He leaned over the balcony at what seemed to be a dangerous angle and let out a laugh.
“I think this will work!”
Her curiosity won. “What will work?”
He gestured to her to join him. “Come see.”
Holding in a breath once again, she ignored the rapid beat of her heart and took one more step toward him.
“Watch this.” He folded his hands together and repeated his stance. Only then did she understand what he was doing. He was standing behind the cloud machine that was projecting the images onto the ceiling. When he put his hands in front of it, it cast an enormous image of his fist onto the sky. It looked like a thundercloud. Then, he shifted his two pointer fingers and turned them upward.
“It’s a rabbit,” he grinned.
She could see it. His hands created a round body and his fingers became elongated ears. She nearly forgot how close to the edge they were standing.
“Wait, I can do it better than that,” he decided. Erik unlocked his hands, trying different shapes, wrinkling the corner of his mouth as he tried to work it out. Mabel’s heart swelled with affection at this childlike turn, happy that joy could indeed be found even among so much sorrow. She’d forgotten how to live, how to play, and it reminded her of what it was like to be in a family. Buck used to be great with shadow animals, as he called them. And though he’d spent hours entertaining his little sister, Mabel had never tried it for herself.
“Got it!” Erik had contorted his hands into two C-shapes, one backing up to the other, fingers crossed in impossible positions. But he was right: when she looked up, a more detailed rabbit took up the space of the theater. Paws, feet, and even a space for an eye as Erik left a gap at the bottom of his thumb to let the light shine through.
“I love it,” squealed Mabel. “Make his ears wiggle!”
Erik obliged, and his two fingers did a little dance that was magnified across the arch of the proscenium. When they’d both exhausted their laughter, he stepped back.
“Do you want to try?”
“I’m not sure I could top that.”
“You won’t know until you’re up here.”
Her legs tingled with fear once again, but less so than before. The lure of long-withheld amusement was greater than such irrationality.
What was it that Buck had done? Some kind of billy goat, she recalled. Complete with a beard and parted lips that appeared to bleat when her brother made a guttural sound in his throat. She’d peal over at that.
But it was a complicated one and she wasn’t sure she could replicate it.
Something simple then. With her right hand, she gripped the balcony, and she crouched down, placing her left hand in front of the projector. She straightened her fingers, extended her pinky down, and lifted her pointer finger up, bending it at the knuckle.
“What is that?” asked Erik. “It looks like some tadpole you’d find skimming a pond.”
“It’s a duck!” she answered. “Don’t you see it? Quack, quack, quack.” She opened and closed her hand to mimic a bill.
“Well, now that you add the sound effects, I can imagine that it’s duck-like.”
“Duck-like?” She looked up at the ceiling and felt her cheeks blush. It did resemble a tadpole swimming across a blue that could be mistaken for water instead of an artificial sky.
She shifted her fingers, this time watching the image rather than her hands. And with a few changes, it became a proper mallard.
“That’s better, I think,” she said.
“Much. That’s the best duck shadow in the history of duck shadows.” Erik smiled again, the corner of his lips wrinkling, but in a different way than before.
“You’ve seen so many in your lifetime?”
“My dear, I have a veritable zoo up here.” He pointed to his head. “That’s what comes from growing up in a war-ravaged country and having to find a way to pass the time and amuse yourself.”
That’s exactly what Buck had done, she realized. She’d been too young to understand how little money they had. But her brothers, Robert and Buck both, had entertained her with all sorts of antics. She had never appreciated that until now. What fun they’d had.
But surprisingly, the memory of those times did not bring the melancholy they might have just a few days ago. Instead, she felt only the sweetness of a joyful time. Long gone, but not forgotten.
Mabel became disoriented by the height and stepped back, dizzy. She pulled down the seat of one of the folded chairs and sank into its velvety cushion. Erik did the same, the hinges of his seat sending an ear-piercing sound through the space.
“You’d think for what these seats probably cost, they could oil those,” she commented. It was not an untrue observation, but she made it only to fill the quiet seconds that passed. Having him sit so close to her, sharing the moment of laughter, she found her heart racing and feared that he would hear it. It seemed to echo in her own ears.
“You would think,” he repeated. But his words were hollow. He was facing her again, as he had downstairs. And the jovial nature of their last minutes faded as his eyes grew serious. “You’re beautiful, Mabel Hartley,” he whispered.
She parted her lips to speak, but no words would come. She didn’t know how to answer a sentiment that filled her with emotions that could not be expressed in any language. There was only one response that could come close to conveying all that she was feeling toward him; love, gratitude, peace. She shifted her body closer to his, realizing as she did that the armrest between them could be elevated. She pushed it all the way up, moving even closer until her leg touched his.
She was aware of every part of her body, inside and out, each beating to a different rhythm as her heart tried to keep up. She was terrified that she might let herself be bold enough to try things that she’d never dared before. And knew Erik to be too much of a gentleman to encourage it.
But they’d already kissed. That sweet but glorious kiss lingered and she ached for another. She held Erik’s stare and leaned in, enjoying the look of surprise that came across his face as they both realized what she was about to do.
