by Amy Scheibe
Howie moved the car onto Broadway, and just as quickly swerved out of the way of a pickup truck that had swung around the corner from Fourth Avenue. Emmy yelped as the brakes shuddered and she saw that the other vehicle was the Branns’ truck. Emmy caught a glimpse of Ambrose and the long dark hair of a girl sitting next to him. Some other girl out on the town, in a place that was meant to be Emmy’s. It seemed so casual and normal for young people to be out on a Saturday night, and yet her mother had kept their courting to parlors and the church basement. Even so, Ambrose was brazenly ignoring the customs of their courtship. Emmy felt as though she might be sick as the car swayed back into traffic.
“Get bent, Clyde!” Howie yelled out his window. At the next stoplight, Emmy watched the truck pull away as the girl’s head leaned closer toward Ambrose. Emmy coughed to try to quell her confusion.
“You okay, kid?” Donna asked, slapping her gently on the back. Kid had become Emmy’s name in this new crowd and she didn’t really mind its connotations of naïveté. She was naïve—about everything and everyone.
“I’m fine,” she said, smoothing her lap as the car bumped onto the highway.
“What a nosebleed,” Howie said, shaking a cigarette out of a pack, then handing it off to Bev. “Did you gals see that? Goddamn bumpkin.” Howie’s cutting assessment made Emmy slouch into her coat. She had to admit that from this swell car, Ambrose’s pickup truck looked rustic and mud splattered, his checked flannel cap a thing out of pace with the hatless boys with slicked-back hair who prowled the road in their showboats.
The cigarette pack made it to Emmy and she took one without pause. This seemed like the kind of thing that would move her forward into the company in which she rode, and besides, her parents had never prohibited her from smoking. Emmy tried to hold the dry white paper between her index and middle finger, the way she’d seen her father hold his, as she waited for the lighter to pop in the dash. Bev held the red coil to Howie’s as he drove; he inhaled and blew an enormous stream of smoke out of the window. She then lit the girls in the back and stuck the lighter in the dash to reheat it for herself. Emmy drew slightly on the smoke, holding it in her mouth and blowing out with the fear of looking useless. Nobody seemed to take much notice of her in any case, so she slowly began taking deeper and deeper inhales, the sweet tobacco scratching her throat in a way that made her want to pull in more.
The smell in the car was increasingly foreign—the combination of perfumes and Howie’s scent mixed with the smoke made Emmy’s head expand until she felt bigger than the girl she’d been two hours earlier, a girl who had been preparing to commit herself to marrying a man she clearly hardly knew. The ease with which the evening was unfolding lifted her thoughts to a higher plane. It would only be fair to give Ambrose a chance to explain his actions, but until he did, Emmy felt free to enjoy her evening as a grown-up woman without promises to be kept or made. If he was outside the limits set forth by their tiny society, so was she.
As Howie parked the car in front of the Imperial Theater, Emmy looked at the marquee. It wasn’t The Ten Commandments, but something called Smiles of a Summer Night. Just one more thing she wouldn’t be able to tell her mother. Emmy joined the ticket line, a soft thrill passing through her when she slid her two-dollar bill to the girl in the box, as though Thomas Jefferson himself were winking up at Emmy’s secret disobedience.
* * *
The minute the movie was over the group left the theater and piled back into Howie’s car. Emmy went from feeling like a third wheel at the beginning of the evening to a slightly flat fifth one. The movie had peeled away at Emmy’s exhilaration, casting her out into the cold night with even less emotional protection than she’d had at six o’clock. For one thing, it was in Swedish and she had to read along with the odd-sounding words, but more directly because Emmy couldn’t stop thinking about whether she should confront Ambrose. She’d tried to imagine what such a conversation would entail but couldn’t get past the idea of his laughing at her, having a reasonable answer, or some other outcome that showed her to be as foolish as she felt. Nor could she imagine what she was going to tell her mother when Karin asked about the movie’s content, which certainly had not come from the Bible.
