Dakota Dream (2 page)

Ahead, a brass disk peeped its edge above the rim of the earth. As the moon rose, it seemed to fill the eastern horizon with gold.

“Oh-h-h.” Her wonder escaped on a sigh. With no mountains or trees to break its symmetry, the moon took possession of the land, rising to float against the black vault of the heavens, bathing the earth in liquid light. Clara forgot the man beside her, her sister in the home awaiting her, and the family she’d left behind. She lost herself in the glory of the harvest moon, the brisk air that kissed her opened lips, and the hush that blanketed all the simple sounds around her. “
Mange takk
, dear God.” She whispered, sensing that anything louder might shatter the glory.

A crystal tear slipped down her cheek, testimony to God’s nighttime handiwork.

Dag watched the girl beside him. He’d seen a harvest moon before and he’d felt its power and majesty. He’d never seen a woman bathed in moon glow and transfixed by its beauty.

Clara shivered and took a deep breath. She looked around, as if surprised at her reaction. Her glance caught the movement of Dag’s head from the corner of her eye. Had he been watching her?

Dag pulled gently on the left rein and turned his mare into the lane leading to the Detschman farm. “We’re here.”

Clara perched on the edge of the seat, straining to catch the first glimpse of welcoming windows.

Ahead, lighted windows dimmed in the brightness of the moon. While leafless trees shielded the house, the moon reflected off the roof of a large barn, windmill, and various other buildings, all snuggled against the earth’s breast.

A dog barked. A horse whinnied from the pasture. The mare lifted her nose and answered.

A door opened, spilling light across the porch and down the steps.

Clara felt the tears gather and clog in her throat. She’d finally reached her sister’s new home. Nora’s American home. Now they’d be together again.

Before the buggy stopped rocking, Clara leaped from her seat and scrambled down the step to land lightly on the ground. She darted through the gate, up the walk, bounded the two steps while pulling up her long skirt, and threw herself into her older sister’s arms.

“Clara, you’re here already.” Nora hugged her little sister close. “We didn’t expect you until tomorrow or the next day.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Clara leaned her head against her sister’s shoulder. “I have so much to tell you.” She wiped away an escaping tear. “I can’t believe I’m here, in America, in North Dakota, with you.”

Nora hugged her sister once more and then stepped back. “Clara, this is Carl.” She took the hand of the man who waited patiently behind her and brought him forward.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Carl extended his right hand, the left still clasped by Nora.

Clara nodded, her speech temporarily drowned by the tears she kept swallowing.

“And this is Kaaren.” Nora reached behind her to grasp the little girl’s hand, hiding in her mother’s skirts. “Kaaren, your Auntie Clara from Norway.”

Kaaren, finger in her mouth, buried her face in Nora’s white apron.

Clara squatted down and looked the little one in the eye. “Oh, my. Now I’m an auntie. And you’re my first niece. We’re going to have such fun.” She stood again.

“And where is that baby boy I’ve read so much about?”

“Sound asleep and we want him to stay that way. You can cuddle him tomorrow. Come in now.”

“Oh, my bags.”

“I’ll get them.” Carl stepped off the porch and headed for the buggy where Dag waited, patiently leaning against the high wheel.

As the sisters turned toward the warmth of the open door, Clara spun back around. “I haven’t thanked Dag for bringing me all the way out here.”

“Don’t worry, Carl will take care of that for you. Have you had anything to eat? I’ll make fresh coffee.” They passed into the house.

Dag turned down Carl’s offer of coffee and food and, after shaking hands, stepped back into the buggy. He touched a finger to his hat brim, turned the mare in a circle to head back out over the land, and clucked her into a trot.

He listened for the familiar night sounds. How faint they seemed after the chatter that had filled his ears. He’d never realized before how quiet the night could be. And how far away his hovel stood. He ignored the temptation to look back at the lighted windows.

“How then did you get the ticket to come?” Nora asked. Carl had put Kaaren to bed and gone upstairs himself after wishing the visitor a good night’s rest. Nora and Clara were enjoying a second cup of coffee in the now-quiet and peaceful kitchen.

