A Fireproof Home for the Bride

by Amy Scheibe

  “Whoa, cuz,” Dot said, dropping her paper and clutching at the dash. “Take it easy.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Emmy said around the lump stuck in her throat. She was seeing what could have been a moment from her past. Long-denied tears crimped her vision, even as she knew that she had never been freer than either of those women would be in their entire lifetimes. The wind stirred dust through the open windows as Emmy drove faster down the gravel road. The wheels lifted over a small rise in the road and only at its peak did she see a vehicle headed her way, the cloud of tousled dust rising into the blue sky above it. She swerved a little to the right to make room for the oncoming vehicle, but her back tires hit a patch of loose gravel and she momentarily lost control of the car. The ditch was steep on her side, with high prairie grass that bumped and jarred the car to a sudden, jolting stop. She looked over at Dot, whose eyes were wide with anticipated disaster. Emmy put her head down on the steering wheel for a moment of composure, and then looked up to see Ambrose emerge from the passenger side of the other car. Throwing her car into reverse, Emmy turned the wheels sharply, and the back end of the car fishtailed deeper into the ditch.

  “We’re going to flip!” Dot yelled, and Emmy tried to move the car forward more carefully, but the angle of the slope was not releasing them; instead, it seemed to be pulling them into a precarious angle.

  “Let me help,” Ambrose said as he approached with both hands out in front of him, as though Emmy were a cornered, rabid raccoon. Sweating now, Emmy tried to reverse one last time and could hear the back tires spinning in the slick grass until the engine harshly revved against the exertion of turning the axle to no avail. She struck the dashboard in defeat and Ambrose opened her door, holding it wide against the pull of gravity. Dot scrambled over the bench seat, through the back door, and up the ten feet of destroyed grass to the road, where she lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Emmy looked up at Ambrose. His thin black necktie fluttered in the hot breeze against the starched white of his short-sleeved dress shirt. Some sort of change had come over him; he looked quite handsome clean-shaven, and with a sharp beige woven fedora resting lightly on his closely cropped hair. Whatever transformation had started in the spring was now fully complete: He looked like any number of pictures she’d seen at The Fargo Forum of politicians campaigning on a hot summer day.

  “Fine,” she said in outraged defeat, pushing past his offered hand and stamping through the ruts the car had carved into the soil and up to the road, her newly purchased strappy sandals surely ruined before even nearing a patch of water. “That’s Ambrose,” she said to Dot as he slid behind the wheel and began to rock the car in fits and starts, back and forth, slowly undoing the damage Emmy’s attempts had caused.

  “Well, at least he’s good with cars.” Dot shrugged, making Emmy laugh at the sudden absurdity. Had she really expected everything to stop in her absence, that they would all sit around, cherishing the void that her leaving had created? The embarrassing answer was yes, she had thought the period of mourning would last at least until she’d had a better reason to return, triumphantly settled in her new life. Pride, she thought, that’s what this is. The realization hardly made the situation better.

  “He is,” she replied, batting at a grass stain on the hem of her eyelet-edged skirt. Emmy rubbed her wrist where it had apparently slammed into the steering wheel, and turned to look at the other car. In the backseat were two young men she didn’t recognize, dressed in a fashion similar to Ambrose, and behind the wheel was Mr. Davidson, his gaze trained steadily on her. He nodded and emerged from the car. All nascent mirth drained from Emmy as he approached in his light blue serge suit, a white straw boater slanted back on his head.

  “Good afternoon, Emmaline,” he said as he crossed the road. “Is this a prodigal return, or merely an accidental one?”

  Dot whirled toward him, stepping protectively in his path. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said over the straining of the Crestliner, and extended a sharp hand. “Dorothy Randall.” Though Dot was barely a year older, Emmy envied her cousin’s calm maturity and tried to mimic it by standing taller and pushing away the uneasiness that always overcame her around the strange man.

