Read A Fireproof Home for the Bride Online
Authors: Amy Scheibe
Emmy tucked the old woman tightly into her sheets, and then read aloud a few verses from the New Testament until Lida dozed back into a deep sleep. Wide awake, the confusing advice complicated further by the jumble of unfamiliar names, Emmy turned to her studies. She crossed the length of the room and rolled up the front of her grandfather’s old desk in order to spread out her geometry homework. She turned on the green-shaded lamp that sat on the shelf where the rolltop rested and opened her textbook to page 159 before realizing that she didn’t have a ruler, which she needed in order to even start the homework. She stared at the small compartments lining the interior of the desk and knew they were too small to hold even a six-inch length of wood. With an uneasiness ingrained during a childhood of being told not to open other people’s drawers, Emmy wrapped her fingers around the handle of the large file cabinet down and to the right. It stuck a little, and then slid open in response to added force, revealing nothing more than a stack of old cigar boxes, topped by one which had a colorful drawing of an Indian in full, feathered dress. Emmy slid her index finger across the gilded image, flipping open the lid and finding it stuffed with bundled squares of paper. No ruler. Her mind drifted back to the unfamiliar names—Josie, Stephen, Ray—and her grandmother’s sleepy confession. Had the stroke affected Lida’s brain in a way that could result in shifting memory? Emmy quickly searched the other drawers and came up empty-handed. She decided to move to the rocking chair next to the warming radiator with her history book instead. She read about the Civil War for a long time, and well past the moment when Pedro Gonzales’s headlights moved shadows against the wall as he passed through the yard, stopped, and then they swept back again, she finally slept, dreaming of the one thing she had successfully placed out of her mind all night: the car ride with Bobby Doyle.
Emmy woke with a start in the pitch black as the sound of slamming pickup truck doors jolted her out of sleep. She chased the tail end of her dream, searching for meaning, but it was little more than guilt-flecked vapor in the cold room. Emmy rubbed her face and rolled her head around on her stiffened neck before moving to the window. Ambrose’s truck was in the drive. Pausing to watch him unfold from the vehicle, Emmy held to the curtain, trying not to wish that it were Bobby out in the yard. She slapped her cheek lightly and turned away from the window. Still dressed from chores the night before in overalls and flannel shirt, she added an old beige cardigan that her grandmother favored with her dark dresses—a dead man’s remnant. Emmy rushed downstairs and into her work boots, pulling her father’s barn coat around her as she swung open the door to find Ambrose standing there, blowing into his cupped palms.
“That heifer’s having trouble,” he said, skipping pleasantries. “Dan Wallace is on the way. Put up a pot of coffee and call your father.” They turned away from each other as Emmy closed the door, hurrying to the kitchen to do as she was told. A surge of feeling useful coursed through her as she set to her tasks. Maybe she could do this after all, be this wife, till the fields and relight the home fires. If love never worked, then perhaps the way to a deeper meaning could be through the work itself. After all, her grandparents had trained her for this life, and her mother’s tireless efforts had set her an example that Emmy had already more than lived up to; she shouldn’t have been surprised that going through the middle-of-the-night movements of a typical farmwife felt familiar. Emmy measured out the coffee and set the pot on the stove, and then picked up the phone.
“Hello,” Birdie answered, a bit out of air on the fourth ring.
“Get Dad. The heifer’s in trouble,” Emmy rushed. She wrapped the phone cord tightly around her finger as she waited for Christian to come to the phone. Only then did Emmy look at the clock and see that it was four in the morning.
“Emmy, we’ll be there as soon as we can.” Karin’s voice came over the receiver as though a thousand miles lay between them instead of fifteen. “Go to the barn and wait.”
“Ambrose is here,” Emmy said. “Dan Wallace is coming.”
“Good. Then stay put and make some coffee.” Karin hung up.
The back door opened as Emmy was cutting slices of bread for sandwiches, and Ambrose brought a gust of biting air into the room. He took three steps across the large kitchen, welcoming the steaming mug she poured for him. He drank it black, not hesitating against the heat of it.
“Sorry,” he said, and removed his cap and sat down at the table. His closely cropped hair stood up in places, revealing more spots where it had started to thin. “I think she’ll make it, but Dan’s going to have to pull the calf. Is your father up?”
“Yes,” she said. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Okay, then. Come to the barn.”
