More Than a Dream (39 page)

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Pastor Solberg sent Toby Valders home from school today. He cannot come back until he apologizes to Ellie.’’

Ingeborg glanced up at her son, whose mouth had been laughing, but his eyes still wore the glint of anger.

‘‘Don’t worry, Mor, I didn’t touch him.’’

‘‘He didn’t have to. Pastor Solberg got really white around the mouth and then said, ‘Tobias Valders, you go home until you can comport yourself as a young man of God in this school.’ What do you think Mr. and Mrs. Valders will do to Toby?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’ But Ingeborg flinched inside. Mr. Valders was known to have a temper, and Mrs. Valders would be terribly embarrassed.

‘‘I’m glad I’m not Toby.’’ Astrid picked up the cat, which had been mewing at her feet.

‘‘I’m going to change clothes. Is Pa out in the barn?’’

‘‘I think so. Ellie is all right, isn’t she?’’

Andrew nodded. ‘‘He wouldn’t dare touch her.’’ His quiet voice wore barbs of steel.

The next day Ingeborg pulled her things together, fetching the tall pot of soup from its place on the back porch, where it had partially frozen during the night. When she had everything settled in the sleigh, she gathered the reins and drove next door to pick up Kaaren and Ilse. With all the deaf students at school, they could both attend the monthly quilting bee at the church.

‘‘Sounded like Pastor Solberg had a pretty bad day yesterday.’’ Kaaren arranged the buffalo robe over her legs and Ilse’s.

‘‘More than Toby Valders?’’

‘‘Ja. Two other boys got in a fight, one of them from the deaf school. They got to chop wood as a reminder that fighting is not the way to settle a disagreement.’’

‘‘However did Andrew stay out of it?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Maybe chopping enough wood is an effective way to learn to control your temper.’’

‘‘But Andrew only fights when someone younger or weaker is being bullied. He doesn’t just get mad and punch someone.’’ Ilse spoke up from her nest under the robe.

‘‘I’m certainly happy to hear that.’’ Ingeborg clucked the horse to a trot, setting the harness bells to jingling merrily.

‘‘Do you know if Penny is bringing her machine today?’’ Kaaren asked. ‘‘I could have put mine in.’’

Ingeborg shook her head. ‘‘No idea.’’

‘‘Are you all right?’’

The concern in Kaaren’s voice made Ingeborg swallow hard. ‘‘I will be if spring ever comes again.’’

‘‘It has been a long winter. And a sad one. That makes it seem even longer. Would that I could help you.’’

‘‘You do, as much as possible. I guess grief is just something you need to wade through, like the mud in the spring. It pulls at your feet, but you don’t sink down beyond getting out. And when it dries, the soil is richer than ever.’’

‘‘That’s a beautiful description. All of us waiting for spring for seeds to sprout, and if God planted them, we have no idea what wonderful plants are going to flower, such glorious colors, such sweet fragrances. Just think, some of the most sweet smelling bloom only at night, like the nicotiana. I planted some of that last summer right under our bedroom window. I saved the seeds, so I shall bring you some.’’

Ingeborg whoa’d the horse and stepped from the sleigh to throw a blanket over the horse and slip the bridle off, then tied the rope to the halter and the hitching rail. While she took care of the horse, the other two unloaded the sleigh, and by the time they had everything inside, others were arriving.

Women filed in, carrying baskets of food, sewing supplies, and their Bibles, ready for a day they all looked forward to for the entire month.

‘‘All right, ladies, let’s get started.’’ Penny Bjorklund clapped her hands and turned to answer a question. ‘‘No, let’s set the sewing machines up by that window and the quilting frames over there. That sun should feel most welcome for a change. I know I was beginning to think spring had passed us by too.’’

‘‘Don’t plan on it being over yet. Mr. Valders says another storm is still on its way.’’ Hildegunn Valders set a platter of fresh cinnamon rolls in the center of the table. ‘‘I brought these to go with coffee.’’

‘‘They smell heavenly, but I sure hope your husband is wrong. The only storm I want to see is a gentle rain that smells like spring and melts all this white stuff very gently so that it all soaks into the ground and gives us the best crops possible. Now, if that isn’t asking for a lot, I don’t know what is, but God says, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive.’ ’’

‘‘Ja, well, I am asking that Kaaren read and we get started. Einer Junior is home with a sore throat, and I cannot be gone all day.’’ Mrs. Helmsrude shrugged as she finished her sentence. ‘‘Why do they get sick on quilting day? This is the first school he has missed, and now he will not get a perfect attendance.’’

Penny clapped her hands again. ‘‘Let us begin. Ingeborg, will you carry around the coffee tray? Bridget, would you take over stretching that quilt on the frame so we can get it basted? Mrs. Valders, will you be in charge of the cutting, please? We need to get another wedding ring started. Who knows who’ll get married next. Goodie, how are the blocks coming for the quilt to be auctioned?’’

‘‘We’re about half done.’’ Goodie Wold looked up from counting blocks in a stack and glanced around the room. ‘‘Everyone has to remember to sign their blocks. Some are coming back without signatures.’’

‘‘Oh, I forgot.’’ Mrs. Veiglun shrugged and made a funny face. ‘‘I was just so glad to get them finished.’’

A chuckle rippled through the room. They all knew that sewing was not one of her favorite things to do, and she did not have a sewing machine like some of the others.

‘‘That’s all right.’’ Mary Martha Solberg patted her hand. ‘‘I’ll do that for you if you’ll bake some more of that wonderful apple pie. I don’t know what you do, but yours is so much better than mine.’’

