The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  She’d have to start looking elsewhere tomorrow.

  She put her hands down and gripped the seat as the bus lurched forward. A newspaper brushed her hand. Mabel looked down and saw that it was open to the classifieds.

  One word would change everything.

  WANTED.

  .

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wanted: An aspiring female writer who is interested in recording the story that an old woman would like to tell. Must be willing to travel to Texas. All expenses paid as well as room and board and a modest stipend. Respond to the address below with a three hundred-word essay about yourself and why you would like this position. Please include a small photograph. Send to Mrs. Emma Koehler, 310 W. Ashby Place, San Antonio, Texas.

  MABEL HAD TO READ it three times through tears that had gathered in her eyes, distorting the newsprint like a magnifying glass. But she brushed them away before they could drop and dampen it. She looked to her side and behind her, wondering who might have left it there, but the immediate seats around her were empty. She picked it up and set it on her lap, flattening the creases out and taking a deep breath before her thoughts could run away with her.

  Maybe this was one of her mother’s gifts. Mabel had been only twelve when she’d died, the liver cancer overtaking her from the inside out. She’d instructed Mabel on all the ways to care for her father and brothers, and comforted her with the words I’ll send you little gifts to let you know I’m thinking of you.

  At first, Mabel had seen them everywhere. When Black-eyed Susans would bloom in the spring, little Mabel would think, Mama’s favorite! It must be a gift. Only when she was older did she learn that it was the state flower of Maryland and they were more common than fleas on a stray dog when the humidity came around. And later, when a butterfly landed next to her on a park bench, she thought it was a visit from her mother. Only to find out that it was the beginning of their migration from points north to points south.

  Over the years, she’d quickly dismissed the childish notions that her mother was sending messages to her because if she was honest, things had gone more wrong than right. And a mother who had the ability to reach out from the beyond wouldn’t have allowed it all.

  Not only what happened with Artie. But with her brothers. With her father. Mr. Oliver.

  So Mabel cleared her throat and reminded herself that the ad in the newspaper was only what it appeared to be. Not a gift, not a sign. Ordinary black ink on flimsy gray paper, amounting to no more than a coincidence that someone left it there, open to this page.

  Still, there was something about it that was an answer to a prayer she hadn’t prayed.

  A different job. A different place. A different life.

  There was only one problem. She wasn’t an aspiring writer. She wasn’t any kind of writer, save for her work at the textile company. She’d gotten good enough marks in school in that subject, and she devoured books like other girls devoured candy. But those weren’t qualifications for that kind of position.

  It was best not to dwell on what couldn’t be.

  Mabel looked out the window. The streetcar had veered away from the path that her normal 20-line took, but only by a few blocks.

  She shoved the newspaper into her bag and scooted to the edge of her seat.

  “Next stop, please,” she said to the operator.

  “Yes, miss,” he obliged. And he slowed several corners down.

  It slid to a halt, as the tracks were already icing over.

  The operator’s cap canted to the side of his head and he looked out his window. He rolled it down, pulled his hand into his sleeve and pushed off the snow that had collected in a layer.

  “You be careful out there, miss. It’ll be icy now.”

  “I will be. Thank you.”

  She stepped off the streetcar, hopping over a puddle that was already crystalizing. Holding on to the side of the bus until she was safely on the sidewalk, she switched her bag to her other shoulder and walked in the direction of her apartment.

  The detour hadn’t added much distance, but in this weather, it seemed like double. The frost chilled her nose and cheeks to the point where she couldn’t even feel them. Mabel tightened her collar around her neck, put her head down, and made it at last to her stoop.

  Shaking, she turned the key on the fourth try, and shut the door behind her. The marble hallway and stairs to her third-story walk-up glistened with small pools of water left behind by other tenants who’d come in from the snow. It had never felt like home as much as the bungalow had, but it was the last place the family had all lived together.

  She gripped the railing and stepped around the wet spot, but as she reached her floor, she slipped, falling two steps and banging her knee against the hard edge of the wrought iron railing. It throbbed in agony and she rubbed her hand along it, hoping that she hadn’t ripped her last good pair of stockings. But she found a hole and the beginnings of a ladder-like run.

  It was the last straw.

  If Pops wasn’t somewhere on the streets drinking. If Robert hadn’t been killed in Europe. If Buck wasn’t missing somewhere over the Pacific. If, if, if. One of them could have saved her like she’d saved them after Mama was gone. But they’d all left in one way or another.

  This time, Mabel didn’t stifle the painful tightening of the chest that preceded the second cry of the day. She’d had to be strong, so strong. And she didn’t think she could be strong any longer. If the floor would only envelop her she’d happily disappear into it. Mr. Oliver had deepened the fissure, and the fall—that stupid, slippery step—finished her. Her sobs echoed in the cold, empty hallway, amplifying it until it sounded like three or four or five women crying.

  War was hell? Yes. That was true. But not only for the troops. For the ones they’d left behind. The ones who had to bury them. Worry about them. Douse it all away with the oblivion of alcohol.

