The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  “Oh, Erik, that almost got you!”

  “Better me than you. I know that stockings are not easy to come by in wartime.”

  How perceptive. She’d torn a pair when helping Frieda in the kitchen, and the cook had generously offered one of her own. She’d insisted that she didn’t have as much use for them as a younger girl like Mabel might.

  “Thank you.”

  Erik took her arm and slipped it into the crook of his, patting her hand with his own.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, trying to steady the nervousness she still felt by having him so near.

  “I figured you’d had enough German food these past few weeks. Time for something more exciting.”

  They crossed West Commerce and entered a long, rectangular building with arches that lined the street.

  The courtyard inside was noisy. It was a marketplace full of produce sellers and trucks serving hot food from their back doors. A cacophony of color against the white sky hovered above them: flags of pink, purple, green, and blue lined the arches. Women wore their dark hair in buns and their skirts were decorated with bold patterns.

  “Ok,” said Erik. He pulled her to the side, never letting go, and gave her the penny tour. “The farmers come in every day with produce. The summer months are more plentiful, as you can imagine, but south of here, they can still get some pretty good onion and beet and lettuce crops.”

  He turned to the left. “Its official name is the Municipal Truck Market, and you can well see why. But more commonly, you’ll hear it called the Farmer’s Market. It’s only a few years old—built as part of the Works Progress Administration.”

  “I remember that. I think most of the roads in Maryland were built as part of the WPA.”

  “Anything to pull the people out of that depression.”

  “Did it hit San Antonio as hard as the rest of the country?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Have you seen that six-sided building downtown? The one with the green roof?”

  She nodded. She’d seen it on the train ride in.

  “That’s the Smith-Young building,” he said. “It has gargoyles perched all around it to ward off financial ruin. But it didn’t work. The day after construction was complete, the stock market crashed.”

  Mabel had been only five years old when that black day had occurred. Too little to understand what the panic in the adults’ voices meant. But as she’d grown up, she’d felt the difficulty of a country still recovering from that time. Only to be hit with a war that once again stole any sense of normalcy they’d had. It seemed that chaos had become the rule rather than the exception.

  Would it ever end? Or were they to continually hold their breaths for the promise of a day that would never come?

  “So sad,” Mabel added, pulling herself away from her own thoughts. “Which is why it’s all the more remarkable that your aunt kept the brewery afloat during such a difficult time.”

  He grinned. She loved his grin. Every time he did it, she had the feeling that everything would be all right in the end. For her. For the world. Was that what it felt like to be in love? That something as simple as a smile felt like it made everything right again? Revealed a hope long dormant?

  “Has Auntie Emma told you that part of her story yet?”

  “No. Before you arrived, she’d only gotten to the part about Emma Dumpke. She skipped over the car accident entirely. So, there is still a ways to go.”

  The grin disappeared, replaced by a shadow. “Poor Auntie Emma. The accident happened before I was even born, but the older relatives say that’s when everything got worse.”

  Erik led her through a maze of produce stalls, rapid words flying past her ears in English and Spanish, negotiations over prices and squabbles over quality. It was a wonder, quite unlike anything she’d ever seen in Baltimore. She would have liked to stop and pick up something exotic for Frieda, but Erik seemed intent on heading to the other side of the arched adobe courtyard.

  And with good reason. As they approached the end, a waft of something savory and delicious hit her nose. Indeed, all senses seemed to come alive in this marketplace—the scent, perhaps, being her favorite.

  There were only three tables inside the hot room that Erik stepped into. The sign above read Mi Tierra.

  She turned to him. “That means, my land,” doesn’t it?”

  Before he could answer, a small crowed pushed in from behind them, pressing them toward the front of the line. Offices must have released employees for lunch breaks, for nearly everyone behind her was in a business suit and had looks of urgency on their faces.

  Her eyes hurried across the menu printed across the small room, most with words she had never heard.

  Costillas, Picadillo, Sesos.

  At least one was familiar: Chili. It sounded perfect.

  “What are you having?” she asked Erik.

  “The chili con carne. There is nothing like it.”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  He ordered for both of them and Mabel slipped away to save them a place at the last of the three tables, engendering some disgruntled expressions from the businessmen.

  Erik returned promptly with two heaping bowls. As he set one before her, the steam warmed her face. And the smell was nothing short of divine.

  “As I said, it’s not German food. After a few weeks, you must be wanting something a little different.”

  Mabel dipped her spoon in and blew on it before taking a bite. “I think before the war, I would have said so. But now ….”

  There seemed to be no need to complete the thought. Even in the moments where life went about in its usual way, the war was a pervasive thief, grief stealing even simple pleasures like good food.

  Erik looked down at his own bowl and sighed. He set his spoon down and slid his hand across the table to hers. It might have been the crowd in the tiny room or the heat of the chili, but she felt such warmth at his touch as to feel faint. His thumb found her palm and he rubbed it with tender circles, meeting her eyes with his own.

