No Distance Too Far (4 page)

THE DISCUSSIONS THE next day in Rev. Clement’s class were different from any she’d had before. When she asked her question about recognizing demons, the teacher told several stories from his time in Africa about casting out demons in the name of Jesus.

“When you meet the true evil of demons, you will know it. But know that when a demon looks at you, he sees the angels of God and Jesus himself circled behind you. It terrifies him, so he leaves.”

Astrid tried to swallow, but her throat was so dry that she coughed instead. This man would not lie. She could see something in his face, such certainty in his voice.

“You need to be all prayed up for such times as that. You need to know God’s Word so you can throw it right out there. God will protect us through His Word and His spirit.”

He closed the class with prayer just as he had the day before. “Lord, keep us in your Word, for your Word is truth. Teach us to pray and to live your Word. Amen.”

Those in the class left silently. Astrid knew for sure it would take her a long time to let all this soak in. She’d just met a man who had participated in true miracles. What other surprises did God have in store for her?

THREE DAYS LATER she received a large envelope with the return address of the hospital in Chicago. What could they be sending her? Hoping for a note from Dr. Morganstein, she opened the envelope to find two letters from Mr. Landsverk, postmarked from Blessing clear back in December and January. Her hand shook a little as she held them. He had written to her after all. And she had convinced herself that not hearing from him was another confirmation she needed to follow this path. Even so, she struggled with the emotions that his coming back into her life stirred. But she realized she didn’t really know him, and the earlier letters had only made their distance more obvious. Still, the picture of Joshua that flitted through her mind made her smile. Dark curly hair, tall like her brothers, laughing dark eyes, and a smile that set her pulse to pounding. A fine-looking man, as Sophie had said more than once. A note from the hospital said the letters had just arrived and were mailed again immediately. Where could they have been all this time?

3

BLESSING, NORTHDAKOTA

G
amma?”

“What is it, Inga?” Ingeborg raised her voice to be heard in the parlor. “You’ll have to come here. I have my hands in the cookie dough.”

Inga, dragging her Christmas doll by one arm, came to lean against her grandmother’s skirt.

“What is it, little one?”

“When will Emmy be home from school?”

Ingeborg glanced up at the clock. “In about an hour. When the big hand is on twelve and the little hand is on four.” Emmy was a little Indian girl they had discovered in their haymow at the beginning of winter. She’d never said a word, but they knew she was not deaf.

“I want her to come home now.” Inga held up the back of her hand. “Kitty scratched me.”

Ingeborg glanced down to see a red line on the little hand. “She did at that. Did you hold her too hard?”

“No. I dropped her.”

“I see.” Ingeborg kept a tight grip on her lips to prevent a smile from escaping. What a scamp.

“She ran behind the stove,” Inga said as she pointed.

“Why did you drop her?”

“It was an accident.”

“Would a cookie make your hand feel better?”

Inga nodded soberly and looked up at her grandmother. “And milk, please.”

“You go get the jug, and I’ll get the cookies. I might have to have one with you.”

“And milk?”

“I think I’ll have coffee.”

“I’ll have coffee too.” Inga pulled open the icebox door and took out the small jug Ingeborg kept there for just this purpose. She brought it to the table and pulled out a chair. “Is Carl still sick?”

“I think so.” Ingeborg set two coffee cups on the well-worn oak table and arranged the sourdough cookies on a plate. One pan was still in the oven, another ready to put in. She poured one cup full of coffee and the other about a quarter full. After returning the pot to the stove, she filled the one cup with milk and set it in front of Inga, who was kneeling on her chair, her elbows propped on the table.

“Thank you.” She grinned at Ingeborg, her Bjorklund blue eyes, so like her father’s, twinkling. “I like coffee with you.”

Ingeborg tweaked the little nose. “And I like mine with you.” She passed the plate. “Circle or square?”

“Square.” Inga took the appropriate cookie. “There are three circles and now only two squares.” She broke her cookie in half. “And now I have two triangles.”

“How did you get so smart?”

“You made me.” She took a bite of one. “And Pa.”

Ingeborg knew Thorliff played games with Inga, who would be four in two months, helping her learn numbers and the alphabet, shapes and colors. He’d print out simple sentences and have her sound out the words.

“I been teaching Emmy.” Inga dunked her cookie in her cup. A tan drip appeared on the white pinafore she wore over her wool dress.

“What have you been teaching her?”

“How to count. She holds up her fingers.” Inga showed how they did it. “How come she doesn’t say words?”

“I wish I knew. Oh, the cookies.” Ingeborg jumped up and, using her apron folded over for a potholder, opened the oven door. She grabbed the thicker potholders from off the warming shelf of the stove and pulled out the pan of cookies. Browner than Haakan liked them, not that he wouldn’t eat them this way, but while she liked them crisp, he liked his thick and soft. She set the pan on the table, slid the other pan in, and closed the door. After lifting the cookies off the pan and setting them on wooden racks, she put more wood in the stove and settled the lids back in place. “More coffee, ma’am?”

