by Amy Scheibe
The arguing stopped and Emmy heard the tired tread of her mother’s small footsteps go up the stairs and creak along the floorboards above. Christian grunted a little as he came into the kitchen, and Emmy took up scrubbing the roaster with her unbandaged hand.
“You can’t see any of the movies,” Christian said wearily. “And you will come home immediately after work is finished.”
Emmy looked up at her father. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, relieved.
“You’re eighteen,” he said, his brow creasing. “You don’t need our permission. Reinhold told me that Mr. Rakov is a fair and decent man. That’s good enough for me.”
She nodded, a lump forming in her throat. She wished she could ask him why he was so agitated by Ambrose’s cold diatribe, or tell him why she needed the job—end the charade of being strong—but she realized that if she was going to change the course of things, she would have to keep her own confidence for a while.
“Okay, then.” He turned from her and left the room. A minute later she heard the radio, and knew that by the time she finished wiping down the kitchen and putting everything away, she would find him sound asleep with his head tipped back against his armchair. She felt a pang of nostalgia for the way things had once seemed so simple, though to be honest, she knew that all of her current complications arose from exactly that simplicity: She’d been a simple girl, but she would not be a simple woman.
* * *
Emmy’s curiosity led her to the school librarian, who was more than happy to show her the long shelf of books that comprised the works of Josephine Randall. Her first book, Candles in the Wind, was one of Miss Lily’s favorites, written when Josephine was twenty-four. It took Emmy no more than two days to tear through the book, a process that felt like falling off a cliff and into a vast ocean of prairie grass, populated with roaming herds of buffalo, scores of Indians, and a handful of rugged settlers who were likely modeled on her own ancestors. Though she knew it was a work of fiction, Emmy couldn’t help wondering how much of it was true, and whether she fit the mold of sod-house builders, wide-hipped women undaunted by the locust-infested broiling summers or the endlessly dark and brutally cold winters. She traded that book for the one Bev had mentioned, finishing it just as quickly and with the feeling of having found in Josephine Randall a voice that rang truer than any of the ones she’d heard growing up. The delicately drawn romance between the cousins at the center of the book made Emmy miss Bev more keenly. Emmy decided to go past her house one more time, and with the Langers’ help, meet this unknown aunt—and maybe she would be able to contact Bev, as well.
The Langer house had a high, pointed roof, with two quaint windows protruding like the eyes on a bullfrog from the dark shingles where the attic floor would be. Unlike any other house in Moorhead, theirs was painted a robin’s-egg shade of blue, which cheerfully nested in the snow-dusted evergreen shrubs that surrounded the porch and lined the walk all the way up to the street. This is where Emmy stood, bracing for the conversation she would have with Mrs. Langer, a woman she hadn’t yet met and knew very little about. Emmy could only hope that Bev’s mother was less formidable than her own. The shades inside were closed, which for a moment made Emmy think that no one was at home. The sudden barking of a small dog suggested otherwise, drawing Emmy up the walk. She reached for the door knocker as she heard the latch slip its bolt on the other side.
There stood Bev. Emmy gasped. Her friend was not only rounder, but her condition lent her an ethereal air, as though the child growing within her had whispered some secret only Bev could hear. A jolt of elation overtook Emmy as her hand stayed suspended in mid-knock.
“Hallelujah,” Bev said, joy lighting her full face. A tiny white dog barked at her ankles. “Don’t just stand there looking goofy.” She pulled Emmy in by the sleeve, closing the door neatly behind them, wrapping her arms around Emmy, and rocking her back and forth. “It’s been too long, dear friend,” she said, her belly hard against Emmy’s. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I’m starved. I’m starved all the time!”
Bev led Emmy by the hand through the living room, which was decorated with emerald green wall-to-wall carpet and two gaily flowered davenports on either side of a brass-accented stone fireplace. They passed a large dining table stacked with an assortment of Bev’s schoolbooks and papers, looking as though she’d just left them in the middle of an assignment.