Emmy filled a green metal thermos with the remaining coffee, grabbed a handful of tin cups, and placed the sandwiches into a picnic basket. This is what a farmwife would do, what I will do the rest of my life, she thought as she quickly raced up the stairs to check on Lida before heading out to the barn.
* * *
As Emmy crossed the frozen yard—lit to a garish yellow by the one pole light in the center of the farm—another truck pulled into the drive and Emmy’s pace relaxed with the sight of Dan Wallace, the only veterinarian her family trusted. What a life he must have, she thought, with constant middle-of-the-night calls that started in the dead of winter and kept coming well into the thaw of spring. Midwife to a cow. Emmy had seen many things over the years, but never this particular event. Being the substitute man of the house for now, she would wear that sweater and coat as best she could. She was a Nelson, after all, and they were strong people of the land. This last thought struck her as ridiculous the minute she had it, and it was with a laugh in her throat that she greeted Dan as he stepped out of his truck.
“Hello yourself, Emmaline,” he said as he went to the back of the truck and pulled out a large canvas bag that looked heavy and sounded ominous with the tools inside it clanking together. “I’m not sure this is a mirthful occasion, though.” Even as he admonished her, there was a twinkle in his eye. He had been a boy when her grandfather ran the farm, following behind his own father at visits such as these, learning the job from the hay up. By the time Emmy was a teenager, the practice was Dan’s. He was tall like Ambrose, but as thin and strong as a white birch, swaying slightly in the frigid night air. The hair on his head was completely white, even though he couldn’t have been much more than thirty. He was the kindest person Emmy knew.
“You’re right, of course,” she said. “I’ve got coffee, if you’re interested.” He ruffled her hair, a feeling she had once hated but welcomed now for its sheer infrequency.
“You should have a hat,” he said as they crunched their way over the crusted snow to the barn, where the sound of an animal laid low suddenly pierced the air. Emmy stopped. Dan put a hand on her shoulder and nodded her forward.
It was below freezing, and all the cows were inside for the night. Most were lying on their sides, a few were starting to rise and stamp, the breath streaming out of their noses in the slightly warmer room. Emmy could remember a time when this barn was end to end with animals, but now there were maybe a dozen left. It was getting toward milking time, and the cows who were accustomed to being drained first were beginning their restless shuffle, the heaviness of their udders pulling them up out of sleep. Here and there a tail lifted and a hot river of urine hit the floor. It was rank and earthy and sweet-straw-scented in here, and Emmy loved it. This was comfort to her, a place she could hide away when she was small and stroke the wet noses of the large, gentle animals. Equally as pleasant in memory were the afternoons spent playing in the hayloft of the Brann barn—the prickly straw felt through layers of outerwear as she hid from Ambrose, who always pretended he couldn’t find her though it mustn’t have been very hard. If she held her own in this fraternity she would be treated as a peer, and eventually a matriarch. A calm aura descended over Emmy as she strode forward with a new purpose: She would make her grandmother proud, at least for today. The golden-haired boy of her dreams was no more than a fantasy. This was real. This was her life.
In a corner pen at the far end of the barn—between Ambrose and Pedro—lay the moaning cow. The three men moved around the stall as Emmy glanced at the lowing animal long enough to see two small hooves protruding from her back end. Emmy turned hastily to the basket and set up the coffee and food on a stack of hay bales outside of the pen.
“She’s anterior. Third one tonight,” Dan said upon observing the heifer. “I can’t reckon why so many are coming early this year. Can’t be a good sign. We need to pull her.” Ambrose and Pedro nodded in silent agreement as they drank from the cups Emmy offered. Then, as if directed by some whispering conductor, the men set quickly to work: Dan slipped his arms into long black rubber gloves, scooped ointment from a large bucket, and massaged it into the cow’s birth canal; Pedro drew two chains and folded cloths out of Dan’s bag, along with an instrument with a flat metal plank attached to a long rod; and Ambrose stood off toward the face of the cow as he tipped some liquid out of a bottle and into a thick sponge before fitting it neatly into the end of a metal cone.
“Ready?” Dan asked, and Ambrose nodded, looking to Pedro for the second nod. Then, in concert, they moved into swift action, with Ambrose slipping the cone over the cow’s muzzle and tapping a few more drops from the bottle through a tiny hole in the end of the cone. Emmy could see that the mask was open on the end and assumed that was how the cow would keep from suffocating entirely.
