A Fireproof Home for the Bride (36 page)

“Oh, Bobby, he’s perfect!” Emmy took the pup from his outstretched hands and buried her nose in the silky fur. It smelled like new shoes. “Is he mine?”

“He’s a she,” Bobby said, clearly delighted that he’d done the right thing. “One of the guys on the crew had a bunch of these little guys, and when he asked me if I knew of anyone who could use one, I figured you could.” He scratched the pup behind an ear.

Emmy cradled her closer and walked to the house. “Coffee?”

“Sort of a funny name for a dog, but I guess she’s the right color.” Bobby put his arm around Emmy’s shoulder. She winced and pulled away.

“I think I burned my skin a little,” she said, holding the pup to the porch light. “She is the right color. Hello, Coffee. Welcome to the Randall Estate, home for wayward girls.”

“You’d better put her down before she pees on you,” Bobby said. “She has a habit of doing that sort of thing.”

Emmy looked at the dark house, and for the first time felt that she had perhaps overstayed her welcome. She settled Coffee on her large feet. “I’d better ask Josephine if it’s okay,” she said, the paper cut from the photograph stinging as though it had happened to her heart.

“It’s okay,” Bobby said. “You didn’t think I’d clear it with her first?”

“She doesn’t mind?” Emmy asked, squinting the water from her eyes.

Bobby shook his head. “She said she likes dogs.” He brushed her nose with his lips.

“Ouch,” she said. “Even that hurts.”

“Sister Clare said you looked a little lobstery.” Bobby took a small blue jar out of his pocket. “First-aid cream. She said it might help.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?” Emmy tenderly kissed his lips and opened the front door. Bobby whistled and Coffee wound around his ankle, sniffing the air at the threshold and making a softly nervous sound that was too meek to be a growl. She looked up at Emmy and tipped her head so quickly that one of her floppy ears landed across her brow. She shook it off with a full-body shudder, as though unaccustomed to the feel of the world.

Emmy knelt and scratched the offending ear, smoothing it into place. “It’s okay, girl, that’s just Flossie. She’s too old and self-satisfied to care about a dog.” Emmy picked up Coffee and whispered, “I was afraid of her at first, too. You’ll be fine.”

Once they were inside, Bobby set up the coffeepot, produced a steak bone for Coffee to gnaw, and Emmy went in the direction of her room in search of a lightweight robe—anything to get the scratch of her crinoline away from her bristling skin. She had one made of silk that Josephine had given her, saying that all ladies should have at least one pretty thing to sleep in, but it seemed too risqué for the application of burn cream. Instead she painfully peeled off her top layer of clothing, and slipped into her bathing suit, as it was the only option that made sense—she certainly couldn’t wear her bra and underpants in front of Bobby—besides, it clearly displayed exactly the parts of her that were in need of help. Carefully draping her slightly ratty beige nylon robe over her shoulders, Emmy steadied herself against the dressing table, nauseated by the fresh prickling of blistering pain caused by the sticky material. She suspended her arms in midair as she delicately made her way back into the kitchen, where she was surprised to see a candlelit dinner of sandwiches and cold milk laid out as though it were a much more special occasion. The perfection with which Bobby had made the table almost
too
romantic put Emmy back on the edge that she had tried to leave in the hospital, the precipice where her grandmother lay suspended in time, waiting for death. Emmy tried to smile in appreciation but knew the corners of her mouth rose far less than Bobby deserved for his efforts.

“It hurts to smile now,” she said, sitting down gingerly and taking a large bite of sandwich. Bobby watched her eat and she became self-conscious of how ravenous she must look, instantly feeling her nausea rise back up and take hold for good. She put down the sandwich and pushed away the plate, drinking steadily from the cold glass of milk until the final drops collected at the corners of her mouth and she licked at them like a sated cat.

“I’m sorry, it’s all so lovely,” she said. “But I just can’t eat.”

“I can’t, either,” he said. “I feel so terrible for you.” Bobby cleared the plates into the sink and returned to the table with the jar of cream. He moved behind her chair and silently slipped the robe from her, lifting her left arm tenderly by the fingers away from her body and slicking a long white line of cream from shoulder to wrist. The sharp smell of menthol permeated the room, untying the twisted knot in the middle of Emmy’s brow.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I can manage.”

