Streams of Mercy (43 page)

He paused. “Anji? Thank you.”

The shock of those simple words took her breath away more than the wind. Especially after
this
miserable evening. “You are welcome.”

She stopped at the gate, then turned to watch him mount the steps, one foot on a riser, the weak foot up beside, then one up again. Halting, using the hand rail on the left. She always made sure he got into the house since the night he had slept in the newspaper office because he was too tired to make it to the house. She only knew that because Thelma had told her.

Wind scudded the clouds in front of the moon that lit her way. While some snow still hid in the shadows, most of the first snowfall of the year had melted. Replaying this paper production in her mind and not any closer to answers to questions she wasn’t clear on either, she hurried up her walk. Grateful that Mercy had set a lamp in the window to light her way, she opened the front door and stepped inside to warmth.

“I’m home.”

Mercy rose from the rocking chair near the heat vent from the coal furnace. A textbook slid from her lap to the floor. She yawned and stretched. “I must have dozed off.”

“Mercy, I’m thinking that on the nights we put the paper out, you should plan on staying here, especially now that winter has blown in.”

“If you’d like. I usually make breakfast when Miriam works the night shift, but the others can do that.” She bent over to pick up her book and yawned again. “Starting next week?”

“Good, then you can go to bed when you want to.” Anji dug in her purse and pulled out a quarter. “Thank you again.” She walked Mercy to the door and watched her leave, then took her place in the rocker. The warm air reminded her she needed to stoke the furnace and damper it down for the night. Tomorrow she would teach Norwegian again at the high school. But instead of moving immediately, she rocked and enjoyed the heat, her thoughts turning heavy.

She and Thorliff never used to fight like this. She should be able to ignore his anger and impatience, but sometimes she almost walked out on him. Perhaps that would make more of an impact than staying silent or slipping into sarcasm. Or better for her so she didn’t have to live with
“You shouldn’t have said that”
or
“You should have said . . .”
Lord, I just don’t know how to handle this. I’ve been so happy to be back in
Blessing, and I truly felt . . .
She paused. Felt. Did she no longer feel that helping Thorliff was what God had called her to do?
Had
was another stumbling word.
Anji Moen, you do not give up because something is difficult.
If you learned nothing else from your mor, you know better.
But sometimes knowing better and slogging through created an interior war.

She blew out a sigh that tried to turn into a cough. “Lord, I want to do your will, but sometimes figuring it out is terribly hard. I want my family to be happy and healthy. I want to help Thorliff. Oh, how I miss Thomas.” Her mouth dropped open. That one had snuck up on her. She blew out another sigh.

And a vivid thought struck unexpectedly. Is a calling always forever? Or can it be for a season? A purpose?

She would say, and Ingeborg agreed with her, that Thorliff still needed her, but maybe he did not. He clearly resented any help she offered. What if her calling here in Blessing had ended?

He paid her a small sum to work on the paper, but that was different. That was a job, not a calling. Or was it all part of the same package?

Eyes closed, she remembered when they were young, feeling so grown up—so in love. She couldn’t be near him without feeling little zings and sizzles. She knew he had felt the same way, both in wonderment at the glory that was their love. Now there were no such feelings. She wanted to at least remain friends, but at times she wondered if that was even possible. It certainly was not probable, as short and snappy as he always was. And always with her, not with others. At least that’s the way it seemed to her.

Lord, it seems to me that you called me to stay here and help bring Thorliff back to health. Could that calling be
complete?

Her mind floated instantly to Thomas Devlin.

Thomas had written to her only once in the months since he’d left, although to be fair, it sounded as if he was very busy with two churches in his parish. His letter was pleasant. He told how the congregation had given him a horse and buggy, and he had no idea whatever how to care for a horse. He was taking horse-care lessons from the parish boys. Working at odd hours, he was restoring his manse or rectory, as he called the house. He had mentioned the necessary repairs. No surprise there. She knew he was a master carpenter and woodworker. In his spare time he was carving gargoyles for the larger of the two churches. Gargoyles? He stated strongly that he missed life in Blessing but made no mention of love. Had his feelings toward her cooled, or was he simply the usual, practical Thomas?

He did seem to write to John Solberg regularly, so if he became ill or had a problem, John would find out first and tell Anji. What a curious relationship. But what if he had met someone else to spend his life with? Would John hear about that? Maybe not.

Her children asked after Thomas often. Even little Annika asked God to bless Mr. Devlin in her prayers at night. Perhaps moving from Blessing would not be as hard on them as she’d feared . . . if she could be with Thomas. They could come home to visit. They could write letters. But . . .

But! How could one little word have such heavy jobs to do?

The old saw said that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but sometimes it went the other way. Especially for practical people.

If Thomas were to find someone new, it would be because the old flame had flickered out. Absence can do that. And by doing nothing, Anji would be partly to blame.

Was there a future for Anji with Thorliff? She knew she could not simply sit on her hands when he struggled with something.
She would keep trying to help him. It was the way she was. And he would probably keep resenting it, a constant source of friction. Too, it would take him years to get over Elizabeth, if at all. What if he never did?

Thomas.

Thorliff.

Thomas.

Thorliff.

Lord God, I want to walk in your will, like Ingeborg says.
“Wait on the Lord . . .” from Psalm 27 was one of her favorite verses. She also said she’d been learning that all her life.

