Believing the Dream (8 page)

“Andrew’s home.” Astrid gave her mother a “don’t you say anything” look before the cold draft preceded Andrew into the kitchen.

Thank you, Father God. I do feel more comfortable when all my chicks
are home again. Please watch over Thorliff as he travels
.

She tried to ignore the glances that Andrew and Astrid swapped, including the giggle from her daughter. “How was school?”

“Good.” He snagged three cookies as he went by. “Good.” This one came from a mouthful of crunchy cookie.

“Is that all you can say?” Ingeborg put an arm out to stop him on his way past.

“No, mange takk.” Another mutter around a full mouth, as he’d just stuffed in the third cookie. He paused, ducked around his mother’s arm, and reached for more cookies. “Tusen takk?” His eyebrow arched at the question.

“Oh, go on with you. The cows are waiting.”

“I sure hope Thorliff gets home before a blizzard hits.”

Me too, oh Lord, me too
. She shut the oven door and took down the kerosene lamps from the shelf behind the stove. “Astrid’s going to go blind if we don’t get some light in here.” She glanced over at her daughter, who had her nose so close to the pages that Ingeborg had no idea how she could read at all. Taking the scissors, she trimmed the wicks and lit them both with a spill lighted from the stove. Setting the chimneys back in place, she centered one on the table and kept the other to light the stove area. All the while she fought to keep her inner shivers to just that. Even after all these years and all the blizzards they’d been through, the memories came howling back with the wind.

That terrible second winter when they’d all lived in the soddies, Carl and Kaaren with their two little girls in theirs and Roald, Thorliff, and her in the first one. They’d been housebound, some days not even making it to the barn because the blizzard was so severe and prolonged. When she closed her eyes, she could still hear the howling of the wind, but so much less now that they lived in a snug house. Many families had been sick, and when the blizzard broke, Roald took the mule and rode out to check on the other families. Carl and the two girls died of the fever, Kaaren bordered on insanity, and Roald never returned.

The black pit of fear and despair nearly brought her down too, but by the grace of God, the four remaining Bjorklunds had made it through. At times the abyss yawned at her feet again, but she’d learned to let God close it and keep her safe—most of the time.

Andrew thumped back down the stairs and headed for the barn in a rush. He knew he was late, and while Haakan most likely had agreed to the tardiness, Andrew knew better than to take advantage of his father’s good nature.

Later, when they were gathered around the table, the supper finished, Haakan clasped his hands above his head and stretched. “Takk for maten.”

“Velbekomme.” Ingeborg made the age-old response with a smile as she brushed his shoulder with her hand on her way to finish clearing the table.

“Astrid, your mor needs help.”

“Ja, just a minute.”

“No, now.” At his quiet command, she shut her book and picked up the remaining plates and silverware.

“I was just trying to finish the story so Grace could have the book tomorrow.”

“That is kind of you, but chores come first.”

Ingeborg refilled the cookie plate and set it back on the table, at the same time refilling her husband’s coffee cup.

“Ah, you do me good, wife.” Haakan patted her just below her apron strings as she went by. “You think Thorliff is really coming?”

“He said he would.”

“I know, but that was before—”

“Before what?” She turned from shaving curls off the soap bar into the dishpan steaming on the stove. She smiled at Astrid as she took her book into the parlor.

“Before, well, you know, the Anji thing.”

The Anji thing. What a way to put it
. Ingeborg tried to gather her thoughts sent awry by his doubt that Thorliff was indeed coming. Surely he would have sent a telegram if something happened to keep him in Northfield. Of course they would understand if he had to work, but the thought of not having everyone home for Christmas made her heart hurt.

“He’ll be here.” Now if only her heart would agree with her mind.
Please, God, bring him home, but mostly keep him safe
.

“Of course he will.” Haakan dunked another cookie in his coffee.
He leaned back, rocking the chair on the two hind legs until the squeal from the wood earned him a warning stare. “Are they both upstairs?” He’d dropped his voice to a whisper.

