Believing the Dream (6 page)

“Thanks, Tom, for coming out on such a cold night,” Thorliff said, stepping out of the sleigh. In the last year, since the installation of the telephone, Tom had divided his time between working for Dr. Gaskin and the Rogerses.

“It’s all right.”

“And thank you, Thornton, for delivering the manuscripts to Mr. Jordan for me and for your help with the judging.”

“Quite all right.”

Thorliff waved as the sleigh went on to the Muellers’ house, where Thornton lived with his pastor uncle and his wife and sons.

Thorliff, however, still had to finish a composition that was due in the morning. His employer’s “well done” as he left this evening helped somewhat to alleviate the nagging sting of his teacher’s words earlier in the day. From now on, Thorliff promised himself, he would keep his mouth shut in class except when called on.
But if God didn’t intend for me to think, why did He give me such an inquisitive mind?

By the time he finished the composition, he felt wide awake so he began a letter to Anji.

Dear Anji,

I must confess that I have no idea what is happening between us. You sent me that telegram that sounded as if you never wanted to see me again, and when I wrote to you, I never received an answer. I have decided to write again in the hopes that my earlier letter was lost and you are feeling as bereft as I. Surely the love we confessed for each other is stronger than these difficulties. In fact, perhaps these are the tests we must go through; as silver and gold are purified by fire, so are we.

And should the unthinkable be, that you no longer love me as I do you, then I must know that too. I think I am over the worst of the homesickness that plagued me through October. While I did not expect school to be easy, I have been surprised at the difficulties I have experienced. Just today I was castigated rather severely for questioning what I see as the disparity between the vengeful and judgmental God of the Old Testament and the God who is love of the New. I am not the only one with questions. There are others who discuss with me in private. As you know, Pastor Solberg welcomed our questions, saying that when we question, it is like flint on flint, sparks fly, and we all become wiser. He said that God is not afraid of our questioning and loves us anyway. After all, Thomas doubted, and as I understand, only when doubting leads to disbelief is there a problem. All my questions create an awe in me that the God who created the universe also created me and desires that I commune with Him.

I have been reading Christmas stories entered in our local newspaper’s contest, and many of them make me even more wish for home. Though I want to come home for Christmas, some days I doubt that I can leave my job, while on other days I would give up the job and school itself for a glimpse of your sweet face.

Greet your family for me. I have joined my prayers with yours that your father would heal enough to be free of the terrible pain he is suffering. I know you must miss your mother terribly.

All my love,
Thorliff

Without rereading what he’d written, he addressed the envelope and, while the ink dried on the envelope, folded the paper to insert and seal. When he crawled under his quilt, he was sure this would be another of those nights rife with questions and devoid of sleep. But in the morning he knew he’d not prayed for any beyond those of his immediate family before falling into the comforting arms of rest and refreshment.

They had to reprint more copies of the paper with the runners-up stories and so doubled the run for the finalists. When one customer suggested they print all the stories in a small book, Phillip handed that project over to Thorliff.

“What do you think? Is this something that you can do?”

“Before Christmas?” Thorliff felt his heart leap to racing speed.

“No, no. I know that is impossible. But we need to keep that in mind for next year. I think this first edition could come out in January during the winter doldrums. We could look for other places to sell it besides the newspaper office. Olson’s Bookstore would be a natural.”

“What if you designated a portion of the cover price to go to a local charity? That would extend the Christmas spirit into the new year.”

“Thorliff, where do these ideas of yours come from?” Phillip stared at his young worker with an amazed expression.

Is that good or bad?
Thorliff wasn’t certain if he was to be castigated or congratulated. Unsure, he kept silent.

“Now, do you have any suggestions as to which charity?”

Thorliff let out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “I don’t know the town well enough, but scholarships are always needed at the colleges. As you know, St. Olaf was pretty close to closing its doors this fall. Reverend Ytterboe is out canvassing for financial assistance.”

“Thank you. I shall ask my wife. She would have suggestions for this also. Son, you are increasing our good name in Northfield. Thank you.”

The bell tinkled over the door, and a child entered the newspaper office. He laid his pennies on the counter. “I would like two more copies of this week’s paper. My sister is one of the story winners.”

Phillip winked at Thorliff. “See?” He reached under the counter where they had a stack of papers stashed. “Here you go, lad. And tell your sister congratulations from us.”

The boy dashed out with a quick wave over his shoulder. His cheery smile reminded Thorliff of Trygve—and home. Home, where Christmas secrets abounded as everyone made presents for the others and tried to keep them from guessing, where Mor and Astrid would be baking goodies and pulling taffy, where they would have made snow candy by now and dipped small candles to light on the tree. At the school they would be practicing for the Christmas program, the program that he always used to write but didn’t write this year for the first time since the school began.

What would he give for Christmas gifts if he did go home?

CHAPTER FIVE

December 21, 1893

“So, Thorliff, are you going home for Christmas?” Mr. Rogers asked.

Elizabeth Rogers watched the young man’s face as he struggled to find an answer to her father’s question.

“Ja, I plan to take the morning train tomorrow.”