  “Dearest Mabel,” he said. “You say so little, but suggest so much.”

  Her lip trembled. It was all the invitation she needed, having promised herself that she needed to open up. If she lived only on the scraps of hope that she would see her father or brother again, her existence would be one of starvation. She took a quick bite of her food, knowing that it would burn her tongue, wanting to send the pain somewhere beside her heart.

  The spiciness brought tears to her eyes, but maybe they’d already been there. She dabbed them with a napkin and took a breath.

  “Cancer took my mother. Alcohol took my father. And the war took both of my brothers.”

  Those three little sentences had taken on a mythical size, enhanced by Artie’s betrayal, and had served as a barrier all this time between her and any other human interaction. But it had taken only Erik’s touch and patience to deconstruct it. Little by little, every time she’d seen him, a bit more sunshine was allowed to seep through until she could now feel the fullness of its power.

  Her chili cooled as she poured out her story to him, taking small bites, finding each word easier than the last. Artie was the only part she remained silent about. Not because she cared any longer, but because spending even two words on him felt like giving him a power he no longer had over her.

  She had to take back that power.

  By the time she was finished, Erik was gripping her hand so tightly that it had turned red. But she didn’t move it.

  She understood now what people meant when they said that a weight had been lifted. Right now, she could fly.

  “Dearest Mabel,” he said again, and she thought those might be her favorite words in the world. “There is nothing I can say. Only that I’m sorry. But that sounds so inadequate that I’m embarrassed to even try. Is there anything I can do? Go with you to Baltimore to find your father? Write to the Department of War and demand information on Buck?”

  She smiled. A real smile. No
t the tepid one she’d put on like a mask when people asked how she was doing.

  “I appreciate that. There’s nothing that you can do that I haven’t done.”

  He still didn’t let go, and she never wanted him to. He’d begun eating with his left hand, which was clearly not his strongest one, because it dripped as he brought it to his mouth. The fact that he didn’t even notice made her think, not for the first time, that she could fall in love with him.

  “Erik,” she laughed. “You spilled a bit on your shirt.”

  She pulled her hand from his and dipped a new napkin in her water glass, and leaned over to touch it to his collar.

  “Oh!” he said, taking it from her and rubbing it. She sat back, feeling herself blush at this little intimacy.

  His eyes lost the concern they’d held for the last twenty minutes and an amusement spread across them.

  “Um, Mabel,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He pointed to her without saying anything. She looked down, and saw a teacup-sized brown stain on the belly of her sweater. She hadn’t even felt it when she’d reached out to him.

  “We are a sight!”

  “We are, aren’t we?” he answered. He put the spoon in his right hand and hurriedly finished the last few bites.

  “Let’s get out of here before we can do any more damage to ourselves,” he suggested.

  “And stick to German food next time?”

  “And stick to German food.”

  Erik took her hand as they left the market and when they spoke, their words turned to little clouds in the cold air. For the first time, Mabel envisioned it not as a scientific occurrence, but a spiritual one; as if a piece of our soul was carried in our speech and only in the winter did it take form.

  “I told you that saying I’m sorry felt inadequate after telling me the story of your family,” he started. “But I thought of something I can show you that might better convey what I’d like to say. Do you have to be anywhere the rest of this afternoon?”

  It was a Tuesday. She assumed that he would be going back to the brewery, but perhaps his relation to Emma Koehler gave him some freedoms. “I only work for your aunt, and I don’t think she’ll need me the rest of the day.”

  He smiled. “Then I can’t wait for you to see this.”

  They’d walked a few blocks when Erik turned a corner onto Houston Street. He took more rapid steps as they approached a marquee. Above it sat one word in lights: Majestic.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “It’s my favorite place in San Antonio.”

  Erik chose a side door, seeming to know that it would be unlocked even though the theater seemed to be closed.

  Dim light lay subtly across mosaic tile floors and as Mabel’s eyes grew accustomed to it, she was able to see the opulence of what was no more than a hallway. Carved chocolate-colored doors towered above her and the sound of their steps echoed through the empty space.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said in a whisper that she could hear all the way down to the end.

  “This is nothing. Wait and see.”

  “How were you able to get in?”

  He turned to her and raised an eyebrow in an exaggerated way, even as he continued to lead her through it.

  “I know people,” he said in a flawless Italian accent.

  Mabel smiled. It’s the kind of thing someone would say in a gangster movie.

  They arrived at another set of elaborate doors. Erik held it open for her and she stepped through into a pitch-dark space.

  “Do you trust me?” Erik asked.

  She nodded, though he wouldn’t have been able to see it.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Ok. Wait here.”

  Erik let go and she could hear him fumbling around, brushing up against a wall. Only last week, he’d done the same thing at the Little Theater. He liked his surprises.

  She waited. Then, a click. And with that, the room was flooded with light.

