Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel (19 page)

When he came bounding to the door, dressed casually for the picnic, ready for a full day of fun and frolic and good food, cheer
ful and expectant, his eyes full of determination—and ten years older than when he first asked her to marry him—Ellie knew what she had to do. Somehow, in her heart of hearts, she knew.

God help me
! she breathed.

“Tom,” she said, backing away from his reaching arms. “I’m not going to the picnic.”

“Not going?” he repeated blankly. To miss the picnic was to miss half the year’s fun, it seemed.

“Dad’s not feeling well, and I won’t leave him.”

“That’s a shame—”Tom began sympathetically.

“I need to talk to you, Tom,” Ellie said, and her tone was serious enough for Tom’s eyes to widen. Bran—was he seriously ill?

“It’s not Dad,” Ellie said, avoiding Tom’s eyes. “Please stop by on your way home. And we can... talk.”

“We’ll talk now,” Tom said, and in view of their past association and his uncertainties, who could blame him if he spoke roughly? Was he too feeling what she was? And was he prepared? Ellie hoped so; she hoped so desperately.

And looking at those steely eyes, that firm mouth, Ellie thought it might be so;Tom other than sweet and loving and kind, she had never known. Had God, in His loving kindness and great wisdom, planted a seed of doubt about their future in Tom’s heart, too?

Ellie washed her hands and wiped them, took off her apron, and stepped toward the door, Tom, silent now, on her heels.

Automatically Ellie turned toward the bush and a favorite hideaway, Tom following. Pushing aside the limbs and branches, they reached a small bushy enclosure filled with objects that had been of interest to a child in years past. Glancing around and finding no place to sit that was not leaf-littered, Ellie remained on her feet, turning to face Tom.

“Tom,” she said steadily, without preamble, “I’m giving you your freedom.”

Shocked silence, stunned silence. “What do you mean?” Tom asked slowly, his eyes searching hers.

Turning, pacing the small embrasure, Ellie talked rapidly. “I’m not free to love, to marry. Yes, it’s the fire, as you asked me once.
Something, something inside me burned up that day. That’s the only way I know how to explain it. I... I feel like a murderer—”

“How would you know how a murderer feels? How could you possibly know? There was no such thought in your heart—ever!”

“I mean, I feel like a destroyer. I feel guilty, unworthy.”

Tom made a rude noise.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Ellie said, and she stopped her pacing and faced him, her face pale, her eyes darkly earnest. “I only know it seems right, hard as it is, to tell you not to wait.”

Tom clapped both hands to his head, shaking it as though to fend off something unbelievable.

“Maybe it would help,” Ellie went on, bravely, “if I told you about the nightmares.

“They consume me, Tom. Like a message from the pit they take me into the very bowels of that fire.
I
am the one in the bed;
I
am the one helpless, terrified.
I
am the one catching fire, burning, shriveling, screaming...”

“Ellie—it doesn’t matter. Together we can—”

“No, Tom. It hasn’t gotten any better, though I’ve waited and hoped. I’m so helpless against it. I don’t understand it! And through all of it, I can’t make myself believe we should marry; I just have this inner hesitation. You mustn’t spend any more time waiting for me. Would it help, Tom, if I tell you I think this is best—for you as it is for me?”

And though Tom pleaded, earnestly at first, then heatedly, finally arguing bitterly, Ellie had made up her mind. Across days and months and years she had made up her mind; she saw that now. White-faced she stood her ground: She could not marry him; Tom should not wait.

With the truth finally reaching him that she meant to stand firm, Tom whirled and strode away through the encircling bush. But not before he gritted out roughly, astonishing Ellie and, in the long run, assuaging some of the misery she felt: “If you think I’m going to spend any more time mooning around—you couldn’t be more mistaken!”

C
areless, careless... couldn’t care less. Standing in front of the mirror, getting herself ready to go to the picnic, Birdie saw herself far differently than she had that morning two weeks before when she had prepared herself for church and the possibility of confronting an unknown admirer. There had been an air of adventure, a rare lifting of the spirits on that morning. Even so, she recalled bitterly now, her head had warned caution. But her heart—her foolish heart—had demanded anticipation. Her eyes, in spite of herself, had reflected a certain sparkle, her cheeks a rare flush; her mouth had been softer, as though lingering on the edge of a smile. She had loosened her hair, if only for a moment, as an experiment; she had decorated her hat and dressed with care.

Today she was careless—careless of her hair, careless of her attire. And certainly there was no sparkle.

With a shrug she turned from the mirror and the day’s hair-pinning operation. Carelessly she chose and slipped into a “wrapper,” for which she had paid $0.69, and which, with a sniff, she
recognized as an ordinary dress in spite of the catalog’s caption: “The best cheap wrapper ever made up. Well made throughout, and comes in steel gray mixtures, half mourning and blue with small white figures and dots.”

Though she would never confess to being in “mourning,” she felt the dress was appropriate for a picnic and suited her precisely. For not only was it simply made but it was muted in color, restrained as to its puff-top sleeve—an unremarkable garment in all ways.

In spite of its maker’s commendation and the assurance that the garment was “fast color genuine Simpson print,” its first wash had significantly drained the color from its figures and dots, and in it Birdie felt as pale and washed-out as before she put it on. But what matter? School was out, and aside from handing out the report cards, her need to be exemplary was over for the year.

