by Amy Scheibe
“Why don’t you bring me the baby,” he said, keeping his distance at the doorway. “And we’ll go make that call.” Emmy locked on Svenja’s eyes, nodding slightly at the girl as she knelt below her, feeling the knife at her knees where it had dropped with the afterbirth.
“No!” Svenja cried, holding the child more tightly.
Emmy shot her eyes to Mr. Davidson, who turned his head toward the stairs, yelling, “Frank, go get the ether!”
It was just the slice of time that Emmy needed to pick up the knife and slip it under the coat-swaddled child. “Trust me,” she whispered under Svenja’s cries, and the girl suddenly stilled, her eyes wide.
“That’s a good girl,” Mr. Davidson said to Emmy as she walked to him with the baby, gazing down into the tiny-featured face. Emmy took a deep breath, counting to sixty on the exhale.
“It’s a boy,” she lied, somehow sensing this would be important to Mr. Davidson, and his face lit as he reached his empty hands toward the bundle.
“A son,” he said.
Emmy leaned closer, supporting the child with her left arm as she drove the knife with her right deeply, quickly, into the soft pillow of Mr. Davidson’s belly, his face not entirely registering the shock of pain in time to stop her from pulling up just as smoothly with the blade, tipping the edge slightly, as Ambrose had taught her. If it hadn’t been for the child between them, Emmy would have continued until his sternum cracked.
Mr. Davidson stumbled backward, away from Emmy, fury bubbling red spit at his mouth before he sat down hard on a bale, gazing at the white hilt, the tiny red-circled cross in his useless palm.
The sirens started from far-off, a sound that brought Emmy back to the window, where she saw Mr. Brann, Frank, and two other men scurry to the loaded car in an attempt to drive away. Emmy’s body started to convulse, and fearing that she would drop the baby, she made her way over to Svenja and settled the child into her arms before sinking down to the hay next to them.
Twenty-four
I Will Overturn, Overturn, Overturn It, and It Shall Be No More
The calm repose of the pale wood paneling lining the walls of the small chapel belied the activities elsewhere in the building—the births, the deaths, the sickness, the healing—and the small plaster statue of Mary at the front of the room offered Emmy no fresh comfort. For three days in a row, she had come to Saint John’s Hospital, requested Bobby’s room, and been told the same: Only immediate family were allowed on the ward. The first day, she’d felt guilty relief, too exhausted to make much sense of what had happened. But as the days went by and her inability to reach the Doyle family left her imagination to dwell on the worst possibilities, Emmy had found this a tiny haven.
Time had passed in an unending blur of repeated storytelling. After the initial gruesome regurgitation of facts had been completed, the distant piecing together of salient details began, only to loop doggedly around to the barn, the baby, the knife. For Emmy, it had begun to feel like she was merely reciting lines in a play—or telling the intricate twists of a movie viewed only once—and as quickly as the firm aspects of the plot loosened, new, uncertain ones would mysteriously appear to frustrate her. Had she put the baby in the coat or the quilt? Had she been given the ether before or after the car left the scene of the fire? Had she heard Frank Halsey admit to having set the blaze? How could she be certain of anything? Or certain enough to be the ultimate source upon whose word the punishments would be determined?
Emmy had been asked by the prosecutor not to talk to any of the other witnesses, including Svenja, who was healing with her daughter in her own room upstairs. And yet Emmy had felt compelled to drive here each day, to try to make some sort of peace with Bobby before the hearings began and she would have to sit in front of a preliminary jury, relive the moments for complete strangers to judge. She would never be the one on trial, that had been made clear, but unless Svenja grew strong enough to testify, much of the fact telling would fall to Emmy.