“Emmy, put this on,” Dan said, handing Emmy one of the cloths as he unfolded the other and slid his arms through two holes. As Emmy fumbled with the material, he gave her a blanket and then broke some fresh straw under the back of the cow. The animal had grown eerily still, as if she knew the moment had arrived.
“Now, Emmy,” Dan said, bending over and looking her square in the eyes. “This isn’t easy, and you can tell me if you’re not up for it, but I need you to catch the calf. It’ll be heavy.”
She nodded and unfolded the blanket where he told her to, cradling it in her arms in a way that anticipated an eighty-pound animal. Dan quickly looped the chains around the calf’s hooves, positioned what turned out to be a brace against the cow’s lower hip and handed one of the chains to Pedro, who expertly looped it around his forearm. Dan and Pedro sat, placed their feet against the brace and in turn pulled on the partially born calf’s legs with a gentle back-and-forth motion until the cow’s eyes went wild and her head bucked with the force of a fresh contraction. Ambrose gave the bottle a small tap, and just like that the calf’s head was out. Dan put his hand up and everyone stopped what they were doing as he moved up to the cow, grasped the calf in a headlock, and rotated it within the birth canal. This caused the animal to take in air, and Dan exhaled loudly at the sound and wiped his brow on his shoulder. The next contraction started to shake the cow and Dan picked up the chain and said, “Now!”
The calf slid out and into the blanket, along with a rush of blood and fluids that splattered them all, but nearly soaked Emmy, who had been squatting but now lay on her back in the straw, holding the bucking calf to her chest as Pedro removed the chains. Dan clamped and cut the thick, pulsing, umbilical cord. The way he moved his hands through the motions of tying and sewing and then once more gently yanking—this time on the thick cord—caused Emmy to fall into a small trance until more tissue issued from the heifer. The entire mess of it hit Emmy square against the legs, and if Pedro hadn’t at that moment taken the squirming calf from her, she would have dropped it. Yes, she’d dressed a deer, but that was death; this was life, throbbing and ugly and bloody and wonderful.
“Bueno,”
Pedro said to Emmy as he set the calf on its feet. Ambrose removed the cone, and the cow turned her sloping head in the calf’s direction and licked at the matted fur, clumsily urging the calf toward her udder. That’s right, Emmy thought, this is good, and she went out the back door of the barn to gain some air, surprised to see the sky lighter than when they’d gone in.
Ambrose emerged and lit a cigarette, which she took out of his hand, drawing the harsh smoke into her lungs with the cold morning air. She coughed a little, but then inhaled again.
“You’re good, Emmy,” he said, proud. “Strong.”
“Thanks,” she said, feeling as though everything that she had just witnessed hadn’t happened, as though she had stood behind the barn for a very long time looking out at the ashen sky. “It smells like snow.”
Ambrose took the cigarette and dropped it under his heel. He cupped her chin in his hand and placed his mouth on hers, his lips parting slightly, waiting for her to respond. She didn’t know how to kiss a man, and was grateful when she heard the family car in the distance. She wasn’t as resistant to his touch this time, though. Curiosity spread through her limbs and she felt tingly from the sensations of the morning. They stood apart as Christian’s car moved up the drive. Emmy pushed the loosened hair out of her face and felt the stickiness left behind by the already standing and nursing calf. Emmy looked down at her afterbirth-slicked clothes and ran off to the side of the barn, where she vomited onto the hard-crusted snow.
* * *
The sun had not only risen, but was about to set when Emmy awoke hours later. She’d slept upright in a large wing chair next to her grandmother’s bed, an American history textbook splayed out across her lap. Rubbing her neck, Emmy remembered that after she had bathed and washed her hair and left the rest of the daily farm chores to her family, she’d come in to try to catch up with her languishing homework, reading perhaps two pages about the battle of Gettysburg before she dropped off into a blissfully dream-free sleep. Emmy yawned and stretched her arms over her head. It couldn’t have been much later than four in the afternoon, but she smelled onions frying and heard the subtle noises of a table being set. Lida was sitting up with a half-eaten bowl of milk toast on a tray by her side. The old woman was staring at Emmy, and it gave her an odd start, like falling within a dream.