Heritage of Darkness (15 page)

ard should know, so I told him. Now Mom’s more pissed at me

than ever.”

“You did the right thing.”

“And now I’m telling you. Don’t mention it to her though,

OK?”

“I won’t,” Roelke said. If I can help it, he added silently.

They reached a brick house a block or so east of the court-

house, with a large plastic manger scene arranged on the front

lawn. Chloe checked the name on the mailbox. “This is the place.”

“You want to call me when you’re done?” Roelke asked. “My

meeting with Chief Moyer won’t take long, and I’m sure Emil

would loan me his truck.”

“No thanks,” Chloe said. “There’s no reason for you to go all

Neanderthal on me.” He opened his mouth, but she continued

before he could object. “I don’t want to argue with you on this trip, 119

Roelke. I’ve got all I can handle with my mom.” She leaned closer

and kissed him.

“OK,” he mumbled when she finally pulled away, because

blood was rushing to regions other than his head. “Breakfast

tomorrow?”

“Sure.” She gave him a breathless smile, blew him a final kiss,

and turned away.

Roelke did have the presence of mind to watch as she climbed

the front steps. A short, round man opened the door before she

could reach the bell. She disappeared inside without a backward

glance.



“Miss Ellefson? I’m Tom Rimestad. Please, come in!” Tom had a

receding gray hair, a broad smile, and friendly brown eyes behind

thick glasses in black plastic frames. He wore dark corduroys and a Luther Alumni sweatshirt.

“Is this still a good time?” Chloe asked. She knew that his wife

Adelle was struggling with lung disease.

“Yes,” Tom said firmly. “Adelle’s excited. Visitors are a real

treat.”

After pulling off her boots, Chloe padded after Tom. The fam-

ily room was a Hallmark card of holiday cheer. On the Christmas

tree, traditional red-and-white decorations were mixed with child-

made ornaments. Greeting cards were festooned on a loop of red

yarn. Several candles glowed, and the air smelled of pine and cin-

namon. Even Chloe’s jaded soul felt ready to sing
Silent Night
120

along with the record on the player:
Glade jul, hellige jul! Engler
daler ned i skjul
…

Adelle waited in an easy chair. Plastic tubing, held in place

below her nose by an elastic band, ran down to a portable oxygen

tank on the floor. Every labored breath was audible. The hand

Chloe gently clasped in welcome returned only a mild squeeze.

But Adelle’s eyes sparkled, and her smile was warm.

“You must be Chloe.” Her speech was a little breathy.

“I’m delighted to meet you both,” Chloe said. “You have a

beautiful home.”

Tom squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “Christmas is Adelle’s favor-

ite time of year.”

“Your collection of
nisser
is wonderful,” Chloe added. Dozens of hand-carved Christmas elves were displayed around the room.

They ranged from several inches to several feet in height. The longer Chloe looked, the more she spotted—peeking from behind a

chair, hiding on a top shelf. “Tom, did you carve them?”

He grinned. “No, indeed. I’ve been known to whittle, but my

wife is the true artist.”

“Really?” Chloe asked, then felt herself flush. “I just

thought … my mom mentioned that you were a member of the

Sixty-Seven Club, Adelle. Do you paint
and
carve?”

“I am a Sixty-Seven,” she agreed, “but I gave up rosemaling

long ago.”

Just like Lavinia, Chloe thought. Did they migrate together, or

had Petra managed to drive two different women from rosemal-

ing?

121

“I tried chip carving and acanthus,” Adelle was saying, “but fig-

ures are my favorite. I go out to my workshop even now, on good

days. I’m happy there.”

“You are obviously a woman of many talents,” Chloe said. She

settled into a chair and pulled out notebook and tape recorder.

“Now, as I said on the phone, Vesterheim’s goal is to document the persistence of Norwegian Christmas traditions in the community.

The notes I received suggested that you both have some experience

with
julebukking
?” She gave Adelle a
Please tell me all about it!

smile, hoping it hid her discomfort with the topic.

