A Fireproof Home for the Bride

by Amy Scheibe

  As the car crossed over Thirteenth Street Emmy checked her watch. She had forty-five minutes to spare before her shift started, so she impulsively decided to detour toward the river and stop by the Doyles’. They lived on a charming street called North Terrace, which curved along a bend in the river on the way to Oak Grove Park. The house had been built by Bobby’s grandfather, who had learned his trade of stonemasonry in Ireland before coming to America between the wars. Bobby’s father had made many of his own remarkable improvements, including an attached garage with an apartment above it, wood-burning fireplaces in the living room and basement, and a concrete swimming pool in the backyard. This last detail had really knocked Emmy over when she first saw it; she’d never even thought such a thing was possible. Bobby’s grandfather had switched from the stone business to pouring cement at the right time, and in the past years, Doyle and Sons had grown to be the largest construction company in the area. Work was already under way for the new four-lane express highway that would connect Fargo to Michigan in one direction and stretch all the way to the Pacific Ocean in the other. Over the spring, the crew Bobby worked on had poured countless loads of cement between Jamestown and Valley City, and the groundbreaking for Fargo to Casselton would happen at the end of the week.

  Emmy turned onto North Terrace and saw a few of the Doyle children playing in the front yard with a garden hose. She couldn’t tell at this distance which of the kids they were, and wasn’t so swift to tell them apart even when she got closer. They were most likely the middle three, born within two and a half years of one another—a feat that Mr. Doyle liked to call “Irish triplets.” Emmy knew that their names were Michael, John, and Thomas, and that they were twelve, eleven, and ten, but she really couldn’t see much difference among them, other than one having red hair, and that should have made it easier, but it just didn’t. She parked the car in front of the house and the boy holding the hose wheeled around and sprayed her as she walked up the driveway. She shrieked and held her hands up in front of her face, but behind them she was smiling. The cold water felt good on a ninety-degree day.

  “Stick ’em up,” the redhead said, pointing the makeshift gun at Emmy. She instantly put her arms in the air while the other two boys wound a section of hose around her waist, dragging her across the lawn and to the front door.

  “Don’t hurt me, please, I come in peace,” she said, feeling the heat of the rubber tubing through the thin cotton dress she had slipped on in the face of an increasingly muggy afternoon. One of the boys had a band of feathers strapped to his head and war-paint markings. The other was wearing a black mask and cowboy hat. None of them had shirts or socks or shoes on, just dungarees that had been cut into shorts, the white fringes hanging down in places from a makeshift hem.

  “You’re going to tell us where you hid the dynamite, or we’ll tie you to the rail,” the redhead yelled, and the other boys let out whoops and whistles. The cowboy drew a silver toy gun out of his waistband and shot off a couple of caps. Mrs. Doyle emerged from the open front door and leaned against the frame, holding two-year-old Mary—whom everyone called Ruby—on her hip. Ruby was the baby, the first girl after seven boys, and was rarely seen more than a foot away from her mother outside of the house. Emmy took a quick measurement of the girl with her eyes, determined to make a sunsuit for her.

  “Michael, put down that hose and let Em go.” Mrs. Doyle sighed. “And wash your brothers off once she’s in, then pick up this mess. Lord knows why you can’t play in the backyard, out of sight of the neighbors. You look like the ragpicker’s children.” She shifted Ruby to the other hip. “Ah, Em, you look fresh and lovely in this heat,” she said, tucking an errant strand of hair into a blue scarf, which clashed in a cheerful way with the orange housecoat she had on over denim pedal pushers. “If I’d known you were stopping by I’d have put on something decent. You’ll have a cup of tea with us, won’t you?”

  Mrs. Doyle managed her household with ease and iron, switching from coddling a bloody nose to shaming the child behind the bloodletting without hesitation. Her children both feared and loved her, with the fear being of the practical sort, the kind that gets you to the table for supper on time with your hands washed and folded in prayer. Emmy followed Mrs. Doyle into the house, through the foyer, and past the large living room cluttered with tidy chaos and an older boy stretched out in front of the television, watching teenagers dance to “At the Hop” on American Bandstand. Along the hall there were shoes of all sizes, lined up neatly but not in any particular order. Above these were a series of hooks holding lightweight outerwear, with the names of each child painted above. The only empty hook was Bobby’s, as he had moved into an apartment over the garage upon graduation and employment in the family business.

