by Sara Dahmen
“I’ve brought some victuals for eating,” she announces loudly, as if hoping to break Father out of his purposeful stupor. “So, Marie, I have heard you’ve been so busy trying to run the shop and keep up a house all on your own without a … husband.” She glances over at Father again, but he continues to stare at the charge casing in his hands. The ridges of the interior, where the papers of gunpowder and ball will go, are unsoldered yet, and they tinkle and shift as he breathes and ignores us.
“Well, that is very kind of you, truly,” I say. “But we have our meals with the Salomons, and—”
“Oh, I know that.” She waves her hand and puts the basket on the wooden counter at the front of the shop. “I brought enough for you all.”
I stare at her. Surely, she has her own home to manage and her own work to accomplish before it gets dark? I ask as much and she waves her hand at me again.
“That’s what having a grown unmarried daughter is for. Grete needs to practice a hand at making meals before her wedding this fall, and I could use a break from the house.”
“Grete did mention she’s getting married.”
“Oh yes, my youngest, finally! Getting married to Lawrence Fawcett—you know, the biggest of the brothers. He’s farming on the far north, just west of the Svendsen lands. They say he’s grand for making cows mate. Lots of young ones every year. Isn’t that a marvel?” Mrs. Andersen rolls up her sleeves to match my own, which are permanently in a crease.
“Now, do you want me to tackle laundry or any food preparations you’ve a need to do? I don’t think you want my help in the shop.” Her eyes actually twinkle, and I feel a cascade of warmth trickle down my body. Her kindness is genuine, it seems, and it gives me more heart than I care to admit.
“No, no, I can help Father finish up the rest of the orders we have planned for the day.” I think about the amount of work waiting in the shop and in our private living quarters. “If you wouldn’t mind, you might check on the bread rising and then, perhaps, get some overnight oats ready?”
She nods, the smile still filling her face, and then her tall blonde head disappears into the gloom of the back room. Her puttering and the sound of crockery sliding makes me smile. I have not realized how lonely I have been.
I take the hot copper out of the small brazier forge. The coffee pot on the bench is nearly finished, save for the last soldering along the seam, and then this repair is ready for its owner. The long handle of the copper soldering iron is comfortable in my hand, and though the wooden covering keeps it from getting too hot, the heat is very warm. My cheeks feel permanently flushed after a handful of minutes, and the sweat runs down my arms and back.
It’s hard to imagine Al, Tom, and Jimmy working far away with the Army. We have had only one letter with a few bills to cover some of our debt a week ago, I always hope for more: more news and more money. Colonel Carrington has them working along the Bozeman. Fort Philip has become Fort Phil Kearney. Though it sounds like the Sioux continually barrage the men, there have been few casualties so far, save for a woodcutting group. I pray each night for the boys, but usually I am too tired to do lengthy prayers.
There is a crick in my neck as I finish the last repair on the two teapots. They sit side by side, their interior tin gleaming like white ghosts against the blackening of use. They were difficult to clean before I could repair them, and I glance at Father to see if he notices or approves. Instead, he sits, staring at the tin in front of him, measuring and ignoring me.
“That’s all, then, Marie.” Mrs. Andersen interrupts me, coming brightly from the back room, the new, heavy door separating our living quarters from the shop slamming shut behind her. “Shall we all go over to the Salomons to eat?”
“We can.”
“Oh, then, here we go. Won’t you walk me over, Stanley?” she says sweetly, but without any flirting. She threads her arm with Father and he stands up dutifully.
I follow Mrs. Andersen and Father over to the Salomons. Walter is drinking weak ale in the kitchen, and nods. Mrs. Andersen leaves Father by the table and immediately empties her basket: bread and butter, smoked meat and potatoes, as well as unfamiliar Norwegian canned goods. Because I do not know what she wishes to do with her foodstuffs, I pull out the tinware plates, cups, and some knives. After filling cups with beer, it’s very apparent I’m in Mrs. Andersen’s way as she bustles between hearth and stove and table. Hearing Thaddeus’ heavy bang and smack of metal, I slip through to let him know it is time for supper.
His back is to me, the strength and delicacy balanced in his movements as he smites the iron and turns it deftly. It does no good to break a man’s rhythm, so I watch and wait for a moment to speak. The fire roars, but the larger bellows sits silent to the side where Jimmy left it.
With the iron to take his mind from his constant irritation, Thaddeus’s face is smooth. His arms are cross-marked with white and pink scars, and his hands are patched with the shine of burns both old and new. Unlike my own, which are mostly sliver slices and cuts from the thin tin and copper gauges, his work leaves him with large, painful blisters. Jimmy will be the same in time.
As he pauses and then douses the iron in water, I take the moment to jump in.
“Thaddeus. It’s time to eat.”
He starts and then turns to look at me, squinting. “So soon?”
“Mrs. Andersen brought some supper over.”
“Well, that explains it.” He looks eager. “I’ll be right in. Soon as I finish this.” He glances at the work in his hands and then up at me. “More for the Army, of course.”
He turns to the fire once more. I turn toward the back door, then pause, feeling I might have a moment to speak on Walter’s behalf. For all that the older blacksmith is quiet, he has been continually kind to me since my brothers left, and I’d like to return the favor in more ways than just my planting of geraniums in the Salomons’ front yard.
