“Thank you,” she managed to say. “That’s very kind of you.”
He lifted his right hand to his head, as if to tip his hat to her, only to realize that it wasn’t so graceful a gesture with a knit cap. He laughed and she couldn’t help but do the same.
“Until then, Mabel Hartley.”
She watched as he turned and walked away, surprised that the absence of one who just minutes ago was unknown to her could already be felt so keenly.
.
CHAPTER TEN
I’M THE ONLY ONE. I’m the only one who left St. Louis.
The words were whispered through trembling lips.
Mabel set her notebook down and placed a hand on Mrs. Koehler’s liver-spotted arm. Her skin was paper thin and wrinkled, and cold to the touch.
“Catherine!” the old woman cried.
The formidable voice of Emma Koehler had given way to fearfilled ramblings.
“Who is Catherine?” asked Mabel gently. She pulled her hand away and raised the blanket so that it covered Mrs. Koehler’s arms.
“My sister. I left them all to follow Otto.”
As she said his name, her eyes lost the glazed look they’d adopted, as if he was some kind of touchstone that grounded her even all these years later.
She began to speak once again in a lucid tone and seemed unaware that she’d spent the last half hour mumbling incoherent words. Mabel sank back into the firm cushion on the chair, relieved that things were getting back to normal. It was frightening to watch someone vacillate between child and old woman and if Helga hadn’t warned her that this was becoming a frequent occurrence, she might have panicked.
Mrs. Koehler sighed and readjusted the blanket, folding it over in a straight line across her lap. “I’ve outlived all my siblings, Mabel. By decades. I wonder sometimes if I have angered God in some way. To take Otto, to leave me without children, and even to lose my brothers and sisters. Money is no substitute for loneliness, I assure you.”
“What about your nieces and nephews?” Mabel had met several as they came in and out of the house. It seemed impossible to be lonely when she shared her roof with so many others.
“They’re quite a bunch,” she said. “Some good eggs and some bad ones. But I don’t feel like talking about them right now. Where did we leave off?”
Mabel knew this by heart, but she made a show of flipping through the last pages of her notes. Despite Helga’s assurances, she’d found the morning unnerving.
“Otto had proposed to you,” she started.
“Yes. Then let’s continue from there.”
1886
Otto convinced me that our move to Texas should happen right after the wedding. His enthusiasm was such that I feared he would go without me if I refused. An offer from Anheuser Busch to open a brewery in San Antonio was like catnip to him and he became enraptured with the hope that they might add his name to the masthead someday. An unlikely notion, to be sure, despite the mentorship he received from Adolphus.
But he was to be rewarded, at least, by heading their new Lone Star brand.
Any thoughts of living in the familiarity of St. Louis were too limited for Otto’s insatiable ambitions.
His work became his first mistress, though I was too love-struck at the time to realize it.
During our last week in my beloved hometown, we sat in his apartment on the wooden trunks that held our few possessions. As if Otto doubted my commitment to our move, despite the evidence surrounding him, he grinned and said that he had a surprise for me.
“Close your eyes,” he insisted, leaving no room for hesitation. Already, I’d learned that obedience kept him happy.
So I complied.
He crossed the room to the small kitchen and opened a cupboard. I heard the fizzing sound of bottles opening and in the enclosed space, I smelled the familiar scent of beer.
Otto returned and put a warm bottle in my hand.
“Drink this,” he said.
I took a large sip, grimacing at its temperature. Beer always tasted best when cold, but we’d already drained the icebox in preparation for our move.
“Now this one,” he said.
“When do I get to open my eyes?”
“It’s not about what you’re seeing. It’s about what you’re tasting.”
At first, there was little discernable difference. Beer was beer was beer, some sweeter than others. But that night, Otto began the patient process of teaching me to differentiate between the brands and explained how their water content directly affected their final product. In time, he insisted that I learn the variations of lesser ingredients like hops, corn, rice, and barley malt. It was an education in geography and chemistry more thorough than anything I’d learned in a classroom.
And a skill that would serve me well later, though at the time its only meaning to me was the intimacy it created between us: one on one in those sparse rooms with the man I was about to marry. I would have sat riveted at the most mundane of dissertations, so content was I to be alone with him.
A bride adoring her groom before time unfolded its inevitable turns.
And so we set out for Texas, armed with an eager sense of adventure. I shed lavish tears and accepted promises of correspondence from my brothers and sisters. My father had died shortly before our wedding, a loss I’ve not recovered from all these years later; but I visited Bellefontaine Cemetery before we left and set flowers on his grave and my mother’s and sister’s.
Would we ever return?
Like me, Otto came from a large family, one of ten to my eight. Though few of them had immigrated: only his twin, Karl, and their sister Joanna. So his extravagant goodbyes had happened many years ago and he had only these two siblings to part with this time around.
We took the train to San Antonio. Coach class, though we were only one car away from the first class dining car. Smells of roast beef wafted through the doors as conductors walked back and forth between us, prompting my mouth to tingle with an anticipation that went unfulfilled. Silverware chimed like bells and the pop of champagne bottles being opened sounded like gunshots. In contrast, we nibbled on the scant dried apricots and walnuts that I’d brought.
