Years (34 page)

There were twelve horses in the paddock. They shifted constantly, tossing their heads and whickering into the wind while Cub and Toots thrust their noses over the fence from the adjoining padlock where they were confined. A sturdy buckskin named Chief pranced around the pack, rearing once, then neighing as if to scold Theodore for delaying their release.

“Guess they’re getting impatient. They know what’s gonna happen.” Theodore grabbed Fly’s halter. “Don’t you, girl?” He glanced at Kristian. “Well, I guess we better do it, huh, son?”

“I guess.”

Linnea moved closer to Nissa, watching as the men circulated through the stirring herd, removing bridles. The animals shook their heads, their restlessness growing more palpable as the moment of release grew closer. “You want to let ‘em out?” Theodore asked Kristian.

Without replying, Kristian transferred his bridles to Theodore’s arm, then Theodore stepped to Linnea’s free side.

They watched silently while Kristian opened the pole gate on the far side of the paddock, then circled the herd and flapped his arms, giving a sharp whistle through his teeth. The sound pierced the steely late afternoon and set twenty-four equine ears up straight. For one infinitesimal moment the animals stood still, caught in relief against the roiling leaden sky that seemed to personify their moods. Linnea shivered in appreciation. It was one of those moments of sterling clarity, a niche out of her life that would, in memory, forever remain as rich and real as the moment in which it was happening. Theodore on her left, Nissa on her right, Kristian with the herd, tiny bites of snow pelting her skin, the horses pawing, their nostrils dilated. There was a raw beauty to the scene that made Linnea swallow thickly.

Then the horses moved. Out through the gate and off to freedom, all tails and rumps and flexing flesh. The thunder of their hoofbeats came up through the soles of Linnea’s shoes.
Cub and Toots trotted to the far fence, their heads high, whinnying as if to call, “Wait for us!” They ran the fence line back and forth, back and forth, bugling in distress.

Standing between Nissa and Theodore, so close their shoulders nearly touched, Linnea hugged her arms. It wasn’t the cold. It was the rapport she felt with all three of the Westgaards at that moment. She had never before stopped to think of the skein of feeling between a fanner and the beasts who fed him, clothed him, kept him safe from peril, but she felt it now intensely. It was beautiful... and sad... and poignant.

Good-bye, horses. Keep safe.

Linnea leaned forward just enough to press her arm to Theodore’s. He neither pulled away nor returned the pressure, but stood with his hands in his pockets, watching his horses gallop off to their winter world of freedom.

“Where will they go?” she asked quietly.

“Down to the bottomland first, probably, along the creek. We let the hay grow wild down there, and we put in a crop of millet that we don’t cut. They love the millet.”

“And after that?”

Theodore shrugged.

“How far away do you suppose they get?”

“Eight, ten miles or so. There’s a lot of government land and school sections, plus what we all leave unfenced.”

“Are you sure they’ll have enough food?”

Theodore looked down at her head. The red plaid scarf was tied in a double knot beneath her chin, making her look more like a little girl than ever. But her concern came from the heart and made her seem as much an adult as he. He thought again of the wonderful gift Linnea had for finding beauty in things others sometimes took for granted. So different from Melinda.

She looked up and found him studying her, and they both returned to watching the horses move off. “They’ll have enough. When the millet and hay run out, they’ll start in on the stacks we left out in the fields.”

“They look so cold, don’t they?”

“Don’t worry about them. They’re off to find the others, and they’ll bunch up thirty or more in a herd. When the blizzards come, they’ll huddle in a coulee someplace and press up close to keep each other warm.”

Suddenly Linnea realized her arm was pressed close and
warm against Theodore’s. He felt it, too, and stayed where he was.

“Will we see them at all till spring?” she asked.

“Might, now and then. They make a sight, with their coats all shaggy, churning through the snow on a gray and windy afternoon like this one. Only the ground will be all white until you can’t tell it from the whirlwind they leave behind. There’s nothing prettier.”

At his words, she looked up, he looked down. They felt the pull again, strong, undeniable, elemental. She thought of the woman whose picture remained on his dresser and wondered what it would take to get him to put it away and never bring it out again. He thought of how welcome her warmth felt, through his jacket sleeve, and realized they had shared an accord here today that went far beyond anything he and Melinda had ever shared.

Then they both became aware of Nissa’s presence and cautiously drew apart. They returned their gazes to the horizon, but the horses had disappeared.

14

T
HE END OF HARVEST
truly signaled the onset of winter. They awakened one morning in early November to a world of white. Linnea peered out her tiny window and gasped in delight. Overnight North Dakota had been transformed into a pristine fairyland.

But before she was halfway to school, she stopped considering the snow as quite so romantic and began looking upon it as a nuisance. Trudging along, she moved with all the agility of a freshly wrapped mummy. Lord, couldn’t somebody invent something better than these miserable leggings to keep the snow out?

The leggings weren’t the only problem. Underneath them she’d donned thick long underwear that covered her from waist to ankle, and over these, full-length black wool knit stockings rolled at the top around a tight rubber ring that pinched and cut into her groin. Over all this bulk went the khaki-colored canvas leggings — stiff, unbending things with stays running from ankle to knee, the entire contraption lashed together at the sides with eyelets and strings that cut off her blood supply even further. Added to it all were rubber overshoes. She felt as if she were walking in kegs!

At school the snow brought excitement. And puddles. And
the smell of wet wool. And runny noses. And a mess in the cloakroom, where leggings lay strewn beneath the benches and wool scarves fell onto the dirty floor and got wet and mittens got lost and overshoes mismatched. After recess came the worst smell of singed wool from the mittens drying on the fender of the stove.