  “You must think us savages; this house is such a pigsty,” Mrs. Doyle said, setting down Ruby and taking off her housecoat to reveal a surprisingly tight pink buttoned shirt that gapped open between the strained buttons. “I pick up after them as fast as I can, but by this time of day I’ve about had it.” Emmy looked around while Mrs. Doyle took cups out of the sink and gave them a quick rinse. The kitchen was narrow but bright, with the appliances grouped down the front end, and a long table, with a booth-style seat on one side and a freestanding bench on the other, filling the oddly rectangular shape. It was a lovely room, lined by windows on all sides. It had once been a sun porch, but as the Doyle family expanded, so had the kitchen. Off to the left and wrapping around to the living room was a formal dining room with a massive mahogany table at which Emmy had eaten a number of Sunday dinners after attending Mass with Bobby. The Catholic service had seemed so foreign at first, but after a few weeks, Emmy had begun to prefer the solemnity of the Latin rituals to the simplicity of Pastor Erickson, and found the congregants to be not only welcoming but also genuinely pleased to have a new parishioner in their midst. She’d dutifully learned the Pater Noster, letting the melody of the odd language float from her mouth. It was the same prayer as the Our Father, after all, a fact that Emmy found the hardest to reconcile when contemplating the stark line drawn by her family between Catholic and Protestant. Viewed from this other side of the supposed abyss, the prejudice simply didn’t exist. The only things the Catholics wanted to know were whether and when she might convert, and if she had a strong enough voice to join the choir. The simple acceptance was at times too foreign for Emmy to trust. It would take her time to get to know her place in the church, but first, she needed to figure out the Doyles.

  “This’ll just be a second, I’ve already got water boiling,” Mrs. Doyle said as she slid Ruby into her high chair at the head of the kitchen table. Emmy noticed Patrick, the quiet, pale, and freckled six-year-old Doyle, tucked into the corner of the booth, his head bent over a piece of paper on which he was drawing what looked to be an epic battle scene. This boy’s name she knew—he was her favorite due to his dulcet outside and simmering inside. His demeanor reminded her of how she’d been as a child, yearning for attention but mutely accepting that it wasn’t in the cards. He’d been the baby until Ruby picked up his universe with her stubby fingers and put the whole thing in her pocket.

  “Hello, Pat,” Emmy said, and ruffled his hair. He looked up at her from far away. “What’s that you’re drawing?”

  “Gettysburg,” he said above a whisper, with the hint of a lisp in the middle of the word. He gave her a slight smile and returned to his art. Ruby grabbed a fat crayon off the table and Patrick handed her a piece of blue construction paper without breaking his own concentration.

  “Let’s go outside, then, shall we?” Mrs. Doyle elbowed the door to the patio open and stepped down the drop, easily balancing a tea tray set with two cups, a cozy-covered pot, sugar, milk, lemon, and some assorted pastries. “Pat, mind your sister.”

  “Oh, you didn’t need to bother,” Emmy said, springing to the door and holding it open, grateful for the opportunity to leave the cluttered interior and be outside. “I’ve only got a few minutes anyway.”
>
  “I need to fatten you up,” Mrs. Doyle said. “You might blow away come the winds of fall.” They sat down at a small iron table topped by a tiled mosaic of a three-leaf clover. The backyard was as chaotic as the front, with toys and bikes and swimming rafts littering the concrete deck of the pool. There was a high wooden fence enclosing the madness, covered with thick overgrown ivy and climbing red roses. Off in the corner leaned a small swing set, and Emmy jumped a little in her skin when she realized Jesse Acevedo—or tornado boy, as she’d come to think of him—was sitting at the top of the metal slide, unmoving, watching them with his shallow gaze. Emmy had tried to get used to his quiet lurking, and understood that the care he was given was both communal and foster until his father could become well enough to come back to claim him.

