But, Lord help me, I loved my husband. And that, more than the affection for my city or the marital contract sealed at the altar, compelled me to adopt his enthusiasm for what this new life promised us.
It’s what drew me to him in the first place. Otto strove to be the best at whatever he endeavored. In our neighborhood, he became an excellent stickball player only days after first taking it up. I have no doubt he could have played pitcher for the Cardinals if it had been his ambition. But while his body was made for athletics, his mind was made for business.
And not only business, but that particularly reckless variety of it: entrepreneurism.
Otto figured out from a young age how to turn one penny into two, a nickel into a dime, a quarter into a half-piece. He’d buy a dozen roses from a flower seller for a dollar and thirty cents, only to separate them and sell them around the corner for twenty-five cents each. He’d approach a man walking with a woman on his arm, Otto holding a single, long stem—any wilting pedals removed and discarded—counting on the man’s chivalrous nature. Or his unwillingness to look like a cheapskate in front of his companion.
Little did the man know that he’d saved himself more than a dollar because surely the flower seller would have accosted him in the same manner just steps later. Suddenly, the quarter would seem like a minor investment in keeping the woman happy.
Otto understood that it was not the quantity of roses that mattered to the woman. It was the fact that she was remembered at all.
It was only one of Otto’s schemes, though with some thought, I might choose a better word. Because “schemes” make it sound like he was up to no good when only the opposite is true. A whole pie purchased at the baker would be repackaged and sold as slices while it was still warm and aromatic. He constructed tables along busy streets that sold water on hot days, hot tea on cold days. And between school hours and the hustle du jour, he worked the old-fashioned way: couriering messages between businesses, cleaning restaurants after hours, and working in his brother’s general store.
Otto had two ambitions in life: to be rich and to marry me. In that order.
Ours was not a conventional courtship. It was not built upon my ability to thread a needle or roast a chicken or to achieve any of the wifely attributes my friends aspired to. Rather, we met on a July day by the Mississippi when he tried to sell me a tepid cup of water and I reasoned that if he bought a block of ice from the icehouse, he would be able to charge three pennies more for the luxury of its chill. I could see the numbers run through his head the same way they did through mine: that a block of ice cost fifty cents and it would take only seventeen cups to break even, minus some loss for what melted before it could be finished.
He recognized me as an equal and quickly asked me to join him, figuring that we could not only double our clientele with our dual efforts, but we could take turns running to the ice house to replenish our supply. When I further calculated that we could pay a young boy a nickel to fetch the ice for us, thus freeing me up to sell at least ten more cups of water, I knew that an engagement ring would follow as soon as we were both old enough.
On my seventeenth birthday, my instincts proved correct. By then, Otto had secured a position as a bookkeeper for Anheuser Busch, attracting the attention of the owners. He demonstrated his care for every aspect of the business, even spending some hours on the brewing floors washing hops before they were turned into beer.
He labored as if the brewery was his own.
I could tell he’d been working with the hops when he arrived at my home, the musty-sweet scent of the small green pods attached to his shirt, his hair, his fingernails. It was pleasant; it had become Otto’s de facto cologne, and it’s a smell I loved until the day he died.
When he got down on one knee, me standing on the porch, my stepmother peeking through the window, I half-expected the velvet box he presented to contain a chip of a diamond bought, in all likelihood, at a flea market for a good price.
But he surprised me. Inside was an emerald ring, the stone rounded like a large pea, and it shone with brand-new brilliance. Though I knew little of jewelry, I recognized its extravagance. Especially for a man who’d worn the same pair of shoes for the past six years rather than spend a cent on a new one. A cent that could be reinvested into two or three.
His words were clumsy. There was no flowery preface. No mention of the color of my eyes, the sweetness of my lips, or other flatteries that girls in my position so treasured. Just a simple, “Let’s get married.” With the same tone that one might say, “Let’s have sauerbraten tonight.”
I did not need sentiments. The ring had told me all that I needed to know: that he valued me at least as much as he did money. And that marrying me was an investment in his future.
Our future.
My stepmother flew out of the house, handkerchief in hand, wiping away joyful tears instead of her usual laments. I had not even said “Yes,” yet—though I intended to. She wrapped one arm around me and the other around Otto and long-dormant German words came flooding from her lips as if her happiness for us required the native tongue in order to encompass the many feelings to be had on this occasion.
As we walked along the river later that evening, a young boy with a rose in hand approached us and held out a flower. Otto’s eyes met mine and his jaw tightened. I knew that he did not care to spend hard-earned money on something that would perish in days. And though I shared that opinion—Otto admired my practical approach to such things—the moment felt like an omen.
To my surprise, Otto bought the stem and even tipped the boy an extra nickel! The man had clearly lost his mind.
When I returned home that evening, I plucked the pedals one by one. An echo of a silly girlhood chant repeated through my head. “He loves me. He loves me not.”
And as I set them aside to be pressed between the pages of my family Bible, I reached the last one.
He loves me.
.
CHAPTER NINE
THE OLD WOMAN’S eyes began to droop. Her words took on the drowsy slur that might have indicated drunkenness in another person. But Mrs. Koehler did not seem to be the kind of woman who was easily enticed by the excesses of her own product.
