Read A Fireproof Home for the Bride Online
Authors: Amy Scheibe
At six Birdie and Christian appeared in the kitchen, just as Karin set the table with a platter of scrambled eggs and a pot of porridge. Eggs were the one food they always had plenty of, since the farm’s hens produced too many for Karin to sell to local grocers. The larger chicken farms down around Fergus Falls were beginning to undersell her in the new supermarkets and there were those who believed that when the new four-lane highway was built up to Moorhead, trucks would start bringing all sorts of things from farther and farther away. Progress, they called it, but for Emmy’s family it already foretold the opposite.
“Oh, Mother,” Birdie said as she quickly ate her bowl of porridge, blowing on each steaming bite, “you’ll never guess what happened at choir this week.” Her sapphire-colored eyes held the kind of depth that Emmy imagined an ocean might contain; Birdie’s wavy hair was silky and more black than brown. She favored her father, even as their mother favored Birdie. “I was chosen to sing a solo for the spring concert!”
“That is a good thing,” Christian said, considerably brighter after his night’s rest.
“It’s God’s gift, Birdie, not yours. Remember that,” Karin said, punctuating her words with a sharp look at Christian. She got up from the table and began to clean up the breakfast dishes.
“Yes, of course you’re right,” Birdie said, clearing her own bowl and washing it quickly at the sink, her shoulders slightly slumped as though she was trying not to cry. Emmy swallowed the last mouthful of eggs and went to her sister.
“I’m proud of you,” Emmy whispered to Birdie. “I know how hard it must have been to stand up in front of all those kids and sing.”
“Thanks,” Birdie said, her small smile of joy rekindling. “I thought I would die, right there.”
“But you didn’t.” Emmy wrung out the dishrag and wiped down the oilcloth as Birdie and Christian pulled coats on over their coveralls, ready to head east to the work awaiting them on the farm. The Nelsons paid Maria Gonzales’s oldest son, Pedro, to help with the morning milking, but Christian took care of everything else—the weekly mucking, moving six day’s worth of corn silage from where it was packed into a hole dug in the ground to an old truck bed behind the shed, and whatever else Grandmother Nelson needed done. During the week, Emmy’s parents made the seven-mile trip every morning to do the milking before Christian went on to work at the sugar beet plant and Karin at the Glyndon school lunchroom, returning to the farm for evening chores and then home to eat whatever Emmy had made for dinner. Sometimes she wondered why they all worked so hard on a farm that wasn’t theirs, but then she would simply reason that the fifth commandment rang strongly in Christian, and until his mother was dead and buried he would expect his family to lean toward the homestead as obediently as he had for forty-some years. Karin herded him and Birdie to the kitchen door.
“Have her home in time to go out with Emmy,” Karin said, pulling on a sweater and following them out into the yard.
As the door closed with a jerked-up shudder, Emmy sank her hands into the lukewarm dishwater, calculating how long she could indulge her disappointment. She had figured her mother would find a way to polish the shine off her very first night out, but Emmy hadn’t considered this possibility, nor could she imagine asking Bev to pay for the extra ticket. Emmy didn’t even know whether there would be room in the car or who else was invited. Maybe Bev would think this presumptuous of Emmy and change her mind about their friendship. But hadn’t Bev already suggested that Birdie come? She was a good companion, and incapable of being disliked by anyone she met. At least Karin had said yes. Emmy picked up her pace with fresh energy. She was going out on the town on a Saturday night. So what if she wasn’t going solo—there were far worse chaperones than Birdie. Besides, Emmy secretly liked the way the girl looked up to her, even if at times Birdie seemed to forget that she was only fifteen, and not eighteen like Emmy.
* * *
At four that afternoon, Emmy set down the last of the dress mending and tapped a wet fingertip to the bottom of the iron. It sizzled. Her mother had finally given her a moment of peace, taking a pot of chicken broth down the street to Mrs. Lavold after a quick lunch of coffee with a slice of freshly baked bread. It was a ritual Emmy shared with her mother, to sit down in the middle of their housework and break the first loaf together—a ten-minute repast punctuated with a heavy sigh from Karin as she pressed herself up from the table and back into duty. Though Emmy could think of many things she wanted to share with her mother, it was hard to begin a conversation knowing that Karin wouldn’t sit still long enough to form an opinion. Today was no better than usual, and silence had once again ruled, pressing forward Emmy’s determination not to live like this, not be who her mother was. She would talk to her children, not be a shadow in her own house, cooling the rooms with her presence, giving herself so completely to God that she couldn’t see His creatures around her.
