Years (41 page)

If there was fresh or drifted snow, she had to shovel the steps and the path to the outhouses. Then she shuddered over the worst chore of all: getting the day’s water in. Even through thick wool mittens the pump handle numbed her fingers, and sometimes, while transferring the water to the crock, she got her fingers wet. One morning she froze her little finger, and it
hurt for the rest of the week. After that, it seemed more vulnerable to the cold than the rest of her body.

It was on a particularly bitter morning while pumping water that she had the idea about the soup: if the boys could cook rabbits, why couldn’t the girls cook soup?

When she presented them with the idea, it caught on immediately, not only with the girls, but with the boys, too. So Fridays became soup days. They agreed to work by fours, two older ones and two younger ones, taking turns getting recipes from their mothers, bringing ingredients from home — beef bones, potatoes, rutabagas, carrots. In the process of the soup-making the children learned planning, cooperation, and execution. Linnea often smiled as she watched the younger ones plying a paring knife for the first time under the tutelage of an older student. And for their efforts they were given a grade. But the biggest bonus was the soup itself.

During those cold December days nothing smelled better or tasted more delicious than Friday’s soup.

The work began in earnest on the Christmas play, both at home and in school. Everyone at P.S. 28 looked forward to that most special Friday of all, the last one before Christmas vacation.

Linnea prevailed upon Kristian to help her make a rough wooden cradle for the manger scene and begged Nissa’s help in creating costumes for those who lacked enough originality or materials to make their own. At school the children worked on a backdrop made of a cast-off sheet with the Christmas star, palm trees, and desert dunes drawn upon it in colored chalk. Those with more artistic ability cut out cardboard sheep and camels and drew in their features.

Frances wore a smile from day’s beginning to day’s end: she was going to be an angel. Linnea chose Kristian to be Joseph — after all, she told the others, he had turned seventeen in November and was now the oldest boy in the school. Patricia Lommen, with her long, dark hair would make the perfect Mary.

Linnea’s plea for musical instruments turned up nothing more than one accordion. When she asked for a volunteer to play it, the only one who raised his hand was Skipp. The best he could do was pick out the tune to “Silent Night” with a single finger.

A note went home with each student asking for a Christmas tree. Shortly after four the next afternoon the children were all gone and Linnea was writing the program of Christmas songs on the blackboard, when a shy knock sounded on the door. John’s head appeared, wearing a red and black plaid cap with ear flaps.

“John! Well, hello!”

He doffed the cap and hovered half in the cloakroom half in the schoolroom. “H’lo, Miss Linnea.”

She stepped down from the platform and briskly crossed the room with a pleased smile. “Well, this is a surprise.”

“Heard you needed a Christmas tree.”

“Word travels fast.”

“Kristian, he told me.”

Suddenly she caught a whiff of evergreen. “Oh, John, you’ve brought one?” Her eyes shone with excitement as she reached the door and opened it wider. With a dip of the knees and a single clap she exclaimed, “Oh, you have! Well, bring it in here, it’s cold out there!” She nudged him inside and the tree along with him. Quickly slamming the door, she whirled to examine the tree, clapped once more, then impetuously raised up on tiptoe to peck John on the cheek. “Oh, thank you, John. It’s a beauty.”

John turned plum red, shuffled his feet, and tapped his cap against his thigh. “Shucks, no, it ain’t, but it’s the best I could do. Kinda scraggly on that there side, but I figgered you could turn that to the wall.”

She made a full circle around the tree. “It
is too
a beauty!” she scolded cheerfully. “Or it will be by the time the children get the decorations on it tomorrow. And the smell!” She leaned close and sniffed. “Isn’t it glorious, John?”

He watched her dance around all giddy like, looking as pretty as a brand-new china doll and wondered why Teddy didn’t snap her up and marry her. She’d make a man a mighty fetching little wife, and it was plain as the nose on his face she had eyes for Teddy. You’d think Teddy’d see that.

“Sure is, Miss Linnea. Ain’t nothin’ smells prettier than a pine fresh brung in.”

Gaily, she whirled off toward the front of the room. “Where should we put it, John? In this corner, or that one? Look, didn’t the children do a wonderful job painting the Bethlehem star?”

