by Amy Scheibe
“Well, it is mine! I can’t let you take that chance.” He moved one step closer and hung his head. “I want to make things right with you,” he said toward his shoes. “Whatever it takes.”
Startled by the change of subject, she detoured around him, not wanting to hear any compassion in his voice. He caught her by the upper arm. She looked at his hand. “Please just let go of me.”
“I can’t,” he said, as though he was the one wounded. “We have a wedding to plan.”
Emmy bit her lower lip at the thought. “Yes,” she said, trying to remain calm even though his touch made her want to run. “I suppose we need to do something about that, but not tonight.”
“Let me know when,” he said, and released her from his grip.
“Thanks. I will.” She continued on her way, slowly, but with her shoulders squared and her head high.
“Let me drive you home,” he shouted after her. “It’s not safe.”
“I’m fine,” she said over her shoulder, stubbornly walking on as she talked. “I do this every day.” Once she had turned the corner and was certain he wouldn’t follow, her nerves shattered, and the cold night air drew the tears from her eyes as she ran the remaining five blocks home. The well-oiled machine of her childhood was obsolete to her now, and as she slowed her pace upon reaching the walkway to her house and dried her cheeks on her sleeve, she knew that she would have to dismantle it all on her own. I can say no, she thought. Oddly, this notion didn’t raise more tears, but Emmy instead felt as though a dozen small hot air balloons had taken flight inside her chest, lifting her spirits and leaving her elated at the new possibilities that could come from simply letting go.
Nine
The Fragility of Stars
The days passed, and Emmy’s resolve to become independent grew stronger. Turning the wheel of habit away from the curb was slow work, though, and Emmy knew that until she had enough money tucked away and her high school education finished, she couldn’t do anything that revealed her intentions.
A note from Bev arrived via Mr. Utke the next week, suggesting that Emmy come over on Easter Sunday to meet Josephine Randall, who had just returned from Europe. Emmy scribbled out a reluctant refusal, knowing that regardless of the way she felt about Ambrose, she was duty bound to spend the day at her grandmother’s table. But please, Emmy closed the note, do let me know when I can meet her any other time.
The Friday before Holy Week, Emmy went home after school, prepared dinner, made certain that Birdie was studying, and then as the clock struck five put on her hat and coat and said, “See you later.” She wasn’t going to work at the theater as expected, but merely walking there in order to meet Bobby before heading over the river to Fargo for the Crystal Ballroom’s Friday Night Dance Canteen. The opulence of the words made Emmy swallow hard. Dancing. And with a Catholic boy, no less. She laughed out loud in the spring night air, giddy with the thrill of the forbidden.
All she could think about lately was Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. He had shown up at the movie theater on Wednesday night as promised, and she was ready, her hair washed and freshly curled late the night before, her uniform spot-cleaned and pressed stiff, her cute little saddle shoes, the black parts shined, the white parts chalked. She’d never forget the moment when he’d walked in, ordered a box of popcorn, paid her his dime, and then turned away—the whole time with a small, shy smile on his face. Only after he had passed through the inner doors did she realize they hadn’t said another word, but when he gave her the coin his fingers raked her palm in such a subtle way that she didn’t immediately notice the small folded piece of paper dropped there along with the money until he had walked away and the next guest repeated “Miss” for what must have been the tenth or twelfth time. She had put the dime in the till and slipped the note into her pocket, where it stayed until the movie started and the ushers had gone outside for a smoke.
You will be mine.
Her heart had thundered as she quickly refolded the note, unfolded it again, read it again, folded it, ran to the ladies’ lounge and sat on a vanity stool, attempting to catch her breath. It was no use. She’d gone to a sink and splashed cold water on her face, and then she’d held tightly to the porcelain edge, gazing at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes had never been so clear, her lips so soft, and her brow so smooth. And yet a ripple of insecurity played there, barely detectable. How could Bobby be so sure of everything? She was only just learning to trust her instincts and here was this boy—man—who was so confident and divine. After the movie had finished, he’d asked her with due formality for a date, to this dance. They were starting from the beginning, with all the proper etiquette lending the courtship a languid kind of old-fashioned romance she desired in the wake of her recent disillusionment.