“I will wait. I will trust.” Anji spoke into the silence. Sometimes silence was a comfort, other times . . . But tonight, the silence did not feel heavy but full of peace. Tears burned the back of her throat and nose and trickled down her cheeks. Sniffing didn’t stop them, so she pulled out the handkerchief she kept tucked into her sleeve and blew her nose. Mopped her eyes and tipped her head against the back of the chair.
Thank you.
She nodded along with the rocker.
Thank you
.

During the week she wrote the articles Thorliff asked her to, taught her classes at the high school for two days, made sure her children did their homework, had supper one night with Rebecca and family, attended church on Sunday, in short did all the normal things of her daily life. Another snowstorm blanketed the area, the temperatures fell, and everyone admitted that winter was truly settling in.

Thorliff taught at the high school, filling in for the loss of Thomas Devlin, and spent far more time at the office because everything took him so long to accomplish.

One day, when sun turned the snow to eye-blinding glitter, the two left school at the same time. “Anji, could you please come to the office?”

She mentally ran through her list of things she needed to do at home. “To work on the paper, you mean?” The thought of another session like the last one made her stomach clench.

“No, I think we need to have a talk.”

Relief warmed even her nose. “I need to go home and stoke the furnace and start supper. Then I’ll leave a note for the children. Lissa can manage for a while.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Puzzled
was all she could think as she went about her chores. What could he want to talk about? Maybe fire her from the newspaper? While she appreciated the money, she could do without the misery of putting the paper out. Confusion roiled her mind into all kinds of scenarios. He was giving up the paper. He was having a relapse and didn’t want anyone to know. As she went out the door,
dread
was the only word that even began to cover her tumultuous fears and feelings. The last place she wanted to go was to the newspaper office.

When she stepped into the warmth of the building, she realized he had built the fire to heat the office, while the printing room door was closed. She inhaled the fragrance of coffee and saw a platter of gingerbread with applesauce on the counter. Thelma had been at work. She removed her gloves and stuffed them into her pockets, then hung her coat, hat, and scarf on the coatrack by the door. Was she stalling? Most likely. Although the coffee and gingerbread—no, that was Thelma.
Keep your thoughts under control. Be gracious and do
not let him upset you. Be calm. Smile. Lord, help
me.
The uneven clatter of the typewriter did nothing to calm her.

“Would you please bring the tray in with you?” he called.

Thorliff asking for help? “Of course.” Anji picked up the tray and set it on the corner of the desk. “Shall I pour?”

“Ja, coffee sounds mighty good.” He flexed his fingers and glared at the typewriter.

Anji ignored his glare while at the same time felt sorry he had to work so hard at making his hand work. She poured the coffee and set cup and plate beside the typewriter. Then, pulling the other chair up to the front of the desk, she set her cup and plate in place. The actions helped quiet the thoughts rampaging through her mind. She inhaled the fragrance before taking a sip to see how hot it was. “At least this hasn’t been sitting on the stove here and turning to mud.” Humor might help.

He worked his right hand with his left, an almost flinch twitching his eyebrows. “The cold is making it worse, I think.”

“Probably.” She started to suggest putting his hand in warm water and clamped a stop on her mouth.
Do not set him off again with unasked for help.
The papers scattered across the desk made her hands itch to fix. Thorliff used to be so fastidious, with pages stacked neatly, books on the shelves, pencils in the cup he kept for them.

He heaved a sigh and picked up his cup with his left hand, stretching the other around it. “Thank you for coming.”

“You are welcome.” Formal might be best.

“I have been talking with John . . .”

Her eyes widened and she hid behind a forkful of gingerbread and applesauce.

“He mentioned that he had a letter from Thomas Devlin.”

“Ja, I know they have been corresponding.”

Thorliff stared into his mug of coffee. “I thought perhaps you and Devlin were interested in each other.”

“We were good friends.”

“I thought it more than that. Elizabeth . . .” His voice cracked.
A pause that felt long, though it might not have been. “She mentioned that she thought . . .” He inhaled, his fingers clenching the mug. “She had the impression that Thomas was courting you.” He cleared his throat. “And then he received the call to that parish in Michigan.”

Anji waited. It was a good thing the applesauce helped the gingerbread slide down her throat.

“Did he ask you to marry him?”

“Ja.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I . . . I didn’t want to leave Blessing. My children are so happy to be here, and I felt like I had come home again. After all, I grew up here and . . .” She forced herself to look up, to find him watching her.

“And?”

“And after all that happened last summer, I felt that God was telling me to stay here.”

“To take care of me?”

“To help you regain your strength, and I knew you would need help with the newspaper. Between Astrid and Ingeborg, they needed help too.”

“Anji, you changed your life for me years ago.”

“I loved you.”

“And I loved you, but you ordered me to get on with my new life and not come back here for you. I thought you would wait for me. I thought I was getting an education for us.”

“I believed you needed freedom to do all you dreamed of doing. It seemed the best thing at the time.” The two of them stared at each other. No spark that danced like it did those years ago when all they wanted was to be together, to . . . Only—only sadness. Or acceptance?

Thorliff leaned back in his chair, slowly shaking his head.
“And now you . . . Anji, I am grateful for the help you have given me.” His head continued to move from side to side. The silence and the air both felt heavy, as always overlaid with the odors of ink and paper.

Anji left the last piece of gingerbread on the plate and set it back on the desk. A thought floated through her mind.
A calling might not be forever.
She watched as he massaged the right hand with his left. Could God be releasing her from . . . from helping Thorliff? What if all the past was in the past? A memory of Thomas at her kitchen table for supper, laughing with her children. Promising the boys that he would teach them how to use a carving knife. Smiling at her and her heart feeling both a leap and a laugh.