Donna and Paula slipped into the backseat next to each other and no one bothered to address Emmy directly, nor did she attempt to join in with their constant babble. She was still pleased to be out of the house, though, and happy that Bev kept looking at her with the protective glances and smiles of a worldly chaperone. As they pulled back into traffic, Emmy gazed out her window and saw car after car pass them, some honking, others silently floating, all of them festooned with beautifully polished chrome and brightly colored paint. When they would pass a glossy black car Howie would give the horn a couple of quick taps. It was all like watching a parade of sorts, but one decorated with gorgeous young faces and bright laughter. As they passed neon signs for everything from Royal Jewelers to Red Owl groceries to Kinney’s shoes and the Mary Elizabeth Frock Shop, the commercial lights of Broadway glowed around all this extravagant youth, and the hum inside the car exploded into rolled-down windows and shouts of “Later, gater!” and “Moorhead Spuds!” At least Glyndon had the respectable Lion mascot. Whoever cheered for a root vegetable to win a game?
“Did you bring them?” Bev yelled over the din to Howie.
“Nope, we need to slide by Frank’s,” he roared back.
“Bring what?” Emmy said, though no one could hear her over Donna’s loud whistles and Paula’s high-pitched prattle. The next thing Emmy knew there was a small, flat, clear glass bottle in her hand. She paused, considering her mother’s admonishment, but then a swirl of repressed opportunities boiled up inside of her and she hastily tipped it back and coughed hoarsely before looking at the label, which she read as a streetlight flickered through the window: EVERCLEAR. She took a more cautious sip and found the alcohol slightly less biting, but equally oily and pungent. A steady, unfamiliar warmth seeped up through her, softening the frigid air of the open windows. She knew that her foot had surely slipped out of her family’s protective circle and into someplace fiendish. No one drank alcohol and lived long enough to regret it.
In the front seat Bev presided like the homecoming queen she had been last fall, royal. Splendid. Everything blurred with a friendlier glow, and Emmy tossed aside all churchy thoughts while she took a more convincing swig and passed the bottle over the seat to Howie.
“Hey, kookie, keep that down,” he barked, grabbing the bottle and spilling some on the seat. Bev tilted her head and stroked Howie’s arm. “Sorry, kid,” he said to Emmy before ducking down by the steering wheel to take a drink. “A little goes a long way, right?”
“Yes,” Emmy replied, boldly making eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. He was much more handsome than Ambrose, with thick wavy hair that slicked upward in the back, and deeply set black eyes under his sulky brow. Howie held the gaze and gave her a little smirk. A rash of goose bumps shivered over her skin, so she adjusted her view out the window as they pulled up in front of a very large house with carefully painted trimmed porches and a three-story turret. Even Emmy knew who lived in this house. Howie blasted the horn and out ran Frank Halsey, scion to the richest family in Moorhead. His father was the county attorney, and his grandfather had been a prominent preacher in Grand Forks. Emmy was surprised to realize that they had crossed back over the river; the time was passing so quickly. She glanced at her watch, relieved to see that it was only nine.
Howie got out of the car and helped Frank carry two burlap sacks across the snow-encrusted yard to the trunk. The radio announcer introduced “Roll Over, Beethoven,” by Chuck Berry, and Bev turned up the volume.
“I can’t believe we’re actually, finally going to do this!” Donna shrieked over the music, passing a fresh bottle to Emmy.
“Do what, Donna, do what?” Paula said, tugging on the older girl’s sleeve. A couple of loud thuds came from the trunk, and as Emmy sipped, she felt
the vibrations in her legs, which were otherwise somewhat numb.
“What, are you writing a book or something?” Donna said to her sister before taking an extra swig.
“Hush, Paula. We’ll tell you when we get there,” Bev said more kindly, winking at Emmy. “You’ve never had a bash like this one, have you, kid?”
“No, I—” Emmy started to say, but almost fell out of the car as her door opened and Frank caught her and nudged her across the seat and into Paula.
“Look out!” Paula squealed, crawling over Emmy to sit next to Frank.
“Hey, Howie,” Frank shouted over the music as the other boy returned to the driver’s seat. “Can you turn that jungle bunny down?” Frank set his lips on Paula’s and kept them there until they had once again reached the Red River. Emmy suppressed the urge to ask Howie to stop the car at the bridge. It wasn’t that far to her house, and she suddenly had the feeling that if she didn’t bolt now, she wouldn’t be home for curfew. A panicky jolt shook through her as they made their way into South Fargo, but still she didn’t open her mouth against the direction the night was taking.
