More Than a Dream (8 page)
‘‘You been fishing lately?’’
‘‘No. Andrew brought me fish last week, along with the rabbits. He good boy.’’
‘‘Yes, he is. If only he would ignore Toby Valders.’’
‘‘He bad.’’
‘‘I hate to call him bad. He just had a poor beginning, living on the streets of New York like that. Reminds me to never take all that we have here for granted.’’ Ingeborg leaned against the post holding up the shed-roofed porch.
‘‘Toby Valders . . .’’ Metiz shook her head slowly. ‘‘He mean inside.’’
‘‘Now, Gerald isn’t. He’s a good boy, works hard to help his folks. Haakan said he’d take Gerald on the threshing crew this year if he wanted to go.’’ Gerald was the older brother of the two. They’d hitched a ride on the train and got off in Blessing to forage for food. Penny caught them trying to steal food from her mercantile.
Metiz folded the vest she’d been working on and placed it in a basket beside her chair. She grunted as she pushed up to stand, then disappeared into the cabin and returned with a letter. ‘‘Please read.’’
‘‘Of course. When did this come?’’
‘‘Yesterday. When I take knives to Penny.’’
‘‘Why didn’t you stop by?’’
Metiz’ thin shoulders lifted slightly. She sat back in her chair. ‘‘Tell Andrew I have present for him.’’
‘‘Of course I will.’’ Ingeborg drew the paper out of the already slit envelope.
‘‘Dear Grand-mère,
I am glad you have someone to read this to you. We are doing good here. Plenty of foals born this spring. We trapped more wild horses too, so the herd is growing. We built a cabin of our own not far from the main house. We will be bringing horses early this year while Manda can still ride. We will have a baby late in the fall. I wish you could see the mountains. The game here is like it used to be along the Red River.
Your grandson,
Baptiste
PS: Manda sends her love and wishes you could be here to help her birth this baby.’’
Ingeborg looked up to see Metiz smiling and nodding.
‘‘Good news.’’
Metiz nodded again, ever chary of her words. ‘‘Good they come. Make papoose board.’’
‘‘We’ll get started on diapers and baby things. Oh, Martha Mary will be so excited. May I take this for her to read?’’
Metiz nodded. ‘‘Bring back.’’
‘‘Of course. Letters are precious.’’ She carefully folded and put the paper back in the envelope. ‘‘And to think Baptiste wrote. Usually men let their wives do the letter writing.’’ Especially those like Baptiste who never were enamored of school. ‘‘How I would love to see the mountains. That’s one thing I miss about Norway. The mountains. Some had snow all summer long, so high and majestic they were. And some dove right into the fjords. Such blues—sky and water—and snow so white it shadowed azure. In the summer we would take the cows and goats and sheep up to the high pastures to graze, and all the milk would be turned into cheese.’’ Ingeborg’s eyes flew open. ‘‘Speaking of cheese, I must get home to finish making dinner. Are you sure there is nothing else you need?’’
‘‘No. Mange takk.’’
‘‘Velbekomme.’’ Sticking the letter in her pocket, Ingeborg set out for home. She stopped and looked back. ‘‘Have you seen any ripe strawberries yet?’’
‘‘No, but soon. Good year for berries.’’
‘‘Good.’’
After saying good-bye and promising to return the letter, Ingeborg headed back across the field. The icehouse with its blocks of ice buried in sawdust reminded her that they hadn’t had ice cream for some time, and now with the warm weather, ice cream would be a real treat. She paused for a moment, glancing back over her shoulder. Something was bothering her about Metiz.
What, Lord?
What is it?
A shiver started at her toes and worked upward. She closed her eyes, seeing Metiz rocking in the chair, another of the chairs built by Uncle Olaf. Was it her face? Nothing came to mind. Her voice? The way she moved? But Metiz had been getting a bit more bowed year by year. What was different? Or was it nothing, her mind trying to worry in spite of all her good intentions?
‘‘Uff da. I’ll think about this later.’’ When she entered the house, she inhaled the ham and ginger fragrance.
‘‘Please ring the bell.’’ Astrid set the roasting pan on the cool end of the stove.
