by Amy Scheibe
“Your mother can be such a witch,” Josephine said, easing her grip and leading Emmy to the door. “Acting as though she owns my sister.” The participants in the hallway had shuffled about in their dour assemblage. Ambrose took a step toward Emmy but just as quickly retreated. She looked at her small, rounded sister, whose hand was attached to the crook of Ambrose’s elbow.
“Congratulations,” Emmy said without inflection, accepting that there were many things beyond the reach of her concern. Christian rose from a bench set slightly down the hall and embraced Josephine.
“I’m sorry,” he said, helping her to the bench and seating her there. Emmy followed as Sister Clare bustled past in her starched long skirts with a cup of water and a small blue book into Lida’s room.
Emmy sat next to Josephine, wanting both to run from this painful place and to stay as long as it took. She looked up at Christian. “Why are we in a Catholic hospital?” Emmy could hear the mumble of Sister Clare quietly saying a prayer to the rhythm of small clicks. “I don’t understand.”
“Your grandmother asked to be taken here,” he replied. “I’m not sure why.”
Sister Clare leaned into the hallway and beckoned at Christian. He went.
Josephine put a hand on Emmy’s leg. She flinched. “Sunburn?” her aunt asked, a slight slur on the s.
“I guess so.” Emmy lifted her skirt just high enough to reveal the deep red skin and touched it, amazed by how it ached. She suddenly felt feverishly cold.
“We should get you home and take care of that,” Josephine said without moving, gazing at the wall with her head tilted at an odd angle. She sighed. “You know, dear, they say that when you are ready to face God, you tend to revert to the simplest prayers. Maybe we become children in that moment. I guess that makes sense, though I can’t imagine ever saying a Hail Mary again.” She drew her mouth into a terse smile and tipped her head against Emmy’s.
“No, I can’t imagine that, either,” Emmy said, a slinking helplessness clouding her spirit. She had tried to follow along with the Latin Mass in the Doyles’ pew, and had finally become accustomed to the constant up and down, kneel and stand of the intricate Catholic ceremony. Still, it felt as though it would always be too foreign to embrace fully. Emmy held the hot palm of her hand to her even hotter forehead. She’d seen a few people in coffins, but she’d never seen anyone this close to the other side of one. What if those had been her grandmother’s final words? It was Emmy’s burden now to understand them and comport their meaning into the world, to learn from her grandmother’s life before utterly ruining her own. Emmy looked at Josephine.
“Did you hear her?” Emmy whispered, bereft.
“Yes,” Josephine said.
“What did she say?”
“She said ‘Beten, meine Ruh ist hin, mein Herz ist schwer,’” Josephine said in flawless, dramatic German. “It’s from Faust: ‘My peace is lost, my heart is heavy.’ Father used to read it to us. As if growing up on the prairie weren’t grim enough.”
“Oh,” Emmy said, feeling the heaviness of lost peace in her own heart as well. “But why is she beaten?”
“Beten, Emmy,” Josephine replied as she fanned away a fly from her nose. “It’s German for pray. Though if you ask me, it’s too late for all of that—not that it ever seemed to do her any good in the first place.”
Emmy snapped open her purse, hesitated, and then withdrew the small sepia square nestled into a side pocket, thinking it might give her aunt some relief. She held it out in front of Josephine. “You were both so beautiful.”
Josephine slowly turned her head from the photo to Emmy, her sad expression curdling into something more deeply primal. “Where did you get this?” she hissed, snatching the paper so quickly out of Emmy’s hand that it left a small cut on her forefinger, which she instantly held to her tongue.
“At the cabin,” Emmy said around the wound. “Helen gave it to me.”
Josephine ripped the photo in half before shredding it into tiny pieces that lay in an ashy pile in her lap. Once it was destroyed, she stood, letting the miniature blizzard dust the floor as she walked down the hall to a watercooler and stayed there, not drinking or moving.
