Believing the Dream (44 page)

“Ja, of course.” Andrew rubbed his shoulder. “You pack a good punch for never fighting.”

“What came over you?” Haakan, arms akimbo, stared from one son to the other.

“I nagged him with one too many questions.” Andrew settled his hat back on his head and took two lines to lead the horses into the barn.

“Is that so?”

Thorliff shrugged and led off the other two. They’d water them after they cooled down. Andrew not only took the punch and didn’t fight back but then took the brunt of his father’s disapproval. Crawling under a sow’s belly would be easy about now, and it would serve him right if she stepped all over him. He deserved every glare and recrimination sent his way.

He followed the other two up to the house to wash at the basins full of sun-warmed water.

“What was that all about?” Ingeborg asked when they entered the kitchen.

Did even my mother have to see me lose my temper like that?

“Nothing.” Andrew responded before Thorliff could think of an answer. He looked up to catch that gleam in his mother’s eye that said she’d not ask more now, but be sure this was not over yet.

That evening after the milking was finished and he was returning to the house, he heard Astrid ask their mother, “You think Thorliff is going to stay mad like this all summer?”

“I certainly hope not, but sometimes when your feelings are really hurt, you take it out on someone else.”

“Like when Andrew got in trouble over Toby Valders, and he growled at me?”

“Just like that.”

“I hate that Mr. Moen.”

“Astrid.”

“Well, if . . .”

Thorliff closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with soap on the rag, the burning of the soap in his eyes a just punishment. Out of the mouths of babes . . . What kind of a man was he that his whole family could read him like this? Shouldn’t he be able to keep his feelings to himself? Were they being intrusive?

If only he had stayed in Northfield, none of this would be going on. He’d still be thinking Anji would be waiting. He wouldn’t know about Moen. Ah, life was easier before the knowing.

The clouds blew on over without dumping their largess.

Sunday morning Ingeborg stared at her oldest son. “You aren’t ready for church.”

“I’m not going.”

“But . . .” She crossed the room to lay a hand on his forehead.

“No, I am not sick. I’m just not going.” He spaced his words carefully, not raising his voice but cutting each word precisely.

Ingeborg glanced at the clock on the shelf and back at her son. “But this is communion Sunday.”

“I know.” Thorliff tightened his jaw. “You go on now, or Far will be getting impatient.”

“But what will I say when someone asks of you?”

He shrugged. “That I’ll see them another time.”

Ingeborg clamped her jaws together on a humph that said quite clearly what she thought of all this and slammed the screen door a fraction harder than necessary.

Returning home from church, Ingeborg greeted Thorliff.

“Pastor Solberg asked about you,” she said, removing her hat and setting it on the shelf.

Thorliff looked up from the book he was reading. “Oh.” He swallowed to get some moisture in his throat. “What did you tell him?”

“What would you want me to tell him?” She took her apron down from the peg and tied it around her waist.

“Nothing.”

“He asked if you would come and see him this afternoon.”

“Andrew and I are going fishing.” Thorliff stared at the page in front of him, feeling his mother’s concern wash over him.
I don’t want to talk with anyone. Why can’t they leave me alone?

“Andrew went to Ellie’s for the afternoon.”

“Oh.” He propped his head on his hands. “Guess I’ll go alone then, unless maybe Hamre wants to go.” He looked up. “Or Astrid.”

“She went to Penny’s to play with the baby.” Ingeborg pulled the roast from the oven. She lifted the lid on the roasting pan, and the rich aroma filled the kitchen.

Thorliff heard and felt his stomach growl.

“Dinner will be ready in half an hour or so, if you want to go find Hamre.”

“I’ll ring the bell.”

“Thorliff . . .”

He turned from opening the screen door. “Ja?”

“I want you to go over to Pastor’s and talk with him.”

Thorliff let the door slam behind him.
Why can’t they just leave me alone? I’m not bothering anyone. So I’m not happy right now. If Moen would go back to Norway, I’d be a far more genial person.

