A Fireproof Home for the Bride (20 page)

While the movie played, Emmy cleaned up the machine and started it fresh, filling bags for the occasional bored or hungry moviegoer who would slip out for a break and chat with her about the weather. Then she’d prepare for the onslaught of the next audience, and at the same time begin to shut down and set up for the following day. If there was popcorn left after the late show, she would bag it for mixing into the first batch the next night. Then she would spray down the glass of the machine and put the gears into a bucket to take back downstairs and wash before she changed to go home.

Sometimes during the movie she would peek through the round theater door window and listen to the murmuring tones of movie stars, but usually she used the time during the movie to study or to read more of Josephine Randall’s books. The novels had run the gamut from the original sod-breaking heroines to banner-waving suffragettes, each narrated by a woman whom Emmy imagined to be a thinly veiled version of the author. With every page she read, Emmy’s scope grew in an increasing circumference of time and space, rippling over the Red River Valley, past the Upper Midwest, into the soft deltas of the South and the frozen tundras of the North—back to pockets of Renaissance Europe and even a stop in ancient Greece. Emmy’s appetite for the books had grown to the point where she was walking to school with one in hand, falling asleep with another on her chest. At some point it occurred to Emmy that neither her house nor the farm nor even the Brann house contained any books. Yes, there were Bibles aplenty, and her grandmother kept a shelf of
Reader’s Digest
s that they weren’t allowed to touch, but beyond that, Emmy could not think of a time when any member of her family had ever read anything other than a newspaper.

Emmy folded the cleaning rag and put it under the counter with the glass spray. She was pleased with her work and felt ready for the night to be over. She set a stool behind the popcorn machine in order to read. One hour to go before the movie ended, then a brisk walk home in the cool spring air. Emmy couldn’t figure out why Mr. Rakov was against shutting down the stand early, as she had never once sold a concession during this last long stretch of time. It must have had something to do with the way he’d done things in Russia, though she certainly could keep her uniform at home and wash it herself rather than have the theater spend the money on dry cleaning. Lost in a fog of minutiae, Emmy didn’t notice the door to the theater swing open and close until through the glass of the candy case she noticed a pair of dungarees folded once at the ankles over a pair of red high-topped athletic shoes.

Emmy glanced up from her book to see Bobby Doyle examining the selection of Sno-Caps, Jujubes, and a variety of licorices. She nearly dropped the novel as she leaned back on her stool, hoping he would decide he wasn’t hungry enough to buy anything. Emmy attempted to rely on the charade she had practiced so well: She wasn’t interested in him anymore, nor any boy who passed her way. There was a dull pulsing in Emmy’s wrists and temples, and she suddenly needed the bathroom very badly. The ushers had all gone with the ticket girl to grab a burger at Wolf’s and wouldn’t be back until closing, so she did the only thing she could: She stood. Bobby put his fingers on the countertop and peered around the popper. Emmy’s heart stopped, then started again, faster than before. They looked at each other for a long moment, during which it occurred to Emmy that
he
might be mad at
her
. She looked away, irate, and slapped her book onto the stool, moving behind the counter in a spell. When she stood in front of him, his face opened into a bottomless grin, and he practically leaped over the narrow counter to take her shoulders in his hands.

“It really is you, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes locking onto hers. “Bev said you were here, but when I came in, I didn’t see you.” She wouldn’t let his charm win this time, nor would the mention of Bev’s name sway her determination.

“I beg your pardon,” she replied, removing his hands from her uniform. He let her, but his smile didn’t fade. “It’s not like you can just blow in and out of my life, unannounced.”

“You didn’t get my note?” He stood with his hands retreated to his pockets, casual, so sure of himself. She fell back against the wall, her well-manicured position on Bobby suddenly overgrown and unruly in an irrational wish. She wanted him to touch her again.

“Note?”

“Darn that Pete,” he said, somewhat to himself. “He was supposed to give it to Bev to give to you.”

“What did this note say?”