Emmy pretended not to notice Frank’s hand moving steadily and urgently on top of Paula’s coat, pretended that every Saturday night meant smoking, drinking, and petting in the back of a brand-new car. Emmy had never been kissed, much less fondled by a boy, and it took more than a lot of effort for her to keep from gawking. When her eyes would flit onto the rearview, though, Howie’s were right there, flashing back at her. Emmy wondered whether Ambrose was the type of boy who would be steaming up his pickup truck with the unknown girl out in the dark prairie night. Emmy unbuttoned the top of her coat and pulled at her scarf, wishing the windows were open. She was used to close spaces, but not ones filled with people who actually touched one another. In fact, the only person who ever kissed her was Grandmother Nelson, and that was only on the cheek. Emmy always had to fight the desire to wipe the kiss away, so foreign a feeling it was to her.
When the car finally stopped, they were outside a looming brick building. In front of it a small stone announcement board read: FARGO CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL. Howie killed the engine and turned around to address everyone in the car, the cool ambient light from a nearby streetlamp making his toothy smile glow. The lovers untangled, Paula smoothing her hair and Frank adjusting in his seat, glancing at Emmy briefly, then grinning at Howie. A bottle from Frank was making the rounds, this one full of a thick, dark, syrupy liquid that tasted like blackberries in August. Its smooth, sweet velvet eased Emmy’s anxiety as the fruity smell in the car rose around her and tilted the contents of her head into a mild spin.
“Okay, here’s the gig,” Howie said. “Frank, Bev, and Paula, you take one bag and start on that side of the sign, Donna and you, kid, you’re with me. We need to line them up quickly and carefully so you can see it from the road.”
“See what?” Paula said while reapplying her lipstick in a small mirror, bored and interested at the same time.
“The M,” Bev replied, smiling wickedly. “We’re writing the letter M in potatoes—get it? Spuds?” She looked at Howie. “You’re a genius!”
Emmy mused at the cleverness of writing the school’s initial with the school’s mascot and for the first time thought the Spud was an okay thing to cheer. She watched her own hand pass the bottle to Paula, who held it to Frank’s lips. Howie checked the mirrors.
“Okay, I’m going to get out and place the two bags next to the car, one in front of each wheel. When I give the signal—three taps on the roof—everyone get out. Me and Frank’ll carry the bags, and you girls grab the spuds and line them up. This should take about four minutes, tops.”
Emmy felt a surge of slurry energy shoot through her veins as Howie got out of the car, Bev holding her hat over the interior dome light. Donna pulled a cigarette from her clutch and put it to her lips, striking the wheel of a Zippo lighter.
“Hey!” Bev blew out the flame. “Are you trying to get us arrested?” Donna held her hands up in apology and let the offending objects fall back into the open bag on her lap. Just as she did, the trunk closed, and the taps came. Everyone tumbled quietly out of the car and set to their mission. Emmy felt the sudden sharp cold on her neck, but waited to button her coat until she had grabbed an armful of potatoes and laid them out according to plan. She dusted the rich valley dirt from the front of her coat as she raced back to Howie, who was steadily placing spuds of his own. Stifled giggles and shushing broke louder than firecrackers, and Emmy held her breath. She had never done anything like this before and didn’t stop to worry about how much she enjoyed it. They were collectively finishing at the point of the M when they heard a siren off in the distance.
“Put an egg in your shoe,” Frank yelled to Howie and caught the near-empty sack midair. Everyone raced to the car, even as the flashing lights swiftly approached. Bringing up the rear, Emmy tripped over a potato and fell face-first into the snow at the bottom of the slope. The others were already in the car; the doors slammed and Howie drove off into the street and around the corner just as the police rounded the block. The cop car started to slow—this was Emmy’s one chance to flee. She popped up and raced off behind the stone sign, leaning against it and steadying her breath. A floodlight illuminated the glory of their handiwork, and Emmy suppressed laughter with her hand against her mouth. The dark brown potatoes etched the snow, even with their many footprints in between. The light passed above her and the car picked up speed, following in the direction of the Chevy. Emmy exhaled and laughed out loud. She realized she was happy to be alone, even though she had no idea where exactly she was or how she would get home. She looked at her watch and stopped laughing. It was almost ten o’clock. No way to beat curfew, she thought, brushing her clothes of powdery snow and more potato dirt. Fresh flakes began to fall and Emmy gazed heavenward and uttered, “Whatever next?”