“I’ll tell you. Let me get the letter.” Clara slipped from her chair at the kitchen table and crossed the room to rummage in her suitcase. When she returned she held a water-stained envelope in her hand. “Here.” She laid it on the table in front of her sister.

Nora studied the front of the envelope. She pulled the kerosene lamp closer so she could read the faded handwriting. After carefully studying it, she looked up. “How did this get so stained?”

“I don’t know. It happened before—”

“Before you got it?” Nora’s voice squeaked in amazement. She didn’t pay attention to the fact that they’d fallen back into their old pattern of finishing one another’s thoughts.

Clara nodded.

“Then how—”

“Did I get it?”

Nora nodded this time. Silence but for the clunk of a piece of coal falling in the stove waited while she studied the barely discernible script again. She looked up.

“I know. God must have His hand in this—or else He just gave the postman extra good eyesight.”

“
Uff da.
” Nora shook her head again.

“Open it.” Clara gave a little bounce on her chair. “Read the letter.”

Nora grasped the fragile paper and pulled it from the envelope. After unfolding it, she choked back a laugh. “Was it really this bad?” She scanned the lines and loops of script; most of the ink had run together or faded entirely. She peered closely where the signature should be. “Impossible. All I can read for sure is ‘Dear Miss Johanson.’ At least I assume that’s what the heading says.”

“Me, too. But the ticket was plain enough to use—barely—and then there was this.” She handed Nora a picture, faded in places, but still clear enough to see. “Isn’t he handsome? Just think that’s the man who sent me a ticket. Do you know him?”

Nora studied the picture. She glanced up at her sister and then went back to studying the photograph. “If he’s as nice as he is good-looking—”

“I know. I think I’m half in love with him already.” Clara plucked the picture from her sister’s hand and sighed when she gazed at the face of her mystery man. “Such hair, curly like that. And look, I think if he smiled, he would have a dimple.” She touched the paper cheek with her fingertip. “You didn’t say. Do you know who he is? I wonder why he didn’t meet the train?”

“No, I don’t. I mean I’ve never seen him before, but then there are many people in Soldahl that I’ve never seen. If they don’t go to church . . .”

“Surely he must go to church.” Clara could feel her heart begin an erratic thump in her chest. “You really don’t know him?”

Nora shook her head. She reached for her sister’s hands. “No, but maybe Carl does. Or Ingeborg.” She covered both of Clara’s hands with her own. “This is surely a mystery, isn’t it?” She picked up her coffee cup and sipped.

“Ugh.” The face she made accompanied the words. “Cold coffee. Let me warm yours up, too.” She started to push back her chair.

“No, not for me.” Clara stared at the picture, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Should she tell Nora about the little knot of fear that seemed to be cutting off her air? She sucked in a deep breath. A yawn caught it and creaked her jawbone.

“Uff da.
Here we sit yakking when you just got off the train. I can see you need your bed. We can figure all this out in the morning.” Nora tucked a strand of hair behind Clara’s ear and caught her own yawn. “You made me yawn, too.”

The clock chimed . . . and chimed.

“There, it is ten o’clock already and we’ve been sitting here for hours. Come. Carl brought Kaaren into my bed so you can have her bedroom. That way you can sleep as long as you want in the morning.” Nora rose to her feet and laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Not to worry, little sister of my heart. Your man will show up one day and then you can decide if you like him as much as you think.”

“Ja, that is the way of it.” Clara stood, slipping the letter and picture back in the envelope at the same time. “I just thought you would know him and this would all be cleared up at once.” She tapped the edge of the envelope with her finger.

“And tomorrow you can tell me all the news of home—”

“And give you the presents Mor sent and the letters, too. Everyone wrote when they knew I was to come.” Clara lifted her chair so it wouldn’t creak on the floor and snugged it up against the table.

Nora picked up the carpetbag with one hand and lamp in the other and led the way through the parlor to the back bedroom. She set the lamp on the oak chest of drawers and the bag in front. A rag doll flopped against the pillow covered by a patchwork quilt on the bed.