Ingeborg shook her head. “They’re by the stove in the parlor.”

“The box came today.”

“You saw Penny?”

He nodded. “I hid it in the machine shed.”

“Good.” So strange it seemed to order Christmas presents from as far away as Chicago or Minneapolis, when for so many years, they’d made all their own gifts. But this year she’d wanted to give Astrid a real doll, one with a porcelain face and curly hair. The set of books they’d ordered for Thorliff would make his eyes sparkle, and the wood-carving tools for Andrew . . . ah, such pleasure she would have watching their delight on Christmas morning.

Another box had come earlier, one her dear husband knew nothing about.

“Why are you smiling so?”

“Nothing. And don’t you go pushing. It’s almost Christmas, remember?”

His chuckle made the secret even more fun. Surprising Haakan was hard. He seemed to have a second sense about gifts.

“Bedtime.” She crossed to the arch that led into the other room. Andrew looked up from his papers.

“I’m almost done. Sure wish Thorliff was here to help me. He thinks writing stories is fun.” From the tone of his voice, obviously Andrew didn’t.

Astrid closed her book with a sigh. “That was such a good story. I bet Thorliff could write just as good though.”

“Someday he will. I’ll be up to hear your prayers in a minute.” Ingeborg returned to the kitchen to dump out the dishwater and pour the rinse water into a bucket to reheat in the morning. She folded the wet dish towel and hung it on the rod behind the stove.

“I’ll bank the stove.” Haakan closed his Bible and crossed his hands on top of it. At the quiet in the kitchen they could hear the wind prowling and whining about the eaves. The sound made her feel even more snug and safe within the walls of their home.

“You’ll be in to bed soon?”

Ingeborg felt the tingle raised by the special tone in his voice.

“Ja, soon.” Strange how after ten years of marriage she still felt like a young bride when he spoke like that. She climbed the dim stairway, light from the children’s lamps beckoning her upward.

She peeked in on Andrew first. He shut his book when he saw her in the doorway. “Just think, Thorliff will be here for almost a week.” He glanced at the side of the bed his older brother used to occupy. “You think he and Anji will make up?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“He could write to her and make things all better.”

“How do you know so much about this?” But she knew that was a rhetorical question. Andrew listened, plain and simple.

“Gus said she cries a lot. I don’t like that Thorliff makes her cry.” He shook his head.

Ingeborg sat down on his bed. “I think Anji has more to cry about than just Thorliff.” At the thought of Agnes that leaped into her mind, Ingeborg swallowed back the tears. And if she still struggled with the grief, so much more for Anji.

Andrew cocked his head. “You think Manda and Baptiste are okay?”

“Sure they are. Mrs. Solberg had a letter just last week.”

“Can Metiz read?”

Ingeborg studied her son’s face. “No, I don’t think so.” Always so concerned about others, what was he leading up to now?

“So does she know how Baptiste is?”

“Yes, Mrs. Solberg read her the letter, along with one written to her.”

“Good.” Andrew slid down and pulled his covers up around his shoulders. Not long and his feet would be hanging over the end of the bed like Thorliff’s had at the last. If Andrew had his way, aging Paws would be up here instead of curled in a box behind the stove.
She stood and bent down to kiss his cheek. “Good night, son of mine.
God keep you.”

“I prayed Thorliff would get here all right.”

“Me too.” She blew out the lamp. “Perhaps tomorrow.” She patted his shoulder, missing the hugs he used to give her. Bone crunchers some of them were before he realized how strong he was becoming.
Just this fall he had passed her in height, and last week she’d had to let down the hem in his pants, and they were still too short.
Perhaps if
Thorliff has grown, he has pants I can cut down for Andrew
.

Astrid left the warmth of her covers to kneel at the side of her bed, resting her cheek on her mother’s knee when Ingeborg sat down. She murmured her prayer in Norwegian, then ran down the list of those she cared for, “Bless Mor, bless Far . . .” clear down to the cat now curled on the end of her bed.