“I thought you decided not to.” She dropped the last of the capitals from Thursday’s edition of the
Northfield News
into their cases. The ancient printing press still used individual type that was hand-set on a long slug line and had to be put away when the paper was finished printing.

Elizabeth brushed a lock of hair off her face with the back of her hand. “That means I have to help pick next week, and here I thought to have some time off.”

“You’ve had time off. I’ve been doing most of the picking all month.” Thorliff sighed. According to her, he did nothing more than clean and keep the furnace going, and here he’d written the final article about the winners of the Christmas story contest, and made sure the judges received their entries, and catalogued all the entries, and come up with the idea in the first place.

Along with keeping up with his classes.

“How long will you be gone?” She snapped the case closed, and he shoved it into the slot where it belonged.

He looked to Mr. Rogers. “How long may I be gone?”

“I could sure use your help with the New Year’s edition.” Phillip Rogers consulted the calendar on the wall by his desk. “Can you return on Wednesday the twenty-seventh?”

“If I need to.”

“Your little sister is going to be mad at you.” Thorliff had told Elizabeth of his family on some of the evenings when she worked on the accounts and he either cleaned up the newspaper office or put away the used type.

She had told him about her dream of becoming a doctor. While the sparring continued, they had developed a friendship of sorts, wits honed to a sharper edge due to their repartee.

“Are you ready to head on home, dear?”

“Any time.” All of a sudden Elizabeth felt like someone had stolen whatever energy she had left, leaving her noodle limp. She trapped a yawn behind her fingers, remembering at the last moment that she hadn’t washed yet. She turned to her father. “Do I have ink on my face?”

“Only a little.” Phillip glanced up from searching his pockets. “Have you seen my—” he turned back to the desk—“here it is.” He removed an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Thorliff. “Merry Christmas, son.”

“Why . . . why, thank you.”

Elizabeth tried to stifle her look of surprise, but her father caught it. One raised eyebrow dared her to say anything.

She rubbed the inside of her cheek with her tongue and headed to the necessary to remove the ink from her face.
Father has never given the boys that work here a Christmas present. Why is he starting now?
Not that Mr. Bjorklund was a boy really, even though he’d grown thinner through the fall instead of muscling out like Cook insisted he should. When she returned, her father had donned coat, muffler, and gloves, and stood waiting, holding her coat. Thorliff had disappeared.

“Where’d he go?”

“Down to stoke the furnace.”

“Oh.” She pushed her arms into her coat sleeves and removed her muffler and hat from the coatrack by the front door.

“Did you need him for something?”

“No.”
I was going to wish him a merry Christmas is all, but then he’d probably make some comment that would make me want to give him a shove. Thorliff is so exasperating; why can’t Father see that?

Instead, here her father was giving the man a gift of money for Christmas. Not like her mother hadn’t already sent a plate of Cook’s Christmas treats. Ah, the krumkakar, the sandbakkels, and fattigmann, plus the julekake they would enjoy on Christmas morning. One thing about Cook, she never spared the butter.

“Are you ready, my dear?” Her father touched her arm with a gentle hand.

Elizabeth bit back a sigh. This year, for the first time since Cook came to them, she’d missed out on helping with the Christmas baking. Being a junior in college took more time than she’d imagined, and not just studying.

She shook her head at her father’s questioning look and headed for the stairs to the basement. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Bjorklund.” All the emphasis on the mister, knowing that would make him smile.

“And to you, Miss Elizabeth.” His use of her given name made her smile.

Just as she turned away, he started up the wooden stairs sided on one side by a wall and a wooden handrail on the other.

“Really, a most blessed Yule.” There was no teasing tone in his voice, only the richness of one friend sharing with another.

“Thank you.” She struggled for something more to say, but when the words failed her, she turned instead to let her father usher her out the door. For some odd reason, a lump clogged her throat.

“A fine young man, is he not?”

“I guess.” She ducked her chin into the muffler that covered her face clear to her eyes.
Pray for a safe journey for him
. The inner voice caught her by surprise.

Why? What could happen? He would get on the train here, change in St. Paul, change again in Grand Forks most likely, and then . . . How come lately that still, small voice had been coming more frequently? Ever since her visit with Dr. Morganstein in Chicago, she’d noticed a change and wondered why. Could it be the influence of the woman who radiated love in action?

“I should have had the sleigh brought round.” Phillip Rogers picked up the pace. “It’s dropped twenty degrees since we came over after supper.”

“But not much wind.” Speaking, even through the muffler, let sharp knives attack her throat.

“Good thing.”

By the time they reached the front gate, they were both breathless from inhaling frigid air. Annabelle Rogers threw open the door before they reached it.

“Oh, my dears, I was about to send Old Tom with the sleigh.” She stepped back out of their way. “My land, the cold is ferocious.”

Unwinding their mufflers and removing coats gave Phillip and Elizabeth time to catch their breath. Annabelle hung their things on the walnut coat-tree, then turned with a wide smile. “I have a surprise for you.”

The look in her eyes made Elizabeth want to put her coat back on.