The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  “Then, Iris told Melba that Irving wasn’t going to make it back in time for Christmas after all, so it was a gas when he showed up and surprised her.”

  “Excuse me,” Mabel cut in. Blasted party lines. The war had slowed the progress of such luxuries on the home front even for those with money, but they’d been told that an independent one would be installed any day.

  “Excuse me,” Mabel said with more urgency.

  “What is it?” an irritated voice said on the other line.

  “I need to use the telephone.”

  “Honey, I’ve been trying for two weeks to get a call through to my sister in Denver and you’re costing me precious money. Hang up.”

  “But it’s an emergency.”

  “That’s what all you young kids say when you want to cut in. Hang up now or I’ll report you to the phone company.”

  Mabel replaced the receiver. Helga and Frieda seemed to be managing Mrs. Koehler well enough, so without another option, she ran out the front door and headed toward Pearl.

  The smokestacks of the brewery rose above the myriad of one-story homes and businesses and she had the passing thought that she should follow Mrs. Koehler’s example and get to know the community by taking walks, street by street. She kept running now, though, filling her lungs with the cold air and breathing out its steam. Her hair came loose in the bobby pins she’d set in them and her stockings began to bunch around her ankles. But she didn’t stop to fix anything. It didn’t matter what she looked like when she saw Erik. It only mattered that she brought the news of his aunt.

  As she approached Pearl, she could see that it was surrounded by an iron gate that was closed. She hadn’t noticed it a few days ago, but then again, her head had been so filled with the notion of driving with Erik in that car, she hadn’t paid attention to details.

  There was no one about. She walked along its perimeter, hoping there might be a loose bar or some place wide enough that she could slip through, but it was in immaculate condition.

  She ran back around to the gate, catching her blouse more than once on low-hanging branches. This time, she saw a couple of men walk out of the bottling building, pushing a cart full of heavy-looking boxes.

  “Hello!” she shouted. They waved and began to walk on.

  “I need your help,” she pled. This time, they stopped, settled the cart and walked over.

  “What can we help with, miss?” said that taller one with the thick beard.

  “I need to get a message to Mr. Garrels right away.”

  “And who should we say is asking for him?”

  “My name is Mabel. But that doesn’t matter. Tell him that his Aunt Emma collapsed and is heading to the hospital.”

  The shorter one stepped forward and his face took on the appropriate alarm. “Mrs. Koehler? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Helga is taking her to the hospital now. I tried to call, but I couldn’t get through. I need to talk to Mr. Garrels. Now.”

  The men looked at each other, as if questioning whether it was wise to let this wild-looking woman onto the grounds. But at last, the tall one walked over to the gate and unlocked it.

  “I think he’s over in that office,” he said, pointing to the gold-bricked one she’d seen before. “I’ll walk over with you.”

  She felt like she could keep running, but slowed to his pace. He opened the door, and the warmth of the room welcomed her like a blast of heat, in contrast to what the weather was like outside. She half-feared that Ernestina would come out from the back rooms, looking elegant against her own disheveled state, but that wasn’t what was important right now.

  A receptionist sat at a typewriter. Her brass nameplate said Miss. Sullivan. An irony since that’s what Mr. Oliver had called Mabel and every other secretary in the business. Mabel might have laughed otherwise, but was still too concerned about Mrs. Koehler to give more thought to it than that.

  The man spoke, the pitch of his voice higher than what his size might have suggested.

  “We need to talk to Mr. Garrels.”

  The receptionist looked up, hands on keys. “I believe he’s on the telephone right now.”

  Mabel felt exasperated. No one seemed to be treating this with the urgency it deserved.

  “Please. Tell Mr. Garrels that Mabel is here. There is an emergency with his aunt and I need to speak with him.”

  The woman looked her over, frowning, and at last, got up and walked through a swinging door.

  The seconds plodded by, but the minute hand on the clock above the door had barely moved when Erik came rushing out ahead of the woman.