Emmy quickly collected what she could and threw the pieces into her purse, abashed for not having thought through her actions. She stood and moved back to Lida’s room and saw Christian standing next to Lida’s bed. The doorway framed her father in his stooped sadness, a vision of a young boy buried inside of an old man. It was clear to Emmy that not only did he love his mother very deeply, but also that he had been loved by her in return. The empty spot inside Emmy widened, and she returned to the bench, feeling insufficiently prepared for the rapid approach of death. The elevator groaned open and Emmy’s stomach lurched toward the sound, all of her muscles tensing against a fresh encounter with Karin. Instead, there stood Bobby, smiling at her with his soft lips.
“Go on, Emmy,” Josephine said as she turned toward the sound, an acrid hiccup in her drawl. “Leave death to the dying. You’ve said your good-bye.”
* * *
Emmy parked the Crestliner in the yard and Bobby drove in right behind it, stopping his truck at a neat angle. Hunger began to fill the void made by Josephine’s dismissal, and Emmy began to regret not stopping for a bite as Bobby had suggested. The ache all over her skin settled into a deeper, rougher pain even as the murmurs of the lake licked at her ears in the upholstered silence of the car, caressing Emmy’s weary body with the promise of its cooling undercurrents. She closed her eyes and leaned into the heat all around her, inhaling deeply the smell of fish on the dock and wild mint in her iced tea. There was a tap at the window and Emmy turned her head toward the sound. She expected to see Bobby, but instead there was a dark brown muzzle and deep chocolate eyes peering out of an even darker, velvety coat. Emmy reached for the door handle, wincing at the tingle of scathed skin.
“Oh, Bobby, he’s perfect!” Emmy took the pup from his outstretched hands and buried her nose in the silky fur. It smelled like new shoes. “Is he mine?”
“He’s a she,” Bobby said, clearly delighted that he’d done the right thing. “One of the guys on the crew had a bunch of these little guys, and when he asked me if I knew of anyone who could use one, I figured you could.” He scratched the pup behind an ear.
Emmy cradled her closer and walked to the house. “Coffee?”
“Sort of a funny name for a dog, but I guess she’s the right color.” Bobby put his arm around Emmy’s shoulder. She winced and pulled away.
“I think I burned my skin a little,” she said, holding the pup to the porch light. “She is the right color. Hello, Coffee. Welcome to the Randall Estate, home for wayward girls.”
“You’d better put her down before she pees on you,” Bobby said. “She has a habit of doing that sort of thing.”
Emmy looked at the dark house, and for the first time felt that she had perhaps overstayed her welcome. She settled Coffee on her large feet. “I’d better ask Josephine if it’s okay,” she said, the paper cut from the photograph stinging as though it had happened to her heart.
“It’s okay,” Bobby said. “You didn’t think I’d clear it with her first?”
“She doesn’t mind?” Emmy asked, squinting the water from her eyes.
Bobby shook his head. “She said she likes dogs.” He brushed her nose with his lips.
“Ouch,” she said. “Even that hurts.”
“Sister Clare said you looked a little lobstery.” Bobby took a small blue jar out of his pocket. “First-aid cream. She said it might help.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Emmy tenderly kissed his lips and opened the front door. Bobby whistled and Coffee wound around his ankle, sniffing the air at the threshold and making a softly nervous sound that was too meek to be a growl. She looked up at Emmy and tipped her head so quickly that one of her floppy ears landed across her brow. She shook it off with a full-body shudder, as though unaccustomed to the feel of the world.<
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Emmy knelt and scratched the offending ear, smoothing it into place. “It’s okay, girl, that’s just Flossie. She’s too old and self-satisfied to care about a dog.” Emmy picked up Coffee and whispered, “I was afraid of her at first, too. You’ll be fine.”