“Shhh.” Bobby worked the soothing coolness in tiny feather strokes across her skin, limiting his touch to the barest tickle. By the time he had finished this rhythm down her other arm, she was breathing heavily with her eyes closed, the pain relief bringing on a deeper, richer heat. Bobby placed his fingers under both of her palms and indicated she should stand by slightly tipping her hands in his direction. With her eyes still closed, she lifted easily from the chair and followed him into the other room, where he laid her down on the davenport and knelt on the floor before her. First her left leg was lifted into the air, the long line of cream now making her shiver in the anticipation of its ability to soothe even as the right leg ached for the same treatment. Emmy began to feel as though her body were turning into points of light, each tiny pinprick saturated with desire. Bobby must have sensed this change—perhaps because Emmy knew her breathing had become labored, intense, and punctuated by soft moans—for now every other finger circle was countered with the slightest brush of what had to be his lips. She wanted to look but was afraid of disrupting the free fall of physical sensation. As he worked his way up her thighs, her body arched and next she knew he was hovering a bare inch above her, and his tongue slid into her open, panting lips. Only their mouths touched for long delicious minutes, and Emmy knew that she could go until they stopped, yearning for the exquisite pain of his rough skin shredding hers. A flash of light swept through the dark room and Emmy gingerly slipped out from under Bobby, going to the window in expectation of her aunt’s return, which could mean only one thing. There in the yard sat Ambrose’s truck. It idled only for a second before the gears shrieked and the flash of light passed once again through the house as he spun the wheels into reverse down the long drive. Emmy wrapped her arms around her waist, willing herself not to cry.

“Who was it?” Bobby said, at her shoulder.

Emmy shook her head. “No one,” she said. “No one at all.”

Sixteen

When the Soul Is Touched

“There’s a story breaking over in Fargo.” A voice burrowed through the phone line and into Emmy’s ear. It had taken a number of rings and more than enough barking to cause her to go downstairs to the phone in the chilly pitch-dark of middle night. It felt as though she’d maybe slept an hour or two, and her groggy mind didn’t start easily, despite the welcome sound of Jim’s voice. “You ready?”

“Okay,” she replied, looking out the side window to see the Jeep house warmly lit from within. Josephine had finally resumed her regular night owl schedule of writing, after far too many days holed up in the back bedroom following Lida’s funeral. There hadn’t been enough time for a full reunion between the sisters, but Josephine had told Emmy it had been as though the time had never passed, the separation never happened. The past was not what mattered to Josephine—there had been too much of it—and so she’d thrown herself back into her work. Emmy had done likewise, taking every opportunity to prove to Jim that she was worthy of his increasing confidence in her. Emmy was relieved to have things moving forward, and thrilled to be getting this particular call. “What time is it?”

“Half past five. Get dressed. I’m picking you up in ten minutes.” The phone went dead in Emmy’s hand. Suddenly she was wide-awake, running upstairs to throw on whatever clothes she could get to first, Coffee close at her heels. Jim had promised her a ride along to his next big story, and this was her chance to learn something more interesting than pulling cords and routing copy. The more she observed the writers up close and felt the jolts of adrenaline that came with the ring of a phone or the pushing of a deadline, the more alluring the job of reporter became. When Emmy wasn’t at work, she would devour the newspaper from headline to obituary, circling details and turns of phrase that she liked in particular, recognizing bits of copy that she’d read on foot the night before.

In the weeks that had passed since her grandmother had died, the hours of the day leading up to Emmy’s work shift had become empty and monotonous by comparison to the rush of the newsroom, rarely disturbed by anything more than routine chores or a poignant feeling of absence in the shape of Lida. Even Bobby had become never-present with the advent of September and freshman classes at NDAC in addition to work on the weekends out on the strip of interstate that kept its steady pace, snailing toward Jamestown. When Emmy closed her eyes she could still feel his soothing caresses on her fiery skin, even though there had been no further intimacy in the weeks since. Sometimes she wondered if his busy schedule had some sort of intent behind it, a distancing of a different sort, but then she would see him in church on Sunday morning and hear him talk about his class load and work schedule, reassuring her that all he did, he did for their future together.