Emmy shook her head, attempting to clear her thoughts and quell the burst of nervous energy that always accompanied her cup of afternoon coffee as she ironed the pile of dresses.
“I wonder if we’ll get popcorn,” she said aloud, startling herself. She’d been to the pictures only a handful of times, and there was never money for treats or snacks. They had once, a long time ago, gone to see a movie called
The Robe
at the Fargo Theatre and there was a popcorn vendor on the sidewalk outside as well as a candy counter inside. The proximity of the forbidden treat had been endless torture for Emmy, who knew better than to ask for a penny to buy a bag, and now these many years later she could not remember the details of the movie but she could still almost smell the popcorn.
As she worked the heavy iron, steam rose out of the cloth and warmed her through for the first time that long, cold day. She looked around the tiny living room, which was the only space large enough to set up the ironing board, and wondered why her parents couldn’t have moved them into a slightly larger house, if they were bothering to move them at all. She had learned not to complain, though, as Karin would only conjure stories of her own childhood and how they had lived little better than the sodbusters before them. There was never a hint of fondness when she told these tales, and whenever Birdie or Emmy would sigh over the coldness of the house, Karin was quick to remind them that they could have scant heat or no indoor water whatsoever. She also told them about using rags for personal hygiene or putting milk and meat in pails down the cistern in the summer to keep them from spoiling. But through these tales, Emmy learned very little about Karin’s family, beyond the somewhat surprising mentions of a deceased mother and drunken father. There might have been other children, but Karin never spoke of them. Eventually the girls preferred to meet their small disappointments with silent forbearance, rather than be told the same three stories that no matter how hard they pressed, never revealed Karin’s interior.
Tithing took part of their family income, and certainly all the missions that her mother supported with small change here and there didn’t help their situation. But where did the rest go? Not to this shabby furniture and cold bare linoleum floors. There was a small rag rug in the middle of the room, woven from old clothes and dishcloths; Emmy recognized a sliver of brown- and yellow-flecked calico from a play dress she wore as a girl. She missed the warmth of her grandmother’s farmhouse and the respite it had provided her on cold winter days after school, doing her homework in the kitchen before her mother would come home and, after supper, take them all back into the shack that was hardly an improvement over Karin’s own childhood home.
The light outside had fallen as Emmy worked, and she switched on a small lamp. It suddenly occurred to her that Bev would have to come in to meet her parents. The Langer house was one of the biggest in Moorhead; what would she think of how the Nelsons lived? Emmy had met a few other girls since September, but because she was never allowed to use the phone or join a potluck group, Bev was the closest thing she had to a best friend. She wasn’t even sure what the term meant, but Bev bandied it about in a way that appealed to Emmy. She supposed that Birdie occupied the role for her by default and proximity, although since Emmy had met Bev, Emmy realized that having a sister was far different from having a friend.
In the fall Emmy had worried that Birdie wouldn’t be able to find her way in the big school, but she had more friends than her older sister, and seemed to draw boys around her as though she were dipped in honey. She was instantly expert about playing down her popularity at home—Emmy had heard about it through Bev, mostly, and seen some evidence in the hallway as sophomores, juniors, and even some seniors hovered around beautiful, tiny Birdie. It was almost as though Emmy didn’t know who her sister was at school, but the minute they walked into the house together at the end of the day she became her familiar reserved self, and settled in to study next to the radio. Emmy felt more like an aunt than a sister in these moments, and knew that she needed to be generous with Birdie, to share whatever she had with her. This Emmy would do, whether it made her feel some of the excitement of the evening waning at the prospect of a tagalong or not.
