Believing the Dream (25 page)

At dinner on his first day back at school, Thorliff fetched his parcel prepared that morning by Cook as usual and took his place at the dinner table, only to be caught in the middle of another argument.

“Did you read what Arnet Morgan had to say this morning?” Benjamin bombarded him before he had even sat down.

“No, why?”

“Bjorklund, for a newspaperman, you don’t keep up with news very well.”

Thorliff settled himself and started to unwrap his box. “Did anyone make fresh coffee?”

“No, there was some already made.”

“Pure sludge.” He glanced around at his three friends. “What did I miss?”

No one responded to him, so he threw out a challenge to them. “So if you were in charge, what would you do differently?” Thorliff knew a question like that would get the others going again, and he could eat in peace. As he’d thought, the discussion raged around him, two men from the table behind them joining in. If they wouldn’t have harassed him unmercifully for being a snob, he’d have chosen a chair in the corner so he could write and eat at the same time. As it was, he let the story play in his mind while he concentrated on demolishing the ham sandwiches, gingerbread cookies, and apple pie Cook had fixed for him.

“You don’t mind?” Benjamin took the packet of cookies and passed them around. “We can’t let Bjorklund have all of these. He has no idea what he is eating, let alone any appreciation of it.”

Thorliff shook his head. Thank God Cook had a good idea of what young men needed for sustenance and provided enough cookies for half the room. He thumped the hard-boiled egg on the table so he could peel it.

“So how did you do on that Shakespeare test last term?” Benjamin propped himself on his elbows as the others left for their next classes.

“All right.” Thorliff got up to get himself another cup of coffee. “You want some more?”

“Sure.” Benjamin handed up his mug.

Thorliff waved at several greetings from passing students, poured his coffee from the gray graniteware pot steaming on the back of the stove, added a dash of cream to the mug poured for Benjamin, and made his way back to the table, all the while letting his mind play with the story. Why would they change places? Was one willing and the other not—then why? He always came back to the why. Rich but nasty, poor and good. What a cliché. But what if they were on a railroad car when strike breakers attacked?

“Thorliff, how can you be sitting there with your eyes wide open, and most likely your ears too, and not hear a word I say? Or are you just ignoring me, in which case I shall leave you to your whatevers.”

“Sorry.” Thorliff glanced up at the round oak clock on the wall. “Oh, I’m late.” He pushed back his chair and fumbled for his things. “Sorry, old man. Thanks for leaving me one cookie.”

“I’d never let you starve. Tell Cook thanks from all of us.”

Thorliff had just as much trouble concentrating in his Latin class. At least at home behind a team he didn’t have to try to listen to a lecture when his mind was filled with a story. And this one promised to be a long one.

On the way down the hill after his last class, grateful for the sprinkled ashes so they didn’t slip, he and Elizabeth both seemed lost in their own worlds. They reached the back door of the Rogerses’ home before Elizabeth shook her head and stamped her boots free of snow.

“Sorry I haven’t been much company.”

“Hmm?” Thorliff looked down at her and half laughed. “As if I was.” He held the door open for her. “I’ve never had such a long story come upon me like this.”

“How is it coming?”

“I’ve started on it, but I just need time to write. Something besides school papers that is. I have one due for Ingermanson tomorrow, so tonight I must finish the rewrite.”

“You know Latin, don’t you?” They unwound their mufflers and hung their coats on the tree.

“Fairly well.”

“Have you read any essays by Seneca or Pliny the Younger?”

“Some.” Thorliff turned as Cook pushed open the swinging door from the dining room. “Benjamin said to thank you for the cookies. He shared them around most generously.”

“Ah, that boy. He must have a hollow leg.” Her chuckle meant she enjoyed feeding half the underclassmen at St. Olaf.

“Or three. He says the woman where he stays wouldn’t recognize a cookie if it crumbled in her coffee.”

Cook’s chuckle rumbled from under her apron-clad bosom. “Never mind. I baked some sour cream cookies for you today. You take them in the morning.”

“He needs some for late tonight too, Cook. He has lots of work ahead.”

“Elizabeth.” Annabelle entered the room, looking up from the list in her hand and smiling at Thorliff. “Good afternoon, young man. I hope you both had a productive day.” She stopped beside Elizabeth, who was still taking off her boots. “Your father made it home a day early. He asked for you to come down to the office as soon as you got home.”

“Ooh, and I just got my boots off. Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sorry.” Annabelle started to leave the room but stopped at the door. “It does smell delicious in here, Cook. Will supper be ready at six?”

“Yes, ma’am. Pork roast, like you said.”

“And Mr. Bjorklund, will you be staying?”

“Ah . . . I . . .”

“Good. You can come back with Phillip then. He promised he would be home for supper tonight.”

Thorliff looked at Elizabeth, who raised her right eyebrow in a perfect arch. As the door closed behind her mother, she whispered, “The queen has spoken.”

“Now, you don’t go being smart, missy. Your mother means well. Always.”

“Not that I’d want to argue that, but let’s get a bite to eat, and then I’ll put my boots back on and see what it is the newspaper czar desires.”

Cook flapped her apron at them. “And here I made apple kuchen special just for the two of you. You don’t want any, eh?”

“Just try to keep us out of it.” Elizabeth jerked on the tie of Cook’s apron as she passed them on the way to the pantry.

“Uff da, such a saucy one.” But her chuckle left no doubt of her affection.

