A Touch of Grace (23 page)

The snake surprise turned into a huge joke around the supper table when Trygve teased Jonathan about it. Everyone had a snake story to share, including Haakan, who had been bitten once.

“But I thought a rattlesnake bite was fatal.” Jonathan paused in the act of buttering his bread.

“Not always. Sometimes there’s even such a thing as a dry strike. A rattler can hold his venom if he so chooses. If you can get the venom sucked out before it gets into the bloodstream, the wound makes you really sick and miserable but it’s not always fatal. Depends too on where you’re bitten. Up around the face and neck or upper arm are the worst. We all wear boots and heavy pants to protect our ankles and legs.” Haakan passed the meat platter again. The deer that Samuel had shot before the disease struck made for good venison roast. Haakan had smoked part of it, so the meat should last them through a few weeks yet.

“Just the shock of it could give a man a heart attack.” Jonathan thought back to his pounding heart. He raised a hand before Astrid could say something. “I know, just one more thing to get used to.”

“You don’t have to make snakes your friends, however.” Astrid grinned at him. “And a skirt can be good protection too. A snake struck at me one time and got a mouthful of skirt. I was screaming so hard, I think he panicked and vamoosed as fast as his belly could wiggle.”

“You get used to listening for the rattle. They hiss too.”

But what about Grace?
The thought made him nearly choke on his bite of venison. She couldn’t hear a rattle or hiss. Did he dare ask? Did no one try to protect her?

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s a letter for you,” Ingeborg said as she refilled his coffee cup, her hand on his shoulder like she did all the others. “I left it on the table by the desk in the parlor.”

“Mange takk.”

She squeezed his shoulder, sending warmth down his arm. “Velbekomme.” Her smile as she moved on to fill Haakan’s cup made him smile back.

Funny how that simple gesture made him feel like all the hard work was worthwhile, just so they could gather for a meal like this. Jonathan glanced at the faces around the table. Lars, Samuel, and Trygve were as at home at this table as at the one at their house, as if both families were melded into one. This alternating houses to cook for the men gave the woman a day to keep on canning, since putting up the garden was the major event going on besides harvest. Actually it was another form of harvest.

He’d never paid any attention to where his food came from before. It appeared on the table, and he ate it. What would Cook think if he went into her kitchen and started asking her where she got the carrots and shouldn’t they have more of a garden than just flowers and herbs? What would the gardener say if he asked for a plot to plant himself? Or asked him to plant corn and green beans and potatoes? What would his mother say if he dug up part of the landscaped yard behind or beside the house to plant a vegetable garden? Perhaps he could plant carrots between the roses and use the boxwood as pea poles.

Thinking of the letter he wanted to read and answer, he excused himself while Haakan was lighting his pipe. After offering “Mange takk for maten,” he picked up his letter and trudged up the stairs. He never dreamed he’d miss milking the cows. And if it still bothered him, what about the others? Was that why Ingeborg’s smile did not come as readily, and if caught unawares she stared at the wall, her face tight with sorrow?

He slit the envelope with his pocketknife, one of the many things he’d purchased here since he’d arrived, and sat down to read. But instead he stared at the knife in his hand. Like the others, he realized the Blessing General Store was not the same welcoming place it had been under Penny’s ownership. Ingeborg had mentioned several times that Mr. Jeffers wasn’t carrying the amount of stock Penny had, and he didn’t volunteer to order right away what was missing.

He’d even heard the women discussing it after church, a safe place to talk about it, as the store was still open on Sunday. Not that any of the people he knew would go there to buy on Sunday. Would their boycott make a difference?

Unfolding the paper, he began to read his father’s letter.

Dear Jonathan,

Thank you for your letter, and I am pleased with the things you write. I had hoped this summer would be a life-altering experience for you, and it seems to be so.

Jonathan paused and looked out the window over the wheat shocks that stood like Indian teepees dotting the fields. Little did his father know how much his life was changing and that his new dreams would change it even further. He mentally composed a telegram.
Dear
Father, I am staying here to attend college in Grand Forks to learn more
about agriculture and farming, which is what I want to do with the rest
of my life. Stop. Your steadfast and most appreciative son, Jonathan
. He shook his head and returned to the letter.

Everyone is having a normal summer season at the shore. I go out for long weekends whenever possible. I believe your mother and sisters have a surprise for you when you return home.

That thought made him shift forward a little. Too many of Mother’s surprises involved meeting people he had no interest in spending time with. But if his sisters were involved, it might actually be interesting. Maybe some new music.

I heard mention that they have not received many letters from you, but I have an idea of how hard you are working, thanks to Mrs. Bjorklund’s very complimentary letter. I have told your sisters to be patient and that you might like to hear of their escapades. From what they tell me, the summer is flying by too fast.

I did the research on the Fenway School that you requested. The school’s reputation is impeccable. If Grace would like to attend there, I will gladly pay her tuition, although as proud as my friends in Blessing are, I doubt they will permit that. I am sending the printed information from the school to you under separate cover.