Clara sank down on the edge of the bed. “It seems like weeks since I’ve slept in a real bed.” She picked up the doll and studied the black button eyes and smiling mouth embroidered in red. “This looks like your handiwork. Remember the one you made for me?”

Nora nodded. “That was my first. And you pulled the eyes off in the first hour. After the second time I had to resew them, I embroidered the eyes, too, in green to match yours.”

Clara laughed and gave the doll a squeeze. “You are very good with a needle. All the hardanger lace for your bride’s chest. I had a hard time learning to sit still for so long. Mor did her best. Such patience she has.” Nora sat beside her sister. “And your bride’s chest? Did you fill it?”

Clara nodded. “But just don’t look too close at the stitches. Oh, I forgot. My trunks are still at the station. Mr. Weinlander said Carl would have to come get them since he had only the buggy.”

“How did he know to meet you?”

Clara blinked. She looked at her sister. “Why, I don’t know. I never thought of it. The stationmaster told me the man from the livery would come for me. I waited quite a time and when he finally came—
uff da.
” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think he’s ever heard of a bath, let alone taken one. And rude.” She planted her fists on her hips. “Getting him to speak was—”

Nora chuckled. “And did you? Get him to talk?”

“But, naturally.” Clara flopped back on the bed, looking at her sister as if she’d doubted the sun would rise.

Nora shook her head. “Dag just doesn’t talk to anyone. He says the fewest words possible to complete his business. And that’s all.”

“Oh.” The little word carried a wealth of understanding. Clara chewed the inside of her lower lip. She felt the chuckle dance around the corridors of her mind before bursting forth full-blown; its mercy music skipped from bed to window and around the room.

Nora shook her head. “What are you up to now, sister mine? I know that laugh.”

Clara smothered her face with the rag doll. “Nora, dear, the man needs help.”

“You just think about your mystery man. When you find him, you won’t have time to be fixing Mr. Weinlander.” She rose to her feet.

“Now you sleep as long as you’d like in the morning. I know you’re tired from the long journey and the bed will feel good.” She reached out a hand to pull her sister to her feet. “Mayhap Carl can drive to town tomorrow for your trunks. And to tell Reverend Moen we can have the wedding Sunday. We were waiting for you, you know.”

“But you’re already married.”

“I know. But that one seems a sham, so we decided to have a real wedding, in the church and with me wearing my
bunad
and
sølje
. And with you to stand up for me once we heard you were coming.”

“I am happy for you.” Clara patted a hand over her mouth to disguise the yawn. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

Nora folded back the covers. “I’ll leave this lamp with you.” She stopped again in the door frame. “You’ll never know how glad I am you are here. Sleep well, God bless.”

Clara stifled a yawn again. “
Mange takk
, dear sister.” Her eyelids seemed weighted with stones as she removed her clothing and pulled her nightgown over her head. “
Mange takk
” was all she finished of her prayers before sleep winged her away to dream of a curly haired man with broad shoulders and the promise of a dimple in his right cheek when he smiled.

Clara awoke to silence. Where had everyone gone? She lay in the soft feather bed, reviewing the hours spent on the train, back to the ship, and ended up at her parent’s home in Norway. Such a distant place. Would she ever see the rest of her family again?

She bit the inside of her lip against the pain of missing them all. “Not all, silly. Nora’s around here somewhere. Think how much you’ve wanted to see her and now you can.” She threw back the hand-stitched quilt and sat up cross-legged in the bed. With her elbows propped on her knees, she rested her chin in her hands.

A song trickled through her mind, one learned in the choir at home. She hummed the tune while studying the white fabric stretched across her knees. The words came to her mind:
Oh God, our help in ages past.
“Good thing.” She left the tune and turned to prayer, clenching her eyes shut so she wouldn’t be distracted by the sun’s painting squares on the polished floorboards. “Father God, I know You’ve always been with me and this journey proved Your faithfulness again. But what about the man who sent for me? Where is he? Who is he? How can I marry him if . . . if . . .” She waited for her thoughts to settle down. “I do so want to be married. I know I make jokes about it but, Father, I need someone to love . . . someone who loves me. I want a home and a family.” She paused again. A far off m0000 blessed her silence. “Is that wrong of me?” No answer floated down from the heavens. None arose from her heart either.