“Father, welcome home.” Elizabeth called her greeting even as the bell over the door announced their arrival. “I have brought you a treat.”

Phillip stood from behind his desk to peer over the high front counter. “Hello to you and, ah, Thorliff, I’m glad you are here.”

“And here I am the one carrying the treat. I think you shall not have it after all. I’ll put it back for Thorliff to have later.” She reached up to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek. “You look tired.”

Phillip sniffed the package she waved under his nose. “Apple something. Ahh.”

“Kuchen, your very favorite.” She set the parcel down and folded back the tea towel to reveal a large square of flaky pastry, apple filling oozing from the edges where the knife had cut. Cinnamon-sugar syrup had puddled on the plate and soaked into the towel. She whipped a fork from her pocket and laid it on top of the offering.

Phillip cut a bite and put it in his mouth, his eyes glazing in delight.

“No one makes better kuchen than Cook, even if she is Norwegian instead of German.”

“And I have other good news for you too.” Her eyebrow rose in Thorliff ’s direction.

He shook his head, made quelling motions with his hands. No, he mouthed.

“Thorliff is too bashful to tell you, but he is working on a monumental story that I believe you will want to run in the paper in installments.” The words rushed out, sprinkled with laughter like the top of the quickly disappearing kuchen had been dotted with sugar.

“Oh, really?” Phillip laid down his fork. “Installments? What do you have?” His gaze drilled into Thorliff.

“It . . . it’s not ready yet.” Hands knotted, he took a step backward, glaring at Elizabeth’s back. If only he could run out the door or at least disappear into his room.

“So, you minx, you’ve let the cat out of the bag.”

His daughter shrugged, her head tipped slightly to the side. “He’d wait until it was too late to tell you, until the story had been polished to a brilliant sheen.”

Her chuckle made Thorliff clench his teeth to match his fists.

Elizabeth paused for the coup de grace. “And been hopelessly out of date.” She looked over her shoulder, beckoning him to come forward. “Please, Thorliff, tell him what your story is.” Now she wore a winsome look, as if she hadn’t turned his confidences inside out. And back again.

All right, Bjorklund, take it like a man and get even later. Why did I
tell her what I was thinking anyway?
He shook his head, but the silence in the room forced him to comply.

“It’s fiction. A story.” He glared at Elizabeth, which earned him another chuckle. She surely was enjoying herself at his expense.

“It’s very good, Father.” She’d leaned closer to Phillip, her eyes dancing in the light from the gas lamps.

“Let him tell me. You’ve caused enough problems already.” Phillip sent Thorliff a look that bespoke centuries of men outflanked by their friends or family of the female persuasion.

Thorliff thought of Astrid. She’d often worn that same look of delight he saw on Elizabeth’s face. Delight at having flummoxed either of her brothers or both at the same time to make it the supreme attainment. “It started—”

“We were having a fight about unions.” Raising her eyebrows, Elizabeth assumed an air of innocence.

“A discussion, sir.”

“Ah.” A nod accompanied the response. He turned to his daughter. “If you cannot wait for Thorliff to tell me his way, you may go write the obituary for old Mr. Thompson. The information is right there.” He pointed to a stack of papers in the wire basket on the corner of his desk.

“No, thank you.” Elizabeth sat back primly, as if to convince them of her sincere obedience, but her eyes gave her away. Hurry up, they seemed to say, why must you take so long?

“All right, this story came from a discussion about the unions, which I am sure my daughter instigated and made sure you understood her opinions on the matter. Opinions which I know to be vehemently antiunion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, I take it, are on the opposing side?”

“Yes, sir.”
Will I lose my job over this? Should I not fight for what
I believe to be right? No, not fight, there is too much of that going on,
but argue for?
He paused.
No, write a story about what I believe in
. He sucked in a calming breath.

“My story is of two young men—one of wealth, one of poverty— who exchange places on a dare or a bet.”

“And I take it one is a union sympathizer and the other a member of the upper echelons of society?”

“Yes.”

“How much have you written?” Phillip leaned back in his chair, the squalling of metal on metal loud against the hissing of the lamps. “One of these days I must oil this thing.” He moved enough to create more agonizing shrieks.

Thorliff gave himself a mental order to take care of that when he returned from supper. “I’ve written a partial outline and part of the first chapter. There are still many holes to be thought out. Have you read Jonathan Swift’s
A Modest Proposal
?”

Phillip thought for a bit. “Yes, a long time ago. Is this story you are thinking of a political satire like that one?”

“No, but having read more of his work lately, I—”
I dreamed of
writing something that could make a difference in how people see things,
writing that would have layers upon layers
. He brought himself back to the room, where two pairs of eyes studied him. “I’d like to do something similar.”

“And if you can do so, I’d most surely want to publish what you write. Is there any way you can write a chapter a week? We’d run it in installments like Elizabeth suggested.”

“But, but you haven’t read it yet.”

“I know. So where is your first chapter?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I knew Thorliff would do it, I just knew it.

Elizabeth flipped the
Northfield News
so the page stayed upright. She continued reading chapter three of
The Switchmen
. She finished the final line and closed the paper, not bothering to read the other news of the day.

“You finished it?” Annabelle entered the study carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might like some refreshment.” She set the tray down on the desk and motioned toward the paper. “The story has started a stir. People who missed the first two installments are asking for back copies of the paper.”