“Mor?”

“Ja?”

“It’s only four days until Christmas.”

“I know.”

“And Thorliff isn’t home yet.”

Ingeborg nodded, meeting Astrid’s imploring gaze. “He better hurry or he’ll miss Christmas.” A frown dug in above her nearly white eyebrows.

“He better get here before the blizzard.”

Amen to that. “How do you know we are going to have a blizzard?”

“Far said so.” And if her father said it, in Astrid’s eyes, that was next to God talking.

“Yes, please, Lord, bring our son home before the blizzard.” Ingeborg barely repressed a shudder that tried to shake her clear to the bottom of her soul.

CHAPTER SEVEN

On a Train West
December 22, 1893

The sea of white continued to eternity.

Thorliff made himself return to his book rather than stare out the train window. Hoarfrost rimmed the sides, sending feathers out to take new territory. He’d already scraped it away once. At least he didn’t have to study. Exams were over, as was his first term. He’d made it through. What a relief.

“Grand Forks. Next stop, Grand Forks.”

Thorliff watched the conductor sway his way down the aisle, stopping to answer a question posed by a man most likely a drummer, from his appearance. The salesman looked a mite familiar, perhaps one of those who frequented the Blessing Boarding House.

Why, Lord, can I not read here? I can with the babble of students in
the reading room or even when the press is running
. His thoughts roamed back to the pressroom where the antiquated press tried to shake the walls down. But there he could concentrate on his books and listen for the slightest change in the printer cacophony that signaled trouble, trouble that occurred with dismaying regularity.

Taking the printer apart, fixing the problem, and putting it back together came after he’d learned to set type, put away type, clean the rollers, and grease the gears. Greasing the press wasn’t a whole lot different from greasing the combine or the steam tractor. If the part moved, grease it, was his father’s maxim. Who would have thought his hours helping his father and uncle Lars with the farm machinery would be put to use with a cranky printing press?

Thorliff’s stomach rumbled, even louder in his ears than the clackety-clack of train wheels on rails. The screech of applied brakes let him know the train was indeed nearing the Grand Forks station where he needed to change trains. They crossed the bridge over the frozen Red River, and steam billowing past his window from the braking reminded him to fetch his satchel from the rack above his head and slide his book into the outside pocket. He hadn’t needed to pack much for such a short visit.

When he stepped to the platform, a snowflake floated down and settled on his nose. The gray sky promised a multitude.

When he made his way to the counter to buy something to eat, he glanced around at the waiting passengers. Wouldn’t it be a surprise to see someone he knew?

“I’ll take a hunk of that cheese and two slices of bread, coffee if you have some.”

The woman behind the counter nodded. “That there is Bjorklund cheese. You ever heard of it?”

“Ja, I have.” Should he tell he most likely helped make that wheel of cheese?

“They make the best cheese anywhere. Better even than Wisconsin.” She handed him his dinner. “That’ll be forty cents, please.”

Thorliff kept himself from shuddering. Like his bestemor always said,
“They rob you on the railroad.”
And that was true whether buying food or shipping grain, cheese, hogs, whatever.

“Takk.” He took his change, his mind spinning off to an article he could write for the paper. Alternately taking bites of bread and cheese, chased down by coffee that could almost be called hot, he made his way to a high-backed wooden seat, much like the pews in most churches. When he glanced up to the reader board, he shook his head. One hour to wait. Now dusk would fall before he could get home.

Setting his coffee carefully on the seat beside him, he drew his textbook out of his satchel and tried again to read.

A baby crying reminded him to take a sip of his now cold coffee. He glanced in the baby’s direction to see a young man and woman trying to comfort a quilt-wrapped infant. The baby was having none of it, screaming as if they were beating him. The young mother got up and took her unhappy offspring to the necessary.