“That’s my desk,” she said, pushing open a swinging white door to the kitchen, the dog racing ahead and looping in a circle around a smaller table upon which sat a bowl of fruit. Bev bent the stem of a banana, stripped the peel, and took small bites while she talked. “Mr. Utke brings over my schoolwork twice a week. I won’t be at graduation, but I’ll get my diploma, all right.” Bev dropped onto a cushioned chair, and the tiny dog leaped into her lap. “This is Kitty. I know, stupid name for a dog, but that’s what happens when you let your ten-year-old brother pick the name.” Her hair had grown in a bit and softened her once-sharp features with new unfussed curls. “At first I wanted to go spend my time in New York with my mother’s sister, but then I realized I’d be miserable there, without my family and Howie. Now that I’m nesting, all the parents have come around. Once we both finish our studies, we’ll make it official. I’ll have the baby in July, and then we’ll move to Paris, where my uncle has a job for Howie all lined up at the embassy. No one there will even know that we’re cousins, if they were to care. I would have kept going to school, but my mother felt it would send the wrong kind of message, you know, about s-e-x.” Bev rolled her eyes, and Kitty jumped from her lap. “As if half the school weren’t already well aware of the outcome. It’s astonishing how stupid grown-ups are, thinking we don’t have urges until we graduate and marry.”
Emmy felt the blood drain from her face and her hands go icy, even though she hadn’t yet removed her hat or coat and was standing too close to the warm stove.
“What’s wrong?” Bev stood suddenly, alarmed. The sound of her friend’s pinpoint concern pricked at the bubble that Emmy had settled over the image of the truck parked on the deserted road.
“It happened so fast,” Emmy whispered, closing her eyes. “I’m not even sure what it was.”
Emmy felt Bev touch her cheek—the same one that had been bruised that night—and all of the strangled helplessness she had dammed up in the absence of maternal comfort pushed forth in a sodden rush.
Bev braced Emmy’s arms and eased her into a chair before carefully kneeling on the floor. “Tell me, please?”
The crying wouldn’t abate now that it had started, so Emmy did her best to work the words into sentences, to get the details out from where she had them hidden. “I tried to do it, to kiss him that way.… I even wanted to at first, but then I didn’t.… He pinned me down and tore my clothes, so I hit him … and then he hit me, and didn’t stop and … and … and,” she sobbed in a deep breath, stretching her hands toward Bev, who grasped them tightly. Emmy dropped her head onto their joined fists, fighting out the last horrible fact. “I couldn’t make him stop.”
“There now. You’re safe here,” Bev whispered in her ear, stroking Emmy’s hair and exhaling small shushes until the sobbing slowed. “Have you had your monthly visit since?”
Had she? Emmy sat up. “Yes.” She remembered. “Yes, of course I have.”
“Good. Then you’re going to be fine.” Bev crossed her arms, her tear-stained face full of anger. “What did your mother say?”
Emmy shook her head slowly. “I tried to tell her. She wouldn’t hear it.”
“What about your dad?”
“I could never,” Emmy said, humiliation filling her veins at the thought of it. She swiped at her cheek, done with crying. “Besides, I’ve decided to find my own way out. Mr. Utke’s helped me get a job, and when I have enough money, I’ll call off the marriage and find a place to live.”
Bev laced her fingers across her stomach. “Maybe you could live with Josephine. She’s got that big estate all to herself and
has a reputation for taking in wayward souls.”
Emmy’s embarrassment intensified. “I’m ashamed to say that I came here to ask your mother to introduce me.”
“You’re a silly goose,” Bev said, swatting Emmy’s knee and moving from the floor to a chair. “Who cares why you’re here? You were absolutely right. Mother will know what to do.”
“Honestly, I don’t know how I’ve managed without you.” Emmy stood and buttoned her coat.
“You’ve managed just fine,” Bev said. “I’ll pass you a note through Mr. Utke.”
The mention of his name calmed Emmy enough for her to let go of one more fear, and she realized that no matter how much she might have felt alone, there were now at least two people she could count as friends.