Our stopover in Dallas was more of the same. We stayed at a humble boarding house across the street from a far more luxurious hotel whose name I have forgotten after all these years.
Those two nights became our honeymoon. Prior to our marriage, I’d let Otto’s hands roam a bit more than my stepmother would have considered proper. But with the blessing of a marriage certificate, I discovered a side of Otto that I hadn’t even known to hope for. His regard for me and for my happiness nearly erased the pangs of my homesickness. I transformed from girl to woman in mere days and felt dizzy with the newly discovered power of femininity that had been dormant until then.
Otto was eager to hear my opinions about life, work, and lovemaking, and regarded me as a partner in everything.
For a time, at least. And for that time, it was glorious.
As we strolled the gaslamp street after dinner on our first night, he took my hand and pointed to the palazzo across the street. “We’re going to stay there someday, my darling. I don’t intend to remain in the station of life I was born into. I will build you a fine house and you will dine in the best restaurants and we will stay in the most glamorous of hotels.”
He lifted a finger to my lips when I whispered that I didn’t need fanciful things, silencing my protestation.
“Hush, my darling. We are going to have it all.”
From the moment we arrived in Bexar County, Otto set out to prove that the Busch family had placed their trust in the right man. He left the old apartment we’d rented before the sun rose and returned long after it set. By then, he was too exhausted to do more than eat the meal I’d prepared hours earlier and give me a peck on the cheek. The only time I saw my husband during daylight hours was on Sundays. And if the brewery hadn’t closed at two o’clock on those days, I have no doubt that Otto would h
ave confined himself to its grounds until dark. As it was, I had to muster all my powers of persuasion to keep him from using his key to go into the office, even for a few hours.
To fend off boredom during some of the other six days and to contribute to our income, I became a companion to an elderly woman. The widow of an early investor in barbed wire. I read the daily newspaper to her, which I found to be more beneficial to me than it was to her. It was an excellent way to learn about the unfamiliar city. I also helped with minor household tasks. Mrs. Terroba hailed from Mexico and I became enamored with her command of its culture and the language. So lively compared to my stilted German.
Despite her poor vision, she learned to read me early on.
“Emmazita,” she said, calling me by the pet name I’d somehow earned in a short time. “I’ll tell you the secret to keeping a husband happy.”
Desperate to recapture even a few hours with Otto, I was ready to listen.
“It’s all in the afrodisiaco. The aphrodisiac.”
I’d never heard the word, either in Spanish or English.
“The sex, my dear.”
Heat rose to my cheeks as if a match had been struck. I couldn’t believe she’d said that word aloud. I had never heard my stepmother say it, not even when I began menstruating. I’d come home from school convinced that I was dying after I saw the trickle of blood and she couldn’t bring herself to tell me what it meant. It was my sister Anna who wrapped her arms around me and explained to me the mysterious wonders of being a woman. But not even she had been as brazen as Mrs. Terroba.
She leaned her cane against the large mahogany table where we’d been writing letters to friends of hers. She grinned, the wrinkles around her mouth disappearing and showing a glimpse of the beauty she must have been as younger woman.
“You have to show your husband how much better it would be to come home to you. To leave the office for the pleasures that await. But as lovely as a woman may be, the wise one is not too proud to secure certain aids that keep him happy. The foolish woman, though, thinks that it is about the bedroom.”
She held up a bony finger and waved it.
“It is about the kitchen.”
The kitchen! What was she suggesting? The image that came to mind was too shocking to speak of. But her next words calmed my nerves.
“You see, it’s what you give him in the kitchen that affects what happens in the bedroom. In Mexico, we señoras have several secret weapons.”
She leaned in further and I did the same, feeling like the gravity of some ancient secret was about to be entrusted to me.
“The first—chocolate. But not any kind of chocolate. We add chili to it. Individually, they bring out—how should I say it—the romantic inclinations of a man. But together ….”
Mrs. Terroba brought her fingers to her lips and kissed them. “Together, they are irresistible.”
“How do I serve them?” I asked. I could only imagine asking the grocer for a block of chocolate and then sprinkling chili powder on it. It sounded unappetizing to me.
“You serve it hot,” she answered. “You melt the chocolate and add cream. Then a pinch of the powder. Just a pinch, though. You Germans don’t have the stomach for the heat that we do and I wouldn’t want you to kill him.”
I looked at my wristwatch and wondered if I could get to a grocer before they closed.
“The second thing,” she added, as if I’d forgotten that she’d hinted at several suggestions, “is scent. It’s overlooked but so very important. Most women douse themselves in rosewater or gardenia oil. But those appeal to the female nose. Instead, you have to think like a man.”
She pulled herself up on the cane and took slow steps to the kitchen, beckoning me to follow. She opened a cabinet and pulled out waxed paper. She unfolded it with care. Inside were three long, brown strands.
