More Than a Dream (5 page)
‘‘Come in,’’ Cook called.
Thorliff did as told and sighed in relief. ‘‘Ah, so nice and cool in here.’’
‘‘Not if you come near this stove.’’ Cook, who never had regained her robustness since before the measles attack the winter of ’94, smiled in spite of her brusqueness, which Thorliff knew by now to be a put-on to cover a tender heart.
‘‘I’ll stay away from it then. Smells like you’ve been baking up a storm.’’ He inhaled the scents of ginger, lemon, and pork roast, all overlaid with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘‘It is our turn to bring cookies for the after-church social. And you know how they like my lemon bars, but Pastor put in a special request for gingersnaps, so I made those too. Here’s some of each for the office.’’ She handed him a wrapped packet and a covered basket. ‘‘And here’s your dinner. What this world is coming to when a man is too busy to come home to eat is beyond me.’’
‘‘We’re starting on my book this afternoon.’’
Cook stopped and shot a firecracker smile over her shoulder. ‘‘Now, don’t that beat all. Congratulations, young man. That is an honor certainly earned. I want a copy of my own, you hear?’’
‘‘I hear. I’ll save you the first one off the binder.’’
‘‘No, the second. You keep the first one for yourself. That is a milestone known by only a few.’’
‘‘You’re right. Thank you for the reminder. Miss Elizabeth studying?’’
‘‘From dawn to dark and thereafter.’’ Cook handed him several gingersnaps. ‘‘I say if she hasn’t got it by now, she’s not going to get it.’’
‘‘She wants top grades, hoping that will make a difference at some of the medical schools she’s applied to.’’
‘‘It would make a difference if she were a man instead of a woman. Those men in charge don’t know up from down. She’s already a good doctor, thanks to Dr. Gaskin. What does she need them for anyway?’’
Thorliff took the safe path and kept his opinions to himself. Not that he didn’t think Elizabeth would make a good doctor—he knew she could do anything she set her mind to—but still, real doctoring seemed to be a man’s profession. After all, what man would want a woman doctor operating on him?
Not that he’d want anyone cutting on him, but if an operation were necessary . . . He thought back to Agnes Baard, who’d had something growing in her belly for the last years. That something had eaten her alive before their very eyes. Could a doctor have taken it out so that she could have lived longer? His mother had suggested it to her, as had others, but Agnes had been adamant. What God had sent her way was for her to endure, and endure she did. Breaking her children’s hearts in the process.
Would his life have been different if Agnes had lived?
One of those questions without answers.
No looking back,
he ordered himself.
You vowed, no looking back. But your mother acts
as the doctor in Blessing
. The thought sounded an awful lot like his father Haakan’s voice. But Mother wasn’t a young woman, and besides— He cut off the thought, knowing this was not a topic to bring up with Elizabeth.
‘‘Okay, here’s the lemonade. I will see you back here for supper?’’
‘‘Mange takk.’’ He looked at the parcels, wondering how he was to carry them all on the bicycle. ‘‘But no, I will be studying from the time we close up until I get done. I’ll just eat the leftovers.’’
‘‘Well, don’t blame me if you never fill out. I try to feed you enough.’’
‘‘I won’t. Thanks again.’’ He juggled everything to open the screen door and, once outside, set the jug and the cookies in the basket and hooked the handles of the picnic basket over the handlebars. Whistling the catchy tune of ‘‘A Bicycle Built for Two,’’ he pedaled back out the drive and down the street toward town.
‘‘Hey, Mr. Bjorklund, that was a right fine article on the abuses of the railroad last week. But why aren’t you running another story like you did last year?’’ Old Mr. Henry Stromme, who lived one block away from the Rogerses, called from his rocking chair on the front porch.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff coasted to a stop and braced with his feet. ‘‘I had no time to write the story this year, but we’re thinking of one to start in the fall.’’
‘‘Good, good. I’ll be looking forward to it.’’ He pointed a shaky finger in Thorliff’s direction. ‘‘You going to run the contest again at Christmastime?’’
‘‘We’re contemplating a Thanksgiving contest this year. What do you think?’’
