More Than a Dream (6 page)
‘‘I’ll hurry. I know. I don’t want to leave you alone either, but if I see anyone, I’ll send them up.’’ Leaving the man was one of the harder things Thorliff had ever done. Old Mr. Stromme’s eyes haunted him as he ran the distance, pounded up to the back door and, not bothering to knock, charged into the kitchen.
Cook, eyes wide and mouth agape, turned abruptly, dropping her recently purchased potatoes onto the wooden floor. ‘‘Wh-what?’’
‘‘I have to call Dr. Gaskin. Old Mr. Stromme is on the floor.
I’m sure he’s had a stroke.’’ The words trailed back from over his shoulder as Thorliff strode to the telephone in the hall. He picked up the receiver, set it back in the prong, and cranked the handle on the side of the wooden box. Picking up the earpiece again, he said, ‘‘Hello?’’
‘‘Central.’’
‘‘We need a doctor at Mr. Stromme’s. I just found him on the floor upstairs.’’ He could hear Miss Odegaard ringing the doctor’s number before he finished his sentence.
‘‘You go on back to be with him while I get the doctor there,’’ Ina Odegaard said.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff hung up and headed out the front door to save a few paces.
Cook was halfway down the drive with a basket over her arm. She handed it to Thorliff. ‘‘A cold cloth for his head. I’ll be right behind you.’’
Thorliff ran back down the street, bursting through the gate, taking the steps two and three at a time, then pounded into the bedroom.
The relief in Mr. Stromme’s eyes burned the back of Thorliff’s throat. He knelt beside the old man and, taking the cloth from the basket, laid it across his forehead. ‘‘Would you be more comfortable if I put a pillow beneath your head?’’ Never had he realized eyes could say so much. He took a pillow from the bed, picked up the man’s head, and slid the pillow in place, straightening his shoulders and laying the clawed hand across the sunken chest. ‘‘Are you cold?’’
Again Mr. Stromme responded with a blinking of the eyes. So Thorliff reached up to take down the knit afghan to cover him, all without letting go of the other hand, as if he had any choice.
Cook came panting up the stairs, stopping in the doorway with a hand to her chest to catch her breath. ‘‘H-how is he?’’
Thorliff gave a slight shake of his head and settled himself on the floor beside the patient, gently returning the faint hand squeeze from Mr. Stromme.
Lord, please help this poor man. Here,
he lives all alone and has always been so spry and busy. Who will
tend his garden and take care of him if he . . . Where would he . . .
Lord, this is a mess
.
‘‘The doctor is here.’’ Cook touched his shoulder and motioned to the doorway.
‘‘Thank you.’’
Mr. Stromme’s eyes fluttered open, and he tried to speak, but when only guttural sounds came out, his eyes shifted to terror again.
Dr. Gaskin nodded to Thorliff and knelt by their patient. ‘‘Ah, Henry, what have you done now? I know, I know. You didn’t fall or anything.’’ While he talked, he applied the stethoscope from his bag to the man’s heaving chest. ‘‘Your heart sounds good. You been having headaches lately? No? What about vomiting? Any dizziness?’’ He stopped and watched Henry’s face. ‘‘Dizzy today or other days?’’
Thorliff felt the man’s hand clench, whether a spasm or in response to the questions he didn’t know. Poor old man.
‘‘Well, we’ll move you over to the surgery where we can keep an eye on you and see if we can get your limbs moving again. I know you’re feeling panicky right now, but I’ve seen lots of folks with a condition like yours improve. It will just take time and work on your part.’’ Dr. Gaskin glanced over to Cook. ‘‘Why don’t you get some quilts or blankets so we can make a pallet in the wagon. And you, young man, go fetch Old Tom. He’s working at my house today. Tell him to bring his wagon.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Thorliff gently released the old man’s hold on his hand and smiled into the watery eyes. ‘‘It’s okay now. Dr. Gaskin is with you. Don’t you worry. I’ll be back.’’ Down the stairs he went and up the street to the Rogerses’ again to call the surgery and leave a message with Nurse Browne.