  “Mabel! What happened?”

  She caught him up with what little she knew.

  “Helga’s taking her to a place called Green Memorial,” she finished.

  “Let’s go then.” He took his coat from the hat rack and put it on. Only then did Mabel stop to realize how cold she was. She’d left her own jacket back at the Koehler Mansion, having given no thought to anything but getting here as quickly as she could. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself and headed toward the door.

  “Mabel, stop,” he said. When she turned around, he’d taken off his coat and was already holding it out for her.

  “But you’ll need that,” she protested.

  “Nonsense. Take this. I can get another one.”

  He helped her into it and hurried back through the swinging door. He came out wearing a giant covering of some sort. Several sizes too big for him, and made from a rubbery-looking material. The Pearl logo was embroidered onto the right side of the chest and Mabel supposed it must be one of the jackets that workers wore in the coldest part of the brewery. Despite his height, he looked like some kind of pint-sized fisherman in it.

  They headed out the door and over to the larger building.

  “Lucky for us, I drove today” he said. “I have several appointments this afternoon around town, so I took the Ford to work. I’ll have to cancel those, of course, but at least it came in handy.”

  “I can head back to the house now,” she answered. “I only came to tell you. Your aunt will surely want you there.”

  “Come with me. If you want to, of course. It’s not far.”

  “But shouldn’t that just be for family?”

  He opened her car door and continued speaking as he came around and slipped into his own seat. He started the ignition.

  “Auntie Emma has always had a liberal definition of what family is. I have it on good authority that she received several hundred letters in response to her advertisement and you, Mabel Hartley, are the one she picked. So there is something about you that charmed her from the start. And in her book, that is family. What do you say?”

  Mabel was relieved. She was desperate to know how Mrs. Koehler was doing. “I’ll go with you.”

  It took only ten minutes to get to Green Memorial, and in that time, Mabel learned from Erik that Mrs. Koehler, indeed, had little time to live. Hearing it from someone else’s lips made it seem more real, and she found herself already grieving at the possibility of not having more time to get to know her. To learn the full story she was here to memorialize.

  “Auntie Emma’s not one given to hyperbole,” Erik said. “She’s outlived each of her siblings by decades. They all died rather young and it’s long been considered that the Bentzens did not have the best constitutions. The fact that she’s been kicking for as long as she has is a testament to her own brand of tenacity. And if she could challenge God himself to make her immortal, she’d dare to do so. But what is it they say? That all that is certain is death and taxes?”

  Mabel smiled, her first of the day. “That’s what I’ve heard.” “Well, Emma Koehler has certainly taken advantage of every tax break available over the years. But she’s not going to escape the other one. The official diagnosis is old age. But the doctors have been concerned with her increasing senility. Have you noticed it?”

  Mabel recalled several times when Mrs. Koehler’s sto
ry veered off the topic at hand or where she repeated things she’d said moments before.

  “Here and there. But I assumed, like you said, that it’s part of old age.”

  “Scary to watch, isn’t it? We all want to live a long life, but when you see what that actually looks like, it’s not so romantic.” “She does it as well as anyone I’ve ever known.” Mabel had encountered few people who’d lived into their mid-eighties. “Though she tires quickly. What I thought would be long hours at this job rarely lasts beyond two or three before she’s ready to lie down.”

  “Which is exactly why I thought you’d enjoy working on the set over at the Little Theater. Nothing to do at Auntie Emma’s unless you want to read one of those old leather bricks about Greek philosophy.”

  “I do love a good book,” she said, “but I have to say that those are beyond me.”

  “Me, too. I prefer fiction. I started The Labyrinthine Ways by Graeme Greene last night.”