Emmy picked at the starched bobbin lace on the edge of her handkerchief and contemplated prayer, realizing that even when she had been faithful, prayer had come hard to her. She would fold her hands and close her eyes and string together words that she guessed at being what she was supposed to be thinking, but there was never any feeling other than a voice that whispered How much longer, and that voice clearly wasn’t God’s. Unwinding the square cloth, she let the tiny ring tied to its middle drop onto her plaid woolen lap, delicately parachuting the hankie over the hollow gold eye. How long had she worn it? Three, four, maybe five hours? Not even long enough to dull the metal with life’s small accidents, much less the larger ones that had happened in the wake of the removal. Emmy closed her eyes, leaned her ear toward the distant sounds of people coming in and out of the hospital, passing the open chapel door, shoes squeaking, the sister at the desk greeting fresh faces full of concern with her hushed church voice.
Emmy thought about her father, and how he’d shown up at the Brann farm with Jim, the two of them gathered and delivered by Ambrose in a return to clarity. Christian had bundled her up and taken her to their farm, where her mother sat up in a chair while Emmy slept, cooked food for her when she awoke. They had temporarily reunited as a family under that roof, as quietly as they had splintered apart. She had not seen Jim in the days that followed, and his absence had created in her a drive to have the investigation over and the arraignment issued so she could return to work.
“Emmaline?” a woman asked from the hallway of the hospital.
This voice was closer, more familiar. Emmy opened her eyes and gazed at her lap, tears watering a meadow that had lain fallow for far too long. She felt Mrs. Doyle slide into the pew next to her and lay a hand on Emmy’s leg, where the first drop splashed full and soundless.
“I’m trying to pray,” Emmy said, her voice like a mouse caught in her throat. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Mrs. Doyle replied with her usual cast-iron resolve.
Emmy lifted the hankie and wiped at her damp cheek.
“He wants you to keep it,” Mrs. Doyle said, and Emmy glanced down at the guilty, deserted object. “Have the jewels reset in a necklace, maybe a cross. That’s what he said.”
Emmy’s heart jittered as she laid a hand on top of the ring. “May I see him?” She looked at Mrs. Doyle, who seemed to have new lines etched around her green eyes, which crinkled together in a painful half smile.
“I think it’s best that you don’t.”
“Then may I write him a note?”
“Rather you didn’t,” Mrs. Doyle said, adjusting a deep red lank of misplaced bangs away from her face with a hand that stopped along the way to scratch at a cheekbone, darting behind the ear and back again to pat Emmy on the leg. “He’s in enough pain as it is.”
Emmy caught the flighty hand and held it still. “Please tell me,” she said, seeing in Mrs. Doyle’s averted eyes a common understanding, willfully unshared.
“He’s badly burned,” she said, her façade of strength momentarily slipping. “And his father blames himself. God willing, they will both heal.”
“What about Pete?” Emmy asked, not letting Mrs. Doyle pull her hand away.
“Pete’s fine.” She inhaled. “He knows his way around a fire, after all.”
Emmy loosened her grip. “I haven’t said anything to the police. Not that I have anything to say.”
Mrs. Doyle pinched her eyes shut for a few moments, and Emmy watched her chest move up and down rapidly under her white woolen coat.
“They were there working,” she finally said, leveling her eyes at the Virgin. “That’s all there is to tell.” It seemed to Emmy that the cause of the fire hadn’t yet been assessed, and that Mrs. Doyle’s absence of anger was blessed calm before an as-yet-uninformed storm. The news would be out soon enough. There was no point in Emmy being the one who broke it.
Emmy nodded, and they sat in the silence of the chapel until Mrs. Doyle suddenly stood and l
ooked down at Emmy.
“He’s going to take the vows when he’s well,” Mrs. Doyle said. “It’s for the best.”
“I can see that,” Emmy said, the last of her girlish infatuation leaving her as she stood. She put the ring into Mrs. Doyle’s hand. “Please donate this to the sisters,” she said. “I don’t think I could bear to keep it.”
“Of course you couldn’t, my dear, sweet child,” Mrs. Doyle said, and caressed Emmy’s cheek. “Nobody expected you to.”
