mother shouted. At the word woman, she winced, like her mother had just served her hot soup. 

Every Saturday, the mother began bringing the girl to the market. It became their ritual—while the mother waited in line for the new baker’s bread, the girl bought the produce, meats, and cheeses for the week. They would meet back at the bus stop, where the mother would inspect the groceries. Not enough eggs, she would say. Or, these peaches are too soft. Each week the girl got better until her mother checked the bags and said nothing. 

Keep away from that baker, the grandmother told the girl one day on the way home from church. They say he is a handsome devil.

Intrigued, the girl pretended to run out of money the next week at the market. She waited for the right moment to find her mother in line. She was speaking to the baker as the girl approached.

Let me guess, he said. A baguette? He looked familiar with his lanky frame and beady eyes that reminded her of a rat. 

I’ll have two, the mother said with a smile and handed him a few dollar bills. She was wearing a short red dress with flowers and long earrings that the girl had never seen before. Her hair was tied up in a bun. A bit of lipstick. She did not have to try hard to look beautiful.

Who’s your company?

This is my sister, she lied. She is supposed to be getting the groceries. Tell me, have they run out?

No, I needed more money.

In that case, the bread is on me, the baker said. He handed back the bills. And it was nice to meet you, he said politely and grinned. It was only then that she recognized that grin from the Devil she saw that summer night in the garden. The girl never pretended to run out of money again.

At school, she was the whore’s daughter, and in church, she was a child of God. For Christmas, the nuns taught her how to weave God’s eyes with green and red string. She hung it in the window that overlooked the garden. At mass, the priest spoke of the immaculate conception. 

That spring, her mother grew ravenous and angry. She could no longer fit into her clothes. She began requesting all sorts of strange food combinations like jam and pickled vegetables. She sent the girl out at late hours to pick up bread from the Devil even though the market was closed. The Devil never charged her, so she pocketed the money her mother gave her to pay for the bread. Each night, she could feel his eyes on her. 

That is pretty. Is that your sister’s dress, he once asked. 

Of course not, I do not have a sister, she whispered, and his face fell.    

The next day, the mother requested the girl prepare five different stews, and the grandmother invited herself over for dinner.

What a good cook you are, the grandmother said, make sure you eat up. But she was never hungry. 

The grandmother turned to speak to the mother. I will move in with you to help with the baby. The mother had been careful to hide the belly, but grandmothers knew these things. 

What baby, the father asked. 

I was going to tell you tonight, the mother said, I’m pregnant. 

The grandmother frowned, and the girl stayed silent. The father wanted to talk about names and preparations. Let me help, he pleaded. 

You foolish man, you have never helped. Look at your daughter, she is a woman now and you have missed it all, the mother’s voice cracked.

His eyes darted to his daughter as if seeing her for the first time in years. She is beautiful. From a certain angle, the girl realized, she could see the Devil in her father’s eyes.

Forgive me, he winced, speaking to no one in particular. 

The Lord forgives you, the grandmother said quietly. 

No, the mother responded, you do not decide who the Lord forgives. You do not make decisions in this household. I did not invite you to move in, and I do not care what you think. Leave now. All of you.

That night, the girl heard the front door creak open from her room above. She feared her mother would forget her own daughter and leave her forever. She fled downstairs and followed her mother outside. As she was about to call her, the Devil appeared. The girl hid in the bushes. 

What are you doing here, the mother whispered, I told you not to come by tonight. 

Who is the girl, the Devil hissed. 

What girl? 

The girl you send to get the bread. 

I told you. That is my sister. 

She told me that she has no sister. 

She lies. Can’t tell the truth. That’s why my mother takes her to confession all the time.

Some people in town say you are married.

They love to talk about me. My mother forced me into it. We separated years ago. Why do you question me?

They told me you’d tell me that. They told me you’ve done this before. That you’re getting lazy. They also say that the girl you call your sister is more beautiful than you.

The mother slapped him hard.

Whore, he spat in her face and left.  

Get me the doctor, the mother said the next day, and the belly was gone.

That summer was a hot one, and most days the girl took to tending the garden alone. She grew all her mother’s vegetables and made giant pitchers of juice from the berries. At night, she started sneaking out to kiss boys and girls. Although the Devil did not return to the garden, she recognized him in other people, so she never knew where he might be hiding. The Devil became the boy next door she spotted watching her from his bedroom window. He became the woman on the bus who snarled that her dress was too short. Everywhere the girl looked she was afraid of the Devil, lurking behind street signs and in library books, ready to jump out and take her away. Some days she would walk through town not knowing if she was asleep or awake.

One night, her grandmother got sad and told the girl that her eyes were beautiful, that life without vision was not a life worth living because all of God’s greatest gifts could be seen. 

At her next confession, she told the priest she wished to go to Hell so her eyes could burn, and she would never see the Devil watching her. And he gave her the rosary and told her she was beautiful and damned for Hell without it.