If you’d forgive her, you’d be a far more genial person. And forgive him too.
The war broke out in his head again.
Forgive as you are forgiven.
If he banged his head against the barn wall, perhaps he could still the voices clamoring in his head.

Later that afternoon Thorliff finished his story.
I’ll go tell Anji
. He shook his head and poured himself another cup of coffee.
Wipe that thought from your mind,
he ordered himself.
Never again. Don’t think of her; don’t dream of her. Never again
. He edited the final chapter and copied it over before sliding the sheets into an envelope and addressing it to the
Northfield News
. Tomorrow he’d run it in to the store to mail after milking.

“George has asked Ilse if he may court her.” Kaaren and Ingeborg were sitting in the shade of the house snapping beans and catching up on their news.

“Well, about time. He’s been working up to this since spring.”

“He had to learn the proper signs first.” Kaaren’s smile said she wasn’t kidding. “He came to me and Lars in a quandary. Trying to understand what he meant took some real figuring, let me tell you, but when I understood, I showed him how to say ‘May I court you? Would you like to go walking out?’ Then Lars gave him permission to use the horse and buggy, and we figured out how to sign
picnic
. So he was all set.”

“We had better start a quilt for them.”

“True. You should have seen the look on her face when she came back from their ride. You’d have thought she’d been given the sun and the moon too. I catch them in secret smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Ah, young love. Who even needs words?”

Ingeborg stopped snapping beans. “Ah, does Hamre know about this?”

Kaaren paused and tilted her head to the side. “He’s not said anything.”

Ingeborg cocked an eyebrow.

Kaaren chuckled. “I know, silly me. When does Hamre ever say anything? But he must have noticed. You don’t think he . . .” She shook her head and wrinkled her forehead. “No.”

A slight shrug this time.

“Oh, my word. I never thought about that. Hamre has just always been around and . . .”

“And usually living in our soddy and eating here until this last year when he has pretty much moved to your place. Ever since the blizzard he hasn’t moved back.”

“Both Hamre and Thorliff, troubles of the heart over new men who came to Blessing. How to help them.” Kaaren dumped the snapped beans in her apron into the basket. “Speaking of quilts, we need to get going on one for Swen and Dorothy. Think of all the time it used to take us to do a wedding ring quilt, and now it goes so fast.”

“Thanks to our sewing machines. Now if someone would just invent as good a machine for washing clothes.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Chicago, Illinois

“Miss Rogers, they need you in the delivery room.”

Elizabeth swung her aching feet off the narrow bed and sat up, reaching for the square cloth folded into a triangle that she wore tied over her head, hair bundled up off her neck. Bare skin cried for any breath of cool air to dry the perspiration that ran down her back. The heat and humidity in Northfield were like spring compared to this hospital in the slums of Chicago, where fresh air died before passing the windows. Slow rotating fans moved the air only enough to keep people breathing.

Wishing for a shower, Elizabeth shoved her feet back into her shoes and followed the messenger up the stairs to the delivery room, her home away from home. Sometimes she thought every woman in Chicago must be having a baby this July.

“I need your narrow hands.” Dr. Morganstein looked up from the woman on the delivery table propped against a nurse who was braced against the wall. “If we can turn this little one, perhaps we can keep from doing a caesarean.”

Elizabeth studied the situation, remembering a similar situation from a time back home. “Dr. Gaskin and I had one like this before. If we get her up on her hands and knees, that will take the pressure off the baby, and then I can turn it more easily.”

“Well, I never. Of course.” Dr. Morganstein motioned to the nurse and turned to Elizabeth. “Go see if there is anyone out there to help us.”

Elizabeth darted back out the door, the woman’s scream lending speed to her feet. “Patrick, come quick.”

The old man who kept the floors spotless pointed a finger to his chest in the classic you-mean-me? pose.

She grabbed his arm. “Help us now.”

“B-but . . .” He let her drag him into the room, all the while keeping his eyes averted from the panting woman on the table.

“All right, Mrs. O’Brien, we are all going to help you onto your hands and knees now. I know, I know. . . .”