Emmy briskly walked up to the theater a few minutes early. She couldn’t see the Fargo Sweptside on either curb, so she ducked inside to primp in front of the mirror. On Wednesday after school she had taken the bus over the river to the Herbst Department Store and carefully selected a few items of makeup. When the woman behind the counter asked her what she needed, Emmy had turned so red that the woman laughed and said, “Well, I guess it’s not blusher!” This made Emmy laugh, too, and the clerk showed her how to apply the powder from a compact and blusher with a small, soft sponge.
When she got to work that night the makeup was still on and she noticed how the male customers looked more carefully at her as they paid. Before she had gone home she had assiduously removed all signs of the paint. She didn’t need Karin to give her an ironic lecture on what happens to painted girls. As Emmy delicately reapplied the foundation and powders, she tried a little fox-trot move in front of the mirror, steps she had surreptitiously learned from a library book during study hall. Asking Miss Lily for the book had filled her with a wicked shame, but so many nice boys and girls went to the canteen and to the dances and proms. Certainly they couldn’t all be bound for hell?
Emmy threw everything into her purse and ran out of the theater. There he was, standing in front of the gleaming Sweptside in the last light of the day. He opened her door, and a streetlight flickered on, creating in Emmy a dazzling surge of energy that started somewhere in the middle of her chest and spun outward to where Bobby’s fingers touched hers as she climbed into the cab. She settled within the heady cocoon, letting it be real, no longer just the memory of a cold night spent in his company.
“Gosh, Emmy,” he said, entering from the street side and starting the engine. “It feels like a lifetime since Wednesday. I thought I would die before tonight arrived.”
“I sort of feel like I have,” she replied, laying her hand open on the seat between them and closing her eyes at his melting touch. “I don’t see how heaven could be any sweeter.”
* * *
Cruising Broadway this time was much different than the night she had gone with Bev and Howie. Then she’d been trapped in the middle in the backseat of the car; here she was riding high up on the thick red upholstery, deliriously happy to be out with Bobby and far away from any single person who knew her as Emmaline Nelson. You couldn’t help looking twice at the Sweptside, its cherry red and vanilla paint swanning from the headlights to the taillights, where the truck bed widened instead of narrowed.
“She’s the only truck made with fins,” Bobby said. “Bought her with my own money, just this year. All that work for my dad finally added up to something.”
Emmy gazed at the other, older cars that most teens drove. “It’s something, all right. Like an ocean liner, almost.”
Bobby slapped his thigh. “That wasn’t what I was going for, but now that you mention it, yeah, I guess it kind of is.”
The Fargo Armory loomed up ahead at the corner of Broadway and First Avenue South, its somber façade adorned with a few fanciful crenellations that did nothing to subdue the forbidding nature of the architecture.
They parked across from the entrance, a small white colonnade that was attached to the side of the building, and over w
hich was a brightly lit sign. As Emmy watched smartly dressed young people hurry through the glass doors, she suddenly didn’t feel as bold about her ability to fit in. Her spring coat seemed shamefully old and threadbare in the light of the cab as Bobby opened her door.
“Ready to have some fun?” he asked. Emmy nodded, letting his evident glee overcome her doubts, and walked up the path on his arm.
Inside, the band was in full swing, playing “Satin Doll.” People were everywhere, on the dance floor, by the concession stand, sitting along the side tables. There were a few kids her age, but mostly it seemed to be a slightly older crowd, with some patrons older than Emmy’s parents populating a nondancing section near the band. From a distance she noticed a gray-haired couple who looked as though they were dressed for church, sitting with a man in a dark suit, and it dawned on her that people could be here for the music as much as for the dance. Bobby took her things to the coat check as she watched the explosion of colorful dresses spinning and crinolines flashing out on the floor. There were many full-circle skirts, propped by acres of tulle, but there was also the occasional sack-shaped dress, and even a few fashions that were considerably out-of-date. Emmy looked down at her own gray wool pleated skirt and Birdie’s fitted short-sleeved pink sweater. Pretty enough, but decidedly humble—the skirt had been advertised as reversible, which had seemed clever at the time of ordering it from the Sears, but felt a good deal less so in this grand room. Apart from the skirt, it was her slope-heeled Sunday shoes that she knew would expose her for what she was—a girl from the wrong side of the river, north of the tracks. Her eyes stung as she gazed up at the sparkling ball hanging from the middle of the room, but before she could give in to the rising fear of not belonging, Bobby came up beside her, put his arm around her waist, and escorted her out onto the floor. She had no idea how to dance to this music, so she looked deep into Bobby’s eyes and let him lead her into an effortless swirl of movement.