“How about I write you another one and give it to you myself?” He leaned forward again on the case, reaching as if to hold her hand. She let him, and the cloud of melancholy that had clung to her since she had seen him last shifted an inch to the right.

“I’m here again Wednesday night,” she whispered, lowering her forehead so it almost met his. “Looks like you’ll need to see the movie again anyway.”

“I like the picture out here better,” he said, propping his chin in his other hand and turning his full blue-eyed attention on her. They stayed that way until the movie ended while they chatted about the mundane activities of high school life. She told him about Mr. Utke’s kindness; Bobby told her about learning how to arc-weld in shop class. She didn’t tell him that she’d known how to weld since she was twelve, but instead listened to his explanation without interrupting his smiling monologue. As the crowd filtered out of the theater, Bobby wove his way out the door through the dispersing crowd, turning and touching his index finger to his brow in a last salute as he disappeared.

Emmy hastened through her basement clean-up routine, changing out of her uniform and hanging it neatly on the rack, washing and rinsing the slick coconut oil from the gears of the popper and wiping them dry. The last of the ushers, having finished his sweep of the theater, held the front door open for her as she flew down the sidewalk, her head full of bees from the excitement of seeing Bobby.

It wasn’t until she turned onto the darkened residential stretch of Eleventh Street that she noticed headlights casting her shadow long before her on the pavement. The pace seemed to match her own—not nearing, just remaining the same eerie distance away. Emmy glanced over her shoulder, lengthening her stride at the sight of Ambrose’s truck slinking along, then speeding up until it passed her and stopped a short distance ahead. The door swung open, and he appeared, wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt, a slim black tie around the collar.

“I want to tell you something,” he said, closing in. She stopped, her high spirits draining into the gutter at their feet.

“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. The shaking started in her arms and rapidly moved to her torso, up to her mouth and teeth. She made an effort to relax her muscles, but when she looked up at him, a fresh chill bloomed at the sight of his face, shadowed by the moonless night.

“I want you to stop working at the theater,” he said. “It’s run by communists.”

She shook her head, bewildered by Ambrose’s insistent tone. “Mr. Rakov is not a communist.”

Ambrose counted on his fingers, “He’s Russian, an immigrant, and a Jew. He plays foreign movies. There’s no possible way he isn’t a communist.”

“You’re nuts,” Emmy said without mirth. “Even if he is a communist, it’s no business of mine.”

“Well, it is mine! I can’t let you take that chance.” He moved one step closer and hung his head. “I want to make things right with you,” he said toward his shoes. “Whatever it takes.”

Startled by the change of subject, she detoured around him, not wanting to hear any compassion in his voice. He caught her by the upper arm. She looked at his hand. “Please just let go of me.”

“I can’t,” he said, as though he was the one wounded. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Emmy bit her lower lip at the thought. “Yes,” she said, trying to remain calm even though his touch made her want to run. “I suppose we need to do something about that, but not tonight.”

“Let me know when,” he said, and released her from his grip.

“Thanks. I will.” She continued on her way, slowly, but with her shoulders squared and her head high.

“Let me drive you home,” he shouted after her. “It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said over her shoulder, stubbornly walking on as she talked. “I do this every day.” Once she had turned the corner and was certain he wouldn’t follow, her nerves shattered, and the cold night air drew the tears from her eyes as she ran the remaining five blocks home. The well-oiled machine of her childhood was obsolete to her now, and as she slowed her pace upon reaching the walkway to her house and dried her cheeks on her sleeve, she knew that she would have to dismantle it all on her own. I can say no, she thought. Oddly, this notion didn’t raise more tears, but Emmy instead felt as though a dozen small hot air balloons had taken flight inside her chest, lifting her spirits and leaving her elated at the new possibilities that could come from simply letting go.

Nine

The Fragility of Stars

The days passed, and Emmy’s resolve to become independent grew stronger. Turning the wheel of habit away from the curb was slow work, though, and Emmy knew that until she had enough money tucked away and her high school education finished, she couldn’t do anything that revealed her intentions.

