The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  Helga pulled up the hard-backed chair in the corner, careful to not let its wooden legs scrape the floor.

  The nurse was of good German stock, as all of them had been.

  Well, all had been German. Not all had been good. The two other Emmas, the affairs, Otto’s death. No, not all had been good.

  Helga took the letters from her and as she read, Emma fell into the light doze of the elderly that lasted about ten minutes, but refreshed like an ale on a summer day in Texas. Though she’d likely be dead and buried before the mercury shot up the thermometer. She should have had an Alpine love of the cold given her heritage, but she herself was one generation removed from the German homeland, having been born in St. Louis. And she’d lived in Texas long enough to consider it home.

  “Is there anything to deliberate over, Mrs. Koehler? This one seems to be the most qualified.”

  Emma awoke and continued as if there had been no break in the conversation and appreciated that Helga never drew attention to the interruption.

  The nurse held out the one with the Brooklyn postmark and handed it to her. “This young woman is eminently better than the others. A degree from Columbia in journalism. And a beauty. Look at her picture.”

  She turned the woman’s photograph around so that Emma could see it. Indeed, she was a looker, elegant in the way that her niece, Ernestina was. But that was decidedly not what Emma was aiming for. This was not a beauty pageant. Emma had asked for photos because she wanted to see their eyes. Those proverbial windows to the soul that would tell her which girl would be the right one.

  “Nein,” Emma said. “Not this one.”

  “Then why did you save it if you’ve already decided against her?”

  “Because I doubted myself. But as I look closer, I think no. There’s something too ambitious about her.”

  Emma had not let Helga in on the entirety of her plan, so it was not fair to expect her to judge them with the same criteria.

  “And this one?”

  Helga showed her the next letter and photograph. A young lady from Michigan. But Emma could tell that she held a similar opinion to herself on this. The letter was perfect, as if the girl was trying too hard to make a good impression. And though that wasn’t a sin by anyone’s definition, it was a character flaw as far as Emma was concerned. Sincerity was a trait that was too undervalued, though Emma held it in the highest regard.

  She shook her head, and Helga did the same, setting it aside.

  “The last one.” Helga set it in Emma’s lap.

  Yes. As Emma held the letter and the photo, she felt as right about it as the first time she’d opened the envelope. The girl from Baltimore. She was no Lana Turner, but that would keep her from being vain. Yet she was pretty enough to turn the heads of some young men. She looked something like Emma had in her own youth: the light brown coloring to the hair, the roundness of her face. And her eyes … they had seen pain. They understood hard work. They had kindness even among the wounds. In spite of them, even.

  And her words were honest.

  I am not a writer, she’d started. And that was perhaps Emma’s favorite line from the hundreds of responses she’d received. Girls falling over themselves to laud their accomplishments. That wouldn’t do.

  “Send her a ticket and wire her some money for incidentals,” instructed Emma. “And invite her to come as soon as she’s able.”

  She tapped the letter against the side of the desk.

  “Mabel Hartley of Baltimore, Maryland. She’s the one.”

  .

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Koehler Mansion, San Antonio

  1943

  MABEL’S SUITCASE ALMOST fell from her hand. The bus to the train station had been delayed when a water line burst on Greenmount Avenue, causing it to flood and slowing traffic to a near halt. She’d had half a mind to get out and walk, but they progressed enough that she didn’t think she could do any better. Besides, she was carrying with her all she owned, and though it wasn’t much, it was still enough to slow her down.

  By the time they pulled up to Baltimore Penn, the last call for the southbound train was announced. The letters on the board fluttered with such rapidity that it was difficult to read them. Cities and times and tracks were a blur.

  “Watch where you’re going, doll!” In her hurry, she hadn’t even realized that she’d bumped into a man selling newspapers.

  “I’m so sorry. But please, can you tell me from which track the southbound train is departing?”

  Her pulse was racing. Missing this train would be a disastrous beginning to this new life.