Linnea assigned a cloakroom monitor, gave orders that no child was to come to school without a handkerchief, and made a mental note to ask Superintendent Dahl about a wooden folding clothes rack.

But the snow brought gaiety, too. At recess they played fox and goose, Linnea running the rim of the wheel with as much exuberance as the first graders. The younger children made “angels” in the snow and chattered about Thanksgiving, which was just around the corner. The older boys made plans to run trap lines down along the creek bottom in the hope of earning money over the winter.

With the arrival of snow, things were different at home, too. The routine around the farm changed. Everything relaxed. The family was all together at mealtime again, and Kristian was beginning to show a marked improvement in table manners. In the mornings, the kitchen smelled milky. The cream separating was done inside now instead of outside. Two of the barn cats took up residence underneath the kitchen stove. In the evenings, Nissa was often seen with knitting needles in her hands: Linnea, taking her cue from the cats, corrected papers in the kitchen instead of in her drafty upstairs room.

The weather turned frigid. Like her students, Linnea wrapped a warm woolen scarf around her face when she walked, and even in thick knit mittens her fingers were often numb before she reached P.S. 28.

She returned home from school one day to find Theodore and John working by a small shed near the well. She crossed the yard, pulled her scarf down, and greeted them. “Hello, what are you two doing?”

“Getting ready for butchering,” John answered, his breath a white cloud.

“In
here?”
The shed was only six feet square, built of wood, with a crude floor in the middle of which was a square hatch,

Theodore and John exchanged smiles. Sometimes the little missy asked the most ridiculous questions. “No,” Theodore
clarified, “this is where we store the meat. Gotta make the ice before we kill the cow.”

“Oh.”

They were busily pumping water into a deep, square hole beneath the floor. The following day she observed the ingenious efficiency of the meat house when she found them spreading a layer of clean straw over the huge solid block of ice, all now in readiness for the freshly cut beef.

The next afternoon, butchering day, she came home to a kitchen that quite turned her stomach. The two men were busy sawing up the carcass of a cow right on the kitchen table, and Nissa was busy with the sausage stuffer.

Walking in on the messy operation, Linnea turned a little green. Theodore grinned and teased, “So where did you think beef came from, missy?”

She hustled through the kitchen and burned a trail up the stairs in her haste to get away from the nauseating sight.

That evening, after supper, Theodore, Nissa, and Kristian sat at the table patiently cutting thin, long strips of beef and dropping them into a keg of brine.

“What’s that now?”

“Gonna be jerky when we’re through,” Nissa replied without looking up. “Soak ‘em a couple weeks, hang ‘em in the granary to dry — ain’t nothin’ better.”

The kitchen smelled delicious the following night, and at suppertime Linnea was passed a bowl containing a thick concoction of meat, potatoes, carrots, onions, and gravy. She buttered a slice of Nissa’s fresh-baked bread, loaded her bowl with the scrumptious-smelling stew, and dug in. It was absolutely delicious. And how much more pleasant mealtime was around here now that they’d learned how to talk!

Kristian asked Nissa where Thanksgiving dinner was going to be held this year.

“Ulmer and Helen’s turn,” Nissa answered.

“Aw, Aunt Helen’s dressing isn’t as good as yours, Grandma. I like it best when we have Thanksgiving here.”

“Christmas’ll be here. You’ll be eating my dressing then.”

John put in, “Ma’s dressing’s good, but it can’t hold a candle to this heart stew.”

“Heart stew?” Linnea’s jaw dropped and her eyes fell to her bowl.

“One of the biggest beef hearts I ever seen this year,” added Nissa. “Eat up.”

Linnea’s innards seemed to roll and pitch violently. The spoon slipped from her fingers while she gaped at the half-finished serving before her. What was she going to do with the mouthful she was holding?

Just then Theodore spoke up. “I don’t think Miss Brandon-berg holds with John’s opinion.”

Every eye turned to her. She drew a deep breath, steeled herself, and bravely swallowed. Immediately the heart stew tried to come back up. She grabbed her coffee, sucked in a huge gulp, and burned her mouth. Her eyes started watering.

“Somethin’ wrong with the heart stew?” Nissa inquired, peering at Linnea over her oval spectacles.

“I... I... ”

“I don’t think it’s good table manners for her to answer, Ma,” Theodore put in archly, hiding a grin.

“E... excuse me,” Linnea managed in a weak, shaky voice. She pushed her chair back, dropped her napkin, and made a beeline for the stairs, running like a coon before a pack, a hand covering her mouth.

Upstairs, her door slammed.

The four at the table exchanged meaningful glances. “She’s a fussy one at the table, ain’t she?” Nissa observed wryly, and calmly went on eating.

“I reckon we should’ve told her. Especially after the tongue sandwiches,” Theodore said, but inside he smiled.

“Thought she was Norwegian. Never heard of no Norwegian bein’ so fussy.”

“She’s only half Norwegian,” Kristian reminded them. “The other half’s Swedish. Remember?”

“Oh. That must be the fussy half then,” Nissa decided.

Upstairs Linnea curled on her bed, motionless. Each time she pictured the unsavory sights in the kitchen yesterday and thought of a big pumping beef heart, the queasiness peaked. She forced her thoughts to more pleasant things: the horses running free in a cool, fresh wind; the morning glories climbing John’s windmill; the children playing fox and goose in the fresh, clean snow.