A Dream to Follow (41 page)

BOOK: A Dream to Follow

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That night the hours passed slower than a sick centipede. Long before daylight Thorliff gave up and rose. He turned on the gas lamp and set three ads, not noticing that his fingers had indeed grown more nimble. All he could see was that he only got three done and there was a stack yet to do.

Anji, I’m coming
. His thoughts ran far faster than his fingers. He packed his valise and headed for the train station before Mr. Rogers arrived. If he was going home, he should be happy, right? But instead he felt that he was standing still, waiting for lightning to strike.

He entered the station and headed for the ticket desk.

“Hey, young man, you’re Thorliff Bjorklund, aren’t you?” the telegraph agent called across the room.

“Ja.” Thorliff turned and headed the other way. What could be the problem?

“Here. This came for you early this morning.” He handed him an envelope.

“Thank you.” Thorliff turned away, ripping the envelope in his haste.

“Dearest Thorliff Stop Do not come home Stop I forbid it Stop I will not speak to you ever again if you do Stop Anji”

Thorliff grunted as if a horse had kicked him right in the belly. He read the words again. They didn’t change. Anji didn’t want his help.

He sank down on one of the polished oak benches, slumping against the curved back. Surely if he went, she would relent.

Anji, how could you write such a thing? I thought that you loved me, needed me
. The thoughts pounded so hard his head ached. Elbows propped on his knees, he held his head in his hands. Blessing seemed as far away as the Big Dipper in the night sky. What? Why? How was Joseph? Who was helping Anji? And so soon after her mother died.

Anji, why have you turned me away?

He read the telegram again, then crumpled it in his fist.
If she really loved me, she wouldn’t write such a thing
. He smoothed the paper against his thigh, pressing out the wrinkles.
What kind of a man am I that I—God, help me!

A burn started in his belly.
Fine, if she no longer needs me . . .
He stared at the brief words again, folded the paper in half and then in half again. On his way out the door, he dropped the paper in the wastebasket.

He strode out of the station, marched to the newspaper office, and entering by the back door, threw his satchel onto the bed.
If there is someone else, why didn’t you tell me?
The burn flared brighter. Thinking words he knew his mother would not approve of and he didn’t either, he left again and, taking the river track, jogged until he was out of town, then broke into a run. He ran past dry fields with cows grazing on what they could find. He pounded past cornfields that rattled in the dry wind. He ran on and on, trying to outrun the cacophony in his mind. He ran until his lungs screamed for air and the spear in his side doubled him over. When he could breathe again, he sat down against a tree, hugged his knees, and let the tears flow, soaking his pant legs.

Finally the storm passed.

He stared out over his bent knees, upon which rested his chin.
So now what?
“God,” he said, looking up, “if all this comes from your hands, you must have a plan.” He sniffed and blew his nose on a handkerchief that wore an ink blot.

“I can’t go home. Or won’t go. . . .” His words trailed off.
Ah, Anji . . .

Putting his handkerchief back in his pocket, he continued his prayer. “Mor and so many others gave so I could come.” He looked up through the turning leaves. “So I stay.” His hands clenched to fists. “And you will take care of Anji and”—his voice cracked—“those at home.” A sigh let his shoulders slump. “So be it.” He picked himself up and started the long walk back to town.

A church bell chimed the hour. The green haze of the trees of Northfield floated like a gossamer blanket over the town. Up on the hill Old Main, with its clock and bell tower, rose like a medieval fortress above the trees. The dream to come here was real, no longer just a dream or a wish. Now all he had to do was continue to follow the dream God had given him.

That’s all.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, his long strides eating up the miles back to town.

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