She stepped quietly into slim black trousers and a pair of ballet flats, choosing a maroon buttoned blouse, and then quickly dragged a brush through her tousled hair. It had grown in nicely from the severity of the cut she’d gotten in June, and she could finally tuck it behind her ears. As she stuffed a spiral notebook and three pencils into the small satchel that Mr. Utke had given her, Emmy welcomed the flurry in her stomach, the nervous feeling that told her she’d made the right choice to put off college for a year. Dot had packed up and driven down to nursing school in Saint Paul, and Bev’s summer in Paris had turned into fall in London. The glue of shared childhood seemed to weaken on the brink of maturity, and as Emmy’s smattering of friends ventured off into the world, she became more at home amid the thrum and energy of the wire machines and printing presses.

After a brief glance in the mirror, Emmy ran back down the stairs and cleared the front door just as Jim’s car swung into the yard. Feeling the first deathly chill of fall in the mid-September air, she darted back into the house and grabbed Josephine’s red-checked barn coat. She jumped in the car and shut the door quickly.

“Hello,” Jim said, reversing down the drive.

“Stop here,” she instructed as they approached the Jeep house. “I’ll be only a minute.”

Emmy ran up the tile-bordered walkway and knocked. After a moment, Josephine opened the door.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Emmy said, surprised to see that Josephine exuded an alert calm after being up all night.

“What’s wrong?” Josephine asked, looking past Emmy at Jim’s idling car.

“I’m not sure, but Jim’s asked me to go on a story with him,” Emmy replied, holding her coat closed at the collar, a small smile pulling at her lip. “Will you take Coffee out for me?”

“I’ll bring her out here.” Josephine nodded. “She’s better company than my current heroine.”

“Thanks.” Emmy raced back to the car, where Jim fiddled with the dials on the radio. “What’s happened?” she asked him as they drove off.

“There’s a body over in Golden Ridge.” He glanced at Emmy, as though trying to gauge her reaction before going on with more details. “In the root cellar of a condemned house. A construction crew found it and called the police.” Jim lit a cigarette and passed it to her without lighting another for himself. She took a long draw and let the smoke flow out of her nose.

Emmy shivered and buttoned up the coat against the unnerving thought of living in the basement of an abandoned house. “Why the middle of the night?”

“The coroner was in Chicago.” Jim pushed his hat up from his forehead and whistled as they crossed over the bridge to Fargo and down to Nineteenth Avenue North.

“Do you always do that?” she asked.

“What?”

“Whistle when you cross a bridge?”

“I have no idea,” he said. “Maybe.”

“I know a boy who lived over there, before the storm,” she said, warding off the gloom that had begun to settle around the word
body.
“Around ten, named Jesse. Such a terrible story, lost his family. Had to go live with relatives in Grand Forks.”

“Acevedo?” Jim asked. “They got the worst of it, all right.”

“You know him?”

Jim coughed. “I was the first reporter on the scene.” He gestured toward the south. “Just live that way a few blocks.”

“Was your house hit?”

“No. Elise and I went down to the basement at the first siren and waited out the fifteen minutes of wind. When we came up, the air was green and silent—sweet smelling, from all of the broken trees. Then the wailing started. I went out to get in the car, but a giant elm had destroyed it, so I started running toward the screams. I suppose that doesn’t sound very smart.”

“It sounds brave,” Emmy said.

“Not brave at all,” he said. “Look, I’ve learned that there are two kinds of people: those who run toward a problem and those who run away. One is no braver than the other. It’s all instinct.”

“What about those who just stand and watch?” Emmy asked.

Jim laughed through his nose. “You have a sharp way of seeing things, for a kid. Sure, I guess there are those who do that, too.”

His mirth flattered her, even as the word
kid
made her feel too young. As they passed through the corridor along Twelfth Avenue that ran along the southern edge of the college and past Hector Field, Emmy noticed how a grid of lonely yellow lights stood out on the left, against a flat dark line of night. As they neared the neighborhood, she realized this odd pattern was caused by the sudden dearth of trees, and as they entered the dismembered neighborhood she was even more taken by the gaping holes between tiny houses where the tornado had randomly selected the more vulnerable structures. This area was much poorer than North Moorhead, and the Nelsons’ small house looked palatial when compared to these tiny ramshackle abodes. There was scant evidence of rebuilding, and Emmy was stunned to see heaping piles of debris still mounded in the far corners of some of the lots, illuminated by the dingy yellow light of the streetlamps. It was hard to tell which houses were occupied, as even the ones still standing had cheap patching that could indicate either habitability or desertion.