Once they were inside, Bobby set up the coffeepot, produced a steak bone for Coffee to gnaw, and Emmy went in the direction of her room in search of a lightweight robe—anything to get the scratch of her crinoline away from her bristling skin. She had one made of silk that Josephine had given her, saying that all ladies should have at least one pretty thing to sleep in, but it seemed too risqué for the application of burn cream. Instead she painfully peeled off her top layer of clothing, and slipped into her bathing suit, as it was the only option that made sense—she certainly couldn’t wear her bra and underpants in front of Bobby—besides, it clearly displayed exactly the parts of her that were in need of help. Carefully draping her slightly ratty beige nylon robe over her shoulders, Emmy steadied herself against the dressing table, nauseated by the fresh prickling of blistering pain caused by the sticky material. She suspended her arms in midair as she delicately made her way back into the kitchen, where she was surprised to see a candlelit dinner of sandwiches and cold milk laid out as though it were a much more special occasion. The perfection with which Bobby had made the table almost too romantic put Emmy back on the edge that she had tried to leave in the hospital, the precipice where her grandmother lay suspended in time, waiting for death. Emmy tried to smile in appreciation but knew the corners of her mouth rose far less than Bobby deserved for his efforts.
“It hurts to smile now,” she said, sitting down gingerly and taking a large bite of sandwich. Bobby watched her eat and she became self-conscious of how ravenous she must look, instantly feeling her nausea rise back up and take hold for good. She put down the sandwich and pushed away the plate, drinking steadily from the cold glass of milk until the final drops collected at the corners of her mouth and she licked at them like a sated cat.
“I’m sorry, it’s all so lovely,” she said. “But I just can’t eat.”
“I can’t, either,” he said. “I feel so terrible for you.” Bobby cleared the plates into the sink and returned to the table with the jar of cream. He moved behind her chair and silently slipped the robe from her, lifting her left arm tenderly by the fingers away from her body and slicking a long white line of cream from shoulder to wrist. The sharp smell of menthol permeated the room, untying the twisted knot in the middle of Emmy’s brow.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I can manage.”
“Shhh.” Bobby worked the soothing coolness in tiny feather strokes across her skin, limiting his touch to the barest tickle. By the time he had finished this rhythm down her other arm, she was breathing heavily with her eyes closed, the pain relief bringing on a deeper, richer heat. Bobby placed his fingers under both of her palms and indicated she should stand by slightly tipping her hands in his direction. With her eyes still closed, she lifted easily from the chair and followed him into the other room, where he laid her down on the davenport and knelt on the floor before her. First her left leg was lifted into the air, the long line of cream now making her shiver in the anticipation of its ability to soothe even as the right leg ached for the same treatment. Emmy began to feel as though her body were turning into points of light, each tiny pinprick saturated with desire. Bobby must have sensed this change—perhaps because Emmy knew her breathing had become labored, intense, and punctuated by soft moans—for now every other finger circle was countered with the slightest brush of what had to be his lips. She wanted to look but was afraid of disrupting the free fall of physical sensation. As he worked his way up her thighs, her body arched and next she knew he was hovering a bare inch above her, and his tongue slid into her open, panting lips. Only their mouths touched for long delicious minutes, and Emmy knew that she could go until they stopped, yearning for the exquisite pain of his rough skin shredding hers. A flash of light swept through the dark room and Emmy gingerly slipped out from under Bobby, going to the window in expectation of her aunt’s return, which could mean only one thing. There in the yard sat Ambrose’s truck. It idled only for a second before the gears shrieked and the flash of light passed once again through the house as he spun the wheels into reverse down the long drive. Emmy wrapped her arms around her waist, willing herself not to cry.
“Who was it?” Bobby said, at her shoulder.
Emmy shook her head. “No one,” she said. “No one at all.”
Sixteen
When the Soul Is Touched
“There’s a story breaking over in Fargo.” A voice burrowed through the phone line and into Emmy’s ear. It had taken a number of rings and more than enough barking to cause her to go downstairs to the phone in the chilly pitch-dark of middle night. It felt as though she’d maybe slept an hour or two, and her groggy mind didn’t start easily, despite the welcome sound of Jim’s voice. “You ready?”
