Believing the Dream (2 page)

“And would there be prizes?”

“Isn’t being published enough?” Thorliff thought back to his first acceptance letter and to the excitement he’d felt the last couple of years after sending off stories. How he’d run all the way to the Baards’ farm to tell Anji. He jerked himself back to a sleigh in Minnesota, leaving thoughts of the summer fields of home in Blessing, North Dakota, behind.

Phillip nodded. “Maybe so, maybe so.”

“I checked the back issues. You’ve never done anything like this.”

“Got to hand it to you, young man, you are indeed thorough. That’s most important in a newspaperman.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff dredged up a mite of courage. “I . . . I could write up an article regarding the contest.” While writing for the paper was a dream for the future, he’d not expressed a desire to do so immediately. Perhaps Mr. Rogers didn’t see him as capable of that. Perhaps he was being too forward. Why hadn’t he just kept his idea to himself to use in his own paper someday?

Sleigh and harness bells jingled. The horse snorted as he reached the crest of the hill.

Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Showing off, or what?
Thorliff swallowed a sigh.

“I think that’s a fine idea.” The voice from the backseat caught him totally by surprise. “So are you going to do it, Father?”

“Of course.” Phillip glanced over his shoulder. “I said I would.”

“No, you said that Mr. Bjorklund was thorough, which is fine and good, but you didn’t answer his question.”

Thorliff clapped his jaw shut. Elizabeth said all that . . . for him? Would wonders never cease? And Mr. Rogers said “of course,” like, like . . . Thorliff felt like leaping from the sleigh and bounding through the snow, bounding over those tall elm trees that bordered the street and perhaps even a building or two.

“Oh, well”—Phillip turned to Thorliff—“can you have the article ready for typesetting tomorrow? We’ll run it on the front page.”

“Ah, of course.”

“We’ll do a thirty-point title, and unless something momentous happens to bump it to the second page, take six to eight inches. That way you can cover all the rules.”

“Ah, rules. Yes, sir.” Thorliff gathered his things and stepped from the sleigh with a nod. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Elizabeth is good with rules. She’ll help you.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to assist her, but she waved him off.

Elizabeth threw back the robe and stepped from the sleigh. “Good thing my recitation is in my first class this morning.” She retrieved her satchel of books. “Remember to contact Mrs. James regarding that ad. I wasn’t able to reach her. And remind her she has to pay for the last one.”

Phillip Rogers made some kind of noise, and the look he sent his daughter brought forth a peal of laughter. He touched the brim of his black Homburg, clucked the horse forward, and headed back down the hill.

As he did every school morning, Thorliff looked up to the imposing tower atop the mansard roof of the college. The entire red brick building, affectionately called Old Main, resembled a European fortress or castle, but in his mind the tower pointed to God himself.

“Mr. Bjorklund, would you please stay after class?” Mr. Ingermanson, who taught freshman English, stopped at Thorliff ’s desk as he handed back the papers he’d graded.

Thorliff fell off the dream ledge he’d been enjoying and nodded. Now what? Had his paper been so terrible? He wanted to tuck it into his bag but forced himself to look at it instead. Not good but not terrible either. He thought back to the glowing comments Pastor Solberg used to write on his papers. Life sure was different here. He had yet to receive a glowing comment on anything in any of his subjects. He took notes through the lecture and waited until the others had filed out. Benjamin, the young man who sat behind him who’d become his friend, gave him a commiserating look as he passed by. Thorliff shrugged, then rose to stand in front of the teacher’s desk.

“Sir?”

“Ah yes. It has come to my attention that you are from North Dakota.”

“Yes, sir. From Blessing, a small town near Grafton.”

“Are you by any chance related to the family that makes the cheese?”

“Yes, that’s my family. My mother started the business.” Thorliff felt his shoulders relax as a sigh of relief escaped.

“Good, good. I have a favor to ask.” Mr. Ingermanson, receding dark hair combed straight off his brow, leaned back in his chair. At Thorliff ’s nod he continued. “Will you be going home for the Christmas holidays?”

“Yes, sir.”
Unless Anji sends another message to the contrary, then I
may never go home again
.

“Fine. I know this sounds strange, but could you bring back a wheel of cheddar cheese?”

Thorliff nodded, at the same time wondering how he would carry it on the train.

“My family just loves that cheese, and it would make a marvelous Christmas present, albeit a bit late.” He smiled. “I will pay you whatever the cost.”

“I will write and ask Mor to keep one aside. Christmas season pretty much cleans out the cheese house.”

“Thank you, young man, I do appreciate that.”

“You are welcome. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, one thing. Your answer to question five presented a very interesting thought line. You think for yourself and present your views clearly and persuasively. A fine thing in one of your age. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorliff barely resisted clicking his heels together once outside the door. A compliment. He’d finally received a compliment on something he’d written. And wouldn’t Mor laugh about the cheese order.

He ate his dinner in the study room along with others who brought their own meals instead of eating in the dining hall.

“So.” Benjamin sat down next to him and opened a packet of sandwiches. “What did Inger the Terrible want with you?” Benjamin was as dark as Thorliff was fair, with woolly caterpillar eyebrows above deep-set hazel eyes. His hooked nose reminded Thorliff of one of the workhorses at home, but the smile that made grooves in Benjamin’s cheeks was totally irresistible.

“He wanted me to bring back cheese from home. My mor makes the best cheese in the country.”

“She ships to Minnesota?”

“Our cheese goes all over the country. And it’s possible our wheat was ground into flour for your bread.”

