A Fireproof Home for the Bride (4 page)

A forlorn smile pulled at Emmy’s lips and she immediately fought it down as the car turned off the main road and onto the long, narrow drive edged with plowed banks of gravel-studded snow that led into the Brann farm. Towering skeletal oak trees marked the property on four corners, connected by stands of bushy spruce planted as protection from the relentless year-round winds that would aspirate fine layers of topsoil straight into any open window, impervious to screens and sometimes even silting its way right through solid windowpanes.

At the top of the drive, the path curved into a circle around two tangled box elder trees, the spot where Emmy had spent many a warm Sunday afternoon, either on a sturdy, gnarled limb or in the shady grass below. She could almost picture her own children up in these trees, spying on pirates or Indians, or maybe even little green men from Mars. This thought helped with the notion that she might someday be the lady of the enormous white Victorian house looming before them, the neatly trimmed green shutters and bare front porch giving Emmy the same old feeling of a thing untouched by love. Christian stopped the car in front of the big white slope-shouldered barn across the circle from the house, and Emmy crossed her fingers and made a quick wish: Please let me be happy here.

They were greeted at the door by Maria Gonzales, who had been both housekeeper and cook for the two men since Mrs. Emmaline Brann had died from consumption the summer before Emmy was born. It was from this tragedy that Emmy got her name—a sign of respect for the dead woman who had been Grandmother Nelson’s best friend. Maria was the smallest grown woman Emmy had ever seen, and the tightly wound bun of hair at the crown of her head had gone completely white in the years since Emmy had first looked up at it, and then gazed down on it, fascinated by its pristine roundness. Before Emmy was born, Maria had been a
betabelero
alongside her husband and five sons, splitting the beet roots in the muddy spring fields and thinning the rows by hand, stooped to the ground for hours on end. Moving out of the field and into the house was a rare but fortunate event for a migrant, and Maria’s cooking for the Branns bore none of the spice or color that Emmy had on occasion seen her take to the team of Mexican laborers who worked under Pedro on the immense Brann acreage.

Emmy removed her coat and slipped out of her snow boots, replacing them with the low-heeled church shoes that she had worn once a week, in every season, since her feet had reached their full size. The tight little group of Nelsons moved together into the formal dining room, where the table was set and Mr. Brann spoke in excited tones to the unfamiliar man Emmy had seen at church. She glanced at Ambrose, who stood behind a chair, ready to pull it out for her.

With the delicacy of a china teacup, Lida walked over to where the two older men sat, her arms extended in a warm welcome. “Why, I can’t believe my eyes,” she exclaimed, a childlike look of wonder brightening her face. “I didn’t notice you at church.”

The man stood and gently took her hand. “Dear Lida, you haven’t aged a minute.”

“Mr. Davidson was sitting in our pew,” Mr. Brann said, a proud smile of ownership on his narrow face.

“Please everyone, call me Curtis,” the stranger said, looking in particular at Lida, who seemed confused by his request. “With God’s help, I’ve begun my mission anew.” Emmy had never been invited to call a man of Mr. Davidson’s age by his first name, and certainly knew better than to do so in front of her mother. His teeth gleamed in a way that nearly glowed, small in size, but straight and neat between his thin, moist lips. Emmy assumed they were false.

“We’re glad to have you back with us,” Lida said, looking as though she might topple over. “God knows your heart.” She lifted one hand out to the room while holding fast to Mr. Davidson with the other. “You know my son, Christian, and his wife, Karin, of course. These are their girls.” A small sound clipped her speech and she pressed her smile into a frown for a brief moment, the ghost of some lost memory haunting her face. “If you will excuse me, we’ll go see what we can do to help Maria.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Davidson said, turning to Ambrose. “Which of these young ladies is Emmaline?”

Ambrose extended his arm toward Emmy, and she moved to his side. “Emmaline, I’d like you to meet Mr. Curtis Davidson,” he said. “A good friend of our family.”