* * *
A week later Emmy took account of her plodding resources while she waited at the theater for the main feature to finish. She had made some progress toward figuring out how much money she would need to strike out on her own, and at less than a dollar an hour, six hours a day, four days a week, it would take up to a year to make the move. On a good day she imagined living like a boarder in her parents’ home, coming and going with the hands of the clock. Other days she knew that breaking off the engagement would bring a swift end to this dream.
The days had nonetheless slid by in a blur of chores, school, work, home, study, sleep, and chores. Work was easy. She showed up Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday nights, went through the theater and down the aisle to a door that led to the basement, where she changed into her mustard yellow uniform, went back up to the concession counter, and surveyed the chaos left from the night before. The girl who worked the other nights wasn’t as meticulous as Emmy, and she only truly enjoyed setting up on Monday, when she found things perfectly ordered from her own closing the night before. Cindy was a college girl who sometimes worked the ticket booth on her off nights, and she had once worn Emmy’s uniform by mistake, spilling something on it that Emmy had to scrub out in the cold water of the sink in the basement, hoping it would dry in time for opening.
Next she turned on the popcorn machine, checked the fluid level in the pump, and loaded more of the thick coconut oil paste into the hopper if there wasn’t enough to get her through the night. Once it had melted, she pumped a small amount into the kettle and added a scoop of presalted kernels, waiting for the fluffy bits of corn to spill over and fill the glass box. She loved the smell of it all and even liked the way the oil slicked her hands and the salt stung her lips. Before long, the audience would start to trickle in, and she and the ushers would buzz around one another in a subtle ballet, darting to the popcorn, the candy counter, the cash register, the seats. Pointing out the ladies’ room and asking patrons to please put out their cigarettes before entering the theater, even though they knew some of them would light new smokes once inside.
While the movie played, Emmy cleaned up the machine and started it fresh, filling bags for the occasional bored or hungry moviegoer who would slip out for a break and chat with her about the weather. Then she’d prepare for the onslaught of the next audience, and at the same time begin to shut down and set up for the following day. If there was popcorn left after the late show, she would bag it for mixing into the first batch the next night. Then she would spray down the glass of the machine and put the gears into a bucket to take back downstairs and wash before she changed to go home.
Sometimes during the movie she would peek through the round theater door window and listen to the murmuring tones of movie stars, but usually she used the time during the movie to study or to read more of Josephine Randall’s books. The novels had run the gamut from the original sod-breaking heroines to banner-waving suffragettes, each narrated by a woman whom Emmy imagined to be a thinly veiled version of the author. With every page she read, Emmy’s scope grew in an increasing circumference of time and space, rippling over the Red River Valley, past the Upper Midwest, into the soft deltas of the South and the frozen tundras of the North—back to pockets of Renaissance Europe and even a stop in ancient Greece. Emmy’s appetite for the books had grown to the point where she was walking to school with one in hand, falling asleep with another on her chest. At some point it occurred to Emmy that neither her house nor the farm nor even the Brann house contained any books. Yes, there were Bibles aplenty, and her grandmother kept a shelf of Reader’s Digests that they weren’t allowed to touch, but beyond that, Emmy could not think of a time when any member of her family had ever read anything other than a newspaper.
Emmy folded the cleaning rag and put it under the counter with the glass spray. She was pleased with her work and felt ready for the night to be over. She set a stool behind the popcorn machine in order to read. One hour to go before the movie ended, then a brisk walk home in the cool spring air. Emmy couldn’t figure out why Mr. Rakov was against shutting down the stand early, as she had never once sold a concession during this last long stretch of time. It must have had something to do with the way he’d done things in Russia, though she certainly could keep her uniform at home and wash it herself rather than have the theater spend the money on dry cleaning. Lost in a fog of minutiae, Emmy didn’t notice the door to the theater swing open and close until through the glass of the candy case she noticed a pair of dungarees folded once at the ankles over a pair of red high-topped athletic shoes.