  Mr. Davidson narrowed his eyes and stopped just short of Dot’s hand, the sound of loose gravel crunching beneath his heel as he ground out a dropped cigarette. “Irv’s girl?” he asked, causing Emmy and Dot to look at each other, and then back at him.

  “I am,” Dot replied proudly, drawing her arm across her waist. “And you are?”

  “Curtis Davidson,” he replied, doffing his hat. “An old friend of the family.”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Emmy whispered to Dot as the Crestliner was released from the ditch and Ambrose emerged from the driver’s seat.

  “Thank you,” Emmy said to him, wanting to be finished with the awkward gathering and on her way east.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, glancing in the direction of the church. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  Emmy turned slowly in an arc from Ambrose to Mr. Davidson and then to Dot. “Why don’t you wait in the car where it’s cooler,” she said to her cousin, even though they all knew there was no escaping the heat of the blazing noonday sun. Mr. Davidson smiled as though he had won an unexpected prize at the state fair, took a cigarette from its perch atop one ear, and struck a match on the tip of his thumbnail, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Emmy. She remained still as he drew the flame into the end of a cigarette, and then held the match between them, shaking it out and letting the small burned stick fall to the ground before turning and moving to his car, where he leaned and watched her from the distance. Dot made a noise that sounded like a rabid dog’s growl before rounding the Crestliner and sitting in the car with the door wide open.

  “We need to be getting on,” Emmy said to Ambrose, who lifted her left wrist with one finger and held it in the air between them.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, meeting her eyes for a brief moment before looking painfully away.

  She let her fingers dangle, her palm moist with apprehension. “I know about tomorrow,” she said.

  He sunk the pointed end of a front tooth into his lower lip. Released it. “If you want,” he said, barely opening his mouth, “I’ll call it off.”

  Emmy yanked away her snakebit arm. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Have you lost your mind?”

  The knob of his Adam’s apple pushed above the tight collar and then back down again as he swallowed, his eyes red-rimmed and moist. “I have always loved you,” he said, his voice cracking. “And only you.”

  She slapped him, and the doors of the other car rattled open, the young men emerging. Mr. Davidson held his hand in the air and they froze in mid-motion. Emmy shook her head. “Never say that again. Do not even think it.” She placed her stinging hand in the middle of his chest. The young men moved slightly, then sunk back into their places in the car as Mr. Davidson lowered his hand and tossed his cigarette into the road, where it smoldered. Emmy gripped her fingers around Ambrose’s necktie. “If you ever hurt my sister I will come after you. Understand?”

  Ambrose nodded and swiped at his face with a handkerchief, backing away from her and drawing the tie through her fingers as he went. “I’ll try. For you.” He walked to Mr. Davidson’s car, and they drove off toward the church as Emmy watched, unable to move until the vehicle had gone over a small rise in the road and disappeared, no more a ghost from the past than it was a herald of the future.

  “Come on,” Dot said, slamming her door shut and opening Emmy’s from the inside of the car, bumping Emmy’s backside enough to put her into motion. Emmy got behind the wheel and wrung her hands for a moment before starting the engine.

  “Your creepy ex-boyfriend left you a present,” Dot said, tossing a sheaf of paper into Emmy’s lap. “And what’s with the geezer? ‘I’m an old friend of the family.’” Dot perfectly imitated Mr. Davidson’s growling baritone.

  “I’m no
t really sure,” Emmy said. She unfolded the latest copy of The Citizens’ Council and then strangled it into a tight cone before sticking it under the seat and driving carefully down the road. “But I don’t want to have anything to do with any of them, ever again.”