Emmy glanced at her father, who stood watching from the foyer doorway, hat turning slowly in his hands. She felt coltish and clumsy as she walked closer to Mr. Davidson. He was slightly taller than Emmy, with a puffy face and deep-set eyes under thick brows, and thinning gray hair streaked with an unnatural yellow that he had combed back in slick rows. His suit was made from a brushed wool fabric that was fine and well fitted to his oddly shaped frame. As he lifted her hand in his powerful grip, a thick silver ring of diamonds set in a small cross shape on its flat surface flashed.

“Hello,” she said, and he brushed the back of her hand with his lips, a gesture that drew a bright shock of carpet light between them. “Oh,” she said, rubbing her fingers. She hadn’t expected such strength from a man who had to have been almost as old as her grandmother, even though his corpulence gave him the features of a well-fed babe.

“You favor her,” he said with a nod to the kitchen door. This surprised Emmy, as she had never been told that she looked like anyone in particular, and certainly never her grandmother, whose complexion and hair had been dark, like Birdie’s. Perplexed, Emmy moved to her chair on the other side of Ambrose and smoothed her skirt across her lap, feeling the warmth of the heating grate under the table begin to melt her icy feet. She wondered why this man in particular would be invited on a day that had been intended for her and Ambrose. The stranger captivated the men, and Emmy couldn’t help wondering if his cursory glances at her were some sort of measurement that she would somehow fail, or if he had the kind of influence over the Branns that would result in her having to prove herself worthy in ways she couldn’t begin to attempt. If only the wedding could happen this May instead of next, then her feelings of being on uneasy ground might lessen. That kind of thinking was useless in the face of her mother-ordered schedule. Karin deemed a year-long engagement the most appropriate; abandoning any part of the plan was unthinkable.

The conversation among the men shuffled through Mr. Davidson’s assessment of how the county had changed in the years he’d been away—apparently very little—which made Emmy wonder where he had been and why he seemed so curious about their family’s small piece of Moland Township. Eventually, the topic turned to the usual Sunday dinner speculation of when the earth would thaw and the beet seeds would be sown, what the
Farmer’s Almanac
had to say on the matter, and just how many cows on both farms were likely to give birth soon. Emmy fought the itchy sleepiness that comes from wearing layers of wool in an overheated house, drifting into the middle of the very important subject of calving.

“I’ve got a good deal of them here,” Ambrose said. “We’re going to be busy.”

“We’ve only got the two, the dam and the heifer,” Christian said, speaking for the first time since they’d arrived and causing Emmy to take careful note of the way he leaned back in his chair, while the three other men leaned forward. He picked a piece of lint from the tablecloth and rolled it between his fingers as though he found it more interesting than anything being said.

Lida entered on the tail of his words, her hands in quilted potholders carrying an oblong dish. “He’s been after me to sell that heifer,” she said to Mr. Davidson in a lilting voice, setting the steaming yams pooled with butter beside Christian’s plate and speaking over his head. “But I tell him she’s our fortune, the first piece of rebuilding our herd. We’ll fatten up that calf and sell it for two older dams.” Christian lifted his milk glass, but instead of drinking from it, he turned it slowly in the air.

“You always did know your cattle,” Mr. Davidson said, drawing a finger across the edge of his chin. He looked at Emmy and then at Christian, who set down the glass without further comment as Lida patted at the back of her tightly braided and wound hair, as though she were wishing it had been set and combed for the occasion. Something about Christian’s demeanor hung heavily in Emmy’s mind, a subtle aloofness in his aspect that she hadn’t specifically noticed before but felt quite certain had always been there, like a doily on the radio, or a layer of fine dust on a high shelf. It was almost as though he disliked the very idea of farming, and yet here he sat, pretending that its dissection was worthy of his consideration.

“Well, I think she’s already showing signs of discomfort,” Emmy said, attempting to assert a standing modeled after her grandmother’s. If Emmy were to be the wife of this household, she wanted her voice to be heard. Her father met her gaze and raised an eyebrow in what looked like mild amusement. Mr. Brann cleared his throat.

“What have you heard about the new leadership in Indiana?” he asked Mr. Davidson. “Will you be heading down there?”

“Ah, yes,” he replied, aligning his fork and knife. “They’ve got some fine ideas.” He watched Lida disappear into the kitchen. “But I think the Lord needs me to tend his flock here, begin again.”