The last two weeks of school had gone by without further incident insofar as Harold “Buck” Buckley was concerned. In fact, to her surprise, he seemed unusually subdued. He hadn’t misbehaved; he had worked diligently at his final exams; he had been polite. Almost, Birdie thought, it was as though he had been caught in his dastardly scheme, chastised, and warned. And though her anger—or was it shame?—burned when she dealt with him in any way, she restrained herself, did what needed to be done, cool and efficient in all, and heaved a sigh of relief when, for the last time, he walked out the school door.

She was not proud of it, but she had been unable to refrain from making one small backlash. Returning to Buck his essay on Canada’s early beaver trade, she had circled, far more heavily than necessary, the misspelled Saskatchewan, adding this reprimand in the margin: “Any fifteen-year-old should be able to spell the name of his homeland!” From Buck’s surprising beaten demeanor, it seemed he might have put two and two together. For one thing, he refused to look his teacher in the eye. He kept his head down, and he worked, or pretended to work, diligently. Certainly he would never misspell Saskatchewan again.

In spite of arthritic hands, Lydia had managed to prepare a sumptuous feast to be taken to the picnic. Not only had she produced her famous Scotch shortbread in abundance but fresh buns, Prince Edward cake, deviled eggs, and a smoked ham baked and sliced, ready for serving. A separate box held a tablecloth for the long trestle tables that would be set up, the dishes the family would use, a sweater in case the day turned chilly, a blanket for sitting on, goose grease in case of sunburn. Herbert was placing a couple of straight-backed chairs in the wagon. Though Birdie would be expected to sit comfortably on the grass, he and Lydia, with their stiffened bodies and aching joints, would enjoy the picnic from chairs in the shade, spending their time comfortably talking, watching the festivities unfold around them, eating.

With Birdie and Herbert seated on the wagon’s spring seat and Lydia ensconced on one of the chairs in back, they made their way, after chores were done, to the lakeside and the picnic spot. Whereas most lakes were sloughlike, this one was larger, clear and sparkling, with a sandy bottom. Although the water was still icily cold and it was considered too early in the year to swim, there were always a few hardy folk who dared it, to emerge, blue and goose-pimpled, proud of their accomplishment while their weaker peers settled for wading.

Since the picnic was sponsored by the Bliss Sunday school, Parker Jones had the responsibility of organizing the day’s proceedings. But, wise man, he had delegated the work to committees:

Sister Dinwoody—tables and food arrangement

Herkimer Pinkard—ice-cream freezers cranked from time to time, fresh ice added as needed

Molly Morrison—drinks (lemonade and coffee)

Robbie Dunbar—organize ball game

George Polchek—children’s races and games

As the families of Bliss and surrounding districts arrived, Birdie was prepared to hand out report cards to children or parents, to be met with sighs of relief, a couple of groans, a few cries of anguish. There was no arguing with report cards; once the year’s grade was recorded, neither heaven nor earth could change a child’s fate—going on to the next grade or taking the year over. No wonder report cards were awaited with anxiety by pupil and parent alike.

The Nikolai wagon appeared and disgorged its load—a dozen and more children scattering to the far corners of the meadow to play games, tussle, race, and, in general, have a marvelous time. Arvid Nikolai took a box to the table area, but his family would consume far more than they brought. With so many mouths to feed and supplies limited, the Nikolai children always approached the picnic tables as though they contained a king’s feast. And for them they did.

Katrin, overwhelmed mother of this tribe, sank to the grass among the women of the district, one babe at her breast, another pulling at her skirts. Watching, Birdie was assured of a good supply of pupils for years to come.

Neither Arvid nor Katrin read much English, and they spoke brokenly, so Birdie spread out their children’s report cards and explained each one. Finally, it boiled down to whether or not they had passed. They had, though Birdie cautioned the parents that Frankie, he of the runny nose and perpetual sniff, needed help. The ailment seemed to run in the family, and Katrin listened with longsuffering as yet another teacher did her best to help.

Birdie, extremely frustrated, could only try to describe the remedial effects of a couple of items she had located in the pages of medicines listed in the Drug Department of the catalog. Bronchial Troches promised “relief for coughs, colds and sore throat,” and Slippery Elm Lozenges were “a demulcent for roughness in the throat and irritating cough.”

Katrin listened dazedly, blinking and nodding, until Birdie, sensing that her words were as chaff flying in the wind, finally concluded helplessly, “Well, just try and make sure he has a handkerchief with him wherever he goes.” To Katrin’s blank look she
repeated handkerchief and
hankie
until, in desperation, she snatched her own small scrap of cambric from the cuff of her sleeve where it was kept and demonstrated.

Understanding flooded Katrin Nikolai’s face, and she nodded agreeably. With considerable relief Birdie turned to the distributing of the cards, turned to find herself face-to-button with a masculine chest.

Birdie raised her vision from the shirt button to find the broad, beaming face of Wilhelm “Big Tiny” Kruger several inches above her own. She retained her dignity and her place, and it was Big Tiny who stepped back with an apologetic murmur. If he studied her face searchingly for a moment before breaking into a full smile and speaking, it was not obvious, and certainly Birdie didn’t notice. For, truth be told, though she maintained her poise as a teacher ought, she was somewhat flustered.

“Please don’t ask if I always creep up on people,” Big Tiny said lightly.

With a lift of her chin, Birdie answered pleasantly, “How nice to see you again, Mr. Kruger.”