“Emmy,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment my whole life. Feeling like this, with someone like you.” His smooth cheek brushed against hers as he swung her in a circle and held her eyes with his own.
“You know, don’t you?” she replied in wonder. “You just know.” The slight smile slipped from his face, revealing all the vulnerability that lay open, ready for her to claim, beneath his effortless charm. He tightened his grip on her and she managed to avoid stepping on his feet too much, closing her eyes against joyful tears. He smelled of Ivory soap—clean and perfect and male. She let go of all her thoughts and wrapped her senses in the moment, the throb of the standing bass, the salty taste in her mouth, the scent of Bobby, the softness of his hand in hers. She opened her eyes and knew that she could live here, right here, under the light-splitting scales of the rotating crystal ball, even if it meant never again knowing anything or anyone familiar or safe.
“Hey, Doyle!” Pete Chaklis appeared out of nowhere with a petite woman nestled under his arm. Bobby let go of Emmy, turning back into his easygoing self. Pete looked at Emmy, smirked, and drew Bobby slightly away.
“Hey, Pete!” Bobby shook his friend’s hand. “When’d you get home?” Bobby grabbed the woman to him in a huge hug. “Sally, I’m so sorry about your mom. You okay?” Emmy stood aside, unnerved by Pete’s disregard, as though she were nothing more than a floor lamp waiting to be turned on. She retreated a couple of steps, contemplating a run to the bathroom or perhaps right out the door. This was not the place for her at all. Sally’s dress was beautifully cut, covered in black lace and trimmed at the collar with just a bit of fur. It wasn’t a spring look exactly, but it was stunning and the shoes were tiny, perfect patent pumps that even though they must have been four inches high didn’t lift Sally up to Emmy’s chin. The band finished its tune and announced a ten-minute break. When the silence momentarily fell before the rush of conversation, Emmy stepped forward and tugged on Bobby’s sleeve.
“Oh, gosh, baby. I’m so sorry.” Bobby put his hand at the small of her back. “Sally, this is Emmy Nelson. My best girl.”
“Well, Bob,” Sally said, poking him in the ribs, “you found a beauty, didn’t you? Pete didn’t mention any Emmy.” They all turned to Pete and he shrugged. Emmy saw a look of some sort pass between Bobby and Pete, a moment broken by Sally wanting a drink.
“There’s no alcohol here,” Pete said. “Where do you wanna go?”
“I haven’t been to the Bismarck since we got back from the funeral,” she said. “I could easily murder a sloe gin fizz. Leave the coats, boys. We’ll be back in fifteen.”
As she followed the three friends to the door, Emmy thought she heard her name. At first she ignored the trill of a woman’s voice, certain she’d been mistaken, but then Emmy felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Svenja’s bright face.
“Emmy! I didn’t think it could possibly be you, but it is,” the girl exclaimed, hugging Emmy awkwardly. Emmy couldn’t help seeing Svenja take in her waiting companions in one swift glance. “Is Ambrose here, too?”
“No,” Emmy said, considering what being out on the town in strange company might do to her reputation, and seizing on the opportunity to fray the leash. “I’m here with friends.”
“So I see,” Svenja replied, tilting her head to get a better view of Emmy’s company. “You know Mr. Davidson, of course.”
The older man turned from the coat check behind Svenja and put his hand on the middle of her back. Emmy recognized him in an instant—the well-tailored suit, the large ring, the curdled color of his skin—and felt the hair on her arms stand in alarm.
