A Fireproof Home for the Bride

by Amy Scheibe

Once the blessing was given, Karin quickly slipped past Emmy’s father in order to join the women serving coffee in the basement, and gave him a look that suggested he keep a close eye on the girls. Christian frequently deferred to Karin, even after their own small farm had failed when Emmy was ten, and they’d had no choice but to move into a three-room shack on Grandfather Nelson’s farm. It had once been used by the betabeleros who took the trains north every spring to plant sugar beets and back down south to the Texas border once the harvest was completed late in the fall. The interior walls of the outhouse ten feet behind the shack were still papered in Mexican movie magazines featuring Rita Hayworth’s toothy smile.

  As much as she had wondered why they couldn’t just live in the farmhouse with her grandmother, Emmy knew that there was some strength behind Christian’s quiet pride. Rather than replace his newly dead father as head of the farm, Christian took a mechanic’s job at the sugar factory. It took seven long years of taxing work, but Emmy could tell that Christian was never happier than when he unloaded their possessions into the small house in Moorhead that fall. Even so, they all continued to help Grandmother Nelson maintain what little was left of her enterprise: a handful of milking cows, a half-blind hunting dog, a dozen laying hens, and an old inedible hog named Sausage. Lida wouldn’t hear of selling one feather of the place, and it had been made plain to Emmy that the farm would be given to her and Ambrose, finally joining the two families as Grandfather Nelson had desired.

  Task-driven blood in her veins, Karin Nelson looped her arm through Grandmother Nelson’s, helping the much older woman out of the pew and down the short aisle toward the stairs. Lida Nelson was the center of the church’s universe. She had left her family early in order to create her own place in this loop of the river, and she took on the history of every parishioner as though it were her own. The Nelsons had all been baptized in this room, they would all be married here, and God willing at the end of their lives receive the blessing of rejoining their relatives in the attached graveyard of good Lutherans. Emmy touched the smooth pew, finding the slight dent where she’d cut her first tooth. She imagined what the low-shouldered country church must have looked like from the sky, set back from the meandering creek just far enough to stay high in flood years, close enough to hold picnic suppers in the late afternoon shade of early September harvests. Since she was very small, she’d been told stories about the great Norwegian settlers who had staked out this land and constructed a sod lean-to from the densely packed soil, slicked the sides with paint made from quicklime and chalk, and retained the services of a traveling preacher until they could afford a full-time recruit. Soon after, a suitable wooden building was constructed.

  All that hard work was swept up into the spinning maw of a tornado in 1929, leaving only the organ untouched. Twice more, twisters had descended on them, the most recent coming late on a cloudless day the past June, when the deadliest cluster ever seen had ripped its way through a speckled swath of the county. One tremendous funnel that looked like an upside-down birthday cake had flattened areas of Fargo, while a group of three smaller spirals barely missed the little church as the storm made its devastating way into their valley, leaving pieces of houses from as far away as North Fargo scattered about the farm. Emmy had found a dollar bill, the wheel from a child’s wagon, and the cracked head of a porcelain doll, among other displaced treasures. Even now, in the dead of winter, when the sky turned black, a shiver of trepidation would come over Emmy, reminding her of how scared she had been as they huddled in the disused coal bin, listening to the howling winds encompass her grandmother’s home.

  Emmy rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms as she stood between her father and Birdie in the crowded aisle. She gazed up at the stained-glass depiction of Christ ascendant, wondering what He thought of the poor souls from the Golden Ridge area of Fargo who had been killed in the storm. Had He opened his arms to the five Acevedo children taken alongside their mother? Did it make sense that God chose to leave behind the father and one son? She’d read their stories in the local paper, and had wept over the picture of the baby of the family being carried away from the wreckage by a fireman who had either lost or discarded his hat—his limp slant of bangs obscured the horror he must have felt—until her heart couldn’t stand any more of it.

  The feel of her father’s hand on the middle of her back brought Emmy’s thoughts around to the sturdy brick church, and she let her questioning melt away, as she often had when the wall of God’s reason seemed too high for her to scale. Christian roped his other arm around Birdie’s shoulders and engaged Ambrose’s father as he moved out of his own pew.

