The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  Religion? Mabel tried and tried to think of what that connection would be, but nothing of substance came to mind.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t either, until Auntie Emma took me through for the first time and told me the stories.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “A vast hop yard was owned by Pepin the Short, the father of Charlemagne. Until then, anything resembling an early ale was flavored with something called gruit. Gruit was a combination of herbs such as mugwort, ivy, and sweet gale.”

  “Sounds appetizing,” she said with sarcasm.

  “Doesn’t it, though?” He crossed his arms and widened his stance. Mabel could tell how excited he got by talking about it. His theatrical instincts apparently kicked in when he got to explain, even to this audience of one.

  She loved that this was her job right now, however temporary it might be. It beat typing letters for Mr. Oliver a thousand times over.

  “The Catholic Church was the local authority at the time and had a monopoly on the supply of gruit, taxing it heavily. Hops, however, were grown privately and were not taxed. So the Germans started making their brews almost exclusively with hops to save money and it became the new standard in brewing. Even to this day.”

  Erik checked his watch before she could respond. “We should move on. There’s a lot to see. And if I keep you here, you might turn into a Mabel Popsicle.”

  She laughed at the image.

  Mabel couldn’t remember the last time she felt this happy. Life had been bleak, falling far short of the things she’d imagined for herself. Being with Erik made her feel like those neglected parts of herself, the ones that had only begun to bloom when her mother died, were getting their chance to emerge again.

  The next room was markedly warmer than the last, set well above room temperature. After stepping through the double doors, Mabel found herself on a ledge that overlooked a cavernous space filled with huge steel containers with glass tops. The scent in here was quite different from the previous room. This one smelled musty and thick, the aroma quite welcoming.

  “What are those?” Mabel asked, pointing down to the room below.

  “Those are called mash tubs,” Erik explained. “We mix barley malt with rice and water and cook it. That’s why it feels warmer in here. In fact, let me take your coat.”

  Mabel unbuttoned her wool jacket, already perspiring from the sudden change in heat. Erik stood behind her and held it up by the shoulders as she slipped her arms out. She turned around to take it from him, but he’d already slung it over his arm along with his own coat. Although she could have done it herself, it was nice to be looked after. No one had looked after her for so long.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They looked through a glass window to the floor below and Erik pointed to something on the side.

  “You can see those mechanical arms going back and forth making sure that none of it stagnates. Back when the brewery was built, they didn’t have that kind of automation. In fact, it’s a fairly recent addition, set in place by Auntie Emma and finished by Otto A. I believe you met him at dinner, along with his wife, Marcia.”

  “Yes. Does anyone ever get them confused when talking about them? The two Ottos.”

  “Not now,” he answered, “though I would imagine that someone just learning about them would need to pause to consider who was being mentioned when hearing the name. As for myself, I wasn’t around when Auntie Emma’s husband was alive, so the only Otto I know firsthand is the one running the brewery now. But decades ago, when his father, Karl, died, and he came over as a youth to live at Koehler Mansion, it must have been confusing. Two Ottos under one roof. And three Emmas.”

  It was exactly the opening she needed.

  “Three Emmas—your aunt and the two nurses?”

  His eyebrows arched. “Ah, yes. So you know about our little family scandal. Crime of the century. Headlines around the world and all that. The other two Emmas only lived on Ashby a short while before Otto bought them their own house. But they still spent a great deal of time at the mansion caring for my aunt.”

  “Didn’t one of those Emmas murder Otto?” Of course, she knew the answer, but she hoped he’d tell her more.

  He stepped forward a few feet to where the glass ended, and leaned against the railing. Mabel stayed where she was. She felt lightheaded at the height.

  “Yes. Emma Burgemeister. But I’m not going to spoil Auntie Emma’s tale. She doesn’t like other people talking about it. Especially those of us who weren’t there. She says we invariably get something wrong.”

  So the most salacious parts would have to wait.

  Mabel turned back toward the steel bins, keeping a good two feet between herself and the railing and returned her thoughts to the tour at hand.

  “Ok. What happens after you cook the barley and rice?” Add some beef and carrots, and it sounded like a recipe her mother used to make.

  “We drain it. See the darker-colored parts down at the bottom?”

  She couldn’t tell from where she was standing and took a hesitant step forward, now with only a railing to stand between her and a fall. Erik must have sensed her trepidation, because he put his arm around her shoulder, and a hand on hers.

  “I know it’s a little daunting. You’re not the first person to feel anxious here.”

  The feel of his arms around her gave her an entirely different sense of vertigo, but one that was far more welcome. It emboldened her. She didn’t want to appear a coward in front of him and very much wanted to see how things operated down at the bottom of the room.

  “I can do it,” she said.

  He stepped forward with her, inching toward it and letting her lead as her comfort allowed. His presence calmed her more than she would have expected.

  “Those giant mesh sifters strain out the solid parts and send the liquid through those tubes into the next room. At that point, it’s called wort, which is a fermentable sugar that gives the beer its amber color.”

  Mabel took in the spectacle of each of the huge tanks and the vast tangle of pipes leading into the walls.