  * * *

  By the time Emmy and Dot pulled into the grass drive of the lake cottage, Emmy’s temper had calmed and the mood was improved by Dot’s increasingly funny imitations of Mr. Davidson and Ambrose. More than anything, she had helped Emmy understand that whatever had happened between Ambrose and Birdie was not Emmy’s fault, nor was it something she could fix—if it even needed fixing, for that matter. They got out of the car just as the sun slanted behind the high treetops and the late afternoon smelled green and cool after the humid dust bowl of the valley. On the outside, the cabin looked fairly similar to the other buildings the various Randall men had built, constructed as it was from rough-hewn logs, with low roofs and square windows. But this house was painted a very cheerful red and trimmed with whitewashed window boxes, frames, and gutters. Along the small path up to the door was a smattering of wild flowers bending to the demands of heavy, buzzing bumblebees. Emmy spied a bird feeder hanging from an eave and saw tiny little birds sprinting to it, suspending themselves for a second, then flying off just as quickly. She ducked out of the way of one that seemed determined to dive right into her hair.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Hummingbird, farm girl,” Dot said, nudging her forward with an elbow. “Wait until the bats come out.” The white screen door opened in front of them and Dot’s mom, Helen, came out to greet them, with Dot’s eleven-year-old sister, Virginia, close behind. They’d arrived at the cottage a few days before, and both had a sunburn glow from long, lazy days spent beside the lake.

  “Dottie, you’ll never believe how many sunfish I caught. We’re having them for supper,” Virginia exclaimed. “And a big fat crappie!”

  “How was the drive?” Helen asked Emmy, taking her bag from her and slinging an arm around her waist.

  “The drive was the easy part,” Emmy said, not knowing where to start summing up the past twenty-four hours.

  “At least it’s cooler here,” Helen said, leading Emmy up the path.

  “Get this,” Dot said, holding the screen door open. “Emmy’s old boyfriend is marrying her sister.”

  Helen’s nose wrinkled across its aquiline bridge. “You poor dear.”

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if he loved her, and not me.” Emmy walked through the open door and into the house, which began with the kitchen and the smell of hot oil.

  “How do you know that?” Helen asked. A number of small fish fillets lay on a towel, waiting to be battered and fried, next to a wood-burning stove supporting a frying pan.

  “He told her!” Dot said, dropping her bag on the floor next to a round table in the middle of the room, already set with a handful of wild flowers stuck into a small white vase, and gaily checked napkins that matched the red tablecloth. The cabinets were all painted bright white and a small red hand pump sat next to the sink. Dot picked up Emmy’s wrist and held it between them. “I’ve only ever loved you,” she mocked, standing stiffly.

  Helen tilted her head. “Don’t be cruel, Dorothy. The boy might have a point.”

  Dot rolled her eyes. “Sure, on the top of his head.”

  “Come with me, dear,” Helen said to Emmy. She followed Helen into the living room, where there was a brown bearskin rug, complete with head and teeth, sprawled before a stone fireplace. The room was cozy but cool in the spackling daylight, and Emmy was happy to see a bundle of logs and twigs ready to be lit against the evening’s chill.

  “You’re on this side with the girls.” Helen pointed to a room behind the chimney with three twin beds. She turned and took Emmy by the shoulders. “We’re so glad you’re finally here.”

  “Don’t get all sappy on her,” Dot called from the kitchen. She was already frying the fish, slipping bits of firewood into the stove to make the flame hotter. “Em, get your heartbreaking skirt out here and toss the salad, would ya?”

  “Sure thing,” she said. “Just as soon as I wash up.”

  * * *

  After the last tiny sunfish had been eaten and the peach crumble dishes cleared, Helen broke out a deck of cards.

  “Do you play pinochle?” she asked, opening the deck, splitting it in two, and then effortlessly forcing the cards back together in a small arc.

  “Mom,” Dot said, shaking her head a little.

  “Oh, right. Of course you don’t,” she said, putting the cards quickly back into their package. “Why don’t we have some coffee by the fire instead?”

  “Please let me light the fire?” Virginia asked. In the diminished light and with her ebony hair tightly braided, she looked a good deal younger than her eleven years. “You promised.”

  “Go ahead, firebug, it’s not like we could stop you,” Dot said, and Virginia stuck out her tongue as she ran into the other room.

