The First Emma

by Di Maio, Camille

  That’s why everything was so different with Erik. He made her feel like she was truly valued. Not merely desired.

  Buck’s words, added to Mrs. Koehler’s commission to not waste any more minutes in the past, put some balm on the wounds in her heart. She had to trust that Pops would make his way back from wherever he was. And if he didn’t, at least her brother was here to bear that with her.

  She slipped her arm in his again and they continued walking.

  “I haven’t asked about what happened to you yet.” She wondered if he was right that a boy as sweet and sensitive as Robert might have been better off being lost so early. He might not have survived whatever duration Buck had had to endure.

  A dark look crossed his eyes. “I flew my plane off the USS Yorktown. We’d received intelligence that there was a Jap destroyer in the Coral Sea. We followed orders to sink it. And we did. But they’d shot at my gas tank and I went down. I clung to a piece of the wreckage and swam to a tiny island off the coast of Australia. My arm had been badly injured. The village doctor tried to save it, but there was no use. It had become badly infected and he warned that it would spread and kill me if he didn’t remove it.”

  What a ghastly thought! Silence passed between them before he continued. “And when I’d rested and regained my strength, I made it further to a town called Conway. Thank God Australia picked the right side of this fight.”

  “So you weren’t in enemy hands?” She shuttered as some of the horrors she’d worried over. Accounts of terrible tortures made their way to this side of the Pacific.

  “Only the enemies of starvation and weather. But once I made it to the shore, I was well taken care of by locals.”

  “Then why did it take so long for us to hear from you?”

  “It was a primitive area. No telephones. Spotty mail service. And it was many weeks before Australian troops came by and I could hitch a ride in a transport vehicle to somewhere that had communication with American forces.”

  “I’m so relieved.”

  “It wasn’t a cakewalk, Mabel. Or a vacation.”

  She hadn’t meant it that way. Just that it could have been worse.

  “I know that.” Words, once spoken, couldn’t be taken back. If only we could reclaim our breath and start over.

  “I found out later that the ship we sank, the Shōhō, wasn’t a destroyer at all. It was a light air carrier vessel. So it was all for nothing.”

  “Wasn’t it a military ship, though?”

  “Yes. With three small aircraft on it. And yet we pounded it. Waste of torpedoes. And Devastators. We lost three attack planes in that skirmish. And it took me out of the rest of the fighting.”

  He said that with agitation. Mabel supposed she’d never understand. She was glad that her brother was alive, but maybe there was more to it for him. She remembered Erik’s disappointment that he wasn’t able to go and fight. A woman might be relieved to have the opportunity to stay on safe ground and contribute here. But a man seemed to hear the call of war like a Siren. A primal need to go to battle. Or, more likely, a desire to defend their country.

  Their walk had taken them closer to Pearl. Mabel changed the touchy subject and hoped to bring her brother’s attention to things of the present. She told him all about her past few months, from answering Mrs. Koehler’s advertisement, to the trip to Texas, to the fascinating story of the brewery’s matriarch.

  She did not tell him about Erik. Buck hadn’t been around for the Artie saga, but he wouldn’t have liked it. Older brothers were historically defensive of younger sisters and Buck would surely be no different.

  “But you don’t even like beer,” he said when she told him about the brief tour she’d taken of Pearl.

  “It’s not the taste, or what I imagine it to be. It’s my silly fear that I’ll turn into Pops if I try it.”

  He stopped and turned her toward him.

  “You’re not Pops, Mabel. You’re your own person. I wouldn’t let that stop you from trying it, not if you otherwise want to. Robert and I—” he stopped, probably realizing that speaking of him in the present tense was no longer possible. “Robert and I used to throw many pints back. And we never turned into our father. It depends on why you do it, I guess. He did it to escape pain.”

  “You’re probably right,” she agreed. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. But I did learn about something called near-bear. They call it La Perla. All the taste and none of the effects.”

  “Sounds dreadful.”

  “Why?”

