by Amy Scheibe
Part of Emmy’s duty as copygirl was to sort through the clippings of articles and photographs that various reporters felt were worth filing, and then attempt to find the best category for the clip, and store it in the appropriate envelope or file, depending on how long a subject had been morgued. She checked the inbox on the side table and saw a grouping of tagged photos bundled there. On the very top was one of the Moorhead Theatre, ablaze. As she lifted it, a small ache of guilt passed through her. Cindy’s family had moved down to Minneapolis to be near a special hospital that worked with burn victims. Mr. Rakov had left the Midwest for a job at a distant cousin’s factory in a place called Poughkeepsie. Turning the photo over, Emmy saw the elegant writing of Cal Olson, staff photographer: Movie Theater Fire. Emmy went to the drawer marked MOA-MOZ, pulled on the metal handle, and walked her fingers through the tabs until she found the matching envelope. Pulling the folded clips and pictures from the file with care, she flipped through them, expecting the routine backlog of history to unfold—which it did, until one headline in particular caught her eye. “Strand Theater Engulfed in Easter Day Fire.” She glanced at the date, April 2, 1923, and took the clipping down the hall to Jim.
“Don’t thank me,” he said as she approached. “No one called.”
“Hey, keep the flirting down.” Fred Simmons, the sports writer, looked over at them. He was a very small man with a very big voice. His teasing was just in fun, though, as everyone treated Emmy the same exact way: like a daughter. “Good night, lovebirds,” Fred said as he dropped his final in front of the sleeping Mr. Gordon.
“Look at this,” Emmy said, handing Jim the article and crossing her arms around her waist as she watched him scan through it. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”
“Which part?” he asked, squinting up at her.
“It’s the same sort of fire, isn’t it?” she said, pulling a chair from a nearby desk and sitting. “And also on Easter Sunday. I was filing this photo in the morgue.” She set it next to the article, her confidence flagging. “It just seems odd, is all.”
Jim pushed the copy he’d been revising aside and laid one hand on the Strand article, the other on the Moorhead picture. Emmy quietly watched him, imagining small cogs and wheels turning inside of his head. The night had cooled since the storm had passed, but it was still quite stuffy in the office, even with the ceiling fans on full above.
“I see what you mean,” Jim said, leaning back. “I’ll do some digging around.”
Emmy put a hand on her cheek, hoping it wouldn’t betray her as she gathered her will. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to help you. I mean, I’d like to learn how to dig around.” The words felt stupid in her mouth, but she kept talking. “I promise not to overstep.”
Jim laughed. “It’s your nose, kid, not mine.”
“My nose?” Emmy said, confusion warming her hands. Her left one flew up to her face, alighting on her cheek.
“It’s an expression,” Jim said, glancing down. “You smell a story here, and you may be right.”
“Oh,” Emmy said, inching Mrs. Doyle’s skirt along her leg where it had crept to reveal more knee than was necessary. A buzzing sound came from the switchboard and Emmy jumped up.
Jim narrowed his eyes and smiled kindly. “Your phone’s ringing.”
She looked over her shoulder, knocking the chair down as she hurried back to the switchboard, where all three incoming lights were blinking. Mr. Gordon looked up from his snooze just as she eased back in front of the board, her hands shaking as she pulled the cords and went through the routine of patching calls with a new exhilaration until all had been dispatched and she sat back against the green leather padding of her wheeled chair, rubbing her nose to keep from smiling at the tiny step forward. The spring dreams of a college enrollment in the fall had faded with each passing day she spent in the newsroom, fixated on Jim’s work. Each article he wrote was tight and finished, no matter how much or how little time he spent writing it. More than that, though, he was so passionate about every story, every minute of his workday. Now that she’d gotten his attention—You smell a story here—she knew that no matter how deep or cold the water felt in this instance, all she wanted to do was swim harder or drown trying. The light went on again, and Emmy plugged in and answered.