‘‘You are that close to ready?’’
‘‘We will be by the time they get here.’’
Ingeborg glanced around her kitchen. The table was set. Potatoes steaming on the stove, the last of the dried bean britches simmering with salt pork, bread sliced and on the table along with the butter.
‘‘You are going to make some man a wonderful wife someday.’’ She set her basket on the counter. ‘‘But please don’t be in too big a hurry.’’
‘‘Mor.’’ Astrid shook her head, her grin giving lie to the remonstrance she tried to inject in her voice.
‘‘Well, I wasn’t gone that long.’’ Ingeborg took out the knife and gave it a couple of swipes on the stone before beginning to slice the ham. ‘‘Oh, I didn’t ring the bell.’’
With another rolled-eye look, Astrid headed out the screen door to clang the bar around the iron triangle. She shaded her eyes to look out in the field, seeing Andrew already turning the team toward home. He stopped to unhitch the cultivator. In the far cornfield, Hamre did the same. Soon haying season would start, and she knew her father was down in the machine shed making sure the mowers were in good repair and the sickle bars sharpened. Between Haakan and Lars, the Bjorklund equipment was always ready for the next job. Astrid had overheard people’s comments on the success of the Bjorklund/Knutson farms, and always she felt a surge of pride.
After the men washed up and everyone took his place at the table, Haakan bowed his head for grace. ‘‘Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the food before us and for the hands that fixed it. And Lord, if you could see fit to send us some rain, we would be most grateful, as would the fields. In your son’s holy name, amen.’’
As they passed the platter and bowls, each one helping himself, Ingeborg paused. ‘‘Andrew, Metiz asked if you would come by. She has something for you.’’
Andrew looked up from pouring gravy on his potatoes. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I have no idea. She didn’t tell me.’’
Andrew glanced at Haakan. ‘‘I’ll go over right after we eat.’’
Haakan nodded. ‘‘You been running a snare line for her?’’
‘‘Not lately. I’ll set one up again.’’
‘‘She heard from Baptiste.’’ Ingeborg picked up the letter she’d set by her plate and read it to them.
‘‘That’s all he said?’’ Haakan cocked his head and grinned at his wife. ‘‘A man of few words, our Baptiste. It will be good to see them.’’
‘‘I thought to take this over to Mary Martha this afternoon. She is always asking if we’ve heard from them.’’
‘‘She gets more letters than anyone, thanks to Manda.’’ Andrew reached for another roll. ‘‘Hamre, how’s your section coming?’’
‘‘Good. Once more with the cultivator,’’ responded Hamre Bjorklund, who had immigrated with his great-aunt Bridget and was known never to use two words when one would do.
‘‘We’re going to have to chop out those thistles before they take over the entire field. I’ll sharpen up the hoes after we eat. Get Grace and Sophie and Trygve to help too.’’ Haakan added, ‘‘Oops, not Trygve with that broken arm.’’
‘‘You want Mr. McBride too?’’ Andrew asked. ‘‘I saw him over at Onkel Lars’s.’’
‘‘I thought he was working with Olaf.’’
Andrew shrugged and looked toward Hamre.
‘‘He is working two days a week at the furniture store.’’ Hamre went back to eating.
‘‘I’ll go ask him.’’ Haakan nodded to Astrid. ‘‘Please pass the potatoes.’’
When the meal was finished, Haakan didn’t bother with his pipe but set off for the Knutsons’ house across the small pasture, which was the fenced field between the two homes. Andrew headed for Metiz’ cabin after suggesting to Hamre that he sharpen the hoes. Years earlier he had learned that Hamre did nothing on his own but was willing to do whatever someone suggested. He’d have gone out to continue cultivating without complaining but without seeing other things that might need doing. He never initiated conversation either, so unless someone spoke to him, he lived in a word-free world.