‘‘I’ll send Tom right over, and tell Doctor I’ll have a bed all ready,’’ said the efficient nurse.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff hung up the phone and leaned his head against the wall. All this going on and Elizabeth slept through it all. She’d probably be downright cranky with him for not letting her know, but she’d looked ready to melt into a puddle. He thought of the bed waiting for him in the cool back room of the newspaper office. Oh well, he could sleep later. Visions of the old man’s pleading eyes propelled him back out the door and wearing a path to Stromme’s house door.
‘‘He sure took to you,’’ Doctor said a bit later when the wagon bearing the old man to the surgery pulled out.
‘‘He’d call to me from his rocking chair, telling me when he was happy with my story in the paper and other times when there was something he wasn’t too happy about.’’
‘‘You mean he raked you over the coals?’’
Thorliff half shrugged. ‘‘Me or Mr. Rogers or the mayor or the president . . .’’
‘‘Or anything else he thought you might like to know. As if you were responsible for it all.’’
‘‘I guess he figured since I work for the newspaper, I might be able to fix something.’’
‘‘Henry Stromme has been a pillar of the community for more years than I care to count. Back in his younger days he ran the grain elevator down by the river. Since they put him out to pasture, he’s kept half the town supplied with tomatoes and cucumbers, all kinds of good things from his garden. But this past year he was too stove up to even do much of that. Arthritis is a mean thing, crippling a person. Henry still managed to keep abreast of all the happenings, including all the gossip. In spite of no phone, he hooked on to the Northfield grapevine.’’
Thorliff listened, nodding when appropriate and wishing he could have done more. ‘‘What’ll happen to him now?’’
‘‘I’m hoping we can get him moving around some. If not, we’ll move his bed downstairs to the parlor and get someone in to help. Knowing him, he’ll be one cantankerous patient, but Nurse Browne will charm him into behaving. Hopefully we can get someone in to take care of whatever he needs done.’’
‘‘No family?’’
‘‘All gone before. His wife died four, maybe five years ago.’’ As they talked, the doctor put his bag back together, and Thorliff folded up the afghan and laid it back on the bed. They walked downstairs to meet Cook coming from the kitchen.
‘‘I cleaned up for him, put things away, figured it might be some time before he gets to come home again.’’ She wiped her hands on her apron, making
tsk
ing sounds. ‘‘Anything else I can do?’’
‘‘Not that I can think of. Thank you.’’ Dr. Gaskin patted her arm.
‘‘You’re welcome.’’ She closed the door behind them as they stepped out on the porch.
‘‘Look at that dog carrying that box.’’ Doc pointed to a shepherd-type dog hightailing it out of the yard with a box in his mouth.
Thorliff glanced over to the now empty rocking chair, his book satchel dumped on the floor. ‘‘That’s my meal box. Hey, drop that.’’ He leaped off the steps and chased after the dog, which after a glance over his shoulder at the shouting chaser, picked up the pace and left Thorliff behind shaking his fist.
‘‘I’ll fix you another.’’ Cook could hardly talk from laughing. Between her and the doctor, the food nabber might have been the funniest thing to happen in Northfield in a month.
Thorliff stomped up the walk. ‘‘Stupid dog.’’
‘‘Smart dog, far as I can tell. Everyone in town knows Cook here is one of the best, even the local canine portion of our fair city.’’
‘‘Fair city, my foot.’’ Thorliff sank down on the top step, panting to catch his breath. ‘‘People ought to keep their pets at home.’’ He glared up at the two chortling in glee. ‘‘I don’t see this is so funny.’’ But he had to fight to keep his grin from showing. The dog had looked like a cartoon character carrying off his dinner. The box was bigger than his head. ‘‘Hope he enjoys it.’’ Actually he hoped the dog would get a stomachache. And here he’d spent his time taking care of Mr. Stromme. He shook his head. ‘‘There’s just no justice.’’ He slanted a look out of the corner of his eye to make sure the two above him were still enjoying themselves at his expense. Neither one of them had occasions to laugh like this often.
‘‘I better get on over there and check on my patient. I’m sure Nurse Browne and Miss Haugen have cleaned him up and gotten him as comfortable as he can be by now. Hopefully after he sleeps awhile, he won’t wake up worse. That happens sometimes, you know.’’