* * *
When Emmy got to Sixth Street she headed toward Broadway, hoping that she could find the kids still cruising and catch a ride home. They hadn’t come looking for her, and her momentary relief of being out of the car had frozen into frustrated anger—something Emmy was not accustomed to feeling and caused her to stamp her feet with each step forward. It burned in her that these well-heeled kids wouldn’t even give her a second thought, and she imagined them laughing at her situation as they celebrated their own cleverness in the warm, boozy car.
A block before Broadway she turned left onto Roberts Street, which seemed more like an alley as she continued walking. It was darker than she had expected and her heart rattled as she moved quickly past garbage cans and a stray dog. Donna’s nonsense about the murderous fugitives bobbed to the surface of Emmy’s mind, making her breath come shallow and fast, her eyes widen. In the near distance she saw a tall white steeple, still in the swirl of drifting snow falling against the dark night sky—that’s where she would go. As she passed over train tracks and neared the end of Roberts Street, she was startled into a yelp by the sound of a woman’s moaning: a couple leaned against a Dumpster, entwined and writhing. With the last bit of her nerve effervescing, Emmy swiftly crossed the street and ran toward the church, relieved to see lights on in a small vestibule off to the side of the enormous building.
As she reached the double door, she looked up at a cross positioned above it and said a little prayer as she grasped the door handle. The lights from inside went off and the door swung open, yanking her body into the darkened entryway, where the figure of a man in shadows stood before her.
“Pardon me, may I please use a phone?” Emmy said, hoping she didn’t reek of her night’s transgressions. On the verge of tears now, she assumed she was talking to the pastor, but when the light came suddenly back on, she saw instead a beautiful golden-haired boy about her age and somewhat taller, wearing a crimson athletic jacket with the large white letters SH linked over the right breast. Emmy couldn’t think of a school with those letters, which only added to the mysterious draw she suddenly felt. The boy’s translu
cent blue eyes held hers for a moment, until shyness forced her to look instead at his forehead, where his hair was combed back except for a single comma of a curl that had shook free.
“You okay?” he asked, moving back into a slightly larger room and switching on another light. “I’m Bobby Doyle, and this is my friend Pete Chaklis, and this here is Jesse.” Emmy held out her hand to Pete, who was taller than Bobby, and had an easy smile and sandy brown hair—a grown-out flattop falling nearly into his eyes, where a spark of familiarity glinted.
“Hello, I’m Emmy Nelson,” she said, turning next to Jesse, who was no more than ten years old. His slender form and caramel skin struck something distant in her memory. She held his small hand for a second, sensing in him the fragility of a broken-winged robin. His face was slack, and when she took her hand away, he slipped silently behind Pete.
“Don’t mind him,” Pete said, leading her into the warm parish hall. “He hasn’t talked much since the tornado.”
Bobby touched Emmy’s sleeve. “Lost his mother,” he said, as though the boy had also lost his hearing. “Siblings. All but his dad.”
A coolness spread through Emmy as she realized where she’d seen Pete’s face before: the newspaper picture of a fireman carrying the limp body of a child from the harrowing wreckage of the storm, the same shock of bangs obscuring half his face. “Jesse Acevedo?” she asked. “That Jesse?”
“His dad works for my dad,” Bobby said. “I mean he did, or he will, when he gets better.”
“How awful,” Emmy said, striking a sympathetic tone. “Is his father ill?”
“You look lost,” Pete drawled, abruptly changing the subject in a way that made Emmy feel ashamed for having asked such an openly voyeuristic question. He dropped a shoulder and hooked one thumb through a belt loop. “Not from Fargo, are you?”
Emmy tried to hide her discomfort by turning back to Bobby. “My friends, and their car, well, you see…”