“How big did you say your farm is?” Benjamin started on his second half of sandwich, the first disappearing in three bites. “Half of North Dakota?”

“No, it’s just that most of our wheat goes to flour mills in Minnesota.” Thorliff laid down his roast beef and cheese sandwich and popped one of the molasses cookies into his mouth. “If they’d pay decent prices for the wheat, the farmers would be able to keep producing.”

“I heard they’re having a bad drought again on the prairies.”

“Yes, they’ve had hardly any rain this fall, so the snow had better be deep.” Thorliff returned to his sandwich, then pushed back his chair. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” Benjamin held out his mug.

Thorliff took the two cups up to the large gray graniteware pot that simmered on the stove and filled them both. When he returned another student had joined them.

“Mail’s in if you are interested.”

Thorliff set his cup down. “I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, Thorliff, pick mine up too, will you?” Benjamin raised his voice to be heard over the hubbub.

Thorliff waved one hand to signify he’d heard and joined the ranks of students checking their mailboxes in the dark oak-paneled hall. When he twirled the handle of box 316 and opened the little door, he could see two envelopes. Anji—could one be from Anji? He withdrew them both and checked the handwriting, cutting off the sigh before it took wings. One from his mor and the other from Pastor Solberg. At least he’d heard from home. Two weeks without a letter seemed like half a year. But why nothing from Anji? Sorrow seeded resentment, and resentment sprouted instantly into anger. And to think she had promised to write him every week. If that’s all the stronger her word—He cut off the thoughts and checked the glass on Benjamin’s box. Nothing.

“Sorry, your box was empty.” Thorliff took his place at the table and wolfed down the rest of his sandwich.

“You look mad enough to chew railroad spikes.” Benjamin snagged one of Thorliff ’s cookies. “Nothing from your girl again?”

Thorliff shook his head. “She’s not my girl any longer.” He and Benjamin had filled each other in about their home lives during their dinner meetings. While Benjamin was from Stillwater, a lumber town not far away, he stayed with a family in Northfield and clerked at the dry goods store. He’d invited Thorliff to come home with him on weekends, but so far Thorliff had declined the invitations, choosing to work at the newspaper instead to improve his typesetting and breaking down skills. Now he was nearly as quick as Elizabeth.

“I need to get to class. Glad you enjoyed my cookies.” He gathered up his books and ate the last cookie before Benjamin could appropriate it.

“They treat you better than the Bachmans do me.” Benjamin tried to look soulful, but his wiggling eyebrows made Thorliff snort. Climbing the stairs to the classrooms on the second floor, Thorliff rehearsed a blistering letter to send to Anji. Since he was a few minutes early, he slit the letter from Ingeborg open with a blade of his pocketknife and pulled out three sheets of paper: one from Andrew, one from Astrid, and one from his mother. He read the news of school and farm from Andrew and tales of the new kittens and some of the new students at the deaf school from Astrid, who signed her letter,
I’ve been missing you so much, and your stories. I hope you love school as much as I do. When you come home for Christmas, it will be the very best ever. Love, your little sister, Astrid.

Thorliff swallowed the lump in his throat while guilt chuckled on his shoulder. Here he’d been angry at Anji, but he hadn’t written personal letters to his brother and sister. And he had only written Anji one letter after the telegram. When she didn’t answer, he didn’t write again.

He unfolded his mother’s letter.

My dear son,

I do hope this letter finds you well in body, mind, and spirit.

He stopped reading and with a sigh glanced out the window. Snowing again. No sparkling sun, no glimmering drifts today. Hearing the others coming into the classroom, he folded the letter and put it back in his pocket where it burned until he had time between classes to finish reading it.

I am sorry to have to remonstrate you in a letter like this, but why have you not written to Anji? She fights so hard not to let the hurt show, but I can see it in her eyes. She is carrying such a heavy burden, even though the Mendohlsons have moved into the Baard soddy to be of help. I must say that I am disappointed in you.

Thorliff gritted his teeth. Why did I not write? I did write. Could my letter have gone astray? Has Anji written, and I didn’t get them? Raging thoughts twisted his gut. He returned to the letter.

Joseph is wasting away. I think his heart broke when Agnes died, and then the fall crippled him, leaving him with no will to live. Metiz says he will be gone before spring, and while I hope she is wrong, I cannot wish this life on him when he has heaven and Agnes to look forward to.

Ingeborg continued with other news, but Thorliff returned to the beginning. Was she right? A worm of contention whispered so low he had to stop breathing to hear.
You’re a man now. What right has she to
scold you like this? Is it really any of her business?

Why is this your fault?
Where had that voice come from?

Thorliff tried to turn to his studies. He opened two books to their proper places, straightened his pencils, and folded his muffler and stuffed it back in his pocket. Steam hissed in the radiator under the tall window. Normally he could shut out all the surrounding noises and study, but today . . . He broke the lead on his pencil and took out his knife to sharpen it again. He skinned his hair back with a desperate hand, read the same paragraph three times, and still had no idea what it said.

With a sigh, he took out paper and started to write.

Dear Anji, I . . .

“Thorliff, Father is here to take us down the hill before this storm turns into a blizzard.” Elizabeth beckoned him from the doorway.

“I’ll be right there.” He put his papers away and shrugged into his coat. Promising himself he’d finish the letter later, he clattered down the stairs.

“Why can’t you let me know where you are going to be?” Her words matched her frown.

Was every female in the world angry with him? Thorliff schooled his face to blankness and held the door for Elizabeth. His right eye twitched.

CHAPTER TWO