* * *
Emmy took the long way to the estate, even though the Main Avenue Bridge was two blocks from Saint John’s Hospital. She was eager to return to the estate for a quiet lunch with Josephine, if for no other reason than to escape from the visitors who had come to the farm in a steady flow pocked with detectives and attorneys. There had been plenty of food delivered and countless well-meaning questions asked, but no matter how Christian and Karin had tried to protect Emmy, she knew that the best way through to the place where it would stop was to satisfy all curiosity.
Instead of driving straight up Elm, Emmy diverted, slowing as she passed the Fargo Forum parking lot, even though she didn’t expect to see Jim’s car this early in the day. And what if he was there? She wasn’t allowed by the court to return to work until after the preliminary hearings were finished, and the district attorney had insisted that she not speak to a single reporter—including those she felt she could trust. The story had broken across the front fold all the same, and Emmy had pored over the meticulously accurate, if scant, articles. Most of the stories were written by Jim about Curtis Davidson and his previous crimes. Her blood had run cold enough that night to do what she had needed to do, but now that she knew more about him, it ran brisker still, a tiny part of her wishing the harm she had done could have been more permanent, and spared them all of it.
In time the story would certainly bud and unfurl as people packed the courtrooms and ate up every grotesque morsel of Curtis Davidson’s past, every twisted hue of the evidence, as his lawyer was sure to paint a different picture than what Emmy had drawn. As she drove past the turn to Bobby’s house, she couldn’t help worrying that the defense would try to find a way to exploit his relationship with Pete in order to mitigate the information Emmy had been able to dredge up. No one would tell her about Ambrose—what he was saying, whose side he was on, as if there could be sides in such an undertaking. She didn’t even know whether they had drawn together the burning cross out in Arthur, or if the Moorhead Theatre fire was still considered an accident, which she knew for certain it was not.
“Oh, why,” she whispered in the quiet car, the sound of the words mildly startling her as she made the last turn that would take her home. Why did all of it have to happen? She vowed for what must have been the hundredth time to stop dwelling, to let go and not have to be the one who made everything turn out right. There was no happily-ever-after for any of them, not yet, and that would have to be okay until the disease that Curtis Davidson had brought into their community was gone for good.
The sight of Jim’s car in the yard was not unexpected. In fact, she had been dreaming of seeing it out at the farm for days. What wasn’t expected was the sheer thrill of excitement that closed up her split heart like a zipper, the teeth of her loose emotions congregating neatly into a fastened line. She let the Crestliner cruise to a stop at an angle, barely taking the time to shift into park and pull the brake before flying out of the car and rushing up the slippery walkway and through the front door. There he was. Laughing, turning slowly, settling a cup with a small click against the saucer in the other hand. Smiling. Emmy flashed her eyes from his to Josephine’s and back again, pulling off her hat, coat, and gloves in a disordered hive of movement that almost felt like life had returned at last. In the momentary stillness she remembered Elise, and part of Emmy halted while the rest sped forward.
“Hi,” she said, attempting composure. Failing.
“How high?” her aunt asked, laughing. She rose from the table and moved her teacup to the sink. “Jim, can I trust you?” she asked as she crossed to the coatrack, Coffee running a small circle between her two mistresses until choosing the direction of the elder one. “I need to go out for a while.”
“I thought we were having lunch,” Emmy said, though she could see that her aunt had carefully planned this meeting.
“I’m having lunch with your father,” Josephine said, lifting her chin.
“Tell him I said hello,” Emmy replied, even though she’d seen him at breakfast that morning. She knew that by suppertime they’d have quite a lot to discuss. “And that I’ll be home later.”
Josephine righted her collar and nodded before looking at their guest. “Jim, take good care of her.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, not taking his eyes from Emmy’s. She saw warmth there, but behind that, something more electrifying. She slid into the chair facing his, folded her hands, and rested them on the table.
“I was so worried,” he said, his face unusually open and soft. “Are you okay?”
“As can be expected,” she said. A new kind of heat began at her core and scorched everything in its path as it moved upward, making her head swim, her armpits damp. She studied his face, then laughed. “Why, Jim Klein, I do believe you are at a loss for clichés.”
His smile was almost demure. “I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to you.”