  She appreciated the distraction he was offering, and the book title was a relief. If he were attached to the kinds of books that the Koehler study held, she would have felt the sinking inferiority that she did around some of Robert’s friends. Always going on about Roman emperors and Greek wars with the same enthusiasm as some boys gave to sporting events. With more money, he could have been a scholar at Georgetown or Oxford or some other illustrious place. Now they would never know what he might have become. But she wasn’t ready to share that part of her life with Erik yet.

  “I’ve seen The Labyrinthine at the bookstores, but I haven’t read it yet.”

  “I’ll give you my copy when I’m done. It’s a perfect winter read. Takes place in Mexico, where you can pretend it’s warmer than it is.”

  “Has your aunt read all those books they have?”

  “I dare say not. Can’t recall Auntie Emma reading much at all come to think of it. She’s always been a workhorse. She bought volumes and volumes for Uncle Otto over the years, from what I understand. It’s likely that he valued them for their prestige more than their content. She did mention once that he was a fan of Machiavelli’s works, though.”

  Erik turned into the parking lot of a five-story building. It was made of sharp, ninety-degree angles and made with a similar gold-toned brick as some of the Pearl buildings.

  “Here we are,” he said. Mabel knew that he would come around to open her door, and while she appreciated the chivalry, she was quite capable of doing so herself and they might have few seconds to spare.

  He didn’t seem offended when she did so.

  They walked in long strides toward the columned entrance and were told upon inquiring that Emma Koehler was on the fifth floor.

  “No doubt Auntie Emma was given a posh room with a good view.” Erik walked swiftly toward the bank of elevators.

  Given her wealth, that would be no surprise. At one time, Mabel might have felt resentment toward special treatment when so many were suffering, but by all accounts, Mrs. Koehler had such a philanthropic heart that if an additional comfort were afforded her in this dire time, she could only say that it was well-deserved.

  He pushed the button for floor five as they stepped in.

  “If so, I hope she’s in a condition to appreciate it.”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. He’d been hurrying to get here ever since he’d burst through those swinging doors, but now Mabel saw his features melt into one of concern. “She donated twenty thousand dollars to the building fund for this place. It was a year after Uncle Otto died. She always believed that if he had gotten better medical attention, he might have survived the gunshot wounds.”

  “Do you think that’s true?” What a horrible thought. That something could have been done. She thought of her father and dismissed it just as quickly.

  “No. He died at the scene. She knows that. But in the case of any tragedy, one looks back and wonders what more they could have done to prevent it. Auntie Emma is no different. There’s a lot of tenderness underneath that shell of hers.”

  Mabel was moved at the thought that a wife so betrayed would still have had the heart to save him if it were within her ability to do so.

  The elevator dinged and they arrived. The thought struck Mabel that she’d not been in a hospital since she was eleven. Mama had been admitted after the cancer caused an especially bad night of pain. They’d lost her only a week after that, but she’d passed, at least, in her own bed as she’d wished. The memory upset Mabel’s stomach and she had to grip a nearby railing to steady herself. All the things she’d felt as a child in the sterile halls of the hospital in Baltimore returned to her. Worry, grief, fear.

  “Are you alright, Mabel? You look flushed.” Erik wrapped an arm around her waist, likely to support her, as she’d already felt her legs buckling.

  She could not faint. It was not about the cold or their pace, but she wasn’t ready to talk about what it was, and certainly not here when they were here over concern about Emma.

  “It’s nothing,” she assured him. “I’ll be all right.”

  He let go of her, but stayed so close that his arm brushed hers. As if he was ready to catch her at any moment. The feeling passed, but she was relieved to know that Erik was there if she needed him.

  “There’s Helga,” she pointed down the hall, saving them the hassle of asking for the location of Emma Koehler’s room.

  They walked to the end, a corner room, which was flooded with a light softened by the whiteness of the winter sky. One bed sat near the windows, and a doctor hovered over Mrs. Koehler. Her eyes were closed, and clear tubes ran from her nose into a machine on a nearby table.

  A thin waffle-weave blanket lay on top of her and its faint movement indicated that they’d made it in time.