The old man nodded, his head keeping time with his rocking chair. ‘‘You think folks run outta Christmas tales?’’
‘‘No, just something different.’’ Thorliff set one foot up on the pedal. ‘‘Glad you’re happy with the paper.’’
‘‘Near’s I can figure, Thanksgiving ain’t nowhere near important as Christmas.’’
‘‘True.’’
‘‘You ask me, and I’d say stick with Christmas.’’
Thorliff thought a moment and couldn’t stop the grin. ‘‘You don’t by any chance have a story you’re planning to send in?’’
The old man cackled like a hen just off her nest, announcing to the world that she laid the best egg ever. He slapped his knees and shook his head. ‘‘You be one smart young feller to figure that out. I might be. I just might.’’
‘‘I’ll tell Mr. Rogers your opinion.’’ Thorliff waved and pedaled off. ‘‘Best to you.’’
‘‘And you.’’ Another cackle followed him down the street.
Thorliff parked the bike behind the newspaper office and entered through the back door, hanging his hat on a peg in the wall by the door to his room. He glanced longingly at the bed that had hardly been slept in for the last few days and continued on to the office, where Mr. Rogers was waiting on someone at the counter.
‘‘Ah, Mr. Bjorklund, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .’’
He turned from setting the picnic basket on the desk and smiled in the direction of the woman crowned by a broad-brimmed straw hat that dipped seductively to the right. He couldn’t see her face because the window light threw her in shadows, but he’d recognize the voice anywhere.
‘‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Simpson? What can I do for you?’’
‘‘I was wondering, are you going to write another story for the paper? We just adored the one last year.’’
Why a woman her age fluttered her eyelashes at every person in pants was beyond him, but he kept a smile in place no matter. ‘‘You’ll have to ask the boss here. After all, it is his paper.’’
‘‘Oh, you silly boy, of course Phillip will run another story if you but write it.’’ She tapped her fan on the top of Phillip’s hand lying on the counter.
Thorliff could feel the laughter rising both within himself and the man next to him. ‘‘We’ll do our best, ma’am.’’
‘‘That we will.’’ Phillip Rogers pushed a receipt across the counter. ‘‘Thank you for your advertisement. I’m sure the town will support your ladies’ social. Anything to help our more unfortunate brothers.’’
‘‘And sisters.’’ She turned to leave, but her hat bobbled and flopped, so she had to grab it with one hand. ‘‘Good day, gentlemen.’’ With that, she sailed out the door.
Phillip turned to Thorliff. ‘‘You better get crackin’ on that story. Miss Simpson has spoken.’’
‘‘Strange, but that’s the second one today. Old Mr. Stromme hailed me—’’
‘‘From his front porch?’’
Thorliff nodded.
‘‘From whence he rules Northfield?’’
Another nod. ‘‘I guess. But he insisted we need another Christmas contest this year—along with another serialized story.’’
‘‘If I had a dollar for each request . . .’’ Phillip shook his head. ‘‘You’re king in Northfield, young Bjorklund. You better enjoy it while it lasts.’’
‘‘I’m done!’’
‘‘Me too!’’
Meeting on the front steps of Old Main, Thorliff and Elizabeth stared at each other, both noting the circles under eyes, the sag of weary shoulders. The broad lawn lay like a smooth skirt around the distinctive mansard-roofed brick building.
‘‘I want to sleep for a week.’’
‘‘I’d take one good night. I have to start writing the new story tomorrow.’’ Thorliff reached for her bag, and Elizabeth was too tired to even protest. They walked down to the shaded path that led to town, grateful for the breeze that rustled the leaves above them. Rainwater from showers the night before still lay in puddles in the hollows, but soon the heat would drink them dry. Thorliff inhaled the fragrance of rain-washed leaves and grass. Daisies nodded where the sun poked through the covering. Blue and purple violets peeked out from under the bushes, too shy to push their way forward like the sun-loving daisies.
‘‘It surely does smell good, doesn’t it?’’ Elizabeth followed his lead, only stopping to sniff again where a particularly delightful perfume caught her nose. ‘‘Ah, honeysuckle.’’ She turned her head, following the scent like a hunting dog on point. ‘‘See, over there.’’ She pointed to a shrub polka-dotted with the fragile white blossoms blinking in the dancing shade.