  “Read the board.”

  He pointed overhead and she concentrated until she saw the listing for the one heading to Atlanta. Track three. She hurried over there, gripping the Samsonite handle, now clammy with perspiration.

  The gateman was closing the door. He wore the weary look of one who had spent a lifetime in this work, boredom etched onto leathery skin.

  “Please! Please. I have to get on this train.”

  “Doors are closed.”

  “But I have a ticket.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She gave it to him anyway and he looked it over.

  He sighed. “Well, we can make an exception since it’s first class.”

  First class? She hadn’t seen that on the ticket that Mrs. Koehler had sent. Only an indication that she was in Car One.

  He opened the door and she followed his long steps with her shorter ones. The smell of the diesel engine was overwhelming and the noise too clamorous to hear anything. But the gateman waved to the engineer and motioned that there was one more passenger.

  “That door there, Miss. Good thing you didn’t bring a trunk. There would be no time to get it on board. One more second and they would have left.”

  A door unfolded in three parts: a top, a middle, and a ramp on the bottom. The conductor stood several feet above her in a godlike stature as he reached out his hand for her bag.

  If he was put off by her rumpled appearance, he said nothing.

  Inside, she was met with a new worry. The train car was filled with men and women so spectacularly dressed that she almost gave into her spent nerves and left to find the more humble surroundings of coach. Here, the women wore hats with colorful plumage that extended high above the seatbacks. The men donned starched suits pressed to perfection, miraculously unwrinkled despite sitting. Shoes shone like mirrors and not a wisp of hair was out of place. In contrast, she knew she was a sight. Her dress wrinkled from the bus ride, her hair in disarray after hurrying through the station.

  The conductor showed her to the front of the car. A woman was applying her lipstick while looking at small mirror affixed in its case. She did not look up when Mabel arrived, but scooted closer to the window.

  A seventy-four hour ride suddenly seemed like a lifetime.

  The worst of winter fell away mile by mile as Mabel left the only town she’d ever known behind her. It felt like a kind of molting. She was still herself, but newer.

  Old skin left behind with old worries.

  The journey on the train made her wish that she were a writer. It would have been a most artistic way to memorialize it. The route took her through places that had only ever been small red dots on faded maps: Richmond, Raleigh, Atlanta. And later a change to a new train that took them due west through Mobile, Beaumont, Houston. Their names inspired memories of long-ago school classes: the burning of Richmond and Gone With the Wind. They rushed past in too much of a blur to see, but for once the impossibility of seeing such places in her lifetime seemed utterly within reach.

  Even as her newest seatmate remained tight-lipped, Mabel found other amusements on the train. An observation car with even larger windows. Desks on which to write letters.

  Dear Ginger, she wrote on a postcard, one in a stack of gold embossed ones intended for the use of the first class passengers. A scene of the train emerging from a tunnel in a mountain. I am seeing how very extraordina
ry this country is and I hope that someday you can join me on an adventure such as this!

  Even the dining was exceptional. China plates, iced lemonade in crystal goblets, white napkins that put the clouds to shame. She’d never had a filet of beef in her life, but she was certain now that it was the best thing in the world.

  All the wonders occupied her attention during the daylight hours. But when the sun fell, the conductor rearranged the cabins—as if by magic—into sleeping berths. The seats were flattened into beds and upper bunks were pulled from the ceilings. Sheets were arranged and pillows procured.

  It was in the darkness of her bed that all the new experiences stilled. She could hear the heavy breathing of the other passengers despite the weighted curtains offering privacy. Troubles laid to rest for the night. Except for Mabel. Guilt rose like bile as she chastised herself for these indulgences. My mother and Robert lay in their graves. Buck might be freezing on a jungle floor, for all she knew. And Pops—she could only hope that he’d found shelter in some charitable establishment.