  “We took him to see his father last week,” Mrs. Doyle whispered as she poured Emmy’s tea. “The two of them just sat there, looking at each other for fifteen minutes, a couple of ghosts. God bless their souls.”

  “Where exactly is his father?” Emmy asked, keeping her voice similarly hushed.

  “Down in Fergus Falls, at the state hospital. Poor fellow’s really done in by it all.” Mrs. Doyle leaned closer; lowered her voice even more. “They don’t know if he’ll get better at all.”

  “Doesn’t his mother have family that can take him?”

  Mrs. Doyle frowned. “They don’t want him,” she answered. “Cut her off from the family when she married a Mexican. They blame Mr. Acevedo for what happened.”

  “That’s terrible,” Emmy said, her heart stinging for the boy. “What will you do?”

  “Mr. Acevedo has a sister in Grand Forks.” Mrs. Doyle blew on her tea, talking across the steaming surface without sipping. “He’s asked us to take Jesse to her next week. They live ten to a shack on a beet farm up north and drive to their home in Texas every winter.” Mrs. Doyle shook her head. “We have plenty of room here, but it’s time he goes to his own people.” She looked around the backyard, clucked her tongue, and resumed her cheerful tone. “It’s quite a show, isn’t it?”

  “A bit.” Emmy forced a smile that felt hampered by the sad tale. “In a good way.”

  “I married for love, but thank God that came with enough money to provide for this reckless army.” Mrs. Doyle laughed lightly at her own good luck—almost as though she were touching a piece of wood to ward off the kind of misfortune the Acevedos had been served—as she poured milk into her tea. Emmy sometimes felt intimidated by Mrs. Doyle’s easy strength, but her embrace of life was so penetrating it made Emmy forget that they weren’t peers of any sort.

  “How’s your aunt? Her health strong?” Mrs. Doyle asked as she handed Emmy a plate of baked goods to go with her tea. As hot as it was outside, the steaming smell of mint felt surprisingly refreshing.

  “Yes, thanks,” Emmy replied, taking a small slice of bread from the plate and sinking her teeth into the cloudlike substance. It was crumbly and soft, melting on her tongue and revealing its little golden treasures, which she chewed into her teeth. A little burst of caraway set the raisin in contrast, and Emmy smiled at the simple pleasure of the treat. She stole a glance at her watch as she sipped from her teacup. Twenty minutes. It would take only five to drive to work and even if she were a minute or two late, the woman who worked the earlier shift was always happy to take a quarter to cover the time difference. A cloud passed over the sun and the atmosphere stilled. “It looks like it might storm.”

  “It has every day this week,” Mrs. Doyle said as she crossed herself. “Please God we won’t have any more tornadoes. They’re still working on the high school, and my sister Clare’s moved in with the orphans while the convent’s roof is repaired. Imagine, a whole year later.”

  “Your sister is a nun?” Emmy asked. Bobby hadn’t mentioned this aunt. “What’s she like?”

  “Oh, a bit like you and me,” Mrs. Doyle said, winking. “Without the fun.” Emmy blushed but smiled.

  Emmy looked past the pool as a strong wind scattered green leaves across its surface and a rumble of thunder boomed off in the distance. Jesse sat with his body rounded into a tight, quivering ball at the sound. She wondered what it must be like for him to be so permanently lost, stripped by fate of the elementary pieces of having a place, or a people, to call home. Her own minor devastation, though akin, seemed trite to her in a way she’d never had to think about. Leaving her family was a struggle utterly falsified by knowing where to find them if she so chose. Jesse had no such luxury to ease his heavy heart each night when he folded his hands in empty prayer.

  Before Emmy could voice her thoughts to Mrs. Doyle, three Doyle boys ran full speed around the corner of the house, followed by fourteen-year-old Billy, who was chasing them with a garter snake, its yellow and green markings bright in the increasingly overcast backyard.

  “William Reilly Doyle!” Mrs. Doyle yelled and stepped between the teenager and his brothers as the younger three went screaming into the pool, the redhead diving, the others grabbing their knees in tucked orbs that threw water up and onto Emmy’s dress, soaking her through.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, standing as the water dripped down her front. There was always a danger of being soaked around this many children, but Emmy was now going to be both late and wet for work. Mrs. Doyle put an arm around her and grabbed the snake out of Billy’s hand.