* * *
The dresses now hung in a somber row on the wooden curtain rod that Christian had installed in the double doorway between the living room and entry. During the winter, a heavy gray wool blanket was strung on the rod to keep the small gusts of heat produced by the oil-burning furnace from escaping up the stairs and into the profoundly cold bedrooms and bath. The thermostat was routinely turned down to forty-five degrees when the house sat empty during the day, and Emmy cooked supper wearing her mittens the first hour home after school while the place slowly warmed to sixty. They all took hot water bottles to bed at night and slept in flannel nightgowns with thermal long johns underneath. Oh, how she
hated
the winter. Someday she would escape this cold and either live someplace hot or at the very least, with heat. Emmy stood in front of the neatly arrayed garments and smiled at the precision of the knife pleats she had pressed into the seams. It was five o’clock and in half an hour she would be on her way someplace. She heard her mother’s step on the front walk and went to open the door.
“Good work, Emmy,” Karin said as she inspected the dresses. Emmy knew better than to show how proud she was, so instead she took the empty pot from her mother as Karin hung her coat in the small closet under the stairs.
“I’ve started dinner,” Emmy said, taking the kettle into the kitchen, which was filled with the subtle smell of carrots simmering, and the sharp over-scent of lutefisk bubbling away in a glass baking dish.
“I see you’re going to miss your favorite meal,” Karin said with a slight smile. Hers was the last generation to embrace the lye-cured cod with its pungent taste and slightly viscous texture. Neither Emmy nor Birdie could get it down without much restraint and even more water. “I’m sure your sister will approve.”
“I thought it might be a good night to get it out of the way,” Emmy said, enjoying the moment of mirth. “How was Mrs. Lavold?”
Karin sat down at the table and deftly rearranged the hair that had loosened when she removed her hat. Emmy noticed her mother hesitate slightly in her movements, as though her joints hurt.
“I’m quite sure she’s got cancer, but she won’t go to the doctor,” Karin said. “She puts her faith in God, not science, she says, and how can I argue with that? If God wants her, He’s going to take her in His time. I just wish she’d get something for the pain and to release the amount of fluid trapped in her poor body. Her soul is strong, though, so I can’t presume to say what’s right.” She looked off into the distance, past Emmy’s shoulder. “Where’s your father?”
“I don’t know,” Emmy said, suddenly realizing how the time had slipped past. “I need to get ready.” She ran up the stairs, changed out of her scratchy woolen work pants and pulled on her new dungarees, fastening the small button at the side and zipping them closed. She’d wanted a pair of Blue Bell Jeanies—just like the ones Bev had shown her in
Seventeen
magazine—with deep pockets topstitched with orange thread, but Karin had taken one look at the page Emmy had brought home and made her a more modest version. They hung from the snug waistband in an unflattering and somewhat uncomfortable way, but at least they were approaching what the other kids would be wearing. She carefully folded the hems up two inches in an attempt at improving the overall look, and chose the least pilled of her sweaters to go with them. Emmy rushed to the bathroom and tried to gauge her outfit in the small, cracked mirror over the sink, but even jumping didn’t give her enough perspective. She sighed and brushed her corn-silk hair into a tight ponytail that pulled her cheekbones a bit higher and made her eyes look rounder. Pinching at her lips for a little more color, Emmy didn’t mind what she saw in the mirror, though she also knew better than to get caught smiling.
The doorbell rang and Emmy raced down the stairs to find her mother holding out her coat and hat. “I don’t know what could be keeping those two. You’ll have to go without Birdie. No alcohol, no dancing, and no card playing. Be home by ten.” Karin took Emmy’s hand in hers, slipped a bill into her palm, and smiled. “Just in case.” Karin’s hand was warmer than usual, and Emmy held still there for a moment, then grabbed her things and went out the door.
The first surprise of the evening came after Bev and Emmy dashed together up the Nelsons’ sidewalk and toward a sleek black car rumbling at the curb. Emmy had never seen an automobile look so brand-new, with its shiny black sides and glowing white top and fins. She briefly imagined plunging into the sea in this creature and driving out the other side dry and safe. As they got to the car the passenger door swung open and a jet-haired boy who looked as though he’d been born inside of his car leaned across the seat, smiling up at them.