Inga giggled. “I not ma’am. I am Inga.”

“Well, would Inga like more coffee?”

“Yes, please, ma’am.”

“Uff da. You are too smart for your britches.”

“I don’t wear britches. I am a girl.” Her tone carried a hint of reproach. Then after a moment, she said, “How come boys wear britches and girls wear skirts?”

“That’s a very good question. Maybe because skirts are prettier and girls like to be pretty.”
Even though britches are a far sight easier to
garden and work in.
After all these years she still remembered wearing britches when she was out plowing and seeding the land after Roald had died that terrible winter. She’d do it again in a minute if so many people wouldn’t be offended. Haakan first and foremost.

“Would you make me some britches, Gamma?”

Ingeborg made a face. “I don’t think so. Your pa wouldn’t like that. Nor your ma either.”

“But when I ride my pony, pants would be better.”

Out of the mouths of babes. “Well, since you don’t have a pony yet, I guess we don’t have to worry about britches.”

“Pa said maybe in the summer.”

I do hope he remembers, because his little daughter isn’t going to let
him off the hook.
“We’ll see.”

“When Ma says ‘We’ll see,’ it means no.”

Ingeborg barely hid a chuckle as she got up to answer the telephone. “Hello.” She still got a thrill out of hearing a voice come out of the earpiece.

Thorliff, her elder son, responded. “Hello, Mor. Just wanted to tell you that I’ll be out to pick up Inga in half an hour or so.”

“So soon? We were just having coffee.”

“And she’s filling your ear with all kinds of news, I’ll bet.”

“That she is.”

“Is it Pa?” the little girl asked, looking eagerly at her grandmother.

Ingeborg nodded. “Oh, would you stop by Garrisons’ and pick me up some cocoa? I was going to make chocolate pudding for supper, and we’re out of cocoa.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” She set the earpiece back on the black prongs. To think that just like that she’d have cocoa. Ah, these modern conveniences. “You want to beat the eggs for pudding?”

Inga drained the last of her coffee and set the cup down. “Yes.”

“Wipe off your mustache.” Ingeborg shook her head. “Not with your sleeve, silly.”

As she set out the ingredients, she thought about the quilting meeting they would have next week. She knew there would be more discussion about gathering things for the Indian reservation in South Dakota that Astrid had asked them to help with. She was hoping Astrid would be home for this meeting. She could answer the questions likely to come up better than Ingeborg could. Any day now Astrid would be getting off the train. Surely she would telephone when she was ready to leave Chicago.

She set the bowl in front of Inga. “Have you cracked an egg before?”

“When one fell on the floor.”

“Well, this one has to go into the bowl.” She tapped an egg on the edge, separated it with both hands, and let the egg drop into the bowl. “Now I’ll help you do it.” She stood behind Inga, who was kneeling on another chair, and with her hands over the little ones, they picked up an egg and tapped it on the edge of the bowl. The egg dropped in, along with half the shell.

“Oops.”

“That’s all right. We can use this half of the shell to dip out the bits and pieces.” Ingeborg did that as she talked. “See? That’s why you have to hang on to both sides of the shell.”

“Baby chickens come from eggs.”

“Yes, they do.”

“How come there is no baby chicken in this one?”

“Because we gather the eggs every day, and the hen doesn’t have a chance to sit on the eggs to make chicks grow.”

“But in summer we will have chicks again?”

“We sure will. Now let’s crack another egg. Crack it easy.”

The first tap did nothing. So Inga cracked it harder.

“Quick, get all the egg in the bowl.”

This time the little girl held up both sides of the shell and then looked down into the bowl. “No shells.”

“Very good.” Ingeborg handed the slotted wooden spoon to her granddaughter. “Now you can beat them.” She let Inga beat away while she measured and poured sugar, flour, and milk into a pan. Setting that on the stove way back to heat slowly, she checked on the eggs. Holding Inga’s hand, she said, “This way,” and using a circular motion, whipped the eggs.

Hearing boots on the porch, Inga wriggled down and ran to the door. “Pa?”

“I’m here.”

“I hope you brought the mail too,” Ingeborg called.

Thorliff pushed open the door and scooped his daughter up in his arms.

“You’re cold!” she said, hugging him.

“I know. What do you expect? It’s winter out there.” He set her down and laid a package on the table. “Your cocoa, your mail, and I think maybe there is something in there for good little girls.”

“I was good, huh, Gamma?” Inga looked toward Ingeborg. At her grandmother’s nod, she turned to her father. “And Emmy will be home when the big hand is on twelve and the little hand is on four, and that is almost here.” She darted across the room. “We started the pudding. I helped crack eggs, and I beated them.”

“And none on the floor?”

“Nope. In the bowl.” She peeked inside the brown bag. “Peppermint sticks!”

“There’s a letter from Astrid.” Thorliff shucked his coat and hung it, along with his scarf and hat on the coat-tree.