by Amy Scheibe
“See you after church,” she said to the animals, and opened the front door to the howl of a preblizzard wind. There, on the small stoop, was an object so out of place that it made Emmy gasp. At the same time both smaller and bigger than she remembered, the green metal box looked as though it had been frosted for a special occasion, the white of the scant half inch of snow making the muddy olive paint look even duller in the dim daylight. When she dusted it off, she found a small folded note affixed with a dot of rubber cement, her name scrawled upon the white paper in Christian’s cramped script. Emmy surveyed the yard, but there were neither footprints nor tire tracks anywhere. Her father had clearly come and gone well before dawn.
Pocketing the note first, Emmy then sprinted to the car and got the engine running before she scraped the icy clotted snow off the windshield, opened the trunk, and hurried back to fetch the box, placing it between the spare tire and a small, empty gasoline can. She paused for a moment—her arms stretched up to the edge of the trunk’s lid—and fought off the temptation to open the box and rifle through the contents quickly. No, she thought, better to do it methodically and in a safe, dry place, with an objective witness beside her. She sat in the frigid car and unfolded the slip of paper.
Dear Emmaline,
Your sister is staying with your mother at the farm. I’m going to help Irv deliver three off-sale kegs to a wedding. Until they are safely tapped later this week, it would be best you not mention the trip to your friends.
Whatever may come of today, know that I approve, and wish I could be there for you.
Love,
Dad
Christian was clearly Lida’s son, closing and opening doors without moving any real information over any threshold. Pondering the note, Emmy opened the car door and took a matchbook from her pocket, held the letter by one corner, and lit another. As she watched the black line of fire advance across the page like a well-positioned army, a smile pulled at her lips. Kegs. They were taking the Gonzales family away from harm. Christian’s reticence revealed fresh depths of meaning to Emmy, and she dropped the last piece of smoldering paper into the snow, knowing that he was right—no matter what came of the day, he would approve of her actions because they had been guided by his steady moral compass all along. He was more true to his given name than any person Emmy had ever met. She would strive to be worthy of the gifts he’d given her.
The drive into Fargo was painfully beautiful. An overnight fog had descended and frozen into crystalline outlines on every branch of every tree, painting the evergreens and bare oaks alike with a sugary hoarfrost. This happened only once or twice a season, and as the sun rose invisibly up behind the white sky of steady snow, Emmy began to feel a glimmer of strength inside of her grow along with the swell of confidence she would need to tackle whatever might come her way. Regardless of the malevolence she had been exposed to in the past twenty-four hours, there was so much magic in the world, so much good and beauty, and she felt it in this wonderland of grace. It started to sink in that she was in a position to dig the light of truth out of the past and shine it on the shadowy goings-on in the present out in Glyndon. Maybe this was the very thing she’d been hoping for to prove her instincts right—she could uncover this darkness and write about it in a way that would reveal its malignant growth and dilute Mr. Davidson’s influence. Then, finally, she would be able to show Bobby why her work was important, why she felt so compelled to seek the truth, no matter how close to home it might live.
Emmy drove straight past the church and directly to the Fargo Forum building a few blocks south, wondering what kind of future she would have if she decided not to join Bobby at Mass. Only once had she gone against Bobby’s wishes in order to pursue her goals, and though he had allowed it, many days had passed after where she could feel he wasn’t pleased by her choice. There were a handful of cars in the lot, and she swung hers in next to Jim’s and turned off the engine, buzzing with the energy inspired to chart the new materials in her trunk. If she chose to heed her gut and go upstairs, pop the lid from the box, and begin the excavation right away, she knew that there would be no Sunday dinner at the Doyles’ and no opportunity for Bobby to propose—for even if Christian hadn’t confirmed her suspicions, there was no point in denying that Bobby’s visit was for anything other than asking for her hand. If she didn’t see Bobby, she wouldn’t have to spin that particular wheel just yet, the one that offered happy dull days of creating and nurturing a family. There had been a time—and not long passed—that Emmy could think of nothing else. Faced with a table set for another kind of banquet, she couldn’t help wanting to taste the sweet solace of coming home at the end of the day. Maybe there was a way. Her stomach growled against the black-coffee-soaked bread and Emmy looked at her watch, shocked to see that it was almost nine. A lifetime of Sunday pew sitting simmered up in her, and the decision to head in that direction suddenly felt calming, the sanctity of the Mass a dulcet lure that offered her an hour’s respite from thought or action. For as much as she had seemed to rebel against her own religious upbringing, Emmy loved the things it had taught her—above all, that there was a place she could go to find peace, however temporary.
