Read A Fireproof Home for the Bride Online
Authors: Amy Scheibe
On Sunday morning Emmy lay in bed, sick. The thought of seeing the Branns at church had sent her straight to the bathroom to vomit, proving to Karin that the illness wasn’t false and that Emmy needed to stay home. Though by the way Karin cast her eyes to the floor rather than witness the bruises on her daughter’s body, Emmy knew that her mother was relieved to leave her behind.
Once the house was quiet, Emmy lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling and considering her options. She tried to imagine ever kissing Ambrose again, letting him touch her, or even looking him directly in the eye without feeling the horrible hatred and fear that bubbled up with a fresh round of violent illness that sent her straight to the bathroom. It was as though her body were trying to purge the memory along with anything that had been inside of her when it had happened: the popcorn, the hamburger, the schnapps. She wiped her mouth of the acrid mint and moved back to her bedroom, undressing and gently touching the multitude of bruises polka-dotting her skin, as though the light pressure would produce a different tune. The trance she had been trapped in since the night before snapped, and Emmy hastily dressed in flannel and overalls, tying a small silk scarf around her neck to hide the marks there. She drew a notebook from her schoolbag and began to consider what she needed to do in order to release herself from the web: school, work, college. Enough self-pity. She had a choice.
Over the month that she had worked for Mr. Utke, he’d repeatedly encouraged her to consider studying for a teaching degree. She had thought his advice akin to a barber suggesting a haircut, but now that she was in need of any shred of hope, she grasped at his belief in her ability to succeed. She would also need to earn some money, and hoped that the clerical work she’d done for him was enough for him to recommend her elsewhere.
“If you promise not to tell my mother,” Emmy said to him in his office after school the next day, “I’d like your help with college.”
“What happened there?” Mr. Utke asked, pointing to her cheekbone. Emmy’s hand fluttered against the greenish mark for a second.
“Kicked by a cow,” she said, a feeble lie.
“Sit down, Emmaline,” he said. “If you don’t want to tell me the truth, then I won’t ask you twice. But I’m not comfortable lying to a parent, under any circumstances.”
Emmy felt her lip quiver. “Mother won’t approve,” she said. “And it wasn’t a cow. My fiancé hit me, and I don’t know what to do.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and Emmy angrily batted it away.
Mr. Utke tapped the side of his nose with a pencil, his mouth a grimly set line beneath his mustache. “I see. Why don’t we start with the admissions test, and see how things go from there?”
Emmy drew a shallow breath and said, “I read there’s one in May.”
“I have no doubt you’ll pass it.” He pulled a small stack of paperback booklets from a desk drawer and laid them on the blotter, sealing his part of their unspoken agreement. “It’s little more than a formality for the top students.”
“And I’ve been thinking about studying home economics,” Emmy said, finding courage in having told Mr. Utke the truth. “I could eventually do what Mrs. Hagen does, teach girls how to cook and sew.”
“Then we should aim for NDAC over in Fargo.” He gingerly set the thickest book on the top of the pile. “But at some point, you will have to tell your mother.”
“I’m eighteen,” Emmy said, twisting a damp hankie around her index finger so tightly that the pain kept her from showing any more evident anger, in particular directed at Karin.
“So you are,” he replied. “That is a valid point.”
“I need a job, too,” she said. “I won’t be able to afford the tuition on what you pay me.”
“You’re a funny one.” Mr. Utke smiled kindly, knowing that she wasn’t being paid for her work. “I’m afraid I can’t give you more than a ten-cent raise.”
“Ten cents are better than the current rate.” Emmy laughed, a bitter tone revealing how trapped she felt. “I’m a hard worker, if you know of anyone who needs one.”
He sat quietly for a minute. “I can certainly ask around.” His smile faded as he leaned forward and looked at Emmy’s cheek more closely, a thundercloud of protection gathering in his expression. “We’ll find you something. In the meantime, steer clear of that cow.”
On Thursday afternoon, Mr. Utke announced that he’d found Emmy a job at the Moorhead Theatre, selling concessions. The pay was $.75 an hour, and she could start on Friday night. The girl who had been working the candy counter had quit, and Mr. Rakov needed an immediate replacement. After Emmy had struggled through the five-minute interview, barely able to understand through Mr. Rakov’s thickly accented and broken English that she could have the job, she sat in Mr. Utke’s car, pointing the directions to her home. This was happening faster than Emmy could quite grasp. It was nearing six; her mother would already be there, her father home soon.