“Hello,” she said, taking a step backward. He closed the space as effortlessly as if they were dancing a waltz.
His small eyes drew slightly wider as they shifted from surprise to amusement to hooded judgment. “Hello, Emmaline. Having a night out?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to gauge the level of his scrutiny. “I’m here with friends.”
Mr. Davidson took Emmy by the elbow, pinching lightly at her skin. “As are we. We’re meeting the Hansens to hear some music and celebrate Svenja’s betrothal to their son.”
“Yes,” Svenja said without enthusiasm.
“Congratulations,” Emmy said, suddenly placing the trio she’d seen near the bandstand. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“He’s a good man, one of the council’s hardest workers,” Mr. Davidson admonished Svenja.
“I’ll be a June bride after all,” Svenja said lightly. “See you on Sunday.” She kissed Emmy’s cheek and headed into the ballroom.
“Watch yourself,” Mr. Davidson said to Emmy in a much harsher tone. “Coming here to listen to music is one thing; dancing with a Catholic boy when you’re spoken for, quite another. But, of course, Ambrose knows of your whereabouts.”
Emmy shook her head slightly, as much a yes as a no. Viewed from the outside, her actions were decadent, unconscionable, no matter how justified she had felt entering the hall. The smirk on Mr. Davidson’s face clawed at her. “He will soon,” she said, her voice stronger than she felt.
Mr. Davidson watched Svenja cross the room. “Pity he chose you,” he said, licking at his moist lower lip. “She’s much better suited for breeding.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Emmy said slowly, her temper barely controlled. “She’s not a farm animal.”
“Of course not.” Mr. Davidson laughed, the sound deep in the barrel of his chest. “I was just going after your goat, which was far easier to get than I imagined.” He touched his fingertips to his brow in salute. “Until next time,” he said, and turned to find the Hansens.
Emmy watched as he made his way across the floor as though he had cut the wood planks and laid them himself. She rubbed her arms and jumped at Bobby’s hand landing on her shoulder.
“You ready?” he asked, turning her around.
“I need to go home,” she said, bringing to a sudden end her experiment in dangerous living. “I shouldn’t be here.”
Bobby mot
ioned to Pete and Sally to wait another minute by the door. “What’s the matter, baby?”
“I’m engaged to Ambrose,” she said quietly, pinching her eyelids shut. “Until I break it off, this can’t be.” Emmy bowed her head, relief winning out over her confusion. He lifted her chin and she met his understanding gaze.
“When you break it off,” he said, glancing at Pete and whispering, “I’ll be right here.”
* * *
Emmy waited for the news of her debauchery to swing through the community and turn up in her own house. But the closer Easter Sunday crept without so much as a whisper, the more likely it seemed that her secret had gone unshared. She could only surmise that Mr. Davidson preferred her marrying Ambrose to not, and that Svenja wanted Emmy’s track to remain twinned to her own. Palm Sunday came and went in an uneventful blur as she slipped out of church untested, driving the family car directly back to Moorhead without stopping for dinner at the Branns’, using the excuse of science exam studying as her shield. No mention was made by either of her parents of her night out dancing. The burden of ending the betrothal remained squarely on Emmy like a chafing yoke.
By the time the two families were once again gathered at Grandmother Nelson’s meticulously set Easter dinner table—the company china, the polished silver, the slick ham, and the buttered mashed potatoes—Emmy was determined she’d get the refusal out immediately after, when she planned to ask Ambrose to drive her into Moorhead for her Sunday shift at the theater. But as she sat in the yellow full-skirted cotton jumper she’d made in home economics, and watched Mr. Brann cut the honey-glazed ham into thick slices, and endured her sister’s incessant twittering, and abided the endless political diatribe of her erstwhile childhood companion, each sweep of the second hand moved her closer to having to sit in that truck cab and suppress the anger of what he had done to her that night; stomaching how able he had proven himself to lunge past it all in his boorish way. She knew that without a witness, any proclamation she might make to him would rest unheard, providing him with ample opportunity to restake his claim.