Mr. Brann rubbed his hands together. “God willing, your voice will reach many eager ears,” he said, and picked up a small silver bell, ringing it sharply. It was the first time Emmy had seen him do such a thing, and it made her wonder what else might happen in the course of dinner. He set down the bell. “Until then, please make our home your own.”

“I thank you for the kind offer, brother,” Mr. Davidson said, looking around the room as though he’d already unpacked his bags in the main bedroom upstairs. “I’ve always felt at peace in Minnesota.”

Emmy cleared her throat. “I’ve never been to Indiana,” she said, only to find her second attempt at entering the conversation treated with the same maddening silence from the men, and a discreet tap on the knee from Ambrose that caused embarrassed heat to flow into her cheeks.

Karin hurried into the room with a platter of roast beef, carved and ladled with thick brown gravy. She went directly to Mr. Davidson and served him first, treating him with the kind of reverence that made Emmy wonder whether Mr. Davidson might be a minister of some sort. Emmy looked at her father, who was tracing a faint pattern on the tablecloth with his fork. The other women bustled in with an assortment of side dishes, then retreated to the kitchen to fetch more. When Emmy stood to help, Ambrose placed a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her back into her seat without stopping the flow of detailed information regarding the scientific timing of animal insemination that he was in the process of imparting. She sat and clenched her teeth, filling her plate with whatever food was passed her way. If she wasn’t going to be allowed to talk like an adult or help like a child, she could at least occupy her mouth with something that might keep her from spitting in frustration.

“Curtis, you will honor us with a devotion?” Mr. Brann asked once all the food had been dispersed, the women seated, and hands folded in practiced anticipation of a blessing.

Mr. Davidson stood and motioned for the rest of the table to do the same, grasping a hand on either side of him. An awkward moment passed as the Branns and the Nelsons took up hands. Emmy closed her eyes and bowed her head, Ambrose’s palm moist on one side, Karin’s cold and dry on the other.

“Our Dear Lord,” Mr. Davidson broke the silence with a sonorous voice that sent a chord humming in Emmy’s chest. “When King David prayed for You to ‘wash him whiter than snow,’ he knew that he had to first come to You with the cleanliness of repentance and hope of forgiveness for his multitude of sins. For we are all sinners in Your eyes until we know what we have done and repented for it. Show these Thy children in this loving home how to be whiter than snow on the inside as You wash them in the purity of Your love and in the Life Everlasting. For without Your glory and the promise of Your home in Heaven, we are but ants in the field. Bless this food we are about to enjoy through Your bounty, and the bread that we break in the name of Your Son, through Whom we are promised the Divine Retribution at the end of our days. Please let us be thankful for this great country in which we live, founded on Your behalf, and protected by our tireless patriots. Let us not take for granted our roles as protectors of God, country, women, and our religion, for there are those who would want us to cast aside Your mercy and Your ways for their own selfish needs. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.”

Though she was used to far longer devotions, when Emmy opened her eyes she had to blink against the sudden brightness of the white tablecloth set with white dishes and napkins, the good silver, and the crystal glassware filled with fresh milk. She took her seat and watched her own hand lift the glass and felt the cool liquid as it passed her lips, but for the rest of the meal she neither relished the food nor attempted to interject her thoughts on the rumbling conversation, which centered mostly on the sugar beet harvest that had only just wound down from its early winter frenzy. How they could enjoy such endless minutiae on an annual topic—yield gains, soil astringency, labor contracts, upgrading of the discs and drills and tractors—bewildered Emmy, but it also made it easier for her to concentrate her efforts on chewing and swallowing. It became increasingly clear to her that the strange visitor’s arrival had taken precedence over her own affairs, and as the ticking of the clock became ever louder in her mind, she felt a curdled mixture of relief and dismay that the day was no longer about her betrothal. The minute the last bite of food was eaten, three of the men stood and moved off into the parlor, which Maria went toward, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. Christian lagged behind and turned to the foyer, pulled on his coat and walked out the front door. As the other women took the food into the kitchen, Emmy stood, stretched the nerves in the small of her back, and held still for a moment, trying to hear the men’s conversation drifting through the open parlor doors, wondering what they were talking about instead of her and Ambrose.