To Everything a Season (27 page)

They dropped the tailgate in back, and old Mr. Bjorklund, Onkel Haakan, doddered down a set of steps someone had obviously made for just that purpose. Andrew reached up to give him a hand, and there was Father Devlin, stepping up on his other side. They helped him to the ground. They supported Tante Ingeborg too, but she was much sprightlier.

“Good morning, you two!” Ingeborg seized Miriam's hands in hers. “It is so good to see you here! Astrid called this morning and told me about Mr. O'Flaherty and how pleased she was with the way you handled it.”

“I'm glad I could be of service.”

“She asked me to bring some food for the graveside service
this afternoon. She called others too.” Trygve's aunt went on describing a few other items of preparation. Good. It would all be taken care of, and Miriam didn't have to take responsibility for a man related to her only by roots in the old country and a language hardly anyone spoke anymore, not even in Ireland.

As the service began, they all rose to sing a hymn and pray. Then they all sat down again, and she just kept going down to dreamland. And Trygve let her! He let her down. He had said that if she fell asleep he would poke her. He did not.

A harsh voice nearby woke her abruptly. Anner Valders had stood up. “I object to the whole idea, Reverend. We do not need another church in Blessing. If people want to go to church, let them come to this one.” And he waved an arm toward Miriam, singling her out! “Like this young lady. See? She wants to come to church, so here she is. And all that Latin mumbo-jumbo. Don't need it. Nobody understands Latin anyway.”

Her mouth dropped open and she almost stood up to say,
“I understand Latin perfectly well,
thank you. And so do many others.”
But she kept her seat and clapped both hands over her mouth. She must not embarrass Trygve.

She really had been asleep. There stood Father Devlin up beside Reverend Solberg, and she had slept through the introduction!

Someone else stood up and said, “I agree with Anner. There aren't that many people in town who would benefit from a second church. It's unwise to build a fine church nobody will use.”

“How many people are we talking about, anyway?” someone else asked.

“It doesn't matter how many there are!” Mr. Valders interrupted. “Let them come right here. Good, solid Christian church. Full of believers, the kind of church Jesus prefers.”

She gasped. How could he . . . ? He didn't understand at all. Yet, people obviously believed him.

The reverend barked, “Anner, this is a service of worship, not a town meeting. We will discuss a new church later. For now, I just want you all to know that Father Devlin is available for anyone who feels the need for his services. And I trust you all realize that I fully support his ministry. Now let's turn to hymn 247 and sing all four verses.”

Anner Valders stood up again, obviously to object. Someone on the other side of him yanked on his arm and sat him down again. It was not Mrs. Valders. She sat on this side of him.

Dr. Bjorklund—the Elizabeth one—flipped rapidly through her hymnal to find the page. She struck the opening chords.

Trygve opened the book and held it so they both could use it, but Miriam did not know the song at all. In Chicago she had rarely gone to church, and then not to services with singing. At her father's funeral a choir had sung strange words to a very familiar old tune that Miriam loved— “The Ash Grove.” That was about it for music, so far as she was concerned.

She would be
so
glad when this horrible morning was finally over with.

One last amen, and it was done.

The reverend greeted all as they filed out, smiling, shaking hands. At his side, Father Devlin laughed and talked to people, a cheerful carpenter in holy orders. People laughed and talked to him.

Mr. Valders did not laugh or talk. He glared.

As he marched away, Father Devlin cheerfully called, “The Lord's blessing be upon ye, sir!” Quietly he said, “I thought briefly of blessing him in Latin, but I doubt he'd appreciate it.”

Trygve started to escort Miriam toward home.

“Trygve?” Tante Ingeborg trotted to catch up to them. “Please bring Miriam along and come to dinner. I've invited Reverend
Solberg and the Father. I also invited Anner, but he and Hildegunn have other plans.”

“Thank you, Tante Ingeborg! We'd love to.”

They continued on.