“How do I tell her?” Emmy asked herself out loud, even as she hoped that Mr. Utke would have an answer.
“Part of becoming an adult is facing hard situations with truth,” Mr. Utke advised.
Emmy filled her lungs with air. “I doubt she’ll like this idea much.”
“With doubt comes experience.”
Emmy plucked at a loose string on her skirt. “You always know what to say,” she said. “Thank you for helping me.”
Mr. Utke parked at the curb in front of her house and turned slightly toward her. “You have great potential, Emmaline. Don’t lose sight of that.”
Emmy nodded, frozen to the seat. She heard the words but didn’t entirely believe the sentiment.
“I’ve known your mother since I first taught school out in Glyndon and you were just a baby,” he said, opening the door. “I have every reason to think she’ll understand.”
Emmy closed her eyes. “I’m not a baby anymore.”
“The first step is the hardest, you’ll see.” Mr. Utke got out of the car and Emmy sat with her eyes closed until she felt the air rush in against her right side as he opened her door and offered a hand up and out of the temporary safety of the car.
She led the way up the walk, noting that the house was dark except for a light in the kitchen, which was not a good sign. When Karin had had a particularly long day she liked to keep the house stone quiet and underlit. She never complained, but it seemed to Emmy that her mother suffered some kind of deep pain on nights like these.
“Maybe tonight’s not the best time,” Emmy said, hesitating at the front door. Mr. Utke gave her a little punch on the shoulder and knocked. The door opened.
“Hello, Reinhold,” Karin said, showing mild surprise. Emmy had not seen her mother since the night before and she did not look particularly well. There were dark moons below her eyes and one corner of her mouth drooped down a tiny bit, not really a noticeable flaw, but one that caused Emmy to bite the inside of her cheek.
“Emmy,” Karin said. “It’s later than usual. Please, come in.” The formality of the statement unsettled Emmy even more, and she hesitated on the threshold as Mr. Utke waited for her to enter first. Karin turned on a lamp in the parlor as Emmy took Mr. Utke’s coat and hung it with her own on the coat tree, hugging both for a moment and gathering her will.
Her mother and her guidance counselor chatted about people in Glyndon, catching up on the local news, and Emmy took the opportunity to find something to offer Mr. Utke. Birdie was not in the kitchen, nor could Emmy hear her upstairs. She found some bread and cut it into pieces, made toast out of it and smeared a bit of butter on the triangles, arranging them on a plate as she’d seen in a cookbook at school. She peeked in the oven and saw a roast surrounded by potatoes and onions—more of the endless Brann side of beef. She pressed a hand to her mouth, forcing the thought of anything related to Ambrose quickly and sharply away.
Emmy offered Mr. Utke a piece of toast with a small linen napkin and a glass of tap water. It was meager but clearly appreciated as he took a bite and set the appetizer on his knee, then lifted it again to his mouth and so finished the bread swiftly but elegantly by setting it down after each small bite. Emmy offered him another before taking one for herself. She was spinning inside, waiting for the right moment to announce her news, and when the topic predictably turned to the weather, she broke in.
“Yes, it’s certainly gotten cold again,” she said to Mr. Utke, and then turned to Karin. “Mother, I’ve taken a job at the Moorhead Theatre. It pays almost a dollar an hour, I’ll be working three nights a week and Saturdays, and it starts tomorrow. I won’t be watching the movies, just selling popcorn, candy, pop, and chocolate, and I’ll come home straight after, so you don’t need to worry.”
Karin looked blankly at her daughter, then looked at Mr. Utke and narrowed her eyes. “You were supposed to keep her out of trouble, not to fill her head with ideas.” Before she could say more, the door opened and Christian walked in, took note of their guest, and greeted Mr. Utke with the same degree of warmth that her mother had. Emmy could see a look pass between Christian and Karin, but another round of weather pleasantries, and how-is-the-beet-plant questions, and you’ll-never-believe-who’s-getting-married exclamations unfolded until Birdie walked in the door, followed closely by Ambrose, the two of them laughing over some shared joke. Emmy dropped the empty toast plate, and Mr. Utke stood suddenly at the sound.