  “I would like to learn to play cards, though,” Emmy said, wanting the cozy evening to stretch on forever. The good company and conversation had gone a far way toward keeping her mind from circling around the approaching hour of the wedding. Still, the tangle of emotions roped its way into her thoughts and fairly strangled any lightheartedness she might otherwise have felt in the happy collection of Randall women.

  “Okay, then,” Helen said, stretching the length of her tall frame away from the table and setting a coffeepot on the stove. “Maybe after Virginia goes to sleep.”

  “Oh, Mom!” Virginia complained from the other room. “I can hear you in here, you know.”

  “Then you can hear that you’ve got ten minutes to brush your teeth and get to bed,” Helen said. She set an old tray with mismatched coffee cups, a bowl of sugar, and a small jug of milk, and handed it off to Emmy, who then carried it all into the living room.

  “I’ll take that,” Dot said, emerging from the bedroom dressed in pink pinstriped pajamas. “Why don’t you go change while the urchin is cleaning itself?”

  The bedroom windows were open to the night and Emmy could hear syncopated crickets with their slowing chirps echoing around the cabin. She clicked open her small pearl-colored Samsonite case and took her nightgown and robe from the left side. She changed quickly, drawn to the murmuring voices on the other side of the door, thinking about how by this time tomorrow her sister would be married to Ambrose. When she tried to imagine the two of them in the front of the church it was like viewing the scene through a stereopticon—a great distance in front of her nose, split in two, slightly different and yet exactly the same. As she sat on the bed to pull on a pair of granny socks, it struck her that she should do something to stop the wedding, to save her sister from an unknown future. Imagining the scene that would ensue convinced Emmy otherwise. No, unless she was willing to turn back the pages of the calendar to Easter, ruining countless lives in the process, nothing about the situation could be set straight by her actions. Besides, who was she to say what the future would be? Just as Emmy finished dressing, Virginia burst through the door.

  “Hey, that’s my bed,” she said, and yanked down the white chenille cover. Emmy swept her suitcase closed and onto the floor.

  “Sorry, Virginia,” she said.

  “Call me Gini, please?” she whispered, lying down and settling the covers under her chin. “I hate my name.”

  “You know, my full name is Emmaline, and I hate it, too.” She kissed her cousin on the nose and went out to the living room, where the lanterns were all lit and the fire was ablaze. Helen and Dot sat next to each other on the couch, sifting through a box of photographs, the women’s heads bowed together until they almost touched. Emmy’s throat felt dry and hoarse, and she coughed a little to cover her swell of regret that she didn’t have a mother who would ever sit so closely. They looked up at the same time and smiled—Helen with her crooked grin and Dot with her sweet, pressed-lip smirk. They looked nothing alike
, but no one would ever doubt they were mother and daughter. Emmy observed them with the fragile desire of a child on the outside of a candy store window, pockets empty.

  “Come sit.” Helen motioned to the other side of the couch, and Emmy sat next to her. “Closer, so you can see. Dot thought it might be nice for you to see some old pictures.”

  “I love these,” Dot said, lifting a small stack of black-and-white squares edged in white and carefully flipped through them, looking at the backsides, where names and dates were scrawled in a meticulous script. “Hey, here’s a baby picture of Pops in a dress. Look at his hair!” She showed Emmy a picture of a small boy in a white shirt that went to the floor. Irv had short, straight bangs that framed his tiny face.

  Helen laughed and pushed a pair of glasses up her nose. “That one always reminds me of one of the Stooges, what’s his name?”

  “Moe,” Dot said, and filed the image. They sat quietly as Dot continued to sort through the moments of captured rural time, ranging from men gathered in front of a threshing machine, to ladies in flowing dresses crossing a croquet lawn, to formally posed stiff portraits of high-buttoned men and women. When she neared the bottom of the box, Dot stopped, holding up a very worn and yellowed photo. “Look at this one,” she said. There were four young people dressed in brilliant white summer clothing complete with parasols and walking sticks, as though they were headed to church or even a wedding. The women were quite young, and one in particular had Emmy’s high fair looks. “That one could be you, Em,” Dot said.