She moved one hand to his leg and lifted herself up to kiss him, fireworks shooting through her lips as they touched his. Erik’s response was hesitant at first, but she could hear in the intake of his breath that he wanted this as much as she did. She didn’t pull back and in no time, he was kissing her back. Not the delicate variety of before, but one more ignited. She forced her eyes to stay open at first, amazed at the look of pain that seemed to cross his face. A heartfelt pain that she could understand; one that wanted more than it could have. But once the spark was set, how was one supposed to extinguish it?
Erik’s hands moved to her waist and she lifted herself up ever so slightly, responding to his touch. She had the wildest idea to swing her legs up over him, her body wanting to find every way possible to become closer. But the limitations of the seating acted as a much-needed chaperone, forcing her to give everything she had to this most exquisite kiss.
If this was anything like drunkenness, she could understand the need to have more. She thought of nothing in this moment but her love for Erik. Of how he erased the brokenness in her heart every time she saw him.
She felt his hands tighten their hold on her waist, even as his lips pulled at the bottom of hers.
A door closed down below.
“Erik?” The voice of a man carried through to them as if he were sitting in the next seat.
Erik pulled back and smoothed his hair, looking at Mabel with apology.
“Up here, Erwin.”
“Erwin?” she mouthed.
“My buddy who works here,” he whispered.
“What are you doing up there?” came the voice.
“Reupholstering the seats.”
Erik stood and placed his hands on the balcony, looking down. Mabel could see the top of Erwin’s head, capped with a black hat.
“Get the ones up on the balcony, then, too, will you?” the
man laughed. “There are some shabby ones way in the back.”
“Sure thing.”
“You must be Mabel.” She peeked over and waved, and Mabel could just make out his eyes, nearly hidden by a crop of disheveled bangs.
“He told me you were pretty, but he didn’t say how.”
Erik had talked about her to one of his friends? She’d thought nothing could be better than the moment they’d just shared, but she’d been wrong. It was one thing to express it in the darkness of the theater when it was only the two of them. But to breathe their names together into the larger world signified something even more.
“Thank you,” she managed.
“Hey, I hate to break up the party, but we have a rehearsal starting in half an hour. I thought you’d want to know.”
“We’ll be right down.”
Erik pressed a button on the cloud machine and the magic of the sky disappeared. But Mabel would never forget it.
As they walked back to the second-floor hallway, he pressed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her. Could he sense how unsteady he’d made her feel? When they reached the doorway, she paused and turned to him as he stepped into the frame. The space was tight, but he inched a little closer if that was possible, their bodies near enough to pass only a feather between them.
She looked up at him, hoping that he could read all that she wanted to say.
“Thank you for today, Mabel. You’ve given me a lot to hope for.”
He turned, and took her hand as they headed down the stairs.
Hope. That’s exactly what he’d given her, too.
.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MRS. KOEHLER RETURNED home three days later. The stay in the hospital had seemed to revive her spirits, though Erik said that the doctors continued to believe she had only months to live. She’d insisted that Mabel meet her in the parlor at ten o’clock, eager to continue their progress.
Mabel found her sitting on the sofa instead of her wheelchair, a blanket placed across her legs. She noticed, too, that the Queen Anne chair was missing. And in its place was a plush seat made of rose pink velvet, oversized and inviting.
“I hope the new arrangement is to your liking,” said Mrs. Koehler. “I asked Erik to pick out a new chair for you over at Joske’s.”
Mabel remembered Joske’s to be that large department store near the Alamo. She’d passed it on the train ride in, next door to the Menger Hotel, if memory served. She’d noted its location in case she had to buy anything while she was here, but had not yet had a reason to go.
“May I sit down in it?”
“You’ll grow moss if you stand there and my money will have gone to waste. So, yes. Have a seat.”
Several weeks in, Mabel had still not gotten used to Emma Koehler’s often caustic way of getting a point across, but she supposed that any recipe that led to a woman living as long as she had was one to make allowances for.
Then again, her actions belied that impression. The fact that Mrs. Koehler had considered Mabel’s comfort to the point of purchasing what was obviously an expensive piece showed that she had a heart as soft as her words were harsh.
She sat down on the chair, which was even more comfortable than it looked. She imagined Erik visiting a department store and trying out the different options. Sitting in them, rubbing his hands along their fabric, thinking about what Mabel might like best.
“Don’t get so comfortable as to fall asleep.” Mrs. Koehler pulled her out of the daydream. Mabel opened her notebook and set it on her lap. She noticed that she’d used up more than half of its pages and wondered how many notebooks it would take to complete the story.
And when it was all done, would Mabel’s time in San Antonio be finished as well? Suddenly, each page felt like a threat. As Mrs. Koehler began to speak, she wrote in smaller, neater letters, avoiding the end even as she knew that it had no bearing on what her employer had to say.
“Where did we leave off?” Mrs. Koehler asked.
Mabel swallowed, reluctant to remind the old woman of such a painful part of her history, but there was nowhere to go but through it.
Her voice faltered. “You’d been in a car accident. Mr. Koehler hired a nurse to tend to you. And then fell in love with her.”