  “Good morning, Del,” her father said, offering his hand to the dark-suited gentleman. Delmar Brann, reed thin and yet a good head taller than Christian, took the slighter man’s hand in both of his as he grunted a greeting. An older, squatter, and unfamiliar man moved out of the pew, nodding solicitously at them as he slid past and broke into the line waiting to greet the pastor at the door. Emmy noticed her father’s look of irritated surprise before she cast her eyes to the floor, while Birdie used the moment to sprint out from under her father’s arm and rush off to join her friends at the back of the church. There was something in Mr. Brann’s stature that always made Emmy feel small, insignificant: almost breakable. He was closer in age to her grandfather than to Christian, and had been married late, but widowed early, to a woman rumored to have come from a wealthy Chicago family.

  “Good morning,” Mr. Brann said, and moved in a lanky shuffle along the aisle. “What are you hearing in town about Burdick’s attempts to get into Congress?”

  “I prefer not to talk politics in church,” Christian said, forcing a friendly enough laugh, but Emmy sensed discomfort in her father as he tipped his head in her direction.

  Mr. Brann turned brusquely to Emmy, sliding a rough knuckle under her chin. She resisted taking a step back. “How’s our girl?” He leaned closely enough for her to see a fleck of pepper between his top teeth. “The winter cold enough for you?”

  “Oh, you bet,” Emmy replied, an embarrassed shade of red prickling her skin. Karin had told her that after Sunday dinner at the Branns’, matters would be discussed between the two families, and from Mr. Brann’s solicitous smile, Emmy could tell that her position in his favor had risen. The obvious downside of a marriage to Ambrose was the eventual, continual proximity to his father, though Emmy knew that there was no fairness in comparing Ambrose to Mr. Brann. She was nothing like her mother, and Emmy’s blush began to rise up to her ears with the notion of Ambrose setting them in the same frame. Her mother was cold and firm, hardworking and driven, serving Jesus with her every breath. Emmy loved Jesus but found less of her soul compelled to model his mission. She wanted to do good works in her life, but she also wanted to look up and out at the world, rather than stare deeply into a pair of prayer-folded hands, whispering words of devotion and salvation. What was the point of being saved if she never did anything that required the risk of being lost? Her mother lived within the limits of this room, even when she was outside of it. Emmy’s view was drawn to the horizon, and whatever might lie beyond. How she would incorporate this yearning into a marriage to the farm boy next door she had no clue, but she hoped her brand of faith would lend more guidance than her mother’s had.

  Emmy gave her head a little shake to clear the muddling thought and quickened her step to leave the older men behind. She slipped her hand into the crook of Ambrose’s arm. He smiled down at her.

  “How’s the farm?” Emmy asked, feeling the heat of his body through the layers of clothing, hot like an ember in the grate. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow and Emmy had to quietly wonder whether he might be ill. Clearly she wasn’t the only one nervous about what the day would hold for their future.

  “A dozen hens are off their lay,” he said.

  Emmy laughed, then darkened her tone. “That sounds serious.”

  “You’ll see,” he said, a small smile pulling at one corner of hi
s mouth.

  “Yes, I suppose I will,” she said, her attempt at merriment waning as they approached Pastor Erickson where he stood in the entryway, shaking hands and listening to the needs of his flock with a look of either deep sympathy or abject senility. He was a perfectly square man with straight, feeble lines of white hair laced atop a face that was always bright pink, regardless of the weather or circumstance. Emmy had loved the pastor when she was a small girl, but as she’d filled out her Sunday dresses over time, his lingering eyes had made her increasingly uncomfortable to the point of slouching.

  “Good morning, Emmaline,” he said as he took both hands and held them out to her sides. His touch was oddly damp and dry at the same time, like washing taken in from the line five minutes too early. “You’re looking especially pretty today.” Emmy broke her own sweat, which she could feel collect at her temples and underneath her gray wool hat, where her scalp began to itch.

  “Thank you, Pastor. You’re very kind to say so,” she said as Ambrose stepped between them, saving her from further discomfort.