  She pulled back, and Erik followed, but he didn’t let go of her.

  She turned toward him to speak, but lost her words when she realized how close he was. He looked down at her and moved his hand only to raise it to her cheek and brush his thumb down to her chin. They stood like this for what must have been seconds, but seemed like hours, hundreds of unspoken words passing between them. The sense of understanding that they were two souls planted here, far away from where they each came, forever changed by fathers whose failures had shaped them for better or worse. Though they’d only hinted at each of their stories, there was something of a gravity between them, thick as the scent of barley that permeated the room.

  Erik’s face inched toward hers. It was impossible not to make a comparison to Artie’s fervent, insistent overtures and what seemed like a gentle advance by Erik. One that sought invitation in her reaction rather than assuming it was what she wanted. She didn’t want to break the silence with even one word and hoped that the look in her eyes, one that she was certain matched his, told him that this was welcome.

  The double doors opened and a chill blew in from the adjacent room.

  They pulled away from each other, almost on instinct, and saw that Ernestina had entered.

  How much had she seen? Mabel wondered. Probably too much. There were glass panels between the two rooms.

  “You’re wanted on the telephone,” Ernestina said to Erik. Her voice matched the coldness of the room behind her.

  Erik sighed, breathing the frustration that Mabel felt. “Is it something that can wait?”

  “Not unless you want the temperature in the fermentation room to fail again. It’s the mechanic you called in on Sunday night. He thinks the electric panel won’t last more than a few weeks and wants to talk over the options for ordering a new one.”

  Mabel was more upset by her presence than she wanted t
o be and wondered why Ernestina had taken on the role of messenger. It seemed out of the purview of her job.

  Erik held up a finger. “Tell him I will call him back in five minutes.”

  Ernestina seemed determined. “Do you think that’s wise? It was hard enough to get ahold of him on Sunday, and this is the time of year when heaters are failing all over town. You’ve got him right now. I wouldn’t risk it.”

  He folded his arms. “I’ll be there in one then.”

  They spent five of those sixty seconds staring each other down, but Ernestina finally turned back and left them alone.

  Once she’d gone, he faced Mabel again, and put his hands on both of her shoulders, squeezing them slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I do have to take this call. And it will be awhile, I’m sure. He’s the best in town, but I usually have to spend far too much time on the phone with him talking him down off the price. He starts impossibly high. I think he hopes that one of these days, I’ll cave and pay his ransom.”

  Disappointed, she nevertheless respected how important Erik was here and his dedication to preserving what Emma and Otto had begun. “I understand. I can walk home and we’ll finish the tour another time.”

  Do you know how to drive?”

  She’d never owned a car, but Robert used to make deliveries for an icehouse and he’d taught her in his off hours.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He pulled keys from his pocket. “Take my Ford back to the house. I’ll come pick it up tomorrow afternoon. I’m working early tomorrow and should be finished by three o’clock.”

  “You don’t have to give me your car. It can’t be more than a mile and a half and I wouldn’t mind the walk.” Still, the idea of driving the car that Robert would have loved so much gave her an all-too-rare sense of connection to the brother she’d lost.

  He took her hand in his and placed the keys in them, the tender gesture reassuring her that Ernestina was not the threat she’d initially feared. “I would never hear the end of it from Auntie Emma if I didn’t behave like a gentleman toward you. And, regardless of what she’d say, I insist.”

  She appreciated that. Robert and Buck would have done the same thing. And though Mabel believed that the capabilities of women needed more recognition, it shouldn’t be at the expense of the age-old chivalry that caused a girl’s knees to weaken.

  And her knees, indeed, felt liquid as Erik stood so close.

  So close.

  The one minute had passed, but he hadn’t turned to go yet.

  No need to give Ernestina more reason to chastise him. So Mabel accepted the keys and he let her out a side door that was a short distance from the parking lot.

  “I’d walk you to the car myself, but I do need to get to the phone.”

  “Nonsense. Go. I’ll have it waiting for you tomorrow afternoon.”

  He leaned over, his face almost as near as it had been when they almost kissed. “If you don’t have plans then, I’d like to take you somewhere.”

  Her heart beat faster. She could see the outline of where a beard would be, the stubble leaving a shadow a shade darker than his light skin.

  “As long as Mrs. Koehler is finished with me by then.”

  He laughed. “Auntie Emma has taken an afternoon nap for as long as I’ve known her. Your afternoon will be free.”

  .

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EMMA CONTINUED the next day, a stretch of lucidity sending Mabel into her second notebook.

  I felt alone once again, the sting of neglect piercing more than sharp words might have. Any words, any glance from my husband would have been welcome. But Otto’s only focus was this new brewery of his.

  Our apartment was cluttered with sketches made on every available scrap of paper, Otto’s ideas for this venture overtaking the counter, the sofa, the icebox. On the evening of our first wedding anniversary, I set out white linen napkins that had been a gift from my oldest brother. Otto hardly touched the beef I’d marinated as he drew out a budget for new equipment on his napkin before reaching across the table to continue on mine.