And you are a master at making others feel better,
Ingeborg thought.
So often I wish I could remember to pause and say the best
thing and not necessarily the first thing that comes to mind
. She caught herself from shaking her head or Kaaren would know she was misthinking again. Kaaren and Mary Martha both had the gift of pouring oil on troubled waters, while she would most likely strike the match. That thought made her almost smile, not exactly an appropriate response either, since Kaaren had the Bible open on her lap.

‘‘Anyone have any favorite passages they would like read?’’ Kaaren held up her Bible. After several suggestions she began reading in the Psalms as requested.

Ingeborg set her tray back down and took her place at the quilting frame.

‘‘Your soup smells so wonderful,’’ mouselike Mrs. Magron said in a whisper.

‘‘Thank you,’’ Ingeborg whispered back. Even so, Mrs. Valders across the frame raised an eyebrow. Ilse nudged her with her foot, which made Ingeborg almost smile again.

When Kaaren finished reading and leading in prayer, talk picked up as needles flashed in and out, scissors cut through fabric, and sewing machines whirred, the treadles thumping in unison.

Ingeborg got up to stir her soup when she heard Mrs. Valders say, ‘‘Did you hear that they are planning on burying Metiz in our cemetery?’’

Ingeborg tried to ignore the flash of anger that nearly melted her camisole. She glanced over at Kaaren, who gave a slight shake of her head. But Ingeborg ignored her.

‘‘And why wouldn’t she be buried in the
church
’’—she emphasized
church
—‘‘cemetery?’’

‘‘The church cemetery is for baptized Christians, not for heathens.’’

Ingeborg tried to clamp back the words galloping off her tongue but failed. ‘‘You have no idea what Metiz believed because you never talked with her.’’ Ingeborg tried again to swallow her anger but almost choked instead. ‘‘Metiz lived out her faith. She didn’t just talk about it. She’s a better Christian than you will ever be with all your judgmental ways.’’ She gripped the back of her chair until her knuckles whitened.

‘‘Why, I never . . .’’

‘‘That’s right, you never gave her credit for helping when Mr. Valders nearly lost his life instead of just his arm. You never spoke to her as a friend. You never offered any kind of Christian love.’’ With each word Ingeborg leaned farther over the chairback until it was cutting into her midsection.

‘‘Ingeborg, would you come help me at the cutting table?’’ Kaaren took her arm and literally dragged her away from the quilting frame.

Ingeborg followed her, but instead of joining the cutting, she made for the door, snatching her coat and scarf off the chairs where they had laid them and slammed out the door. Her flaming face didn’t even feel the biting wind that had kicked up, nor did her bare hands as she wrapped her long knit scarf about her head and neck. She crammed her hands into her pockets and strode out across the prairie. Snow crunched beneath her laced and well-greased shoes, and even the sun reflecting off the snow could not prevent the tears from freezing on her cheeks.

‘‘I could rip that woman limb from limb right now with my bare hands.’’ She took her hands out of her pockets and stared at them. They’d even formed the shape of her anger, clenched and rigid.

She rammed them back in her pockets and kept on walking, her strides so long that she wound up at her own porch before she realized where she was.

When Haakan came in for dinner, he found her setting the table.

‘‘What are you doing home? Where is the horse?’’

‘‘At the church. I walked out of there before I attacked and perhaps injured Hildegunn Valders.’’

‘‘I see. That bad, eh?’’

‘‘She doesn’t believe Metiz should be buried in the church cemetery.’’ Ingeborg slammed a plate on the table hard enough that it cracked right in two.

‘‘Ah.’’

She stared at the broken plate, her hands flying to cover her cheeks. As if mesmerized by what she’d done, she picked both pieces up and held them together again.

‘‘It’s broken, Ingeborg, but it’s only a plate.’’ Haakan took the pieces from her shaking hands and threw them in the box of garbage.

‘‘No. I have to fix them.’’

Haakan grabbed her hands before she could dig the pieces of plate out again. ‘‘Ingeborg, listen to me. Glue won’t hold dishes together. They just break again.’’ He put his arms around her and held her writhing against his chest, trying to get free. ‘‘Ingeborg!’’

She burst into tears, collapsing against his chest. ‘‘Sh-she is so hateful, a-and she thinks she knows it all. No wonder Toby is such a terror, having to live with someone so self-righteous as she.’’ Sobs broke her words just as the plate had crashed on the table. ‘‘I-I will never speak to her again, and if Pastor Solberg refuses to bury Metiz in the cemetery, I swear, I will never enter the door of that church again either.’’

Wisely, Haakan just held her, rocking gently from one foot to the other, murmuring soothing nothings and rubbing her back.

When she sagged against him, he guided her into the bedroom and sat her down on the edge of the bed. He unlaced her boots and pulled them off, then covered her when she fell on her side.

‘‘You will feel better when you wake up.’’

‘‘No, I . . .’’

He pushed her back down. ‘‘Sleep, my Inge. Sleep.’’

Some time later she thought she heard Kaaren’s voice asking about her, but sleep claimed her again before she could rouse enough to respond.

Lord, what have I done?
The thought jerked her upright. The setting sun reddened the sky and set the room to glowing. Where had the afternoon gone? Had she slept it away? She flopped back on the pillows.
How will I ever face people again?

With the back of her hand over her forehead, she stared at the sunset-pinked ceiling.

‘‘You think Mor is going to have to chop wood?’’ Andrew’s voice broke through her stupor.

‘‘Shush. Don’t you go making things worse.’’ Astrid sounded remarkably like her mother.

Andrew’s chuckle echoed as he headed out the door to help with the milking.

If only she could pull the covers over her head and will this day back to the morning.