“I should get on home,” he said, breaking the awkward moment with his calm voice. Emmy knelt on the hard floor and gathered the pieces of porcelain, cutting the edge of her palm in the process.
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Karin said. “Set one more place for dinner, Emmaline. Our future son-in-law has been quite generous to provide tonight’s roast.” Emmy looked up at her mother, a plea in her eyes, only to realize that Ambrose had already been invited without her knowledge.
“I’d be honored to join you,” Mr. Utke said, his hand firm on Emmy’s elbow as he helped her stand. “It’s not very filling being a bachelor at my age.”
“Let’s take a look at that cut,” Karin said as she led Emmy by the wrist into the kitchen, away from the three men and Birdie. Emmy’s hands shook the pieces of plate together as she carried them to the sink, where she let them fall again as her mother turned on the cold tap and held Emmy’s palms under the stream.
“You need to make amends,” Karin whispered. “He’ll do whatever you say now, but not if you take on airs.”
“And if I don’t want to?” Emmy said through her chattering teeth.
“Then you can find a new place to live,” Karin said, as though she had already packed Emmy’s bags and left them on the stoop of her disappointment. She let go of Emmy’s hands and opened a cupboard, pulling a plate from a stack. Then, gathering utensils from a drawer, she set the extra place for Mr. Utke. Emmy looked at the damage on her palm through the rushing water and understood with stark clarity that this was how her life would be if she continued to follow her mother’s advice: one small cut after another until her heart had bled out completely through her thickened skin.
* * *
“It’s a lucky thing our future son-in-law is so generous,” Karin said again as Christian carved the roast. “It makes it so easy for us to add a guest to God’s table.” Emmy was surprised by how hard her mother was trying to impress their company—she’d even changed into one of her better dresses before supper, and mentioned Birdie’s position in the school choir, and how Mr. Utke should consider a place for the girl in the one he directed at the Moorhead Lutheran church. For her own part, Emmy had deftly avoided being near Ambrose by seating herself between the other two men, forcing her mother to take the spot open beside her fiancé. Silenced by the situation, Emmy poked at her food and noticed how Ambrose dominated the conversation, a role he had clearly learned from his long-winded father. She barely listened as the meal wore on, the topics as unchanging as they ever were. Her hand throbbed when she tried to cut through the roast, and eventually she gave up trying to eat at all.
“Let me ask you, Mr. Utke,” Ambrose said, shifting toward him.
“Please, call me Reinhold,” Mr. Utke replied. “You’re long out of school.”
“As an instructor, do you find the desegregation of schools and what it’s done in Little Rock to be a positive thing?” Ambrose asked, his voice level but his eyes narrow in a way that showed he expected a certain kind of answer.
“I don’t find that it affects me,” Mr. Utke replied. “But yes, I do think it will eventually be a positive change.”
“Now, son,” Christian said to Ambrose. “You know I don’t like talking politics at my dinner table.”
Ambrose coughed into his napkin, a sound of slight disrespect. “This isn’t politics, sir. It’s a matter of grave concern that all knowledgeable citizens should discuss openly.”
“One man’s concern is another man’s politics,” Christian replied. He moved his chair away from the table an inch and folded his arms across his chest. Karin stood and began to clear the table.
Ambrose laid his hands on either side of his plate. “Forgive me for saying so, but I disagree. The NAACP is moving more and more coloreds up north, and their branch in Minneapolis has been corrupting the unions and schools, suing regular citizens for not wanting to send their children to school with Negroes.”
“I don’t think I’d want to go to school with a Negro,” Birdie said, her voice filled with its usual melody. “I mean, I wouldn’t feel safe, really.”
“Help your mother, Birdie,” Christian said in a tone Emmy had heard only when one of them was in trouble with him. Birdie rose quickly and took her father’s plate as Mr. Utke passed his along to her as well.
“Ambrose,” Mr. Utke said, “the NAACP is safeguarding the rights of humans, regardless of their skin.” He leaned forward on his elbows, a pose Emmy knew well, one that always preceded some morsel of salted wisdom. “You do know that most Negroes came to this country against their will, as slaves, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And that the North won the Civil War, ending slavery?”