“Go over there,” she told Mabel, pushing herself to continue and pointing to one of the many bookshelves in the parlor. “Pick up the large red book.”
Mabel rose, relieved to escape the uncomfortable chair and have a chance to stretch her legs. She found the book easily; it was the biggest among thin, individual volumes of the tragedies of Shakespeare. Embossed gold letters indicated it to be the Luther Bible.
“That’s the one. Set it over here and open it up.”
Mrs. Koehler was now slumped in her chair like a deflated balloon, but she seemed determined. Mabel placed it on the desk and turned to the first section. The pages released a scent that reminded Mabel of mothballs and fireplace embers. Sweet and smoky at the same time, the signature odor of items meant to outlast their owners’ comparatively brief lives.
The first things she noticed was that the text was written in both German and English, which accounted for the heft of the tome. Pages alternating between the languages, repeating the same passages.
Births and baptisms and marriages were recorded in varying shades of faded ink in handwriting that was distinctively European. Dates went back nearly two hundred years. The last child recorded was Emma Bentzen on February 25, 1858, though the name of the church had been obscured by water. Mabel wondered if they were formed by raindrops or tears.
The union of Emma Bentzen to Otto Koehler marked the end of the marriage records, and lines extending from their joining remained blank: theirs had not produced any children.
Mabel’s finger traced the emptiness of the barren page and looked up to see the rigidity in Mrs. Koehler’s face as she watched the action.
“Turn to Exodus,” she instructed.
Mabel knew little about the geography of the Bible, but recalled that Exodus conta
ined the story of Moses, and surely that happened somewhere near the beginning. As she passed Genesis, her hunch was quickly confirmed, for in the second book, she heard the crinkle of waxed tissue and saw the darkened, dried rose petals flattened on the page opposite the Ten Commandments.
Her eyes fell on the fifth, as if she was meant to see it: “You shall honor your Father and your Mother, so that you may live long in the land that the Lord your God gives you.”
A bitter taste gathered in her mouth, accusing her of neglecting this edict. She’d been a good daughter to her mother, but had left her father on the streets of Baltimore to come here. She pursed her lips and reminded herself that she’d tried time after time, night after night, to get him to give up the drink and return home, if he could even be found.
How far did filial duty extend, especially to one who rejected it?
Mrs. Koehler’s yellowed fingernails tapped the desktop, impatient.
“You see those?”
Mabel brushed her hand against the pressed petals, preserved under the translucent paper. She nodded.
“That was the first and last rose I ever received from Otto.”
Silence descended as the two women looked at each other and Mabel waited for her to continue, but no further explanation came. She supposed it was the one he’d given her after they’d become engaged.
What had happened to change everything?
Mabel stepped into the crisp January air and pulled the scarf tighter around her neck. Had she been in Baltimore, she would have had to hold it against her face, bracing herself against the biting wind and allowing the wool yarn to warm the breeze before breathing it in. Her lungs had always been sensitive to the cold, having suffered a near-fatal case of bronchitis as a child. One more indication that she was meant to leave her hometown for points south.
So far, winter in Texas was downright balmy in comparison, despite the vapors forming as she breathed.
She slipped her fingers into worn leather gloves, every tiny, unknown muscle aching from the hours spent writing down Mrs. Koehler’s dictation. And later, cleaning it up on fresh paper.
Now she found herself outside, more curious than ever about her aged employer.
The grounds of the Koehler Mansion were vast and her ankles turned downward as she stepped carefully across the sloped lawn toward the sidewalk. The view from the bottom of the hill was obscured. No wonder Otto and Emma had built the house where they did: it reigned over the growing city, a white marble crown atop the neighborhood. A greenhouse sat on the north side of the house. A red fox ran across the lawn and hid in the bushes.
Mabel looked left and right, noticing that more cars drove to the west of the house, so she walked that way. She passed a synagogue with the large red dome and went a block further to the busy San Pedro Avenue. There, catty-corner from her stance stood the most magnificent park. The trees were bare, sleeping away the winter months. But she could imagine the lush scene when the leaves would grow and wondered if spring would find her still in San Antonio.
She hoped so.
Mabel crossed the street and walked along the paths that cut into the lawn. The occasional squirrel stuck his head out from fallen branches. She was reminded of reading the Narnia books with Mama. Though wintry, it was a land so removed from anything she’d ever seen. In the middle, a large concrete hole sank into the land like a fissure. A one-story building sat on the other end.
San Pedro Springs Swimming Pool
If the summer months in Texas were anything close to what she’d heard them to be, she was sure this was a welcome respite for the locals. Though the image of Mrs. Koehler or Helga frolicking here made her laugh. It was unlikely that either of them visited this place.
A voice startled her.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Mabel turned and saw a man sitting at the edge of the empty pool, his legs swinging. He wore a gray knit cap that was frayed at the front, and a burgundy scarf around his neck. His nose was red from the cold, as hers probably was.
She wrapped her arms around her waist and took a few steps toward him.
“How could you tell?”