“Oh, we'd love to, eh?” Why did Miriam feel so out of sorts? “When shall I sleep today? Or perhaps I need not.”

“Oh, that's right. You're on night duty again tonight.” He frowned. “I can bring you home right after dinner. We don't need to sit around. Although it should be very interesting.”

Interesting? Trouble! Miriam dreaded what was coming in this town.

And part of it was her fault.

I
never dreamed something like this would happen in Blessing.”

“
Hmpff
.
People are people no matter where they are.” Freda slammed the bread dough over and kneaded it as if she were dealing with Anner Valders. “You know better than to think the people of Blessing are perfect.” Slam and push. “Besides, it'll all blow over. You watch.”

Ingeborg paused in her bean snapping and wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her apron. “You might be right, but Anner carries a lot of weight.”

“That's for sure.”

Ingeborg shook her head, a grin tugging at her mouth. Their town banker had indeed added some girth over the last couple of years. All the building and the businesses growing had been good for the town and especially for the town bank. More and more, Anner Valders was acting as if he owned the bank rather than just managed it for the community, which really owned it.
Pompous
was getting to be a good word for him.

Ingeborg asked, “So you think we should just ignore it all?”

“Well, I wasn't in church yesterday, but it sounds like Haakan, Lars, and the others handled it very well.”

“We've never had dissension like that. John Solberg is the closest to a saint that I know. And that Father Devlin is charming, with his ready smile and, as Kaaren said, his lilting accent.” She smiled, thinking of the Sunday dinners here at the farm like they had done for so many years. “I think John is enjoying a growing friendship with Thomas. Tommy. He said not to call him Father, or Priest or Reverend, even.” She stared off into the distance while her fingers continued to break the string beans into smaller pieces. “There has to be a story there, you know.”

“Mark my words, much as you and I want this to blow ever, there will be—”

Freda paused at the sound of boots on the steps.

“Where's Haakan?” Trygve's voice.

“Come on in. He and Manny are down at the barn.”

Freda laid the well-kneaded dough in the crockery bowl and spread a clean towel over it before setting it in a spot of sun to rise. One thing for sure, on August days like this the bread rose quickly.

Trygve kept the screen door from slamming as he entered. “I thought Inga was here.”

“She's down at the barn too.”

“What's going on?”

“Calf being born. Coffee?” Ingeborg set her finished pan of green beans in the sink.

“No, thanks.”

“Are you sick?” Freda added more wood to the fire and pulled the canner full of now-sterile empty jars off to the side to be filled with beans.

“Is Onkel Haakan okay? Far is sure disgusted with
Mr
. Valders.” He emphasized the
mister
part.

Ingeborg paused to consider. “I think we all are, if not disgusted, truly disappointed.” She opened the oven door with her
apron protecting her hand. “Pies are done. Since the haying crew is having dinner at your house, did you by any chance bring a wagon over?”

“Why do you think I really am here? Call me errand boy today.”

“The cheese is wrapped there on the table. The pot of ham and beans has been cooking most of the night, and the pies will need to cool for a bit.”

“The rolls will be ready in about an hour,” Freda added. Since Kaaren had more room and help, she had decreed that she would be feeding the harvest crew at the deaf school this year, rather than taking turns like they had in the past.

“What do you think of putting Manny to work driving the wagon, hauling the grain into town?” Trygve asked. “I thought to take him with me to get used to driving.”

“He can't get in and out of the wagon, you know.”

“I know, but he is already learning to drive.”

“Ask Haakan. He's been working with the boy on woodcarving and says they start milking tomorrow morning.”

He headed for the door. “Back in a bit.” He paused. “Besides, Haakan had Manny drive to church yesterday, and he did just fine.”

Ingeborg glanced at the clock. How could noon be coming so fast? Inga's footsteps pounded up the stairs.

“Grandma, the calf is standing up already and nursing, and we got to see it be borned, and Grandpa said it is a boy calf. How does he know that?”