  “Yes, she’s a pretty one, sir,” Ambrose said as he shook the pastor’s hand. “Wonderful sermon, I especially enjoyed your thoughts on Nadab and Abihu. I had never considered how their punishment related to the great flood, or Gilgamesh.” Emmy looked at Ambrose, surprised by how much he had to say, as though the coal of Isaiah had touched his lips when she wasn’t looking.

  Pastor Erickson narrowed one eye. “You’re a great study, Ambrose. You should consider taking the cloth yourself, you know. We could use more men like you.”

  “So you always say.” Ambrose bowed his head. “But I serve the Lord through faith alone.”

  “His Grace be with you,” Pastor Erickson replied, turning back to Emmy and casting a rheumy glance down the length of her frame.

  “And with you,” Ambrose said, moving Emmy along toward the basement stairs. The smell of percolating coffee and the clattering of the church women setting out cups pointed up the silence that rested between the young couple. In the few moments it took them to descend, Emmy sought a topic of conversation to begin, but nothing came to mind. She certainly hadn’t listened closely enough to the sermon to engage him on the topic of divine retribution—or whatever it was the pastor had spent so much time talking about. If it wasn’t damnation, it was likely wrath or some other brimstone subject. The gamut Pastor Erickson ran was as small as that of a penned-up rooster, and nearly as nonsensical, but she knew better than to speak her mind on to Ambrose. It seemed to her at times that she was the only person who noticed the paucity of words and ideas coming from the pulpit, so eager were the parishioners to have Pastor Erickson’s holy approval.

  “School’s going well,” Emmy said, feeling the awkwardness in Ambrose’s lack of response. She wanted to tell him all about her new life in Moorhead, and what an adjustment it had been for her, going from the immigrant shack her father had improved as much as he could, to the slightly larger, faintly more comfortable two-bedroom house situated in what Emmy had quickly learned was the poor side of the big town, on the lesser bank of the Red River. To the west across that river lay Fargo, which, in the early days of both settlements, had claimed a much bigger stake with the railroads than its little twin sister, Moorhead. Emmy was only beginning to understand the myriad effects of this dynamic, though, and worried that if she tried to express her impressions of it Ambrose would wave away her insights like slow-moving attic flies.

  When they reached the wide, warm basement the young couple wordlessly parted ways, Ambrose to join the men gathered around the coffee table, and Emmy to the kitchen and a sink of soapy water. Her mother passed with a plate of her homemade doughnuts, which were always hard and dry but somehow the most popular Sunday-morning hospitality item. Emmy slipped into the bustling kitchen, quietly past the women swarming there, and out the back cellar door.

  Once outside in the cement-lined structure at the foot of the stairs, Emmy let out a long sigh and climbed to the top, where she sat hugging her knees for warmth. She found an instant comfort in the solitude of the moment. Behind the church a number of young boys ran around in the snow, impervious to their reddening hands and dripping noses. Emmy smiled at their predictability—boys had been like this when she was young, and they would be like this when she was old. One of them stole another’s cap, and the shock of white-blond hair made Emmy wonder if her son would look like so many of the children who had passed through this yard. Her own hair still held its childhood brilliance—a gift from her grandfather, along with the blushing skin—while Birdie’s had darkened to a tawny brown.

  The basement door opened and out popped Svenja Sorenson, her russet-colored looped braids catching the morning sunshine and her pale blue eyes slicing up to meet Emmy’s in a squinted, freckle-splattered smile.

  “Oh, Emmy! Here you are!” Svenja dashed up the steps and squeezed into the smaller space to Emmy’s left, rather than take the two feet of empty stair to her right. Emmy scooted over.

  Emmy turned one palm up. “Here I am.”