  All this liberation women were supposed to be achieving as they filled the jobs that the soldiers vacated had not been awarded to Mabel or Ginger or any of her friends who arrived home after dark exhausted and spent, somehow having to muster the ability to do it all again the next day.

  But as wrenching as the cry was, when she had poured it all out until the melted icicles and the tears were no longer discernable from one another, a new sensation took over her. The realization that she could wallow in the deep unfairness that had overtaken her life. Or she could leave it. Start over.

  Recreate herself into whatever this person in Texas wanted her to be. Aspiring writer? Mabel would become a fire-eating acrobat if it meant the chance to escape from this cold confinement.

  She pulled herself up, pain shooting through her leg as her knee swelled, but the frigid weather served only as encouragement to put this winter behind her and start afresh in a place that had probably never seen snow. The likelihood of getting the job was dismal. She knew that. There might be hundreds of girls applying. Way more qualified ones, every bit as eager to escape the danger of the factories or the roving hands of men too old to take up the fight. But the mere act of sending in an essay would encourage her to look for opportunities she might not have before, try for the things she wanted to do.

  To figure out what those things were in the first place. Dreaming beyond the borders of Baltimore had never been a consideration.

  But wherever it led, be it Texas or Timbuktu, she could not forget that Pops might knock on the door and need her someday. Or that Buck might be found alive and come home. The Marines had sent a letter informing them that he was Missing in Action: a letter on light brown stationary that delivered equal doses of hope and despair to the receiving families.

  Still, she’d spent too long waiting and waiting for hopes that were never fulfilled. She’d leave a forwarding address with her landlord and face those situations as they came.

  If they came.

  For now, she’d dig out stationary that had only ever been used—wasted—on Artie, and sent a letter to San Antonio.


  .

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Koehler Mansion, San Antonio

  1942

  EMMA KOEHLER SAT in the turreted parlor room and caught her breath. Her arms throbbed from the effort of rolling herself in the wheelchair across the house and her hands were raw with chafe.

  She had only to ring the bell that was affixed to the handle of the chair and any number of nieces or nephews or cousins would come to her rescue. There were always several milling around, visiting for the day or staying for a duration in one of the countless bedrooms on the floors above. When they weren’t bowling in the one-lane alley in the basement, they were compliant enough to join her for a round of Skat or Doppelkopf, even agreeing to use her German decks. Those had suits of acorns, leaves, hearts and bells rather than the more modern French ones of clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades. She knew that the younger family members snickered behind her back at her old-fashioned ways even as she provided them with money for their passage, sponsorship for their citizen applications, and a roof above their heads until they found work.

  But Emma was growing increasingly weary of card games and conversation. Her mind couldn’t keep up with their younger, sharper ones. And she wasn’t sure she wanted it to.

  She’d begun to feel every one of her eighty-three years.

  Despite the constant presence of a rotation of family, Emma preferred the assistance of her employees. In fact, she would go so far as to say she trusted her employees more than her blood. They, at least, were transparent in their expectations: fair pay for honest work and nothing more. Family, on the other hand, could be shiftier. Were their kindnesses given out of genuine affection for an old woman? Or was theirs a hope that upon her death they would increase their share of the inheritance she was sure to leave?

  Among the Koehlers and Bentzens who passed through her leaded glass doors, there were personalities of either kind. The trick was knowing which was which. Several were disturbingly transparent: Marcia and Ernestina no doubt went to sleep every night hoping for news that Emma had passed during the moonlight hours.

  Had she ever borne a daughter—or a son for that matter—she imagined it would be different. A child of her own who had suckled at her breast might have shared a bond that extended far beyond a common surname.

  But that had never come to pass, so Emma Koehler transferred these affections to the people she hired. She could choose them according to their skills and circumstances and character.

  If only family came with references and résumés.

  She lifted a feeble hand to the sheer white curtain that dimmed the light coming in through the windows of this polygonal room. It was thin like a bridal veil, softening the features that lay behind it. Lately, she preferred it this way.

  Life, filtered.

  The sun was nevertheless brilliant today, dashing children’s hopes for a white Christmas. It was a rare thing in this part of Texas, but Irving Berlin’s song had romanticized it. The crooning voice of Bing Crosby was all she heard when her nieces turned on the radio. Sleigh bells in the snow and all that nonsense.

  Emma preferred the warmth, especially when they’d been deprived of it the past few days. Sometimes she opened the curtains and let the sunlight rest on her face, visiting like an old friend. It didn’t care if the skin it rested on was baggy and wrinkled. It gave blindly.

  She listened for the sound of Helga’s footsteps on the gravel driveway, but all was silent. Her current nurse had walked to the post office to send some packages and promised to bring back the mail upon her return. But she must have gotten detained. Such long lines this time of year, she was told. Gifts sent to loved ones for the holidays, provisions sent to the boys in the war.

  A voice spoke behind her. A niece who’d arrived from Mecklenburg a month ago. Emma had already forgotten her name. There had been so many through the years and her aging mind couldn’t keep up. But she did recognize faces, and this girl possessed a gentle one.