“Hi, Emmy,” the friendly woman on the other end said. “It’s Elise Klein. Is Jimmy still there?”
“Sure,” Emmy said, used to this nightly reminder call, and put Elise through to Jim. A few minutes later, he donned his hat and left without another word.
* * *
“I can see the fireworks reflected in your eyes,” Bobby said, hovering just a few inches above Emmy the next Friday. “They look like the beginning of the universe—like God’s first thought.” She loved it when he talked like this, when he made her feel as though she were the most important person he’d ever met. Emmy sighed and pushed her hands deeply into his soft hair.
“Sweet talker,” she whispered, and pulled his lips to hers as even more fireworks exploded over the tree line in front of them. They had climbed up onto the machine shed roof at Josephine’s insistence, rightly claiming it to be the perfect place to view the display announcing the closing of the county fair across the river in Fargo. She had joined them for a picnic supper of chicken Emmy had fried earlier in the day, and a German-style potato salad studded with bits of sweet pickle and hard-boiled egg. Once the fireworks started, though, Josephine had excused herself. She said she’d seen them so many times before, but Emmy knew that her aunt was slowly winding down into one of her darker moods, and could hear the Victrola wheezing its ghostly melodies from the house. Emmy wondered what significance the fireworks actually played in Josephine’s memory. Was it a happy time when she was young and still had parents and a houseful of siblings, or did they sound like bombs falling in a French forest with no place for her brothers to hide?
“Hey,” Bobby said, pulling away slowly. “Where’d you go?”
Emmy gave her head a small shake. “Nowhere important,” she said. “France.”
“You’re the limit.” He laughed and went back to his steady necking.
Bobby was sometimes an eager kisser, pushing against Emmy’s lips in a manner that could make her think more of eating, except that the delicate searching with which he moved his tongue over and between her teeth would erase the thought as soon as it surfaced, and she’d be pulled down under into his embrace, senselessly kissing back as best as she could. Other times, like now, he would be exceedingly tender but somewhat methodical. She didn’t mind, as it gave her time to think about what she was doing with her mouth, and she’d attempt to find small ways to please him and draw him into a more heated round of kissing. For the most part, he kept his hands at or around her waist, though if they were kissing standing up he would occasionally let one hand drift down to her bottom and let it linger for a moment or two before once again grasping her waist. He showed a great deal of self-control and whenever she would let her hands move toward his more private places, he would wordlessly redirect her, then come up for air and strike up a hushed conversation. It was like living inside of a dream, where unbridled passion was kept in a box, wrapped up tight and waiting for the appropriate event to celebrate. When that would be she couldn’t guess, but she found herself hoping it would be with fireworks lighting up a dark summer’s sky. The slow pace of Bobby’s seduction had helped Emmy heal the wounds inflicted months before. She was aching to consummate the way she felt about Bobby in a way that would erase the remaining scars. She put the index finger of her right hand into the waistband of his denims. His kissing intensified. This was good, she thought as she pushed against his lips.
Bobby moved on to her neck and kissed along the collarbone as she pulled him closer at the waist, wrapping her right leg around his left. She could feel him strain against her, and just as she prayed he might move his lips down to her carefully displayed cleavage, he rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky, taking her right
hand and pressing it to his slightly open mouth. Emmy sat up and leaned over him, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and eased her beside him. She sighed. Tapped her fingers on his chest. Sat up again. He was definitely distracted by something; he kept looking away from the fireworks and out at the road. She followed his gaze.
“Don’t you like this?” she asked without first thinking the words. He propped up an elbow and put a finger on her chin.
“You’re nuts, you know that?” He ran his fingers up through her short hair. “I love this.”
“Love what?” she asked, leaning into his hand.