“Oh, yes,” Adelle said. “When I was a child, it was quite com-

mon. Do you understand the basic idea?”

Chloe did, but this project was not about her. “Why don’t you

explain it.” She started the tape player.

“Well,” the older woman began, “it usually took place between

Christmas and New Year’s Day. A group of people would dress up

in masks and homemade costumes. Often women would wear

men’s clothes, and vice-versa.” She paused for a moment to catch

her breath. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I won’t make a very good tape

recording.”

“It will be just fine,” Chloe assured her. “All that matters is your stories. Do you know how the custom got started?”

Adelle considered. “Well, my parents said the tradition went

back to pagan times in old Norway. Something about Thor?” She

looked at Tom.

“That’s how I learned it, too,” Tom affirmed. “In Norse mythol-

ogy, Thor traveled through the sky in a chariot pulled by goats.

Once, when Thor needed food, he killed the goats. Then he used

his hammer and brought them back to life again. My father told

122

me that when
his
father was a boy, the lead
julebukker
dressed up in a goatskin and carried a real goat’s head on a pole.”

Chloe struggled to keep her expression neutral. She’d also been

introduced to
julebukking
as a young child, when some friends of her parents decided a “traditional” surprise visit from costumed

revelers was in order. She’d been terrified when the masked men

shoved into her house, the leader carrying an actual goat head on a pole …

“But there’s been nothing pagan about it for a long time now,”

Tom said hastily, as if sensing Chloe’s discomfort.

“Heavens, no,” Adelle agreed. “Folks just wanted a little fun

after harvest time, is all. People might go out fooling on Saturday night, but they go to church on Sunday morning.”

“I grew up in Minnesota, and my family always went
julebuk-

king,
” Tom said. “My dad carved a goat head from wood and put it on a stick so he could carry it. Those were such fun times!” Tom’s face held a faraway look. “We’d spend hours making some crazy

costumes, and then after dark we’d just show up at somebody’s

house. The people had to let us in. We’d disguise our voices, and

they’d try to guess who we were.”

“That’s how we did it, too.” Adelle added. “Once people identi-

fied everyone in costume, they’d bring out trays of coffee and

cookies and we’d take off our masks.”

Tom gave his wife’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “And then

we’d be off again. The custom was that someone from the first

house we visited had to dress up and come with us, and so on and

so on.”

“How large a group might you have by the end of the night?”

Chloe asked.

123

“Oh, maybe twenty or thirty.” Tom leaned back in his chair,

grinning. “I remember one time we got to a farmhouse and every-

thing was dark, the family already in bed. We started banging tin

buckets and hollering. They all got up and let us in, and then a

couple of the boys put on costumes and came along with us.”

“So,” Chloe asked, “is
julebukking
still taking place, or has the custom faded away?”

“Norwegian people in my home town have always done it,”

Tom assured her. “I’ve still got a nephew there, and he goes out

every year.”

Adelle said, “I grew up in a little town about forty miles from

here. People went
julebukking
until I was … oh, I don’t know, a young woman. Then a chicken plant opened nearby, and lots of

other people moved in for the jobs. Once Norwegian people were

the minority, the whole thing sort of died out. I think maybe peo-

ple were afraid the newcomers would laugh. That was right about

the time I married Tom, and we moved to Decorah.”

The microcassette clicked off. Chloe turned the tape over and

jabbed the appropriate button.

“We’ve lived here for thirty-four years,” Tom said. “I can’t say

that a whole lot of
julebukking
has gone on here. The town’s too big, probably. Lots of Norwegians, but we’re spread out. And con-trary to what we like to believe, not everyone in Decorah is Nor-

wegian.”

“Once the Vesterheim people started talking about
julebukking
, though,” Adelle interjected, “it got lots of people reminiscing. It’s been fun for us old folks.” She smiled a little sadly. “Things

change.”

124

“Which is why it’s so important to preserve your memories,”

Chloe said. She had jotted down more questions to ask, but it

looked as if Adelle was getting tired. “Thank you for sharing your stories.”