Emmy glanced up from her book to see Bobby Doyle examining the selection of Sno-Caps, Jujubes, and a variety of licorices. She nearly dropped the novel as she leaned back on her stool, hoping he would decide he wasn’t hungry enough to buy anything. Emmy attempted to rely on the charade she had practiced so well: She wasn’t interested in him anymore, nor any boy who passed her way. There was a dull pulsing in Emmy’s wrists and temples, and she suddenly needed the bathroom very badly. The ushers had all gone with the ticket girl to grab a burger at Wolf’s and wouldn’t be back until closing, so she did the only thing she could: She stood. Bobby put his fingers on the countertop and peered around the popper. Emmy’s heart stopped, then started again, faster than before. They looked at each other for a long moment, during which it occurred to Emmy that he might be mad at her. She looked away, irate, and slapped her book onto the stool, moving behind the counter in a spell. When she stood in front of him, his face opened into a bottomless grin, and he practically leaped over the narrow counter to take her shoulders in his hands.
“It really is you, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes locking onto hers. “Bev said you were here, but when I came in, I didn’t see you.” She wouldn’t let his charm win this time, nor would the mention of Bev’s name sway her determination.
“I beg your pardon,” she replied, removing his hands from her uniform. He let her, but his smile didn’t fade. “It’s not like you can just blow in and out of my life, unannounced.”
“You didn’t get my note?” He stood with his hands retreated to his pockets, casual, so sure of himself. She fell back against the wall, her well-manicured position on Bobby suddenly overgrown and unruly in an irrational wish. She wanted him to touch her again.
“Note?”
“Darn that Pete,” he said, somewhat to himself. “He was supposed to give it to Bev to give to you.”
“What did this note say?”
“How about I write you another one and give it to you myself?” He leaned forward again on the case, reaching as if to hold her hand. She let him, and the cloud of melancholy that had clung to her since she had seen him last shifted an inch to the right.
“I’m here again Wednesday night,” she whispered, lowering her forehead so it almost met his. “Looks like you’ll need to see the movie again anyway.”
“I like the picture out here better,” he said, propping his chin in his other hand and turning his full blue-eyed attention on her. They stayed that way until the movie ended while they chatted about the mundane activities of high school life. She told him about Mr. Utke’s kindness; Bobby told her about learning how to arc-weld in shop class. She didn’t tell
him that she’d known how to weld since she was twelve, but instead listened to his explanation without interrupting his smiling monologue. As the crowd filtered out of the theater, Bobby wove his way out the door through the dispersing crowd, turning and touching his index finger to his brow in a last salute as he disappeared.
Emmy hastened through her basement clean-up routine, changing out of her uniform and hanging it neatly on the rack, washing and rinsing the slick coconut oil from the gears of the popper and wiping them dry. The last of the ushers, having finished his sweep of the theater, held the front door open for her as she flew down the sidewalk, her head full of bees from the excitement of seeing Bobby.
It wasn’t until she turned onto the darkened residential stretch of Eleventh Street that she noticed headlights casting her shadow long before her on the pavement. The pace seemed to match her own—not nearing, just remaining the same eerie distance away. Emmy glanced over her shoulder, lengthening her stride at the sight of Ambrose’s truck slinking along, then speeding up until it passed her and stopped a short distance ahead. The door swung open, and he appeared, wearing dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt, a slim black tie around the collar.
“I want to tell you something,” he said, closing in. She stopped, her high spirits draining into the gutter at their feet.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. The shaking started in her arms and rapidly moved to her torso, up to her mouth and teeth. She made an effort to relax her muscles, but when she looked up at him, a fresh chill bloomed at the sight of his face, shadowed by the moonless night.
“I want you to stop working at the theater,” he said. “It’s run by communists.”
She shook her head, bewildered by Ambrose’s insistent tone. “Mr. Rakov is not a communist.”
Ambrose counted on his fingers, “He’s Russian, an immigrant, and a Jew. He plays foreign movies. There’s no possible way he isn’t a communist.”
“You’re nuts,” Emmy said without mirth. “Even if he is a communist, it’s no business of mine.”