“You have that look of wonder that can only be worn the first time you see such a place. Unless you’re an actress. Are you an actress?”
Mabel felt her cheeks warm. The idea of being mistaken for one who would have such a glamorous profession!
“No. I’m—” What exactly was she? Until a few weeks ago, she’d been the assistant to Mr. Oliver and now she worked for Mrs. Koehler in a position that was still quite beyond definition.
“I’m just me.” She flushed with embarrassment as she said the words. What a childish thing to say. But something about him made her nervous. In the very best kind of way.
The man curled his knees up to his chest and pushed himself up. As he came closer, Mabel noticed his deep blue eyes and the creases that formed at the corner of them as he grinned. “Well, Just Me. I’m Erik. Erik Garrels.”
He held out a gloved hand and she unfolded her arms to do the same. Though two layers of wool and leather separated them, she felt a shiver run down to her toes as they touched. She looked away as he kept his gaze on her.
“Do you go by Just or do you prefer Miss Me?”
He paused, raising an eyebrow as he continued. “Or is it Mrs.?”
Mabel couldn’t help but smile. It was the kind of jest that Robert would have made, picking up on such little statements and poking fun at them in a humorous way. Though she would have expected to be saddened at the thought of her brother, something about Erik made it impossible to feel anything but cheery.
“Miss Hartley. Mabel.”
“Mabel was a good lass. Raised with a touch of class. ‘Til a boy came around and she declared herself found and they married in Cork in a flash.”
“Is that a poem?” She’d never heard something with her name in it.
“A lyric. From a vaudeville show I worked on. And it wasn’t Mabel, it was Moira. But they’re interchangeable. Two syllables, starting with M. Easy switch.”
His voice shook as if he were not quite as confident as he pretended to be.
“You’re an actor?” she asked.
“A stage hand. Though I’ve had the occasional walk-on part and minor understudy roles when they were in a pinch. I also build sets and tinker with the lights.”
Mabel had never attended a live theater production, though she’d seen plenty of movies since the Senator Theater opened in Baltimore a few years ago. She and Ginger would catch Saturday matinees. Artie liked to take her to evening shows, though. It was where they had their second kiss, beneath the flickering lights of Mrs. Miniver. And their third. And their fourth. She would leave the theater not knowing any more about the movie than when they’d arrived. Ginger had been right. Artie had been too fresh too fast and Mabel would be wise not to make the same mistake again.
No matter how blue the eyes of this one. But she couldn’t help herself from continuing the conversation.
“What theater do you work at?”
“It’s right over there. SALT. Or, rather, San Antonio Little Theater.” He pointed north, past a particularly thick grove of trees, but devoid of their leaves. She was barely able to see a building through their trunks. “It’s why I asked if you are an actress. We get quite a few aspiring ones come by looking for a part.”
“I’d like to go sometime.”
She bit her lip and wanted to take it back. Like putting a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter. She hadn’t meant with him. Merely that she’d like to see a theatrical show.
Or was she fooling herself? Ginger believed that our first thoughts were our truest ones.
“We’re rehearsing Green Grow the Lilacs right now. Opening night is next month. But I could always sneak you into a dress rehearsal.”
A dress rehearsal! The idea was tempting. To see the inner workings of a theater before the public saw the show. Would that be better, she wondered, than s
eeing the polished, final version? Maybe she would take him up on it.
But then she remembered Artie. She couldn’t let herself say yes so easily. Instead of accepting, she recalled a newspaper article she’d read a few months ago.
“Green Grow the Lilacs,” she repeated. “It sounds familiar.”
“It should be. It’s seen a resurgence in the past few months. Rogers and Hammerstein adapted it into a musical and it’s opening on Broadway in two months as Oklahoma!”
That’s where she’d heard of it. A color advertisement had run in the Baltimore Sun around Christmastime, selling train tickets to New York to see it. Bright yellow with pink and green dancing figures graced a half-page spread, difficult to miss. A write-up opposite it had referenced the 1931 play it had been based on.
“Anyway,” he said, perhaps sensing her reluctance. “It should be a good show. Harry Turner is playing Curly to Donna Pride’s Laurie. They started seeing each other at the beginning of rehearsals, but they’ve already broken it off and it’s been a hoot watching them jump in and out of character. But they’ll pull it together for the show. They’re professionals.”
Mabel nodded, desperately wanting to go, but leery of giving him hope. “Maybe,” she said.
He turned toward the direction of the theater.
“Well, I’ve got to get back. I only came out to clear my head and awaken the lungs a bit. I don’t usually run into anyone out here. Not at this time of year. But I’m needed inside for a terribly important task. I’m the only one brave enough to climb the scaffolding and paint the top of the proscenium.” He grinned.
She had no idea what a proscenium was, yet couldn’t help but be impressed by the thought of him doing what no one else wanted to do.
He looked down at his shoes and then back at her. If she didn’t plan to see him again, at least she could glance at those eyes one more time. It was difficult; shyness wanted to pull her away. And good sense.
“Anyway,” he said, “If you decide you want to come, give them my name at the box office. Tell them you’re Erik’s guest and they’ll get you in.”
The First Emma Page 6