“When the curator called about this project we said yes right

away,” Tom assured her. “We’ve always been big supporters of

Vesterheim. Adelle volunteered there for years.”

“I gave tours in the Open Air Division,” Adelle said. “That was

before the Valdres House arrived … what, maybe five years ago?”

She looked at Tom.

He confirmed that with a nod. “Right. That came in seventy-

seven, the first year I sat on the museum Board.” He looked at

Chloe. “Have you seen it?”

“Not yet.” She tucked the cassette player into her bag. “Thanks

again for talking with me. I’m grateful, and I know Howard is, too.

Let him know if you think of more stories, or of someone else who

should be interviewed.”

“Poor Howard.” Adelle sighed. “He’s a different person since

Phyllis died.” She looked at her husband with an expression that

hurt Chloe’s heart.

Tom’s kissed Adelle’s hand, and snugged an afghan over her

lap. “At least I’m smart enough to know how lucky I am,” he mur-

mured. “Not like—”

“Now, Tom,” Adelle scolded mildly. “This nice young woman

didn’t come here to listen to gossip. You go fetch out the cookies.”

“Cookies?” Chloe echoed. Dear Lord in Heaven, she hadn’t yet

recovered from her visit to Bestemor Sabo’s industrial-strength

cookie factory the night before.

125

Tom produced a platter of goodies—beautiful enough to grace

a magazine cover, large enough to sugar-buzz a small army. Chloe

felt her jeans grow tighter just from inhaling. Adelle beamed, waiting for Chloe to help herself. Chloe sampled a gingersnap. “Deli-

cious.”

“We’ve gotten hundreds of cookies from friends and neigh-

bors,” Adelle said ruefully. “I had to send some along to Vesterheim with Tom for that reception last Sunday.”

So, Chloe thought, Tom was at Vesterheim on Sunday. She filed

that tidbit aside and, after two more cookies, said good-bye. “My

mom is looking forward to visiting,” she added.

Adelle’s eyes sparkled again. “I look forward to that. We Sixty-

Sevens are a tight-knit group.” She pressed Chloe’s hand. “And

Tom and I are having an open house on Thursday evening. You’ll

come, won’t you?”

Chloe promised that she’d try, then followed Tom back

through the house to the entryway. “I hope I didn’t stay too long,”

she said, as she pulled on her boots.

“No.” Tom’s face a mixture of grief and resignation. “She loves

company, and … and at this point, it doesn’t really matter. She has idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.”

“I’m so sorry. Is that uncommon? I don’t think I’ve ever heard

of it before.”

“‘Idiopathic’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘of no known origin,’”

Tom said. “It came on so gradually that the disease was well-established before we knew anything was wrong. Something is damag-

ing her lungs, causing scarring. Scarred tissue can’t process

oxygen.” He spread his hands helplessly. “She smoked for a little

while, back during the war, but she quit long ago. The doctors say 126

it sometimes happens that way. She was on the waiting list for a

lung transplant for a while, but …” He shook his head. “It’s not

going to happen.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Chloe said gently. “And to be here at

home, surrounded by people and things she loves.”

“That does gives me a bit of comfort.” Tom picked up a whim-

sical wooden elf pulling a sleigh. “And she’s leaving a legacy.” He studied the
nisse
. “After what happened with the rosemaling, I was against the idea of her taking up carving. But she insisted. We got a little workshop set up out in the garage. And she was happy as a

clam. She’s taken lots of classes from Emil, and from visiting

instructors too—even some from Norway. And you know what?

No one’s ever been anything but nice to her.”

His hand had tightened on the carved figure so hard that his

knuckles were white. I’m missing something, Chloe thought.

“Something happened when Adelle was rosemaling?”

“She got driven out.”

Chloe felt her eyebrows rise. “Driven out?”

“By Petra,” he muttered. “That woman had no conscience.”

So it
was
Petra, Chloe thought. “Oh?”

“When I realized what she’d done to my sweet Adelle, I …” His

voice began to tremble. With visible effort he paused, striving for a calmer tone. “Well, it was a long time ago, and doesn’t bear speaking of now.”