The sentiment was so pure that Emmy grappled with her composure. “How’s Elise?” she stammered.
Jim squinted and whistled low. “Why do you always ask about my sister when things get serious?” he asked. “It’s a strange habit.”
Emmy burst into startled, laughing tears. She put her hand over her mouth to hide her joy. “She’s not your wife?” she asked with a small squeal.
“She’s not my wife,” Jim replied, laughing along. “She’s my twin, in fact.”
“Your twin?” Emmy dabbed at the tip of her nose with a napkin. “Oh, I’m such a fool!”
“Not at all the word I’d use,” he said, his face once again calm. “I can see why you’d think that, grown children so close and all.” He spooned some sugar into his tea and stirred once, leaving the cup untouched. “When my mother died I promised her I’d take care of Elise.” He looked out the window. “She’s not like most girls.”
“She’s different?” Emmy asked, conjuring up the magical word.
Jim slid the cup and saucer out of the way and reached across the table. He took Emmy’s hands. “All the best girls are.”
The tears came to Emmy’s eyes quickly, making the room sparkle as she tried to blink them away. “I have to warn you,” she said, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. “I’m the kind of girl who breaks hearts.”
“I know,” he said, letting go of her hands and picking up his satchel from the floor. The moment ended as quickly as it had begun, but the promise of more hung in the air like a cottony cloud in a sunny blue sky. Jim slung open the top of the bag, the two leather straps slapping against the wooden table. “I brought you this.”
“I forgot all about it,” she said as Jim drew out the contents, including the things she had gathered from her grandfather’s desk.
“Your friend Ambrose gave it to me. He’s cooperating with the police.” Jim scooted the little leather address book across the table toward her. “This is the key piece,” he said. “All the codes are in here.” Emmy flipped quickly through the pages and saw clusters of numbers and letters that meant nothing to her. The rush of discovery began to flow and she instantly knew she never wanted to be anywhere else, doing anything else.
“And this,” he said, holding the varnished wooden handle of the small wooden stamp in the air, “is what Benjamin Nelson used to falsify these.” Jim scattered the handful of yellowed cards on the table and Emmy sifted through them.
“Driver’s licenses?” she asked, still not putting it all together.
“Proof of citizenship,” he said. “For a
ll the betabeleros in the county at the time, regardless of their nationality. So they could vote. Your grandfather was county auditor from 1920 until 1928. County auditors oversee elections.” Jim squinted at her, waiting for her to puzzle it through. She couldn’t.
“I still don’t get it,” she said, embarrassed by how much she wanted to impress him. To kiss him.
“The Klan fixed the elections on the local level by forcing the migrants to vote for their candidates.” He put the papers back into a neat little stack. “The Citizens’ Council was preparing to do something similar this time around.”
Emmy shook her head. “Not much of a smoking gun,” she said.
“Oh, that’s just the iceberg,” Jim said, his smile widening into a full grin as he pulled the encoded journals out of the satchel. “Now that we have the ciphers, this here’s the Titanic.”
“Well then,” Emmy said, playfully snatching a spiral notebook out of Jim’s hand, a fierce ambition struck from the glow between them. “Let’s get cracking, shall we?”
Acknowledgments
Let me start with undying thanks to my mother, Catherine Jents Scheibe. Without her encouragement, experience, feminism, and humor, this book would not exist. Beside her stand all the fantastic women of Probstfield blood, living and dead, whose stories helped shape my sensibility and built the sod house within which all that happens to Emmy Nelson is contained. In particular are the sisters: Edris, Helen, June, and Evie, the ghosts of whom inspire the spirit of Josephine Randall. Had I only known Phyllis, I’m sure there would be one more shade added.
If it weren’t for Sarah Burnes, this book would not be worth reading. She’s my gold standard, my all-in-all, my naysayer, my angel. A thousand years ago she said, “A love story about the KKK in ’50s North Dakota? Okay!” I’m still not sure she meant it, but with hard work and pressure, she got the diamond she was looking for in the coal of those first few conversations.