  “Because half the fun of it is the effect. As long as you don’t lose your head about it.”

  “I’ll leave that to you boys, then.” She realized that the reference was intended to include Robert. How easy it was to slip back into old habits with Buck around.

  “Frieda taught me something neat, though.” She was anxious to turn the conversation. “She told me that if you soak your hair in beer for two hours and then wash it, it will come out looking more clean than any shampoo would do.”

  He looked at her with a funny crook in his eyebrow. The same one that always preceded a laugh.

  “Don’t tell me you tried that,” he chuckled. “I can’t quite picture you with your head over a basin seeing if she’s right.”

  “I haven’t yet.” In fact, she’d planned to try it in the morning. Opening night for Green Grow the Lilacs was tomorrow night and she wanted to look her best. Frieda wouldn’t steer her wrong.

  “My sister, the living stein.”

  She tried to think up some retort, but just then, a light blue convertible drove by.

  Erik.

  He pulled over and honked the horn. She worried what might be going through his mind, seeing her walking with a tall and handsome stranger in uniform.

  She waved and smiled, gestures he returned in kind.

  “Hey, darling. I was on my way to see you.” He stopped the car and hopped out. He looked Buck up and down, but his expression was one more curious than jealous.

  “Hello!” She pulled away from her brother and lifted up on her toes to give Erik a quick kiss on the cheek. She wondered what Buck might think; he’d never known her to have a beau. But Erik had become too important to her to slight.

  She took his arm. “This is my brother.”

  Erik’s mouth broke into a wide smile and he put out his hand. Buck took it, looking at Mabel with questions in his eyes.

  “Buck Hartley,” he said.

  “Yes. Mabel has told us all about you. We’ve been so anxious for your arrival.”

  Mabel had to pinch her lips together to keep from grinning. Erik’s welcome was more heartfelt than she could have even hoped.

  “I’ve been anxious to get here. I thought my little sister might need some looking after, but I may have been wrong.” He looked back and forth between the two of them.

  “Mabel looks after herself quite well. It’s no small thing to travel across the country on your own and start over.”

  The men hadn’t let go of each other’s grips. Mabel watched her brother’s jaw tighten. She really wanted them to like each other, and though Erik seemed willing, Buck would not be so easily won over.

  In time, she assured herself. In time.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, forcing a smile. She pulled away from Erik and stood between them. “What a lucky girl I am to have the two of you in my life. Buck, this is Erik Garrels. He is Mrs. Koehler’s nephew. Well, really, her cousin. But she calls all family by the more familiar name. Erik works at the brewery and moonlights as a stage hand at a local theater.”

  “Does he moonlight at anything else?” Buck released Erik’s hand and put his own into his pocket.

  Mabel appreciated his concern, but there was no excuse for rudeness. She would have preferred to tell Buck privately about this, but here it was. It was up to her to set the example for how things would proceed from here.

  “Yes,” she answered her brother, moving back to stand by Erik. Her heart felt like it stopped a
s she prepared her words. “You might say that. Erik is my beau.”

  Buck opened his mouth to speak, but she laid a hand on his arm. “And before you say anything about it, I expect that you will trust my judgment. I’ve had to grow up a lot in the last year. I’m not the little girl you left behind in Baltimore.”

  She watched a thousand thoughts race through his mind, but at last, he took a deep breath.

  “You’re right. Old habits, I guess. I’ll probably never think anyone is good enough for my sister.”

  Erik spoke again. “One can never have too many people who hold them in such high regard. I assure you, Mr. Hartley, that I have excellent intentions toward your sister and I know that I will prove that to you if you give me the chance.”

  “Buck. You can call me Buck.”

  It came out in such a staccato pace, but Mabel knew that he wouldn’t have corrected Erik if he weren’t willing to concede some familiarity. It was a start.

  Erik continued, looking at Mabel. “I was about to swing by Auntie Emma’s house to tell you that I’d reserved some seats in the front row for us for opening night tomorrow.” He turned to her brother. “But now that you’re here, I’d be happy to set one aside for you as well.”