“Okay,” she replied, looking out the side window to see the Jeep house warmly lit from within. Josephine had finally resumed her regular night owl schedule of writing, after far too many days holed up in the back bedroom following Lida’s funeral. There hadn’t been enough time for a full reunion between the sisters, but Josephine had told Emmy it had been as though the time had never passed, the separation never happened. The past was not what mattered to Josephine—there had been too much of it—and so she’d thrown herself back into her work. Emmy had done likewise, taking every opportunity to prove to Jim that she was worthy of his increasing confidence in her. Emmy was relieved to have things moving forward, and thrilled to be getting this particular call. “What time is it?”
“Half past five. Get dressed. I’m picking you up in ten minutes.” The phone went dead in Emmy’s hand. Suddenly she was wide-awake, running upstairs to throw on whatever clothes she could get to first, Coffee close at her heels. Jim had promised her a ride along to his next big story, and this was her chance to learn something more interesting than pulling cords and routing copy. The more she observed the writers up close and felt the jolts of adrenaline that came with the ring of a phone or the pushing of a deadline, the more alluring the job of reporter became. When Emmy wasn’t at work, she would devour the newspaper from headline to obituary, circling details and turns of phrase that she liked in particular, recognizing bits of copy that she’d read on foot the night before.
In the weeks that had passed since her grandmother had died, the hours of the day leading up to Emmy’s work shift had become empty and monotonous by comparison to the rush of the newsroom, rarely disturbed by anything more than routine chores or a poignant feeling of absence in the shape of Lida. Even Bobby had become never-present with the advent of September and freshman classes at NDAC in addition to work on the weekends out on the strip of interstate that kept its steady pace, snailing toward Jamestown. When Emmy closed her eyes she could still feel his soothing caresses on her fiery skin, even though there had been no further intimacy in the weeks since. Sometimes she wondered if his busy schedule had some sort of intent behind it, a distancing of a different sort, but then she would see him in church on Sunday morning and hear him talk about his class load and work schedule, reassuring her that all he did, he did for their future together.
She stepped quietly into slim black trousers and a pair of ballet flats, choosing a maroon buttoned blouse, and then quickly dragged a brush through her tousled hair. It had grown in nicely from the severity of the cut she’d gotten in June, and she could finally tuck it behind her ears. As she stuffed a spiral notebook and three pencils into the small satchel that Mr. Utke had given her, Emmy welcomed the flurry in her stomach, the nervous feeling that told her she’d made the right choice to put off college for a year. Dot had packed up and driven down to nursing school in Saint Paul, and Bev’s summer in Paris had turned into fall in London. The glue of shared childhood seemed to weaken on the brink of maturity, and as Emmy’s smatte
ring of friends ventured off into the world, she became more at home amid the thrum and energy of the wire machines and printing presses.
After a brief glance in the mirror, Emmy ran back down the stairs and cleared the front door just as Jim’s car swung into the yard. Feeling the first deathly chill of fall in the mid-September air, she darted back into the house and grabbed Josephine’s red-checked barn coat. She jumped in the car and shut the door quickly.
“Hello,” Jim said, reversing down the drive.
“Stop here,” she instructed as they approached the Jeep house. “I’ll be only a minute.”
Emmy ran up the tile-bordered walkway and knocked. After a moment, Josephine opened the door.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Emmy said, surprised to see that Josephine exuded an alert calm after being up all night.
“What’s wrong?” Josephine asked, looking past Emmy at Jim’s idling car.
“I’m not sure, but Jim’s asked me to go on a story with him,” Emmy replied, holding her coat closed at the collar, a small smile pulling at her lip. “Will you take Coffee out for me?”
“I’ll bring her out here.” Josephine nodded. “She’s better company than my current heroine.”
“Thanks.” Emmy raced back to the car, where Jim fiddled with the dials on the radio. “What’s happened?” she asked him as they drove off.
“There’s a body over in Golden Ridge.” He glanced at Emmy, as though trying to gauge her reaction before going on with more details. “In the root cellar of a condemned house. A construction crew found it and called the police.” Jim lit a cigarette and passed it to her without lighting another for himself. She took a long draw and let the smoke flow out of her nose.