Mrs. Koehler closed her eyes and said nothing, and Mabel began to worry that she couldn’t go on. But then she sat up straight and sighed a sigh that seemed to come from the deepest part of her soul.
“Emma Dumpke,” she said. “Yes. I suppose we must talk about her.”
1910
The car accident was no one’s fault, though a more emotional woman might have laid the blame squarely at Otto’s feet. He had no part in the sudden rain that came upon us, nor in the poor quality of the tires on the automobile we’d borrowed for the day. And I might as well call it a contraption rather than an automobile, because it was no more than an open pile of metal welded together to resemble a box on wheels. That’s what they were like in those early days. Not even the luxury of windows. But there was no train that would take us to the rural brewery that Otto wanted to visit and though the car was rudimentary at best, Otto saw it as a great advance for humanity to not have to rely on horses.
If I blame Otto for anything, it is for cajoling me into accompanying him. I intended to stay in Bremen and do a bit of shopping for my family while he was away. By this time, we had buckets of money and I felt that we’d earned the right to enjoy more than a bit of it. I knew that if I visited the markets at a later date, Otto would join me and give his opinions—contrary ones, no doubt—on every purchase I made. I intended to bring back sheep wool slippers for each of my sisters and etched leather satchels for my brothers. Plus Christmas ornaments for all the nieces and nephews who were already starting to immigrate and pass through our house.
But Otto pled with me, saying that I was as much a part of Pearl as he was and the owner of the brewery would be most delighted to meet the “prettier half” of the San Antonio Brewing Association.
“Flattery gets you everywhere,” my father used to say, and it’s apparently an idiom my husband adopted as well. He’d given me so precious little attention since building that confounded Hot Wells Spring, that I was ready to agree to anything in appreciation of the compliment.
Starvation can lead people to do things they never would have done otherwise.
So, yes. Otto is to blame, but no more so than I am for my weakness and my desire to be needed by him. The rain, the car, those were the conspirators, acting together to steer us off the road and change our lives forever.
I can’t tell you much about the accident, truth be told. It rendered me unconscious, and perhaps that is a gift. I woke days later in a rural hospital. Both legs were mangled, the right more so than the left, and my face was covered in unsightly bruises that looked worse than they felt.
My nurse was a petite blonde thing, young and beautiful. She waited on me as if I were her only patient. Beyond her regular duties, she took it upon herself to brush my hair, add rouge to my cheeks, and remind me that I was a woman underneath the casts and gauze. It was a hazy time for me, but I recall thinking that it was magnanimous for Otto to sit at my bedside every day.
How he must love me, I thought. Even if he doesn’t say it.
Only in hindsight did I understand that it was part guilt, part infatuation—for my nurse—that kept him in the uncomfortable wooden chair in that room. Day and night, he stayed. I’d hear him say my name,“ Emma,” with a softness he hadn’t spoken since we’d first married.
Weeks later, it was determined that I could be moved and was even ready for the arduous journey home. But I would need assistance. It was expected that I would be bound to a wheelchair indefinitely. And possibly forever. Otto offered a handsome sum to the nurse who had taken such good care of me and I was grateful for his seeming generosity.
She said yes, no doubt dazzled by the promise of America, and an escape from the country life when she was clearly made fo
r more.
Our passage across the Atlantic was secured: Otto in a luxurious room, with one door connecting his suite to mine. And Emma Dumpke in one adjacent. I thought it quite extravagant of him, and very much out of character, to pay for such exalted lodgings for an employee when it was perfectly reasonable for her to ascend three sets of stairs to attend to me as needed. I was pleased—don’t misunderstand. I thought she deserved it and began to believe that nearly losing me had rid Otto of his otherwise miserly ways.
Naiveté is a bewitching siren. Fooling us into dismissing what is right under our nose, even as truth pesters us. I was as guilty as anyone of succumbing to the lure of remaining ignorant to the growing affection between Otto and my nurse.
For his part, he certainly did his best to dissuade me from concern. On the passage, my husband was especially attentive. He consulted me on his notion to switch from wooden barrels to metal, and we discussed exactly which enzymes would need to be added to retain the beer’s flavor if such a change were made. I suggested that certain ones might rid the brew of its cloudiness as well. Like old times, we calculated the cost of the new barrels, the amount of time it would take for them to pay for themselves, and set a course of action to proceed with the purchases upon our return home.
On the thirteenth night of our journey—an auspicious number by many accounts, though I don’t ascribe to superstition—Otto burst into my chambers with a wild look of despair on his face. Emma Dumpke was assisting me at the time, helping me out of the ship cabin’s claw foot bathtub. Otto had not seen my bare form in many months and all this time of convalescence had added unsightly pounds to my frame. He looked at me as if I were unknown to him, though if he was repulsed, he hid it well enough. To my nurse, his eyes softened and I saw an expression pass between them that left no doubt in my mind that he had already seen her bare form as well. She had a slender frame with curves in all the places a man prefers and I felt distinctly frightful in comparison.
I wanted to be sick. But I held it back. It would only make me look worse than I already did.
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