‘‘Poor old dear.’’ Cook patted Thorliff’s shoulder as she passed him on the steps. ‘‘I’ll send Old Tom over with another packet for you; just you be careful this time to not go laying it around for someone or something to snitch it.’’
‘‘Mange takk.’’
‘‘Velbekomme.’’ She fluttered a hand at him when she reached the sidewalk.
‘‘Now there goes one fine woman.’’
Thorliff stood and walked to the buggy, the horse sound asleep between the shafts, the breeze causing the sun and shade to polka all over its dark back. ‘‘And to think Elizabeth slept through this whole thing. She’ll be some bothered that no one woke her.’’
‘‘I’m not telling her, that’s for certain, and if Cook has a lick of sense, she won’t either.’’ Dr. Gaskin chuckled again as he stepped into the buggy. ‘‘You want a ride?’’
‘‘No thanks. That’s out of your way.’’ He swung off toward the newspaper office, this time hoping no one tried to catch his attention. By now, thanks to Ina Odegaard, the town operator, everyone in Northfield knew there had been an emergency at the Stromme house. And those without phones would hear about it over the back fence grapevine nearly as fast.
‘‘So, I hear that you’re the hero of the hour.’’ Phillip Rogers looked up from the editorial he was writing.
‘‘How long did it take for you to find out?’’
Phillip held up a sheaf of papers several thick. ‘‘Long enough to write this about how the people of Northfield are so quick to help others in distress. I included those who helped put out the grass fire south of town, several other incidents, and you, of course, as the man of the hour.’’
Thorliff groaned.
‘‘What made you go check on him?’’
‘‘I tried to ignore that little voice inside, but it yelled so loud I turned and went back. It looked like he’d been out working in his garden and must not have felt well so went up to lie down. He never made it to the bed—almost but not quite.’’
‘‘Well, thank the good Lord you listened. He might have died there without help.’’
‘‘If it’s as bad as it looks, he might wish I hadn’t shown up.’’
Phillip shook his head. ‘‘Well, God must have a reason for keeping him around awhile longer. Listening to that still small voice takes practice.’’
‘‘Still, small, my foot. It was yelling fit to be heard clear across town.’’
‘‘I hear you had a bit of a mishap after.’’
Thorliff blinked and took a step back. ‘‘You heard about the dog taking my dinner? Already?’’
‘‘Mrs. Norlie was down the street and saw the whole thing. She was laughing fit to bust her corset when she came in here.’’ Phillip leaned back in his oak chair until it sent up a shrieking. ‘‘Moral of the story—don’t ever try to hide anything in this town. You’ll be found out for sure.’’ He sat forward, and his chair squeaked in relief. ‘‘You want to go back and get another box or just go home with me for dinner?’’
‘‘Old Tom is bringing it by. I want to get the first chapter started today if there is any way.’’
And if I can keep my eyes open
.
Phillip nodded, his pen racing across the paper. ‘‘Good, good.’’
Thorliff took his satchel back to his room and tucked it under the bed. He wouldn’t need it until fall now. What a way to start the summer. He thought of the letter he would write home. They’d laugh for certain sure. What other crazy things would he have to write home about? And what did pure in heart
really
mean?
Blessing, North Dakota
‘‘Sophie, what happened?’’ Ingeborg threw open the door as she spoke.
‘‘It-it’s Trygve.’’ Sophie Knutson, Ingeborg’s niece, leaned over to suck in another breath, then straightened. ‘‘He fell out of a tree.’’ Brushing hair that held small sticks and bits of grass in its wavy strands off her face, she looked toward home. ‘‘Mor thinks his arm is broken. I thought sure you heard Sammy screaming.’’
‘‘I’ll get my basket.’’ Ingeborg spun back into the house and snatched up the basket she kept packed with emergency supplies, including several wood splints that Andrew had sanded smooth so they would cause no slivers. This wouldn’t be the first broken bone she had set through the years.
‘‘I’m coming too, Mor.’’ Astrid came running from the garden.
Sophie, worry crinkling her amber eyes, took her aunt’s hand and pulled. ‘‘Come, he’s hurting mighty bad.’’
‘‘So how come Sammy was screaming?’’ Ingeborg strode swiftly across the small pasture.
‘‘He was in the tree too. Trygve had gone up to help him down.’’