  It didn’t matter that Mrs. Koehler had paid for it all, or that Mabel hadn’t asked for such an extravagance. The world was suffering outside the opulence of these train cars and it couldn’t be forgotten.

  She did wonder, however, just who was Mrs. Koehler that she could afford this? Was she some kind of eccentric that she would send for a girl she’d never known for a job that was not fully described?

  In her enthusiasm to escape the confines of Baltimore and start a new life, she’d given little thought to where she was actually going.

  How, she wondered, how on earth have I been chosen for this job?

  Her letter had been genuine. She recalled the words, having honed them in draft after draft before sending it:

  Dear Mrs. Koehler,

  I am not a writer. But I have always been told that I have excellent penmanship and good listening skills. And I became head secretary at Clipper City Fabrics, quite young for being nineteen years old. I am without family, the war having dealt its blow to mine as it has to many. So I am free to be at your disposal day and night and I promise to be most diligent in my work. Every writer had to start somewhere, so maybe this is my own beginning, if you will take that chance on me.

  And I won’t deny that I’m quite intrigued by your location. Baltimore is so terribly cold at this time of year, and though it’s all I’ve ever known, I have never made peace with its chilly temperatures. I should like very much to be welcomed into a warmer climate such as yours.

  I am shy a hundred words of your request, but I don’t believe that truths have to be elaborated upon when the simple case is this: you will not find a more hard-working and eager girl to consider for this position, and I hope you will extend the opportunity to one who is so in need of it.

  Sincerely,

  Mabel Ann Hartley, Baltimore

  Her heart had sunk after she’d slipped the letter into the blue metal postal box at the corner of Albermarle and Watson. It wasn’t perfect. And the photograph showed a crooked smile, the flash having gone off one second later than she’d anticipated. Still, her hair had been set in thick curls and she’d taken great care with her few cosmetics. The picture had been intended for Artie, as a memento. But shortly after she’d picked it up from the developer, she’d received his letter and seen this advertisement, and she was happy to be rid of the reminder of what didn’t come to pass.

  This Mrs. Koehler must be some kind of character to have chosen hers out of so many letters. Or were there so many? She could have been competing against three or three hundred or three thousand. There was no way of knowing.

  So it was a remarkable surprise to receive the response saying that she was hired, though it prompted the painful task of sorting through her family’s possessions and turning over the keys to their landlord, Mrs. Molling. They’d agreed on a small storage fee to keep the most sentimental of the few pieces until further notice. The rest she donated to charity.

  She’d brought only what she could it fit into her suitcase and hoped that it would be enough for a new life.

  As the fourth day began, the conductor came through the cabin rustling the passengers so that the bunks could be remade into the tidy seats that served during the daytime. He announced that San Antonio was the next stop, a mere forty minutes away. Mabel was grateful for a tip from the waiter in the dining car that the shower stalls were more available in the evening, so she’d washed up the night before. She quickly slipped out of her nightgown into the pale pink dress that she’d saved for this morning, a feat of contortion in the coffin-like space. She’d stitched the frock from a seldom-used tablecloth that she’d found as she sorted household items. Simple lines, but nevertheless new. She fastened the last button with hurried fingers and opened the bunk’s curtain.

  A streak of sunlight cut through the windows and she felt its warmth on her bare feet. It stood in contrast to the chill on the window pane. A similar dichotomy revealed itself as the train slowed on the tracks. Though the hour was early, they’d arrived at Sunset Station.

  Mabel smoothed her hair and ran her hands across the dress. She pinched her cheeks in an attempt to brighten skin that hadn’t seen much sun these past winter months.

  A crowd was gathered behind a gate. Waves and hugs and greetings took on a symphonic tone. Familiarity abounded and Mabel felt the acute stab of aloneness.

  She caught the eye of a woman, aged sixty or so. She had a set jawbone that contradicted the bright floral dress she wore. And an expression that was just as rigid.