John perused the star, the palm trees, the sheep, and gave two bearlike nods. “It’s pretty, all right. You want I should bring the tree up there?”

“Yes, right here, on the left, I think.” Suddenly she twirled to face him, wearing a look of dismay. “But what’ll we put it in?”

John leaned it in a front corner and lumbered back toward the door. “Never you worry, I got the stuff to make a stand. It’s out in the wagon.”

He returned with hammer, saw, and wood, and set to work. Looking on, she observed, “I swear, you Westgaards can fix anything, can’t you?”

On one knee, sawing over the edge of the desk platform, he answered, “Pretty ‘bout.”

John was one person whose grammar she never corrected. She enjoyed it just as it was.

“Theodore fixes everything from shoes to harnesses.”

“Teddy’s a smart one, all right.”

“But he has a terrible temper, doesn’t he?”

John looked up blankly. “He does?”

Surprised, she shrugged. “Well, I always thought so.”

John scratched his head, then righted his cap. “Teddy, he never gets mad at me. Not even when I’m slow.” He paused, thinking for a full ten seconds before adding, “And I’m pretty slow.” He studied the saw blade a long moment, then leaned back into the work at his usual plodding pace. Watching, she felt a warm, sympathetic spot in her heart, different from the warm spot reserved for Theodore, but every bit as full. She had never before realized that John knew he was slower than most, or that it must bother him. She could sense in him the quiet love he felt for his brother, and because Theodore was patient with John, she suddenly had even more reason to love him.

“You’re not slow, John, you’re only... unrushed. There’s a big difference.”

He looked up, the wool flaps of his cap sticking out like broken wings above his ears, their wrinkled black ties dangling below. He swallowed and his raw-boned cheeks took on color. The expression on his face said her words had made him happier than any gift she might have wrapped and left beneath a tree.

“Will you be coming to the Christmas program, John?”

“Me? Sure thing, Miss Linnea. Never missed it since Kristian’s been in it.”

“And... and Theodore, too?”

“Teddy? Why, he wouldn’t dream of missin’ it. We’ll all be here, don’t you worry.”

The night of the big event they were all there, just as John had promised. Not only her own “family,” but the families of all her students. The schoolroom was filled to capacity. Even the recitation benches from up front and the boot-changing benches from the cloakroom were pressed into service to seat the crowd.

Linnea’s stomach had butterflies.

The “curtain” — two sheets confiscated from Nissa’s bureau drawer — was strung across the front of the stage and behind it Frances Westgaard’s face beamed as brightly as her tinsel halo as she stood in a long white angel costume with her bright hair flowing past her shoulder blades. Little Roseanne began crying because she’d misplaced her halo. Norna was dispatched to find it, but just when that problem was solved Sonny stepped on the backdrop and jerked it from its string line above. Linnea’s face fell, but Kristian lifted Sonny bodily, set him to one side, and reached up easily to secure the clothespins once again. From out front came the smell of coffee brewing on the stove, and hot chocolate heating. Linnea peeked between the sheets and felt all the trepidation of a stage director on opening night. Nissa and Hilda Knutson were setting out cups and arranging cookies and nut breads on a table. The younger brothers and sisters of her students were climbing on their mothers’ laps, agitating for the program to begin. And there was Superintendent Dahl! And the lady beside him had to be his wife. Linnea found Theodore and her heart skipped. There was no denying, she wanted everything to go smoothly not only for the children’s sake but to prove herself in his eyes.

Bent Linder tugged her skirt. “I can’t get my head thing on right, Miss Brandonberg.”

She leaned to take the red farmer hanky from Bent and twist it into a rope, then secure it around the white dishtowel on his head. After checking to make sure he had his sprig of “myrrh,” she stood him in place.

“Shh!”

It was time to begin.

The program went off without a hitch, but through it all, Linnea clutched her fingers and waited for someone to forget their lines and start crying. Or for the shaky cradle to collapse, or for somebody to step on the backdrop again and send it to the floor. But they were flawless, her children. And when the last stroke of applause died and she stepped before the curtain, Linnea’s heart felt filled to bursting.