Emmy’s breath fogged out of her mouth as she restarted the car and slid the gearshift into reverse. Just as quickly a knock came at the steamed-up window. She rubbed the surface somewhat clear and saw Jim’s face through the streaked circle. The snow had eased, and a halo of white sky surrounded his hat-clad head. Emmy felt a swelling in her chest, a further settling of order and calm. A welcome rightness. Jim opened the door and leaned his body somewhat into the fresh warmth of the heater, keeping his arms on the roof and doorframe.
“Late for church?” he asked, smiling.
“You could say that.” She smiled back.
“I just did.”
“So you did.”
He bit his index finger and glanced around before lowering his voice. “D.A. says the Mexican’s prints are on the gun.”
“Did they find him?” she asked, concerned for all the parties involved in Carlos’s flight, but most of all for her father.
“No, but they pulled some prints from the shack he lived in,” Jim replied. “Curtis Davidson’s breathing down my neck to write his sentence without a trial.”
“To what end?”
“He seems to think that the boy was having an affair with Hansen’s wife before she ran off.” Jim shrugged. “He may be right.”
“That day in the archives,” Emmy said, blinking up at Jim and catching a snowflake on a bottom lash. “That was her, John Hansen’s wife. That was Svenja.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Emmy shook her head. “I haven’t heard a thing.” Her mind quick-fire bounced back in time to the Crystal Ballroom, Mr. Davidson’s proprietary gaze on Svenja as she walked toward the Hansens’ table. “But she sure was scared of someone,” Emmy said, her voice sounding remote to her own ears. If Mr. Davidson was trying hard to pin the murder on Carlos, Emmy thought, then he must have had something to do with it. She touched Jim’s coat. “I need your help with something.”
Jim leaned an inch deeper into the car.
“There’s a box of my grandfather’s things in the trunk,” she said, glancing in that direction. “He was involved in … some things. It may be nothing, but if you’ll take it upstairs for me and promise not to open it, I’ll come back this afternoon and we can sort through it together.”
Jim studied her expression for a moment and then nodded, going to the back of the car and hefting the crate before the slam of the closing trunk caused Emmy to jump, even though she had watched his movements in the rearview mirror.
“I promise,” he said, returning to the window. “See you back here around four?”
“Four.” She looked at her watch, trying to figure out how long it would take Christian to reach his destination with the fugitives, wherever they might be headed. “Jim?” she asked, causing him to turn toward her, the box partially obscuring
his face from her view. “Carlos didn’t do this,” she whispered. “Try to keep his name out of the story for now, if you can.”
“Okay,” he said with a wink, and walked away. A rabble of imaginary butterflies swarmed through Emmy as she put the car into gear and drove off toward Mass, so many emotions swirling with the delicately beating wings that she had to flap a hand at the empty air around her, chasing away any more questions until she could properly sit and focus on one at a time.
* * *
Emmy arrived at Saint Mary’s Cathedral just as the doors were closing. She rushed downstairs to the coatroom and removed her boots, coat, and trousers, smoothed down her skirt, switched her woolen cloche to her lacy little white church hat, slipped on her low heels, and tried not to make too much noise on the stairs as she ran back up to the foyer, where she was led into the nave by an usher. The organ was still in full swell, and the priests had not yet entered, so Emmy slowed her pace and took in the beautifully decorated room, from the row of carved and painted saints affixed above the altar to the stained-glass windows depicting the many apostles. Her favorite part was the soaring sky blue color of the ceiling and the host of angels that were painted high up in the middle, their harps aloft and mouths open in praise. She figured that the entirety of her old church would fit inside the front half of this one, with room to spare. Part of her did miss the paneled simplicity of the other building, and in particular, the words carved on a wooden beam above the altar—GRACE ALONE, FAITH ALONE, THE WORD ALONE—which she had read so many times they felt like something rooted inside of her heart.