  “Theater?” Buck looked skeptical. He was all baseball and wrestling. Not acting and dancing, despite his talent with a paintbrush. But she shot him a look that told him she wanted him to come.

  “Sure,” he said at last. “Thank you.”

  “Well, then,” Erik said, putting his arm around Mabel and giving her a light squeeze. “You two must have lots to catch up on and I will only get in the way. I don’t need to come to Auntie Emma’s after all, then. Give her my love and tell her that if she changes her mind about tomorrow, I’ll save a seat for her, too.”

  “I will.” She smiled. He’d been so patient through this exchange. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Buck?” He put his hand out again and her brother took it more readily. “If there’s anything I can do for you, say the word. I’m happy to set you up with a job at Pearl should you need it and my car is at your disposal. And don’t hesitate to ask Emma for anything. She’s like an apple pie. Crusty on the outside, but all soft when you get to know her. And there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for family.”

  Apple pie. Mabel smiled at the metaphor. Not a turtle, not a porcupine. Apple pie was just right.

  Erik stepped back into his car and waved as he drove off. Mabel missed the goodbye kiss—not even a peck on a cheek. But she had to respect that Erik would naturally take things slow in front of her brother.

  She turned to Buck. “Oh, isn’t that wonderful? You could stay here in San Antonio and walk right into a job. Pearl is one of the best employers in the city.”

  That dark look passed across his face again.

  “What is it?” she pressed.

  “I’m not staying.”

  The knot in her stomach returned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m only on leave. I’m going back to the Pacific in a week.”

  .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  BUCK’S WORDS HAD SET a cloud over Mabel for the rest of the day and all of the next. Of course he couldn’t be here forever. What had she been thinking? The joy that he had returned mostly unscathed turned to bitterness when she realized that his soundness of mind meant that the Army Air Corps owned him for the duration of the war.

  Or until he was hurt again.

  Or worse.

  She’d asked him about that, why the loss of an arm wasn’t enough to disqualify him from service. And he admitted that it had been offered to him. But he’d argued for at least a position in an encampment away from the front lines; he was convinced there was still much service left in him.

  She was determined not to sink again into that pit that she’d wallowed in for too long. Buck was alive. A hero, even. And at least he’d be assigned out of combat’s way. She had reason to hope.

  As much as she would have liked to spend every minute of his leave together, his hourglass was not the only one dripping time by all too quickly. Mrs. Koehler had taken a turn for the worse last night after rallying for the past few days. Doctor Weaver made a call to the mansion in the middle of the night, and this time Emma had put up no protests.

  After breakfast, she called Mabel into her bedroom.

  Mabel had not yet ventured into this place. It had never been said that she couldn’t see Mrs. Koehler’s private chambers, but it was simply not done. Even at her age, she liked to emerge in the late morning with her rouge and lipstick on, her hair set, her attire pressed. But today was an exception.

  Helga showed her into the room, oddly shaped with angled walls. It had never been intended to be a bedroom, but a secondary parlor. Less formal than the one in front of the house. The sunlight was good and Mabel could see why Mrs. Koehler had chosen this spot. It had been her room for years now, as the effort to climb the stairs became too much even after her recovery.

  Mrs. Koehler’s face was colorless, lacking in cosmetics and the natural rosiness to which Mabel had grown accustom. Her white hair lay unkempt against the pillow and her nightdress was unbuttoned enough that Mabel could see the canvas of wrinkles that lay across her neck. The room was a combination of stale air with a hint of rosewater. Not unpleasant. Not like it could have been in the room of an elderly person. Helga wore the hat of nursemaid as well as housekeeper and did her job well.

  Mrs. Koehler beckoned with a frail finger and gestured for Mabel to sit in the high-backed chair at the side of the bed. As she drew closer, she thought for the first time that despite a month of Mrs. Koehler’s dire words, this was the first time in which death really looked like it was drawing near. Her lips were cracked and her skin was translucent in its paleness.