“I want to thank you all for coming tonight, and for helping at home with the costumes and the cookies. It’s hard to say who’s been more excited about tonight, the children or I.” She realized she was still clutching her hands. Glancing down, she separated them and gave them a nervous flip. The audience laughed. She picked out Mr. and Mrs. Dahl. “We’re honored to have Superintendent Dahl and his wife with us tonight — an unexpected surprise. Thank you so much for coming.” Her eyes sought out John. “A special thanks to John Westgaard for providing us with our Christmas tree this year, and for delivering it and building the stand.” She gave him a warm smile; he hung his head and blushed a holly-berry red. “John, thank you.”

Her gaze moved past the spot where Theodore had been sitting, backtracked at finding him gone, then moved on to Nissa. “And to Nissa Westgaard for letting me raid her linen supplies. And for putting up with me when any less patient person would have told me to quit bothering her and find my own costumes.”

“I want to take this opportunity to wish each and every one of you a blessed Christmas. I’ll be leaving in the morning to spend Christmas with my family in Fargo, so I won’t be seeing you in church. But Merry Christmas, one and all. Now, before we enjoy the treats you mothers have provided, let’s give the children one more round of applause for a job beautifully done.”

The sheets were drawn aside on cue and she stepped back, reached for the hands of those in the center of the line, and they all took a final bow.

When the performers and director lifted their heads again in unison, Linnea’s mouth dropped open. Coming in the rear door was a robust red-cheeked Santa Claus with an enormous bag slung over his shoulder. Down each red pant leg ran a string of sleigh bells that sang out merrily as he moved.

“Wh... why... who in the world... ” she breathed.

From behind the white beard and mustache came a deep, chortling voice. “Merrrrrry Christmas, everybody! Santa smelled coffee!”

The young children started whispering and giggling nervously. One of the pre-schoolers in the audience stuck his finger in his mouth and began to cry. Linnea had all she could do to keep from bursting out laughing. Why, Theodore Westgaard, you lovable sneak!

He closed the cloakroom door with more jingling of bells while from beside her came a murmur of awe. “It’th Than-taaaa!”

She leaned over to find Roseanne and Sonny with eyes like full moons. She nudged the two seven-year-olds gently. “Why don’t you go invite him in?” she whispered. Then she turned to include all the small children in her suggestion. “Go on, make him feel welcome. Remember your manners.”

It was quite a sight to watch the younger set shyly make their way to the rear of the schoolroom and reach for Santa’s hand, then lead him to the front.

Tony rushed forward. “I’ll get teacher’s chair for you, Santa!”

As Santa stepped up onto the stage, a familiar brown eye gave Linnea a covert wink.

“Santa’s been riding a long time. A little set-down’d feel mighty good.” He lowered himself into the chair with a great show of breathlessness, bending over his enormous belly and bracing his knees as he plopped back, letting the top of his bag fall over one thigh. The eye of every believer in the room followed it excitedly.

He played the part to the hilt, inquiring archly how many of them had been good little boys and girls. In the audience little sisters and brothers furtively sneaked from their mothers’ laps and inched forward, drawn irresistibly. As the man in red reached for the drawstring bag, one voice piped up boldly, “I been good, Thanta!”

Roseanne.

All the adults tried to muffle their laughter, but Roseanne approached him confidently and stood in her angel gown, with her belly thrust out. “You have?” Santa exclaimed, then with exaggerated motions, lifted one hip and searched his pocket. “Well, now, let’s see who we have here.” He produced a long white paper, ran a finger down it, stopped momentarily to peer
more closely at Roseanne’s face from beneath bushy white eyebrows. She waited before him, composed, her adorable face drawn into a sober expression of respect. “Ahh, there it is. This must be Roseanne.”

She laughed like a lilting songbird and turned to Skipp. “Thee? He knowth me!”

When she was perched on his knee, she peered inside the bag until her head got in Theodore’s way, and everyone laughed again. Roseanne offered, “I can reach.”

Linnea could tell Theodore was having trouble keeping a straight face. “Oh, well, you go ahead then.” He held the sack open and Roseanne almost fell into it, leaning over and groping. She came up with a brown paper bag. On it a name was printed in black.

“Who’s it for?” Theodore asked.

Roseanne studied the name, then shrugged and looked up angelically into his eyes. “I can’t read yet.”

“Oh, well, let Santa try.” Theodore checked the name. “Says here Frances Westgaard.”