“Vanilla,” she said. “These are vanilla beans. Smell.”
She held them up to my nose and I inhaled, immediately drawn in by their luxurious scent. “They’re not only for cooking. Look!” Mrs. Terroba rubbed the strands in her hand until the oils from it seeped out. Then, she touched either side of my neck.
“When your husband comes home and kisses you on the cheek, he will not miss this scent. It will bring up warm memories of home and comfort.”
The vanilla scent was enchanting and I knew that Otto would immediately love it. I could already envision the turn our new marriage could take from this. “Thank you,” I whispered, still astonished at how unabashed she was.
Mrs. Terroba refolded the paper and put it into my hands.
“You take this,” she said. “And some of these.” Another cabinet produced a small block of dark chocolate and a tiny bag of red powder.
Mabel put her pencil down and looked at Mrs. Koehler, who was smiling.
“For a while, Otto rarely worked past six o’clock after that,” she said. “And never on Sundays.”
.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SUNDAYS WERE SACRED in Mrs. Koehler’s mansion and whether it had anything to do with the story she’d last told Mabel or not, it was clear that it was a day like no other.
Frieda the cook began working an hour before dawn, baking rolls and pies, needing that extra time to let the dough rise. The maid dusted the formal dining room, which was left untouched on other days. She took great care to wipe each crevice of each scroll on each chair. Even Helga came more alive, offering to help both of the women. Emma tried to do the same, but Mrs. Koehler waved her hand to brush her aside.
“Sunday is your day of rest, my dear. I insist upon that.”
“But I want to do my part,” she objected.
“Oh, you will, I promise. You’ll meet my extended family over dinner tonight, and that will be work enough for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mabel Hartley, you will be here for several weeks and maybe more. Every Sunday night, the family comes to dinner. Those who occasionally stay in the rooms upstairs and those who live around town. And it is wonderful in a way. But you will, no doubt, arouse their curiosity. Arm yourself, for they will be full of questions.”
Like some kind of trial? Mabel wondered.
“I am a stranger to them,” she said aloud. “Surely it will be natural for them to want to know why I’m here.”
Mrs. Koehler nodded. “The young men will find you pretty and be curious for all the best of reasons. The young women will find you pretty and become envious. The older ones—the married ones who know what a struggle it is to make a living and keep up with the bills—they will wonder if you’ve wormed your way into my life for the purpose of winning some kind of favor and stealing a piece of what they see as their rightful inheritance.”
“Surely not!” Mabel answered. The idea was abhorrent to her.
The old woman shrugged. “You don’t get to be where I am by being naïve about people’s intentions. I’m quite a rich woman whose estate will be passed on a very short time from now. They have almost all come over from Germany at one time or another, Bentzens and Koehlers alike, and given me their time on Sunday evenings in the hopes that there would be a payoff in the end. Some of them, at least. There is one nephew I think particularly highly of and I think you will, too. But I’ll let you judge for yourself. The lot of them.”
Mabel let pass the comment about the nephew; it was absolutely not her intention to be romantically matched and was surprised that Mrs. Koehler had even hinted at such a thing.
She pictured the cacophony of a large Sunday dinner. She’d had only her small family to gather with and couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Mrs. Koehler to have so many people depend on her. It was a burden to be wealthy, she thought for the first time. Everybody wanting something. Never being sure who might visit for the most sincere of reasons—or not.
“If I may ask, then,” she said, “why do you invite them every week if you feel that way?”
Mrs. Koehler shifted on the plush sofa, arranging pillow
s at her back. “Because good or bad, there’s nothing more important than family. I am under no illusions that if I’d been able to have children they would miraculously have been perfect specimens of human beings. Not one of us is. My legacy will be not only what I did at the brewery but what I gave to my community and to my relations. And beyond money, what I can give them is the gift of each other. It’s not easy to come from a different country and make a life here. But if they have each other to lean on, they will have a far better foundation than most.”
The drum of family again, following the commandment she couldn’t get out of her head: Honor your father and your mother.
She shook off the guilt that still beset her for leaving Baltimore. She’d left the Texas address with her landlord in case her father ever returned home or her brother was found. But did that mitigate the fact that she’d set off on her own?
Despite the admonition from Mrs. Koehler to take the day off, Mabel slipped into the kitchen to help Frieda. She simply couldn’t imagine relaxing when she knew all the preparations that must be taking place.
She crossed through the dining room toward the powder blue door that was supposed to lead to the kitchen. Frieda was singing, in German, of course, and the clang of pots and pans offered accompaniment. She opened it to find a room in which no expense had been spared in its building, despite being the domain of servants. The tiled floor boasted a mosaic pattern of white and brown and blue shapes. The white cabinets were topped with wooden block counters that were glossy enough to see one’s reflection.
Frieda jumped back when she saw Mabel.
“Miss Hartley! Es tut mir leid, I did not see you come in.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. And please call me Mabel.”
The cook picked up a knife and started to cut an onion into paper-thin slices.
The First Emma Page 7