Believing the Dream (28 page)

“Yes. I’ll be taking you up the hill.” Phillip strode into the kitchen, settling his tie and straightening his suit coat. “How’s your next chapter coming?”

Thorliff swallowed his mouthful of pancake, wishing he’d not been asked the question. “I’ll have it ready for you in the morning.”

“Won’t give us much time for edit and rewrite.”

“I know.”
I’d have had more completed if I hadn’t written to Anji. What am I to do? I cannot continue to be torn like this
. The sour taste of resentment overrode the flavor of the sweet maple syrup.

The thought plagued him through the ride up the hill and on into the afternoon. He caught himself dwelling on it, rather than the lecture, mulling it over when he should have been studying. That night after finally turning out the lamp but before crawling under the covers, he fell on his knees beside the bed.

“Lord, I cannot handle this. I am being torn from within, and all my without is grinding to a halt. I’m getting behind in everything, and sometimes I feel so angry, I could curse and fight. Is this what love is supposed to be? If so, I want none of it.” He braced his forehead on his clasped hands. Cold seeped through the rug and into his knees. “Lord God, this is what I felt. What she said last summer—it was a beautiful thing. So why does she not answer? Why can’t I live up to my vow and not let her lack of correspondence bother me?”

He waited, listening with all his being. As if floating on a breath so that he inhaled the words, he sensed a response.

Thorliff, my son, are you going to trust me?

Thorliff held his breath. Nothing more.

“Of course, I trust you. Haven’t I always?” His words stopped his heart.
Have I been trusting Him?
Condemnation rode his shoulders with spurs raking his sides. His eyes fought to close, his tongue heavy, his heart weeping.

“I-I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. Instead of trusting you, I have been railing against you, against the things that are happening, things over which I have no control . . . no matter how much I want to. Please show me how to trust, Lord. I
will
trust you in all things.” As if a dam had burst and all the water run out, he slumped into a heap. A verse floated through his weeping mind.
“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

“Thank you, heavenly Father.” He forced his shivering body to stand long enough to crawl into bed, where peace wrapped him in a feather quilt and warmed him with his Father’s love.

At five sharp the following morning, he came fully awake, as if someone had just called his name and shook his shoulder. His mind singing thank-yous and praises, he washed, shaved, and dressed in record time, and when he sat down at his desk, his pen flew over the pages. The story flowed as fast as he could write, his mind creating pictures and his pen recording the perfect words to describe them. By the time he needed to be on his way to the Rogerses’ house, he had finished the chapter he’d promised and written another. He gathered up the pages and laid them on Phillip’s desk.

On the way to the Rogerses’ home, he toyed with Psalm 84, setting the words, “Blessed are they that dwell in thy house. . . . Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee. . . .” into a tune that played over and over in his mind before bursting forth into a whistle.

“My, you sure are a happy one this morning.” Elizabeth met him at the door.

Thorliff stepped inside and leaned slightly toward her. “I finished my chapter and another one besides.”

She stepped back and with a grin laid one hand on her heart.

“Goodness, did you not sleep at all?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Come and eat so we can get going. And tell me your secret. I need to feel as cheery as you. Studying half the night gives me nothing but a headache.” She rubbed her forehead. “I shall be delighted beyond measure when this test is over.”

Cook took one look at Thorliff when he came into the kitchen and shook her head. “Something good surely happened to our boy.” She took a plate out of the warming oven and set it on the table with a motion for him to sit.

“Is it that obvious?” Thorliff couldn’t remember his face looking that different in the mirror.

“Well, I have not heard you whistling one time until now. My mor always said that when a boy whistles in the morning, he has sunshine in his heart.”

“How come then my mother says, ‘Whistling girls and crowing hens always come to two bad ends’?” Elizabeth set her book satchel on a chair.

“Whistling is for boys, not girls.” Cook made her pronouncement with all the certitude of a philosopher.

“It’s not fair.” Elizabeth whistled three bars of “Yankee Doodle.”

Thorliff sat facing the door where Annabelle appeared in the middle of the whistling concert. He waggled his eyebrows to catch Elizabeth’s attention, but she went blithely on until she caught the shake of his head. She let the notes trail off and wrinkled her forehead, her shoulders rising in a flinch.

“Elizabeth Marie Rogers, what has come over you?”

“It’s Thorliff ’s fault and Cook’s. They dared me.”

Thorliff and Cook exchanged wide-eyed, raised-eyebrows looks and turned as one to shake their heads at Elizabeth.

“Are you ready to go?” Phillip stuck his head in the back door.

“Saved by the bell,” Elizabeth muttered as she grabbed her things and dashed out to join her father. “Have a good day, Mother,” she called over her shoulder.

“That girl.” But the slight smile on Annabelle’s face belied her words.

Thorliff couldn’t help but whistle as he followed her out to the sleigh.

“Mr. Bjorklund, could you please stop by my desk after class?” Mr.

Ingermanson stopped by Thorliff ’s side.

“Ah, of course.” He watched the slightly stooped gentleman make his way to the front of the room without pausing to talk with anyone else.
Now what?
But Thorliff kept his questions off his face and out of his mind and forced himself to pay attention to the lecture. At least he wasn’t behind in this class, and his papers had been getting better grades. When the dismissal bell rang, he waited and let the others file out ahead of him.