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I DON’T KNOW what you have all been fussing about, especially when we have so much work to do.”

  Mrs. Koehler awoke on her third day in the hospital. The room smelled like a greenhouse, the entirety of the space filled with every kind of flower imaginable. Even in January. Their yellows, oranges, reds, and greens contrasted to the stark whiteness of the room and the sky outside its windows. Mabel couldn’t imagine what they must have all cost, but Mrs. Koehler had no shortage of well-wishers. Illustrious names adorned the cards.

  Adolphus Busch II and Family

  Gus B. Mauerman, Mayor of San Antonio (Not to mention the mayors of surrounding towns like Alamo Heights, Pflugerville, Floresville, New Braunfels, Selma, and San Marcos. Even the mayor of St. Louis had sent pink lilies.)

  Coke R. Stevenson, Governor of Texas

  Forrest C. Donnell, Governor of Missouri

  Mabel even recognized the names of some movie stars among the cards.

  “Those roses there are from Cecil B. DeMille.”

  Mabel’s ears perked up. He’d directed Reap the Wild Wind last year with John Wayne, a favorite of her father’s. She’d taken him to see it on a rare day of sobriety. Strange that so far away from home, there were still reminders.

  “He’s a friend of yours?” she asked, impressed.

  “Oh, my, yes. Going back to the days when Hot Wells was open. He came out regularly, especially when he had to travel between New York and California. His father died of typhoid fever and it spurred an interest in natural means of health.”

  Mabel pulled a notebook from her purse. It was smaller than the one she’d been using to take notes on Mrs. Koehler’s story, but would do in a pinch. She hadn’t expected to be here for anything other than a visit, but Emma seemed determined to continue. The nurses had already come in for their hourly check on her blood pressure and now they were alone for the moment. Mrs. Koehler was propped up on pillows and looked like she wanted to talk.

  “Hot Wells was one of Mr. Koehler’s other businesses?” began Mabel.

  This was where they had left off in their last conversation before Mrs. Koehler fell ill. But the old woman did not seem to remember having told her that, so Mabel found it to
be a good segue to continue.

  Mrs. Koehler sighed. “Yes. One of many. I opposed it at first, but I knew that Otto would carry on regardless, so I gave in. And, though it was a disaster in so many ways, I can’t deny that it was magical.”

  1900

  Otto woke early on Christmas morning, nudging me to come open the presents under the tree. I’d been suffering from a head cold and would have greatly preferred to stay in bed. But he’d already opened the curtains in our little bedroom and I knew I’d never get back to sleep.

  And, I was curious.

  Despite my penchant for practicality, I often got swept up in Otto’s excitement. It was impossible not to.

  “Come on,” he insisted, pulling on my hands until I sat up.

  I fumbled for my slippers and felt for my eyeglasses atop my bureau.

  He was two steps ahead of me as I followed him into the next room. Our Christmas tree was a meager one, bought on a rare Sunday ride to a farm in Helotes. It was late in the season, and the best ones had been chosen weeks before.

  Under the tree were small packages, covered in brown paper and twine. I’d put some thought into the ones I’d bought, drawing holly wreaths on them and adding sprigs of pine to the bows. Otto’s were haphazardly wrapped, but I was moved, at least, that he had done it all himself and not pawned off the job to an employee. I daresay he purchased the gifts, too. If he was going to work as hard as he did for his money, he also liked to manage how it was all spent.

  The small boxes were, no doubt jewelry. I had a few simple pieces, but he liked to add to this collection.

  “Success breeds success,” he’d say. And I knew that his choices had less to do with my tastes than they did the impressions they gave around town and what they could resell for. Already he’d sold a sapphire bracelet he’d bought me once the death of its maker had raised its value.

  I’d thought today, from his enthusiasm, that he might have purchased something for the house, which still sat unfurnished. A chair, an antique mirror perhaps. But he only handed me a thick envelope.