‘‘You want one?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ She started forward, but Thorliff stopped her with a cautionary hand.
‘‘Might be poison ivy in there.’’ Keeping an eye out for the attractive leaves, he picked a sprig of honeysuckle and brought it to her.
Her thank-you wore a well-washed gown of grudge. Frequently sniffing the fragrant offering, she strolled down the path, forcing Thorliff to keep his pace sedate or be rude and go on ahead. There was more than one feminine way to get even. ‘‘So do you have your new story all figured out?’’
‘‘No, but I’m working on it.’’
‘‘What’s the general idea?’’
‘‘A continuation of
The Switchmen
with Douglas now head of his own company and seeing things from the other side. A sort of Horatio Alger’s story.’’
‘‘I think you need more female characters to draw in more women readers.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’ Thorliff rubbed his chin, an unconscious imitation of Haakan in deep thought. ‘‘Makes good sense.’’
‘‘Well, can you believe that? Mr. Bjorklund can take a suggestion from a mere woman.’’ Elizabeth batted her eyes.
‘‘You don’t simper well, so forget it.’’
‘‘Thorliff, you are the most insufferable—’’
‘‘Miss Elizabeth.’’ He loaded extra emphasis on the
Miss
. ‘‘I am too tired to argue with you or even carry on a decent conversation, for that matter, so sniff your posy, and we’ll go at it again tomorrow.’’
‘‘Or the next day when I finally wake up.’’ Elizabeth stifled a yawn. ‘‘I never did simper well.’’
‘‘Not enough practice.’’ He held the back door open for her and followed her into the kitchen, which seemed huge for its emptiness. ‘‘Where’s Cook?’’ He set Elizabeth’s satchel down on one of the red-cushioned chairs by the turned-leg table. A vase of roses nodded in the center of the red-and-white checked tablecloth.
‘‘I have no idea.’’ She saw a note on the counter and crossed the room to read it aloud. ‘‘Thorliff’s dinner and supper are in a box in the icebox. There is salad for your own dinner. Your mother is at the ladies social at the Lutheran church, and I have gone to the market. There are extra cookies in the cookie jar if Thorliff cannot make it to his room without food. Cook.’’ Elizabeth pointed to the cookie jar. ‘‘Help yourself.’’
Thorliff did and, leaning against the counter, devoured three in close order while Elizabeth fetched his string-tied box. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He took it and headed for the door.
‘‘Remember, add more women.’’ Her advice trailed him outside as he picked up the pace to his usual half-trot, and with legs the length of his, he passed the block quickly. He glanced at Mr. Stromme’s porch, but the rocking chair sat empty, forlorn, as if not knowing what to do with its spare time. He kept going for half a block, ignoring the voice inside, but finally turned around and took the stairs to the old man’s house in one bound. He rapped on the screen door, staring into the long hallway toward the kitchen. There was no response. He rapped again. ‘‘Mr. Stromme, are you all right?’’
Again only the silence of a waiting house answered.
Thorliff set his school satchel and dinner box in the chair and leaped to the ground to trot around the house to the backyard. It was empty of human habitation, but the wheelbarrow sat out, rake and fork showing there had been a plan for work.
‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’ Thorliff looked around, checked the tool shed, then mounted the back steps.
Do I go look for him or assume
he stepped over to the neighbors?
A voice demanded from inside of him:
Go look
. He opened the screen door, the screech of hinges needing oil the only sound. Calling every few moments, he checked each room downstairs, then mounted the stairs. ‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’
He found the old man lying beside his bed, fully dressed, his eyes imploring him to help. One side of his face drooped like melted wax, and drool puddled on the floor under his cheek.
‘‘Oh, Mr. Stromme, I am so sorry. Do you have a telephone?’’
A slight shake of the grizzled head, so slight that had Thorliff not been watching, he would have missed it.
‘‘Do your neighbors?’’
Again that minuscule movement.
‘‘Then I shall run back to the Rogerses’ and call the doctor from there.’’
One clawlike hand scrabbled on the painted floor.