  “I don’t see how this is my fault,” he said, pushing his fists into his pockets and sulking back around the house.

  “Well, maybe your father will show it to you in a way you’ll understand,” she yelled after him and dropped the snake into the peony bushes that surrounded the patio. “Let’s go get you a dry shift, Em. I’m sorry for my boys.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” Emmy said, having regained her sense of humor. “At least I didn’t fall into the pool this time!”

  “Ah, there’s your silver lining,” Mrs. Doyle said, and laughed with a brightness that belied the rumbling sky. “Get your sorry selves out of the pool and into the house before you’re electrocuted!” she yelled at the boys. “And bring poor Jesse down off the slide, would you?” As the boys scrambled around Emmy and Mrs. Doyle, the redhead—whom Emmy suddenly remembered was Michael, like the archangel—picked up the tea tray without being asked and scooted it through the door as the first fat raindrops splashed indigo circles onto the parched blue tiles.

  * * *

  By ten o’clock the switchboard had fallen silent for the evening. This was the magic moment: when people in the city were either asleep or watching the local news on television, and Emmy had only an hour to go until her shift was over. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms over her head before taking off the operator’s headset and fluffing her hair. She could safely predict only a couple of calls would come in the next hour, and she liked to use this time to read newspapers from other cities or sift through the edits and rewrites that had landed in the scrap pile at the end of the day. There seemed to be a rhythm to reporting that Emmy read like musical notes, and she kept a spiral-bound pad on her desk to jot down frequently used words or particularly pleasing turns of phrase. On the nights when she was off the switchboard and on the floor, the swirl of copy routing mesmerized her brain in a way that made her eager to learn and do more. Her desire to take the college entrance exams lessened with each shift; there didn’t seem to be a better school than the one she had lucked herself into. The idea of teaching home economics now made her laugh, especially in light of Josephine’s disdain for the domestic. The only skill she used from that goal was sewing the increasingly more mature clothes, the pencil skirts, shirtwaist dresses, and trim blouses she normally wore for work. Still, Emmy quite often found herself daydreaming about Bobby, and what it might be like to someday cook his meals, have his children, and sleep all night in his arms.

  The office grew quiet, with no major stories reported or circulating, and the morning edition’s presses beginning to rumble in the floors below. Most calls had come from men who followed loc
al baseball sensation Roger Maris’s career with first the Indians at the beginning of the summer, and now the Athletics, wondering what the score was and how he was hitting in the game. The sports editor had arranged with a friend at The Kansas City Star to call Emmy at the end of each inning with updates. The Athletics had won in the last inning, 4–3, against the Red Sox. In the half hour since the end of the game, all the calls had died off, and Emmy tapped a pencil on the counter and looked around the room. Of the thirty-some scattered desks, only six were occupied. Mr. Gordon, the city editor, was at his post at the front of the room, his feet up, head tipped back into an uncomfortable position. He was sound asleep. Emmy laughed a little to herself, which caused Jim Klein to look up from his work and raise an eyebrow. She met his look and glanced over at the main desk. Jim picked up his phone and called the switchboard. Emmy replaced her headset and plugged the extension into the board.

  “Hey, kid, put me through to sleeping beauty,” he said, winking at her. She pulled a red cord and did as she was asked, trying not to giggle. When the ringing filled the otherwise quiet room, Mr. Gordon shot upright and nearly fell out of his chair in an attempt to answer. By the time he did, Jim had quietly replaced his receiver in its cradle and had his eyes fixed on the copy in front of him. The editor looked over at Emmy once his barked hellos met no response. She shrugged to cover the prank and pulled the plugs. He resumed his slumped position and promptly began snoring again. Jim pretended to applaud her actions, but Emmy waved him off as if it was nothing, then pointed to the board and mouthed, “Would you?” He nodded and she got up from her desk and went down the hallway, stretching her arms overhead on her way to the archives, that place casually referred to as the morgue.