“You got trouble now,” Benjamin whispered as he passed by. “Meet me in the dining room when he lets you loose.”

“Ja, I will.” The “ja” gave his tension away. No matter how he tried to conceal it, a summons to the professor’s desk made his stomach clench.

Mr. Ingermanson turned from talking with another student. “Just a moment.”

Thorliff nodded and made himself stand still. His feet twitched to run, not walk, out the door. He studied the instructions written on the board as if he had not already copied them into his class book.

“Ah, good, thank you for waiting.” Mr. Ingermanson shuffled through some papers on his desk and came up with what Thorliff recognized as one of the chapters of his story from the newspaper.

“This has been brought to my attention. I did not realize you wrote for the local paper.”

“Ah, I started out cleaning the press and things like that. Mr. Phillips wanted someone to be in the building at night, so he offered me room and board in exchange for my staying there and helping.”

“Very good.” Mr. Ingermanson read a few sentences and looked at Thorliff over the rim of his gold-framed glasses. “This is a good story.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Some places could be improved, but . . .”

Thorliff waited, sure that the next comment would elucidate all the shortcomings of his story.

“I was wondering if you would like to join our magazine staff. Usually we don’t take on freshmen, but you have proven yourself more than worthy, or rather capable.” He read a bit more.

Thorliff swallowed, even that small action sounding loud in his ears.
How can I do this? How can I not do this?

“What other things have you written for publication?”

“Some other articles for the paper.” He wanted to wipe his hands on his britches. “And
Harper’s Magazine
bought a story last year.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Ingermanson laid the newspaper back down on his desk. He half sat, half leaned on his desk and crossed his arms. “I had no idea we had a celebrity in our class.”

Thorliff looked up from studying the back of his textbook to see if the man was being sarcastic. When he saw only approbation, he half shrugged. “One or two stories do not a celebrity make.”

“Modesty is becoming in a man.” Mr. Ingermanson leaned forward enough to look over his glasses. “The grades I have given you must have been hard.”

“Ja, they were, but I have been learning, and that is what I came to school for.”

“Good. Striving for excellence. Would that everyone would take that as his creed. Now, I come to my reason for asking you to stop. Am I clear in understanding that you plan on becoming a newspaperman?”

“That and write stories too. I like both.”

“I see. Well, the normal rule here is that one must be a sophomore before being asked to join the
Manitou Messenger
staff, but we have decided to make an exception in your case due to your experience. Would you be interested in joining the staff?”

Thorliff swallowed, desire warring with practicality. “I . . . I’d be honored.”
Tell him the truth
. “But I have a problem with the matter of time. Since I earn my room and board working at the newspaper, and I have that ongoing story, and I try to keep my grades up, well, I have so little time. . . .”
I s’pose I’ve really messed up now
. “I’ll have to give it some thought. And prayer.”
God, what am I to do?

CHAPTER TWENTY

February 1894

“Quarantined!”

At Thorliff ’s exclamation Dr. Gaskin turned from nailing the sign to the front door of the Rogerses’ home. “Sorry, son, but that’s what we have to do with the measles. Elizabeth came down with them last night.”

“But what about Mr. Rogers?”

“He hasn’t had them before, so he cannot leave either.”

“And the newspaper?”

“I imagine he shall miss a couple of issues.” Dr. Gaskin put his hammer back in the outside pocket of his black bag. “Mr. Rogers said to tell you that he will be talking with you on the telephone. Right now he is trying to find someone to take over or at least to help you.”

Thorliff heard and felt his stomach rumble. Obviously Dr. Gaskin did too, for he smiled. “And you are to eat at my house.”

“Ah.” Thorliff could feel his neck get warm. It must be about as red as his nose. If there was some way to keep from blushing, he sure wished he knew it. “Mange—er, thank you.” Stuttering too. “I’ll go to your house, then on to school. If you talk with Mr. Rogers, please tell him that.” He strode off down the walk without a backward glance, his mind going ten times faster than his feet, which picked up to just short of a run.

How can I help him? How can I find help? Who will help me? I cannot put out the paper by myself and keep up with school. Lord, help me, please. I need a miracle—or maybe ten
.

The faster his mind ran, the faster his heart pumped, and he knocked on the door to the doctor’s house, puffing like he’d run five miles.

“Good morning. You must be young Mr. Bjorklund.” The woman who answered handed him a brown-wrapped packet. “I figured you might want to head straight up the hill, but if you come earlier tomorrow, I’ll fix you a hot breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s plenty there for both breakfast and dinner. Come by here for supper on your way home.”

He nodded. “Yes, thank you.” And tipped his hat. “See you late this afternoon.”

“Dr. Gaskin said about four?”

“Ja, that is good.” He heard his accent deepen.
Careful, you have no time for fretting. That will only make things worse.

“Worry, my dear Thorliff, is the work of the devil. Our Lord says to cast our cares on him, that He will redeem our hours and our efforts.”
Thorliff heard Pastor Solberg’s voice as if he ran right beside him. He slipped once on the ice going up the hill to Manitou Heights and St. Olaf, so he kept to the snow-covered side of the path. He made it through the door to the classroom just as the bell rang, totally out of breath from running the two flights of stairs.