  Mabel gasped at what lay before her.

  It seemed as if they had stepped into an extravagant Spanish palacio. All around the sides were facades of buildings covered in scrollwork and niches for terracotta statues. The underside of the mezzanine contained friezes of turquoise, coral, and gold. Stained glass diamonds adorned the windows. Erik returned and took her hand, leading her down a side aisle. It was here that she could see the feathers of an albino peacock perched on one of the balconies, reigning over it all.

  And the framework—had anything this beautiful ever existed before it? It surrounded the enormous stage like an Egyptian crown. Cherubs adorned it on either side.

  Erik pulled her in closer to him, wrapping his arms around her waist. She did the same and they stood there as if dancing, though they remained still. She felt flushed even as chills shot through her body. The smell of winter lingered on his wool coat, mixed with some kind of musky cologne. Together, they were an intoxicating scent. So thoroughly Erik that she would bottle it up and put a label on it if she could. Being wrapped in his arms felt like being home, even if she barely knew what that meant anymore.

  Nearly a head taller, he looked down at her and her skin tingled with the anticipation of a kiss. She didn’t dare close her eyes and distracted herself instead with studying his face. This close, she could see that he hadn’t shaved this morning, and knew that he had spent the night at the bedside of his aunt. That alone made her begin to love him—yes, love him—in a way she’d never felt before. His consideration was written on his face, all the way up to soft eyes that watched her with tenderness.

  “Look up,” he said.

  Mabel hadn’t realized how much she’d been looking forward to his kiss until it didn’t happen. But his nearness, the way his thumb was stroking her back in little circles, told her that he returned her feelings and she knew that all would happen as it should.

  She followed his gaze and her eyes glanced up to the ceiling. How could she have missed this? It was the best part of it all.

  The ceiling was painted cobalt blue, the color of the sky when dusk was over but nighttime was only beginning to emerge. Tiny lights became stars scattered over the orchestra. And wispy clouds skimmed it, moving across the room. If she hadn’t known better, she would think that they were outside on a perfect summer evening.

  “How did they do that?”

  “There is probably a better name for it, but my friends have always called it the cloud machine. A projector casts them up there like a movie, the ceiling being the screen.”

  Mabel turned her neck, and knowing what she was looking for, saw a tiny camera-looking device pointing upward from the front of the mezzanine.

  “It’s magnificent.” She turned back to him, their faces so close again. “Thank you for taking me here.”

  “Thank you for telling me about your family. I had already wanted to show this to you, which is why a buddy of mine left it unlocked for us. But when you shared that sadness, I wanted to do everything I could to take it away from you.”

  He took one hand and brushed it against her cheek, taking an errant strand of hair with it and tucking it behind her ear.

  “Mabel,” he whispered. “I wanted to remind you that even though there is so much ugliness in the world, there is also so much beauty.”

  Despite the opulence around them, the embellishment of every surface that had been touched with a creative hand, there was no beauty that compared to Erik’s blue eyes as he said this.

  She opened her lips to speak again, but his were suddenly pressed against hers. Sweet and delicious, overwhelming her to the point that she felt like she could collapse right onto the carpet in the aisle. Erik’s body tensed, like a racehorse being restrained in its pen. But he didn’t push for more even though she would have happily lost herself if he had.

  “Mabel,” he said again. She’d always thought her name to be a plain one, but carried on his breath, it sounded beautiful. “You’ve woken me up again.”

  He pulle
d away, leaving just enough space to speak.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. Because she could have said the very same thing.

  He ran his hand along the length of her hair, as if it were some rare artifact.

  “Working at the Little Theater has been my only joy this year. Until you came along.”

  That was difficult to believe. He was employed at one of the most successful businesses in Texas and glamorous women like Ernestine fell in love with him.

  She hoped for him to explain, but he offered no more.

  He pulled back. “We have already had enough sad stories for today, though. I want to show you one more thing before we head back.”

  Mabel followed him back up the aisle aware of the way she could feel her pulse on her lips. When they reached the main gallery, she saw a staircase, so equal in splendor to the rest of the theater that it nearly blended in. She would never have thought such a feast to the eyes would be possible, yet even one square foot of the Majestic proved it to be true.

  Erik started up the steps, eager in his pace. On the second floor, he opened more doors and reentered the theater from the mezzanine. From here, the sky was even closer, though still towering above them.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this,” he said, not telling her what this was.

  They took a few steps down, passing sections of seats likely reserved for wealthy patrons. It was probably the closest Mabel would ever get to such an arrangement, and she imagined what it would be like to come here in fine clothes and enjoy a night of carefree entertainment.

  As they neared the edge, she felt her legs weaken again. This time, not from Erik or that kiss, but from the dizzying height. She felt silly; it was only one story above where they’d been, but the painted sky overhead added to her sense of vertigo.

  She took a deep breath and gripped the back of a seat, hoping that Erik didn’t notice.