A sigh rose from deep in her heart. It was hard to wait for an answer. She quieted her mind again. The song returned, the pace faster, the notes livelier. Unable to resist the joy she felt rising from somewhere deep inside, she whispered a final “amen” and flung herself back on the pillows.

She stared up at the high ceiling, then wrapped both hands around her shoulders and squeezed. “I, Clara Johanson, am now in America!” She jumped from the bed, danced on the rug, and then got dressed. While the sun was shining in so warmly, the room felt like a cold fall day after a frosty fall night.

The clock bonged nine times as she opened her bedroom door and walked through the parlor toward the kitchen. While the house was empty, the coffeepot steamed gently on the back of the stove.

“Bless you, sister mine.” She poured herself a cup and, wrapping both hands around the warmth, basked in the heat of the stove. As her gaze wandered around the kitchen, admiring her sister’s handiwork, she stopped at the loaf of bread resting on the counter beside the jam jar and the molded butter on a plate.

She left her place at the stove and stuck a finger in the jam and then into her mouth. “Ummm.” She licked all the sticky sweet berry taste off her finger and, after setting down the coffee cup, sliced herself a piece of bread. After burying it in butter and jam, she took the bread and coffee and eased herself down into the smaller of the two rockers in front of the stove.

“Ahhh.” Alternately drinking and chewing, she continued her study of the kitchen. The stove had been recently cleaned and its silver trim gleamed in the beam of sun from the window. The ruffled curtains that framed the picture-perfect fall tree in the window above the sink sparked in the same sun. Clara nodded. Yes, her sister was the spotless homemaker their mother had trained her to be . . . always the one to be perfect at what she did.

Clara set the chair to rocking with the tip of her toe. Well, at least her hardanger stitching always outdid her sister’s. She sighed and leaned her head against the back of the rocker. It was always hard to measure herself against perfection, yet she loved her older sister as only a younger one could.

“I’ve missed you so,” she whispered to the tune of the clock chiming the hour. She plunked her feet on the floor and pushed herself to her feet. “And I’ve had enough of this lazing around. Nora, dear one, where are you? And those precious children of yours.” She set her cup in the sink, covered the bread, and pushed the coffeepot to the side of the stove.

She lifted her coat from the hook on the rack and stepped outside to a glorious day of sun that warmed her cheeks. A fall-nipped breeze lifted the golden tendrils curling about her face.
Maybe today will be the day,
she thought,
the day my curly haired man will come riding up the lane
. She stared up the empty lane with two lines of hard-packed soil the width of wagon wheels. A line of grass grew in the middle.

“Clara, down here.” Nora waved from the low building to the side of the barn.

Shrugging off the dream, Clara waved back and, leaping from the porch, trotted down the path. The windmill creaked its song and, when she looked up, she saw a V of geese heading south, adding their wild cries to the plaintive notes of the windmill.

“You can carry the eggs,” Nora said, her smile wide and eyes dancing, “or Peder.” She motioned to the baby slung in a scarf and riding on her hip.

Kaaren, finger in her mouth, peeked from behind Nora’s dark wool skirt. Her coffee-colored hat had tilted slightly to the side, nearly hiding one blue eye.

Clara squatted down, eye level with the shy little girl, and crossed her arms on her knees. “I’m your Auntie Clara, remember?” Kaaren nodded, her finger stuck firmly in place.

Clara itched to reach out and straighten the hat, but she could remember being the shy one. “Maybe you could show me the cows and horses.”

“Pa’s cows.” The finger left her mouth and pointed off to the barn. “Horses gone.”

“Shall we go see?” Clara raised back to her feet and extended a hand.

Kaaren studied the hand and then looked up at Nora, as if asking approval. Nora nodded.

Kaaren reached out and slipped her hand in Clara’s. When they started off, she hung back. “Ma come, too?”

Nora shook her head, her smile a benediction. She adjusted the baby’s sling and picked up the basket of eggs. “You two go on. We’ll have coffee when you come up to the house.”