  “Tell me everything—what’s happening in the real world?” Svenja asked, smelling of strawberry jam. “Oh, how I would die to live in Moorhead, away from the gophers and milk cows and hay-smelling boys.” She propped her dreamy, round face in one hand. “What are the boys like in your school? Have you made a new best friend?” Svenja was an only child with poor prospects who, Emmy imagined, would choose a life like so many of the women in the basement below, settling down with a local farm boy and losing her beauty slowly over time to successive babies and the layers of flesh they’d drape around her ample figure. Emmy had watched this progression plump the older girls in Glyndon, and she couldn’t deny that marrying Ambrose might seal for her a similar fate. Emmy felt a sliver of solidarity as Svenja pulled her into a confidential hug. “You know, when we graduate this spring, I might just join you there,” Svenja whispered.

  “Oh, I don’t plan on being in town for that long,” Emmy said. “I’ll be back around here for good before you know it.”

  Svenja shrugged, playing with a loose button on her threadbare cotton coat. “Don’t you ever wish there was more than this?”

  “Sometimes.” Emmy looked Svenja in the eye. They had been baptized on the same day and confirmed together fourteen years later, but had very little else in common other than parallel time lines pointing forward from the step on which they were huddled. “Of course there’s more out there, but there’s plenty here as well. Do you?”

  “Me?” Svenja shook her head with a light laugh before a cloud passed over her expression. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Svenja took her hand and leaned closer, though Emmy hardly thought that possible. “My mother says that I should marry John Hansen. Apparently he’s been asking about me.”

  “That’s good, right?” Emmy said, trying to sound cheerful. John was even older than Ambrose, and a longtime bachelor who lived with his aging parents on a disheveled sheep farm that smelled in a way that made Emmy roll up the window of the car on a hot day whenever they drove past. It didn’t smell much better in the winter with them closed.

  “They do have quite a few acres of beets. Enough to afford a field hand, who comes all the way from Texas every spring.” Svenja attempted a hopeful aspect.

  Out of kindness, Emmy chose not to speak the obvious—everyone knew John to be slow of thought, and beyond hiring himself out to work with the Branns’ cows, his prospects were slim.

  “I know he’s not as worldly as Ambrose.” Svenja sprang to her feet. “But I suppose there are far worse fates. I’m going in. You?”

  “It’s quiet out here, and too hot in there,” Emmy said, pointing at the door.

  “Okay, then. You know where to find me.” Svenja sat on the iron handrail and slid down the length of it, just as they had done over and over again when they were small.

  “God be with you,” Emmy said as Svenja slipped through the cellar door. Soo
n enough Emmy would have to follow, tie on her apron, and clear cups, as she did every Sunday. Then they would all get into the car and drive the half mile to the Brann farm, make the polite small talk, eat the over-done roast, and wait for the details of her fate to be decided. How could she not at least try to take a step in another direction, one small step to know what she might be missing? Emmy found great comfort in her life with her family, but she felt as she sat and looked out on the graves of people she had known, and people who had known her whom she didn’t even remember, that the distance between where she sat and the rectangle of earth awaiting her had precipitously shortened. Her foot itched and her stomach growled. The inertia of passive solitude stretched within her as a deep shiver began to rack her body. A scrim of dread descended as she imagined the next ten minutes: rejoining Ambrose, having another chat about the weather with Mr. Brann, and saying a ten-minute good-bye to the pastor as he slowly worked his hot, damp hand from her elbow up to her shoulder while he talked about the Apostle Paul. The one time Emmy had tried to evade his lavender-smelling breath, Karin had lectured her for no less than a week on the shame of having a daughter who couldn’t show respect to a man of the cloth in God’s own house.

  The door below her opened again, and Ambrose stuck his head into the cold, smiling tightly up at her. “You’re blue,” he stated. “Come in.”

  Hearing his reined impatience, Emmy was startled to see that the Ambrose who stood at the bottom of the staircase was no longer the maypole that her childish imagination had wound itself around. Where once was a companion running, fishing, and hunting alongside of her, now there was a partner of a new sort: one whose lead expected a follow. His expression softened and he extended his hand with a coax of his fingers, a gesture whose familiarity pulled her away from Svenja’s romantic whisperings of more out there. Emmy turned the wheel of doubt back one click in Ambrose’s favor, took up the braces of her expected routine, and let the capricious notions of youth drift behind her in their gathering cloud.