Ingeborg hugged her granddaughter to her and leaned her cheek down on the hair that refused to stay in the braids she had dutifully put in place earlier in the morning. “I'm glad you got to see the calf born.”
So, what will Elizabeth say when Inga
goes home and tells her how to tell a boy
calf from a girl calf?
Thank you, Haakan.
Sometimes the best offense is to ignore the question. “Did you decide on a name for the calf? That makes four now, right?”

“Five, Grandma. One was borned out in the field, 'member? And Patches found it before Onkel Andrew did, and Grandpa said he should have gone looking earlier, and you said—”

Ingeborg laid a finger over the little mouth. “That's right. I forgot, is all. So what are you going to name it?”

“If it was a heifer”—she said the proper word with a wide grin—“we would call her Daisy, 'cause the daisies are still blooming, but Grandpa said we should call him Thistle, cause he was hard on his ma. What did he mean?”

“You ask him. I have no idea.” Ingeborg was sure that was a double snort she heard from Freda, who was sliding another pair of pies into the oven. Earlier they had taken a spice cake out to feed the men at supper. Freda had a knack for never having to answer Inga's questions.

Manny's crutches creaked on the steps. He'd gone to putting both under one arm and hopping up the three steps with the other hand on the railing Haakan had built for him. The chairs groaned as they sank into them. Somehow Inga had not learned to keep the door from slamming as she headed outside, no doubt to ask another barrage of questions. Let Haakan deal with them, although she was certain he'd had an earful in the barn.

“Is this the last of it?” Trygve shoved the hot soup pot into the only corner left in the wagon.

Freda called “Ja” over her shoulder and went back inside. Tante Ingeborg waited by the rail to see him off, holding the horse, which she had untied.

He watched his tante Ingeborg for a few moments. She got
tired once in a while now. He could see it in the way she moved. So? Everyone who works hard gets tired, and no one worked harder than she. But somehow Tante Ingeborg never did. Until Onkel Haakan started to slide.

“Manny? Coming?”

“I'm here.” The boy came clomping over to the front wheel. Farm life seemed to be suiting him well. He had a rosy-cheeked look to him, and the shirt he was wearing was a little too small. They said he'd been strong for his size before the whole bank-and-hospital thing. He seemed to be getting his strength back.

“Here.” Trygve stepped in behind him. “I'll boost you up into the wagon box.”

“I can do it.” Manny tossed his crutches into the wagon in front of the box.

Trygve stepped back, glancing at Tante Ingeborg. She was smiling too. Let the boy try and fail. Then Trygve could boost him.

Manny gripped the top of the front wheel with both hands and, with a mighty lunge, straightened his arms. He hung there a moment, then stepped with his good leg on a wheel spoke. Another lunge, and he was gripping the iron rod that served as an arm rest on the wagon seat. One more lurching lunge dragged him into the wagon. He hopped around to sitting on the iron rod, then sort of slid onto the box seat. It was slow and clumsy, but he'd done it. He beamed triumphantly.

Tante Ingeborg clapped her hands.

Trygve climbed in. “Good job, Manny!” He gathered in the lines and handed them to the boy. “You drive.”

Manny took the lines. “Ain't like riding a horse, where you use your knees and legs to tell it what to do.” He fumbled the lines a little but got them divided out correctly. It took him a minute to position his hands so that the lines were a good length.

Tante Ingeborg let go and stepped back. She was smiling brightly.

So was Manny. He flicked the lines and clucked, bracing his good leg against the dashboard.

The wagon lurched and rattled and they were off.

“Going to the deaf school, right?”

“Right. You're a good hand with horses, Manny.”

“That's what Shack says. 'Course that's why I always ended up cleaning out the horse shed. He'd hand me a shovel and say, ‘You're good with horses, Manny.'”

“Why is he named Shack?”