“Your hair. Your eyes, this night. You.” He put his arm around her and this time she relaxed into his embrace. “You know, Emmy, I never thought I could be this happy. I mean really, truly happy. Ever since I met you, well, it’s just been great, you know? And that’s just the beginning. Oh, the world is just right out there at our fingertips, Emmy, exploding with possibility like those rockets.” She looked to see him grinning with all of his perfectly square teeth. For a moment she wasn’t sure what she was looking at or whom. For a briefer instant she felt as though she’d never seen this man before, but then his smile eased and his features came back into focus. “What’s wrong, kitten? Are you okay?” She looked at him harder and she smiled, brushing some hair from her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Yeah, sorry,” she said. “Guess everything is just a little overwhelming at once, and all.”
“You’re telling me?” he replied, his voice full of excitement. “All I think about when I’m out at the site is you, and getting to see you at the end of the week.”
“Me, too,” she said, straining to match his emotion, even though she knew her week had flown by without much thought to Bobby at all. It was puzzling how little she could miss him when he wasn’t around, and then here he was, the same adorable Bobby. “I had a wonderful break at the paper this week.” She sat straighter and folded her hands on the broad swath of her layered peasant skirt. “Jim said I could help him with a story, one that I think I found myself, if it turns into something, that is.”
“That’s swell,” Bobby said, rubbing her back.
“It’s more than that, don’t you see?” she asked, annoyed by the way his calloused palm snagged the back of her silk blouse.
“Do you have any idea how much you fill my heart?” Bobby took one of her hands and slipped it under his shirt, where he held it tightly against his chest. “Feel that. It’s going awful fast. Now wait a second. I can slow it down just by looking into your eyes.” As she matched his gaze she felt his heart slow considerably.
“That’s me?” She sighed, cajoled by his intensity. He nodded and then placed his free hand on the back of her head and pulled her mouth toward his own. She moved her hand across his bare chest and around to his smooth shoulders. His kiss was hungry now, the kind of kiss she remembered from the first days of necking in his truck. He urged her down onto the blanket, and she welcomed the confidence with which he did it, putting up the opposite of a fight, melting into the night air, which felt increasingly cooler on her skin. He slung his leg over her and lay down with one knee braced between hers against the roof. Her hands were now tangled in his hair, grown lanky and honey blond from long days working out in the prairie sunshine. She closed her eyes and realized that she was barely breathing, silently urging him on with subtle motions to keep going, keep going, keep going—wherever it may lead. She didn’t worry about the potential consequences of these actions. She just wanted him to take charge, be done with this yearning that she felt whenever they necked like this. His hand found her breast and stayed there, hesitating, then moved down to the hem of her skirt and slipped around her thigh. He gasped, stopped kissing her, stopped moving his hand, and bit his bottom lip. She arched up to him, completely lost now, wrapping her arms tightly around him, her knees falling open, welcoming the thrusting motion he was making there. She could feel him through his dungarees and her skirt and her petticoats and right through her underpants, which were damp from the friction and heat.
“Please,” she whispered in his ear. “Please don’t st—”
He froze above her and looked out at the road. His face was suddenly lit by a sweep of headlights passing into the drive.
“Pete’s here,” he said, out of breath, pulling away, up, and tucking his shirttail into his pants.
“Oh, Bobby, you didn’t.” Emmy’s hands flitted around; adjusting, smoothing, buttoning.
“C’mon, baby. we’re going over to Fred Johnson’s barn, remember?” he said, helping her up and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He stopped moving for a moment and looked at her, the wild light deep in his expression still there but muted at the approach of his friend.
“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” she whispered.
“We’re up here.” Bobby waved to Pete as Emmy folded the blanket into sharp creases.
“I really thought it was just us, here, tonight,” she said, hearing the pout in her voice. “Besides, Pete never seems that keen on me.”
Bobby helped her over to the ladder. “Be sweet. You know he’s bored stupid with Sally laid up in bed until the baby comes.” He circled his hands around her waist. “We’ll have fun.” He looked past her, toward Pete, and at that moment the last of the fireworks—the big, booming display that marked the end of the fair—made Bobby’s face glow with what could only be described by Emmy as certain, uncharted bliss.