Andrew kicked a rock-hard clump of black dirt ahead of him. He whistled a tune, his thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his pants. What a perfect day to go fishing. But then, any day was a perfect day to go fishing. Wouldn’t his mother love a string of perch to fry for supper? In spite of a full stomach topped off by gingerbread, he could taste the crispy fried fish. Now if Baptiste still lived around here, he’d have brought them strings of fish, or a mess of squirrels or rabbits, or a deer if he’d have seen a buck. Farming took too much time away from hunting and fishing. He remembered stories his mother told of the early days when the sky had been black with migrating ducks and geese. She said you only had to aim at the sky and surely you’d hit at least one. While Andrew doubted the flocks were that thick, his tante Kaaren had corroborated his mother’s stories, and Tante Kaaren never exaggerated when telling stories like his mother often did.
He whistled a three-tone call that Baptiste had always used to announce his presence and waited for Metiz to come out of her house.
‘‘In back.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ He followed her voice, and when he stepped around a woodpile that needed splitting and stacking, he saw her sitting on a bench on the back porch, a basket at her feet, something black and brown and furry in her lap. ‘‘How are you?’’ He nodded toward the wood. ‘‘I’ll come split and stack that as soon as I can.’’
‘‘This for you.’’ Metiz stood and held out a squirming puppy.
‘‘Really?’’ Andrew crossed to the porch and took the puppy in both hands. ‘‘Look at his feet. He’s going to be a big dog.’’ Andrew gathered the bundle of wriggling fur and pink tongue into his chest. ‘‘Where did you get him?’’
‘‘A member of my tribe. He say I need dog. I say you need dog.’’
‘‘He looks like someone spattered gray and black and brown paint all over him.’’ The puppy chewed on Andrew’s thumb, his tail whipping in ecstasy. ‘‘And one white foot. Does he have a name?’’
‘‘No, you name.’’
Andrew sat down on the bench beside Metiz. ‘‘You sure you want to give him away?’’
She nodded. ‘‘He need longtime home.’’
‘‘You planning on going somewhere else?’’ He glanced at her out of the side of his eye and caught her shrug.
‘‘One never know.’’
‘‘Well, I must get back to work. Thank you for my new friend here.’’
‘‘You most welcome. He meant for you.’’
Andrew, puppy in his arms, headed for home. ‘‘How did she know, Mor?’’ he asked after showing Ingeborg his gift.
‘‘It wouldn’t be hard to figure out, knowing how much you loved Paws. But Metiz senses things. She always has.’’
‘‘Did she say anything to you about going somewhere?’’
‘‘No, why?’’
‘‘Just . . . I don’t know. She said the puppy needed a longtime home, and when I asked her if she was going somewhere, she said, ‘One never knows.’ Strange, isn’t it?’’
Please, God, don’t let it be what I fear
.
Northfield, Minnesota
Playing the piano was more soothing than a cool bath.
Elizabeth let her fingers trail over the keys, rippling from chord to chord and melody to melody. She closed her eyes and let the music seep into her muscles and bones, trickling into her soul, where it began the needed healing, mending the rents and tears of finals week, of not hearing from the school she wanted, of missing Thornton. Thornton Wickersham the Third, whom she originally thought to be pompous and boring but had instead become a good friend, who insisted she take time to laugh and play.
She hadn’t thought that would be the case, but today the croquet set almost brought her to tears. They’d played many a match on the back lawn, and now she regretted trouncing him so soundly. His latest letter lay open on the piano, where she could partially read his writing. He sounded both happy and sad. Rejoicing in the ministry and brokenhearted at the poverty. He was having a hard time with the languages, and the man he’d gone to serve with had been sent to the States on a medical furlough. He wrote:
I wish I had been able to accompany him, if for no other reason than to see you again, my dear friend. Your letters are like a drink of water in a parched land.
Guilt sliced like the finest surgical steel. She had written so seldom. The activities of her senior year had taken over her life, as had trying to get into a medical school closer to home than Pennsylvania.
We need medical missionaries here far more than the likes of me. Some days I cannot fathom why God brought me here, yet other times it make sense, like when I hear the children singing ‘‘Jesus Loves Me’’ in their own language, knowing I taught them the tune and the words that Pastor Weirholtz translated. Pastor Weirholtz was born here to missionary parents and grew up speaking like a native. He studied for the ministry in America and returned to this place he calls home to teach these poor people how to read and write. School is so important, and in the learning, we teach about Jesus Christ.