  The stains would not wash out.

  I had not moved across the country to be widowed. For that is how I felt. I’d lost my husband to his manic attention to the business.

  Otto changed the name of City Brewery to San Antonio Brewing Association and I used the first dollars he earned to buy new table linens.

  Expensive ones.

  He didn’t even notice.

  Determined to make a success of our move, I adopted a notion to take a walk along every street in town, the hellos and how-do-you-dos of shopkeepers and passersby more plentiful than the words that passed between Otto and myself. It was a naïve plan, for I soon learned that San Antonio was experiencing a boom and was expected to become the largest city in Texas by 1900. Still, I purchased a map, eager to learn as much as I could about this new place I lived in.

  In the evenings, I would return home and mark my routes with a pencil. Within a few weeks, I’d covered the scale of two square miles in leaden lines. Within months, I’d gone as far as the source of the river that ran through the city, four miles north.

  It began as a brook, a trickle of water rising from the mossy green bed of leaves. I’d learned that it stretched all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, widening along the way into a wild, rushing force. I imagined that I could be that river. Right now I sat little and unimportant, but my father had always told me that I could be anything I wanted. I had to believe that he’d been right.

  I wrote to my stepmother from that quiet place, and to my sisters and brothers, elongating facts until they resembled something far more exciting than what my life had actually become. I could not bear for them to know that I was unhappy. And even more, I could not bring myself to cast Otto in any light except a complimentary one. I was stubbornly loyal, whether he deserved it or not.

  Or maybe I just refused to acknowledge failure, especially in my marriage.

  To that end, I never gave up. I renewed my efforts during the city walks by looking for things that might persuade my husband to leave work for a bit and join me.

  I’d thought that the movement of an entire building five blocks from its original location would pique his interest, given that he was constructing an edifice of his own. The Fairmount was a “drummer’s hotel,” frequented by traveling salesmen who hocked clothing across the country. Otto declined, but I still elected to watch as workers removed beds, tables, and chairs, followed by the windows, doors, and beams. Eventually, it was a mere framework of bricks and metal, and those were hoisted upon thirty-six hydraulic dollies, supported by a crane and six trucks full of stabilizing gravel. Until the final day when it was lifted from its foundation and a visit from the people at the Guinness Book of World Records named it the largest hotel ever to be moved.

  The reinvention of something old, a shell ready to be filled in a new place. I felt a kinship to that strange old building.

  And slowly, slowly, my homesickness abated as San Antonio wooed me with her river waters and ambitious plans of greatness. She was a lush and vigorous place, growing by the day.

  In contrast, Otto grew wane and pale and I became concerned for his health. But any mention I made was met with a retort that I was not being supportive of his vision for the future. His office was without windows—too expensive to add them, he said—and his skin never saw the sun. He rose before it did, and slept long after it had set.

  He’d grown immune to the charms of vanilla oil and chocolate and chilies. And me.

  Everything he made was put back into the business and I was compelled to become thrifty with our money if we were to survive. I added water to soup, salt to inferior cuts of meat, and mended our clothes in the daylight so as to avoid the overuse of candles. Another husband might notice how I skimped on dinners, but Otto ate with perfunctory quickness. Filling his stomach before falling asleep, never commenting on the taste.

  One evening in December, he came home later t
han usual. I’d piled three quilts on top of my shivering body. The heating oil had run out and the landlord had been unavailable for days. I heard the bedroom door close. Otto removed his coat, vest and shirt, letting them drop to the floor, unheeding of my continual request for him to lay them across the chair. But when he slipped in beside me, the heat of his skin warmed me, and awakened something that had been left dormant for far too long.

  His fingers brushed my leg and fanned out across my hips. At last! Too much time had passed since we’d lain like this and I was happy to sacrifice the sleep. I turned to face him, kissing the cold wisps of his bristly mustache, eager to welcome him back to what we’d enjoyed so much at the beginning. But he turned his face at my approach, burying it in my neck as he laid me on to my back and pushed my flannel nightgown up to my waist. I pulled at the hem, lifting it higher, trying to wrench it over my head.

  I craved his skin on mine, nothing between us. Not the flannel. Not the business. Not the last year in which we’d grown so distant.

  He stopped my hand. The garment gathered in folds upon my chest, painful in the way they sat bunched against me as Otto turned over and enveloped my body with his own. Again, my mouth sought his: the kiss always being our most exquisite intimacy. But the girth of my nightgown remained an obstacle. Instead, without warning or tenderness, I felt him maneuver between my legs, exhausting himself in seconds before I’d had a chance to join him in this bliss.

  He turned without a word, facing the door and breathing deeply before even a minute had passed. Leaving me to stare at the ceiling, convincing myself that I should be grateful for the scrap of time he’d given me.

  I wondered if other women were left feeling so unfulfilled. Was it wrong of me to wish that lovemaking lived up to its lore? I could hardly ask the advice of my sisters, even through letters. It simply wasn’t discussed and as I browsed bookshops for the scant amount of titles relating to marriage, I found none that addressed this topic. Only those that discussed the proper way to keep a home.