  “Tante Emma, die zeitung.”

  She handed the newspaper to her aunt, but the old woman refused it.

  “English,” she insisted. It was part of the agreement. If Aunt Emma was to sponsor you to come into the United States, you were expected to speak the local tongue. Her generosity would extend only so far; you would make your own way, the sooner the better, and English was a requirement to do so. Even better if they could shed their accents.

  This was all the more vital now that the government was arresting Germans en masse and sending them to internment camps. Enemy aliens. As if they hadn’t lived here for decades and contributed to the robust fabric of the country.

  These were dangerous times.

  The girl’s cheeks reddened and as the words played in her mind, Emma decided to at least join the effort and try to recall her name. She was a stout thing. Bountiful, her mother would have said. That’s how she’d tried to remember them all: associate an image with the name. Ah—that was it. Leizel. A name that meant God’s bounty. The Maker had certainly used a larger mold when casting this one, but the reference helped her.

  “Paper,” Leizel managed slowly.

  “Newspaper,” corrected Emma. But the attempt was an admirable one. “Paper could mean many things.”

  “Nees-pah-per,” the girl tried and it was enough for Emma at the moment. She was still new and at least up for the challenge. Unlike some of the lazy ones.

  “Set it there,” she said, pointing to the table next to her. Leizel did as she was asked and disappeared back into the foyer.

  Emma cared little for the headlines; she’d be gone soon enough and the news of today would mean nothing when she lay in the grave. But no doubt her family would be atwitter at dinner on Sunday with the interview she’d given to an untried reporter who’d come by asking her questions about the brewery. Emma expected there would be more in due time—they were approaching the sixtieth anniversary of Pearl Beer, and San Antonio was already preparing great fanfare for its native and beloved company. Even as there was a war going on across the ocean. But perhaps people were eager for some reason to have gaiety. The Fiesta City, it was called, and not for nothing.

  Not surprisingly, the reporter had been more interested in the story of three decades ago. Otto’s murder. The other Emmas.

  Anything they wanted to know about that incident could be found in archives and they needn’t bother her to rehash things that had been put in print long ago. Emma Koehler had no patience for unoriginal questions. If they wouldn’t do their homework, she wouldn’t give her time. She had too little of it left.

  But sometimes, a well-meaning relative would answer the telephone and grant an appointment without asking her permission before knowing that she detested such things. They always brought back memories she preferred to forget and allowed the past to inhabit her thoughts for days after. Yesterday’s young man had at least asked one interesting thing: What was her secret to living fifteen years beyond a woman’s life expectancy?

  “Pearl Lager,” she’d replied.

  She directed all things back to her beloved brewery. Her only child.

  As for the rest, she would tell it her way. In her own good time.

  Emma glanced at her wristwatch and wheeled herself to the parlor door. It sat to the right of the grand staircase and was the place she most liked to do the work of correspondences and bill paying. The house was not without a study. That one was across the hall, but it had been Otto’s domain all those years ago and was never to Emma’s taste. Dark blue walls and even darker paneling. Its best light came in from the octagonal alcove, but even that was so masculine in its design that Emma felt suffocated just being in there. So it remained unused, and depending on the attention of the most current maid, sat dusted or undusted.

  The parlor, on the other hand, had once been a most lively gathering spot for philanthropic and social bigwigs alike. Hemming and hawing over Otto’s latest business endeavor, or imploring the Koehlers for donations in support of the charity du jour.

 
It was in this room that Emma suggested to Otto that they incorporate ostrich racing at his Hot Wells Resort; a notion conjured during a dream after a particularly raucous night sampling some of the newest offerings from Pearl.

  Emma had always had the best ideas.

  On occasion, Otto would admit it.

  The parlor was also the most cheery place in the house. Light pink walls, creamy brocade curtains from floor to ceiling around the curved bay of windows. And Emma’s favorite: the iridescent green glass tiles that surrounded the fireplace.

  Otto’s only contribution had been the odd frieze of a woman’s naked form with vines growing out of her reproductive organs. Ridiculous enough on its own, but a perpetual mockery of the fact that she had never been able to give him children.

  What were the odds that his two mistresses had never borne children, either? She’d long suspected that the fault had lain not with any of the women he’d bedded, but at Otto’s own feet. All those decades ago, though, it was presumed that such a failure was distinctly female.

  How many times had she said she’d redo this room and get rid of the silly art piece? Too many. But there were always more urgent tasks at hand.

  She heard the front door open.

  “Helga?” she called.

  “Mrs. Koehler, I have the mail.”

  At last.

  Helga’s accent was perhaps the most pronounced of all the nurses Emma had employed ever since her automobile accident so many years ago. It reminded her of her dear stepmother’s, bringing comfort in these uncomfortable days.

  “Good, good. Any more letters?”

  “None, ma’am. Not for the past three days. I think the advertisement has run its course. Have you made a decision?”

  Emma removed three from the top drawer of her desk and handed them to Helga.

  “These are the most intriguing out of the bunch. I wanted to see what you think.”