A note from Bev arrived via Mr. Utke the next week, suggesting that Emmy come over on Easter Sunday to meet Josephine Randall, who had just returned from Europe. Emmy scribbled out a reluctant refusal, knowing that regardless of the way she felt about Ambrose, she was duty bound to spend the day at her grandmother’s table.
But please,
Emmy closed the note,
do let me know when I can meet her any other time.

The Friday before Holy Week, Emmy went home after school, prepared dinner, made certain that Birdie was studying, and then as the clock struck five put on her hat and coat and said, “See you later.” She wasn’t going to work at the theater as expected, but merely walking there in order to meet Bobby before heading over the river to Fargo for the Crystal Ballroom’s Friday Night Dance Canteen. The opulence of the words made Emmy swallow hard. Dancing. And with a Catholic boy, no less. She laughed out loud in the spring night air, giddy with the thrill of the forbidden.

All she could think about lately was Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. He had shown up at the movie theater on Wednesday night as promised, and she was ready, her hair washed and freshly curled late the night before, her uniform spot-cleaned and pressed stiff, her cute little saddle shoes, the black parts shined, the white parts chalked. She’d never forget the moment when he’d walked in, ordered a box of popcorn, paid her his dime, and then turned away—the whole time with a small, shy smile on his face. Only after he had passed through the inner doors did she realize they hadn’t said another word, but when he gave her the coin his fingers raked her palm in such a subtle way that she didn’t immediately notice the small folded piece of paper dropped there along with the money until he had walked away and the next guest repeated “Miss” for what must have been the tenth or twelfth time. She had put the dime in the till and slipped the note into her pocket, where it stayed until the movie started and the ushers had gone outside for a smoke.

You will be mine.

Her heart had thundered as she quickly refolded the note, unfolded it again, read it again, folded it, ran to the ladies’ lounge and sat on a vanity stool, attempting to catch her breath. It was no use. She’d gone to a sink and splashed cold water on her face, and then she’d held tightly to the porcelain edge, gazing at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes had never been so clear, her lips so soft, and her brow so smooth. And yet a ripple of insecurity played there, barely detectable. How could Bobby be so sure of everything? She was only just learning to trust her instincts and here was this boy—man—who was so confident and divine. After the movie had finished, he’d asked her with due formality for a date, to this dance. They were starting from the beginning, with all the proper etiquette lending the courtship a languid kind of old-fashioned romance she desired in the wake of her recent disillusionment.

Emmy briskly walked up to the theater a few minutes early. She couldn’t see the Fargo Sweptside on either curb, so she ducked inside to primp in front of the mirror. On Wednesday after school she had taken the bus over the river to the Herbst Department Store and carefully selected a few items of makeup. When the woman behind the counter asked her what she needed, Emmy had turned so red that the woman laughed and said, “Well, I guess it’s not blusher!” This made Emmy laugh, too, and the clerk showed her how to apply the powder from a compact and blusher with a small, soft sponge.

When she got to work that night the makeup was still on and she noticed how the male customers looked more carefully at her as they paid. Before she had gone home she had assiduously removed all signs of the paint. She didn’t need Karin to give her an ironic lecture on what happens to painted girls. As Emmy delicately reapplied the foundation and powders, she tried a little fox-trot move in front of the mirror, steps she had surreptitiously learned from a library book during study hall. Asking Miss Lily for the book had filled her with a wicked shame, but so many nice boys and girls went to the canteen and to the dances and proms. Certainly they couldn’t all be bound for hell?

Emmy threw everything into her purse and ran out of the theater. There he was, standing in front of the gleaming Sweptside in the last light of the day. He opened her door, and a streetlight flickered on, creating in Emmy a dazzling surge of energy that started somewhere in the middle of her chest and spun outward to where Bobby’s fingers touched hers as she climbed into the cab. She settled within the heady cocoon, letting it be real, no longer just the memory of a cold night spent in his company.

“Gosh, Emmy,” he said, entering from the street side and starting the engine. “It feels like a lifetime since Wednesday. I thought I would die before tonight arrived.”