  Mrs. Koehler took her hand in a gesture that was becoming more frequent between them. Mabel found herself stroking the older, spotted skin with deep affection. “Your brother,” the old woman said in a forced whisper. “He has settled in?”

  “Yes. He’s in the room across the hall from me. Frieda made him an elaborate breakfast. And he even agreed to take a tour of Pearl today with Erik.”

  That last bit had felt rather like a miracle. But they’d gotten along remarkably well at the play and Erik rang last night with the offer. Buck actually accepted. Mabel wished she could be a gnat, flying alongside them unnoticed, to hear what they would talk about.

  “I know you would much rather be with him today,” Mrs. Koehler said. “But I’m afraid that we still have so much to cover and so little time in which to do it. I hope you’ll indulge an old lady and spend the day with me.”

  “Of course. Of course I’m here, Emma. We can work as much or as little as you are up to.”

  “Doctor Weaver is coming by a little later with another shot for me. He’s not a bad sort after all, is he?”

  “He just wants to make you comfortable.”

  Mrs. Koehler nodded with effort. “Yes, yes. I’ve been too stubborn. Maybe if I’d let him give me his medicines years ago I’d have more time.”

  She took a deep, wheezy breath before continuing. “But, as I’ve said. No looking back. We have only the time ahead of us and I will use it well. Let’s begin.”

  1914

  The accounts of Otto’s murder are well documented and to learn the facts of it, there are many clippings in Helga’s care. Including the transcript of Emma B’s trial. There is no need to spend precious time here going over it, except for the most basic facts. Emma Burgemeister began to get plagued with migraines. With family so far away in Germany, she forged a letter in the name of a neighbor named Henry Cordt and wrote to Emma Dumpke, now Daschiel, begging her to come to San Antonio to take care of her old friend. She knew that her own plea would likely fall on deaf ears. Their relationship seemed to have suffered damage after all. Emma D. came reluctantly, likely burdened with the guilt of all that had happened.

  Otto had been having fits lately. I knew that the co
ming Prohibition terrified him and he lashed out over nothings. It angered him to learn that I had purchased a new wheelchair with the help of my nurse. He was furious, too, that I was in one at all after having made so much progress. But I had my setbacks, and he’d returned home during a particularly painful time.

  He set out for Emma’s cottage in some kind of rage. I reminded him as he left that the senator was coming over for dinner and he shouldn’t be late.

  When Sheriff Tobin came to the house that afternoon and told me in a pitiful tone that Otto had been shot three times and lay dead in the cottage, my first thought was of Pearl. So cold had our marriage grown that any sense of mourning for him was a secondary thought, quite distant after my concerns for the brewery. If that seems hard-hearted, I would understand, but I will not sugarcoat the facts and make myself out to be some beleaguered damsel. It was the death of one versus the survival of many.

  Otto’s death meant that I would have to fight the board for a more powerful position now that I had lost him as an ally, albeit a reluctant one.

  When I learned that Emma Burgemeister had been the assailant, I was not surprised. The young woman had chutzpa, as my neighbors at the synagogue would call it. They’d found her on the floor, inconsolable, cradling Otto’s body. She continued to be hysterical and clutched her forearm as they took her away. She’d been knifed, though it was unclear at the time if it was self-inflicted or if Otto had attacked her. Her only words were, “I killed him. I had to do it.”

  She was in too poor a condition to be brought to prison. Instead, they took her all the way to Baylor Hospital. Emma Daschiel was held for five nights on account of conspiracy for murder, but her husband hurried over from New York and paid her five hundred-dollar bail. We never saw her again and I think she was happy to be rid of us.

  Otto’s funeral took place on the same day that Burgemeister was released from the hospital and brought to the Bexar County Jail. I only learned that after the fact. I was inundated with letters and flowers from all over the country. Three thousand people came to mourn him. I used the excuse of being bereft to decline the opportunity to eulogize him. What role was I supposed to play in the public arena? The heartbroken wife? The ardent business partner? The jilted woman?