* * *
Fred Johnson’s barn hulked alongside Highway 10 just a few miles outside Arthur, North Dakota, to the northwest of Fargo. They drove the twenty minutes from Oakport in Pete’s Ford Fairlane, the top down and Emmy’s short hair wild in the night air. She couldn’t hear a word the two men were saying in the front seat and she didn’t really care. It was probably about baseball or the youth group at church, or perhaps Pete’s job at the Fargo Fire Department, none of which particularly interested Emmy. Not only did she feel that Pete didn’t really like her, she also didn’t like the way Bobby acted when Pete was around. It seemed as though the only time Bobby ever drank alcohol was with Pete, and then he’d drink until he was slurring his words. She’d never known for sure what they were drinking or when, as Pete kept a flask in the dashboard and hadn’t offered her even a passing sip after she turned him down the first few times. Tonight would be different, she thought. Tonight I am no longer a temperance-raised prig. She reached over the front seat as they raced north alongside a freight train, and grabbed the booze out of Bobby’s hand, tipping the flask high as she stood up straight in the backseat, letting out a yell as the alcohol burned her throat.
“Well, all right!” Pete shouted as she sat down, dropping the empty flask onto the seat between the men. He slowed the car as they entered the tiny town of Arthur, cruising to a stop in front of a small storefront with the odd sign DICK’S BRA swinging on a pole over a wooden door. “I’ll be right back. It seems the lady requires refreshment.” After Pete disappeared into the bar, Bobby grabbed Emmy by the collar and kissed her hard on the lips.
“I love you,” he said as Pete emerged much more quickly than expected from the bar, tossing a brown sack to Bobby. He let go of Emmy and her skin tingled all over. He loved her. It was finally, truly, said out loud. She exhaled and tilted her head against the seat, searching her heart for the echo of his words, unprepared for the flat surface they slid across instead. She shook her head and took a drink from the offered bottle, assuming the prairie of doubt inside of her was nothing more than a field planted by her own limited experiences. If tilled and seeded properly, love would grow there.
By the time they got to the barn they’d all had a few swigs from the new bottle and Emmy was ready to dance. The makeshift parking lot was packed with cars, so Pete parked the Fairlane in the ditch across the road. Even before the car had rolled to a stop, they could hear the rock and roll music pumping out into the warm night air. It would be sweaty inside the barn, but Emmy was well past feeling tem
perate about life and wanted to burn it up. She stumbled arm in arm with the two men up to the building, which was long and wide with a curved roof and gray shingles. Emmy figured it had to be almost as tall as the Fargo Forum building and nearly as wide. Through the downstairs barn doors they could see a man pitching hay into countless pig stalls; he stopped long enough to nod at the young people on their way.
Once they were inside the cavernous wood-lined space, Pete swept Emmy onto the highly polished and buffed planks of the dance floor. She saw many familiar faces from school, including the Kratz sisters and the Halsey boy, who were all laughing at some shared joke at a side table with a group of likewise well-heeled friends. Seeing them made her miss Bev’s lively company, and even Howie’s surly drawl, but with the baby arrived, they’d been swept off as a little family to live in France with Bev’s uncle. The magic that money sprinkled on Bev’s situation impressed Emmy, but not in a way that she envied. As smooth as her friend’s road looked from the outside, it wasn’t the path Emmy would ever choose for herself. In fact, it was too similar to the one she had blown up everything to avoid.
The bandleader’s voice filled the air, introducing a song called “Boom Diddy Wawa Baby,” and the orchestra drove into a fast boogie beat. Pete started swinging Emmy in every direction, gripping her hands and twirling her away, and then back again in repeated frenzy. As they neared the front of the room, she caught sight of the band and was surprised to see that they all had dark skin. “Who are they?” she asked, stopping in midswirl.