The moment Bobby turned and looked at her, it was clear from his sweat-beaded brow what his intentions were that day. All the various heights of Doyle heads swiveled in her direction, shiny, smiling weirdly compassionate grins that could mean only one thing: They were all in on a secret that was soon to be made very public. Emmy’s breath stuck in a way that wasn’t pleasant, and she took it to be a bad omen.
The music stopped and so did she, alone now in the aisle as the usher hurried to his own seat. Emmy panicked, the pressure of moving forward into the fold of this tightly knit family distressing her far beyond a mere blush. Just as she pictured herself turning on a heel, Bobby’s smile faded and he took her hand, guiding her to the seat next to his at the end of the pew. She sat and glanced shyly at him as her hand warmed against his palm. Reassurance steadied her skittish heart. This was a good place to be, Emmy thought, with these fine people in their welcoming community, far from the scratch of cold fear that was gnawing at her imagination. If she was to open this door, then she could turn away from the onerous task that lay sleeping ten blocks away—leave her thoughts of unraveling long-entwined secrets and lies, leave any thoughts of being more than a cub reporter where they perhaps belonged, for a girl with no other options. She could go to her father, tell him that she wanted no part in dealing with the past—or better yet, let Jim have the box and all that was bound to go with it. Maybe, just maybe, marrying Bobby was more than a good choice; maybe his whittling away at her ambition was for the ultimate salvation of them both. His scrubbed-up beauty shone in the brightly lit room. She smiled tentatively at him. He winked.
As the priest entered and the service began, Emmy tried to imagine what it would all look like. The wedding would be here, of course, and she’d probably have to convert to Catholicism. She’d walk down this aisle, in a beautiful white gown with long lace sleeves and tiny buttons up the bodice like the one she’d seen in a picture of Princess Grace of Monaco. Afterward, a party in the hall below with sugar-coated butter mints shaped like leaves and rosebuds, bowls of salty peanuts, and a crystal bowl of punch. A long table displaying the gifts: toaster, china, silver, pots and pans, maybe some hand-embroidered linens and a woman to write everything down for Emmy so she could personalize her thank-you notes on a rainy day in June. Cutting the cake, taking the pictures, throwing the bouquet, ducking the pelleting of rice on the way to a car that would take them to the honeymoon … and then what? A blank white space filled the frame, as though the projector had stuck long enough for the happy film to melt from the center out, the loose end of the beginning of life with Bobby flapping with each turn of the reel. More of this, more of this, more of this. Her fingers began to tingle from being held too tightly, and she removed them from his grasp. Up into the void of her imaginings floated her grandfather’s box, the robe, the ring … John Hansen arguing, fighting for the gun, turning, running, falling. Emmy pressed her hand to her eyes until circles of light ringed her vision, but it couldn’t stop the pool of blood from flooding her thoughts. She realized that everything she knew about John—his quietness and simplicity—pointed away from a man who could provoke another man to do such a thing.
“Emmy,” Bobby whispered from somewhere above her head. She opened her eyes and realized that the whole congregation was standing and that Bobby’s father had crossed the aisle with his hand extended in greeting. She stood quickly, bruising both ankles against the dropped kneeling bench, and nearly sat right back down with the pain.
“God bless you,” Mr. Doyle said, his youthful face, in particular his wind-chapped lips, mirroring only shards of Bobby.
“And you,” Emmy replied as she turned and offered the same handshake a dozen more times as the music changed, signaling the end of Mass and sweeping her attention into a rhythm that allowed her to shut down the grim thoughts that were trying to consume her.