  The woman held a cardboard sign:

  MABEL HARTLEY

  There was her name in dark blank ink, written in letters that seemed to have been set straight with a ruler. Her heart clenched. This was really happening.

  Mabel walked toward her, feeling the return of a trepidation that had quieted amid the luxury of the first class rail car.

  “That’s me,” she whispered. “I’m Mabel Hartley.”

  The thin lips that responded didn’t allow a smile. “And I’m Helga Siegfried,” she said with a thick German accent. Mabel’s shoulders tightened at the woman’s glare and she had to hold her breath to keep from shaking.

  “I hope Mrs. Koehler hasn’t make a mistake with you.”

  .

  CHAPTER SIX

  TODAY HELD HOPE akin to the Christmases of Emma’s youth. Where Papa dressed as Weihnachtsmann and candles were clipped to tree branches and the anticipation of opening the wrapped presents was enough for a child to burst. Helga had left an hour ago to pick up the girl from Baltimore, beginning the final chapter of Emma’s unusual life.

  She watched the cars turn from West Main Street to North Ashby, waiting for a particular one to make its way to the house.

  It was an old, forest green Ford, purchased five years ago, and not even new then. Emma’s acquaintances found it amusing, even endearing, that she didn’t buy something more in keeping with her status, even if she wasn’t the one who drove it. At one point, the Koehlers had been among the wealthiest couples in the city, worth thirteen million dollars if you counted Otto’s investments in an Idaho mine, a Mexican railroad, and the Texas Transportation Company. Not to mention his pet project, the once-grand Hot Wells resort an hour away.

  Dear Adolphus Busch had warned Otto that such broad responsibilities would keep him from running the brewery as well as he ought and encouraged him to enjoy his money a bit rather than working all the time.

  Emma’s sentiments exactly. But Otto had difficulty remaining faithful to just one enterprise.

  And just one woman.

  At last, Emma saw the rounded nose of the car stop at the intersection and turn left toward the house. It was easy to spot it from this vantage point. Otto had chosen this lot on which to build their elaborate mansion because of its astounding views. From here, he could see the San Antonio Brewing Association building and watch the smoke rise from its tall red stacks. The color of the smoke would indicate the level of prod
uctivity happening at any given moment and he watched it with the reverence of Catholics awaiting a papal conclave.

  The tires made a crackling noise as they arrived at the driveway, a sound that reminded Emma of the pop of barley when it was heated in the steel barrels.

  Brown, withered leaves blew onto the threshold as Helga and Miss Hartley stepped inside. The girl set a suitcase on the wood floor and though Emma’s eyesight was not what it was in her youth, she assessed the newcomer in a quick second.

  Leather bag, old but tenderly polished. The stitching touched up with a skilled hand, though with a different colored thread than the original. Miss Hartley was thrifty, but capable.

  Her wool coat appeared to be well worn and overly thick for this climate. But then, she had come from the northeast, so it was surely a standard part of daily attire for much of the year. If she lasted in Texas long enough for the summer to descend, perhaps she would find that the city’s charms offset the hot misery that residents wilted in.

  The girl stepped forward and spoke with a voice that sounded older than she must have been.

  “Mrs. Koehler? I’m Mabel Hartley. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Emma wheeled her chair closer and adjusted the glasses on her nose. Mabel bent her knees so that she could face Emma eye-to-eye, a gesture that the older woman appreciated.

  “Miss Hartley. Welcome to Texas. I hope your journey was not too difficult.”

  “No, Ma’am. Long, but more than pleasant. And the accommodations were more than generous.”

  Emma squinted her eyes and looked into the tired ones before her. She had to admit that the girl had gumption to venture out in such a way and then treat it as if it were a trifle.

  “Miss Hartley, if this goes as planned, you and I are going to get to know one another quite well. I don’t stand on formalities. Look at me, ” she pointed to the wheels at either side of her hips. “I actually don’t stand much at all. My friends call me Emma and you will be expected to do the same.”