“His name's Meshach. You know, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego? Daniel's buddies? Mine's Manasseh. That was Joseph's son. You know, Joseph, his coat of many colors? What's Trygve? Never heard of no one named Trygve.”

“Trygve means true, or trustworthy in Norwegian.”

Manny handled the lines well, turning the horses by gently drawing, not tugging. “Ma, she read the Bible. Pa couldn't read a'tall, but he said we had to have Bible names so as God would know us. He'd drop it on the table on its back—”

“Spine?”

“Yeah. So's it would fall open, then put his finger on the page. Ma would start there and read out loud till she came to a man's name, and that's what we'd be called. 'Cept once she reared back and said, ‘No son of mine gonna be named Herod!' And Pa had to drop the book again. That was Jed. Jedediah.”

Trygve kept his smile from reaching his mouth.

When they reached the school, Trygve didn't even have to leave the wagon box. Lots of eager hayers' hands unloaded their dinner. It did smell good.

Manny asked, “You said to the boardinghouse?”

“Yes. We'll eat there.”

“Suits me.” And Manny turned the wagon toward town.

A smile leaped to Trygve's mouth when he saw Miriam walking toward the boardinghouse with a basket over her arm.

They pulled up to the door. “Manny, do you think you can unhitch?”

“Sure can! I can get down without your help too.” It took him a while to get his bad leg over the side and his good leg on the wheel spoke. What would happen if one of his arms gave out? But he seemed to have that extra strength back. He made it to the ground and got his crutches. “I can take care of it, Mr. Trygve.” He tucked the lead line under his arm and hobbled off toward the shed.

Miriam wagged her head. “How can he do that? He's making wonderful progress.”

“He is.” Trygve took the basket out of her hand and opened the door for her. “After dinner I would like to take you out for a soda.”

“After dinner I would enjoy that.”

He could hardly wait for dinner to begin—he was quite hungry—and end, so he could take the lovely Miriam Hastings to the soda shop. Finally, finally, they walked out into the bright, hot sunshine and ambled down the street. He ordered and they waited until the sodas were made, then took them out to enjoy under the vine-covered lattice arbor. By this time of the year the arbor was very cool and inviting, the vines so thick with leaves, the sun could not get through.

“You are right, you know.” Miriam sipped at her soda. “No matter how good chocolate is, these berry ones are tastier. And they do interesting things inside your mouth. Little bursts of flavor.”

“I agree. Miriam, thank you for going with me to church yesterday. I appreciate it. I know you did it as a favor to me.”

“I never— How can I say this? I really don't care to go again. That Mr. Valders calling me out like that. It was horrible!”

“I agree. He should not have done that or voiced his opinion during the service. But Reverend Solberg shouldn't have voiced his opinion either, when you come right down to it, and Mr. Valders does have some very good points.”

She stopped midspoonful and gaped. “Good points? Didn't you attend the burial?”

“Well, no. I didn't know the fellow well. Besides, I had to return the dinner leavings.”

“That Anner Valders after the interment service! He complained that the Father did Mr. O'Flaherty's burial ceremony in Latin and nobody could understand. He said Father Devlin should not be deliberately causing dissension like this—as if any dissension is all the Father's fault—and then to blaspheme poor Father Devlin the way he did, saying if you can't speak English, why, you should just go back where you came from! He said that.”

“Yes, but—”

“He called us all foreigners, Trygve! Said this is a Christian nation that speaks English, and we can—” She was so furious her face was red. “Just what do you call someone who thinks Norwegian is just fine but not Gaelic or Russian? Or Latin? He even stated that Mr. O'Flaherty should not be buried in a Christian cemetery because the Irish are not Christians.
He said
that
, Trygve!”

“You're overstating it, Miriam. Mr. Valders is really quite a good Christian man, he just—”

“How can you call yourselves Christians and treat a priest like that? A man of God! And why in the world would anyone care where Mr. O'Flaherty is buried? Certainly not his immediate neighbors!”