Once the music ended, and the kneelers were tipped back against the pews, the Doyles surrounded her and moved out of the church in a maelstrom of freckles and curls while Bobby fetched their coats from the basement. As they cleared the front doors Bobby took her by the hand and pulled her away from the crowd.
“Where’d you park?” he asked.
“Over there,” she said, slowing her pace as they reached the car.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said as he slipped behind the wheel of the Crestliner.
“Something terrible happened last night,” Emmy said. She moved next to him as he backed out of the lot and pulled the car onto Broadway. Her father’s note about not telling her friends leaped to mind and she quieted.
“You mean that shooting?” Bobby asked. “Rough business, these Mexicans.” After a few blocks he turned the car onto a side street and down a lane she’d never seen.
“They’re not,” she countered, annoyed at the way he jumped to the conclusion that she couldn’t openly defend. “I know his aunt.”
“Well, they’ll get him, I suppose, and figure it out.” A couple of more turns led them onto a small curved road.
“Why do you do that?” Emmy looked out the window and saw a street sign that read PLUM CIRCLE. There were about eight houses arrayed along the short street: modest two-story affairs with tidy shrubs and fresh paint.
“Do what?” The car stopped in front of an oversized lot, in the middle of which stood an odd-looking gray cement structure with an arched doorway and many arched windows with boards where panes should be.
“Why do you let other people worry about things?” she asked as he turned off the car.
“Look,” he said with a sigh. “Everyone has a job, a purpose, in society. Worrying about someone I don’t know being shot by another person I don’t know isn’t mine. My job is to build things, to make roads smoother for drivers and houses where people can safely raise their families. Priests and nuns have a calling to do good, bankers are drawn to money. It’s the job of the police to take care of this, just like I wouldn’t know the first thing about putting out a fire—that’s Pete’s job. See?”
“But I worry,” she said. “And I know the people involved.”
“That’s what makes you great.” He opened the door. “You care. It’s probably what makes you good at your job, too.”
“Thanks,” she said, surprised by the compliment. He’d never directly referred to her work in a favorable way.
“Wait here,” he said, and dashed up the sidewalk, disappearing
into the unfinished house. Though she assumed it was new construction, the house could just as easily have been in the process of being torn down. In the open part of the lot next to the house on the snow-coated lawn, Emmy noticed the makings of a child’s fort and a recently abandoned headless snowman with a scarf and only one stick arm. She thought about people having a purpose and how smart that seemed. At the very least, it helped her to ease up on her thinking about John Hansen. Bobby was right; there were people far better suited to figuring out what happened. They didn’t need an eighteen-year-old cub reporter applying her scant experience to the conversation.
Emmy stepped out of the car as she saw Bobby reappear, waving at her to follow. “Well, what do you think?” he shouted.
“I think it’s cold,” she yelled from the curb.
“It’s ours,” he shouted back.
Emmy stood very still. It was impossible for her to imagine what the hulking gray building was supposed to look like. She tried to smile. “Ours?”
“Isn’t it something?” he asked, running over to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I know it looks terrible right now, but wait until you see the drawings back at the house.” He walked her up to the tarp of heavy canvas that covered the front door, pushing it aside and picking up a large metal flashlight from next to the wall inside. It was slightly warmer out of the wind, and as Bobby shone the wide beam around the first floor, her trepidation receded slightly.
“This is the living room, and over here’s where we’ll put the davenport and a couple of chairs—if that’s okay—and here’s the dining room and the kitchen is right off of it, and there’s a back staircase. Come on, I want to show you all the bedrooms.” He sprang up the set of bare plank stairs and Emmy grew winded trying to maintain the pace while absorbing the import of what he was saying. “Of course, you’ll have plenty of time to decorate and stuff when you quit your job.” Emmy flinched at the words, following so quickly after his praise of her abilities. She tried to convince herself that they were nothing more than typical sentiment, a thing a boy says when he’s showing a girl their house. Once they reached the part of a hallway that had recently been framed and plastered, Bobby stopped at the final doorway. He turned and searched her eyes. “What do you think?”