Again Jonathan paused. His letter regarding the animal slaughter had probably not reached his father yet. Money could be a serious issue for these folks this fall. Surely there were cows to purchase further east. Although the price would be high, due to demand.

If you would like, I will write to Mrs. Knutson and extend our invitation for their daughter to visit here and perhaps attend the school, if that is what she would like to do. I know your mother has been making lists of the articles you will need for college. I suggested she not order clothing for you yet, as I have a feeling you have filled out some with all that heavy labor.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and glanced in the mirror. “Won’t they be surprised?” His dress coat was too tight in the shoulders and upper sleeves, so he had taken to wearing a dress shirt and vest to church. The shirt was at least wearable, though not comfortable.

Thank you, my son, for living up to my expectations for you this summer. I know you went out there solely to please me, and you have.

Your loving father

Jonathan read the last paragraph again and went to stand at the window. The curtains hung still. The evening breeze had not come up, but since his room faced the north, the air was cooler here than in the rest of the house. With the windows open at both ends, the draft helped alleviate the suffocating daytime heat. He’d earned his father’s approval. This was one letter worth keeping, not that he’d thrown any of them away. He tapped the folded edge on the fore-finger of his left hand. But would the cost be worth the confrontation?

A yawn caught him and nearly cracked his jaw. Writing a letter right now seemed beyond the realm of physical possibilities, but he knew if he didn’t do so immediately it might be days before he could find the time. They were to start the actual threshing in the morning.

He’d finished his letter the night before, but the next morning he awoke at dawn, wondering if there was a better way to say what he had written. Taking letter in hand, he stood again at the window; this time watching the rising sun set the tops of the shocks on fire and throw shadows behind them. What critters had taken up residence in the ready-made houses during the night and would later startle those pitching the bundles up on the wagon? Ignorance might be bliss, as the old saying went, but he’d learned quickly that in working with animals and machinery, it might also be dangerous.

He reread his letter, one ear listening to the clanking of stove lids and the murmur of feminine voices. Did the women ever sleep? Feeling uncomfortable at his less than charitable thoughts regarding his own mother and the things she called tiring, he put that thinking aside and sat back down to rewrite his letter. He even thought of tearing the last part of the letter off and signing his name small, but that might let his father know he’d been editing. Senior Gould was a master at reading between the lines and reading people.

He copied the first section of his letter, where he’d shared the general news and the events around Blessing, and then rewrote the final paragraph. He crumpled up the original, which would make Mrs. Bjorklund shudder at the waste.

I have some serious things to discuss with you when I come home, and I look forward to hearing your opinions. In the meantime I have another favor to ask. Since all the cattle were destroyed around here, would several head of milk cows and a bull be an adequate gift for my months of living with the Bjorklunds? I tried to refuse payment when Haakan was handing out wages, since I thought the agreement was that I would work for my room and board. But he was adamant, and it would have been churlish to refuse, so I will add what I have earned to the cost of the cattle.

With gratitude,

Your son Jonathan

This time he slipped the folded sheet into the envelope and addressed it. Perhaps if Astrid was going in to town, she would mail it for him. He finished dressing, picked up the crumpled paper, and headed downstairs, lifting the lid on the stove to drop the paper into the flames.

After another long, sweaty, itchy day of harvesting, it was finally time to start threshing. Jonathan finished helping unload the first of the wagons carrying wheat bundles and then stood by the spout and watched golden kernels of wheat flow into a gunnysack. As soon as the sack was full, Andrew pulled it to the side and Haakan slid an empty sack into its place. Andrew used a needle and hemp line to whipstitch the sack closed. When finished, he knotted the thread, cut it, stuck the needle into a pouch, and swung the completed sack up into a waiting wagon.

They didn’t spill a kernel.

“Care to try this?” Haakan asked, indicating his position.

“Think I’ll stick with pitching, at least for now.”

“This is easier on the back.”

“Could be, but not on the mind. I’d hate to spill and waste any of this precious gold that we’ve worked so hard to get to this point. I will never look at bread the same way again.”

“Have you ever been through a flour mill?”

“I walked through the mill with Garth one day, and he explained the principles. He promised me a full tour if it opens before I leave.” Jonathan turned back to take out the wagon just emptying. They were running three wagons, with Knute and Gus Baard helping them.

When the triangle rang at noon, the silence after Lars shut off the roaring steam engine kissed the ears. Lars squirted oil in several orifices of the monster before climbing down and wiping his hands with a rag he kept in his back pocket. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.

“Shame we can’t save some of that heat for the winter.” He motioned toward the engine that turned the long belt that made the separator blow chaff out one pipe and pour cleaned wheat down into the waiting sacks. The straw stack was already several feet high, with Samuel spreading the straw evenly, as they had the haystacks of haying season. The stacks were leftover hay that wouldn’t fit in the barns.

“You know how pa was so tough about being careful around the belt, especially with all that machinery?” Andrew kept step with Jonathan. “Well, Mr. Valders lost the lower part of his arm one year when his sleeve caught on something and he got drug into the blade. Pa said that one time a belt broke and a man lost his head—cut it right off. That’s why we are all so careful.”