“Thaddeus, I wanted to say … I know you’re angry you are not fighting.” He stills and waits, but does not face me. “But your father—”
“My father does not understand.” He cuts me down before I might say my piece, and it rankles at once.
“That is not what I was going to say. I think it’s more than a desire to retire.”
Thaddeus shakes his head, his brow drawn up in a line, creasing tightly between his eyebrows. “It is not more than that. My father won’t give his own flesh and blood to this country. He forces my hand. Unlike your father.” The bitterness lacing his voice slices the air between us.
“Well, you’re the only family he has left.”
“You’re the only family Stanley has.”
“And I don’t count,” I remind him. “You do. You’re the only capable blacksmith in the surrounding area, and he knows you’re needed here.”
“You’re wrong,” he says simply.
“Have you not truly seen him?” I almost regret the words as I say them. If Walter will not swallow his pride to explain his reasons to his son, perhaps I shouldn’t tell what I have guessed.
Thaddeus glares, his eyes narrowed. “I see him.”
“No. I mean. His hands.”
“What of them? They are burned overmuch, like mine.” He holds out an arm and spreads out his fingers, the palm facing downwards. I look once more at all the scars and close my own into fists.
There is no going back now. “You’re a blind fool, then. His hands and arms are not steady any longer. I think he’s losing his strength.”
Thaddeus stares at me as if I am wearing the latest new-fangled bustle fashion or silly leg-of-mutton sleeves.
“What do you mean?”
I can feel his stare burning into me, tangible and awkward. I shouldn’t have spoken aloud. It was ridiculous to do so, to put myself in between father and son. Perhaps I should feel embarrassed, but I don’t; I’m certain in what I’ve seen, and so I look back at Thaddeus squarely and I do not falter against his powerful annoyance.
“I believe … it seems as
though he is no longer as strong, and able to twist the iron. That he does not trust himself to do the fine work that you must do—the curls and bends, to keep a steady beat to make a sword straight. To …” I trail off, recognizing my ramble.
“My father has confessed this to you? Why should he? He does not know you.” Thaddeus steps toward me, his body tensed. I take a step backward in response.
“No. He has not said as much,” I admit. “I only am telling you what I’ve observed. I’d not betray a confidence. It’s just my own eyes seeing such things. And if you did not know, now you do. Now perhaps you might be less inclined to be … angry.”
The last word is soft, and against the bellow of the fire behind Thaddeus I’m uncertain if he has heard most of my words. The grey eyes look dark in the gloom of the evening, and he studies me as if trying to see if I am telling a truth, or if I am hiding something else in my mind. His scrutiny puts me ill at ease, and I don’t detect his frustration to be lessened by my speculations.
“My anger at my father is not your concern.”
His voice is low, too, and he takes another step forward so he towers and glowers over me, taking up space. He considers for a moment longer in silence, and then goes back to the forge.
“Well, if you’re going to be angry, at least have the right reason for it.”
“Go away, Marie.”
My body collapses inside itself, and the familiar sense of failure rushes into me. There’s a reason I generally don’t put myself in between my father and brothers, as I never seem to play the woman’s role properly. What did I possibly think would happen if I tried to soothe things between Walter and Thaddeus? Every time I open my mouth, I only cause irritation.
I stare at Thaddeus’s shoulders, and wonder if he’s remembered the reason I came to the forge in the first place, but he methodically banks the fire and pushes the coals back toward the furnace. Though he’s asked me to leave, I wait for him anyway, as if it is a conciliatory thing given how I’ve pried my way into his personal life. My presence does not seem to affect him as he pays me no mind, nor glances my way.
We walk together through the dividing door into the kitchen, which envelops us in a bright, stifling, orange from the stoked fire in the hearth to the reflection of the copper oven sitting on the ground. Mrs. Andersen has warmed up the victuals she brought, and is chatting to Father and Walter as if they care to answer her. Sometimes Walter interjects, but Father remains quiet and pensive. I wonder if she craves company, for I have no notion why she stays.
“There you are!” Mrs. Andersen glows at us. “Just in time to eat!”
I help pass out the victuals. Walter and Thaddeus help themselves without preamble, though Mrs. Andersen clears her throat loud enough to demand pause and prayer, which she says in her own native tongue.
Pressing my lips together, I settle in to eat the delicious smoked meat, thankful beyond measure for Mrs. Andersen’s kindness this night. I must find a way to thank her.
“Danny Svendsen is in town,” she says into the space, her voice echoing. It is outlandishly quiet with the boys gone. Though it has been almost two months, I still can’t get used to the silences, and they often gnaw at me in the shop and at night. Mrs. Andersen’s chatting helps, but her announcement causes heads to jump up.
“Is he related to Oddvar?” I ask.
“Danny’s his son.” Thaddeus says tersely.
I feel uncertainty in my bones, and I put down my spoon. Damn. I have yet to figure out how to deal with Percival Davies and his scheme to trap us. To trap me.
Mrs. Andersen keeps on with her talk. Perhaps she cannot abide the quiet either. “Oh yes, old Oddvar’s boy. They say he runs the properties now—Danny, that is—and he is doing a fine job even for his youth. He’s returned from a successful long drive. The first time the ranchers have organized such a thing from Texas to the railhead in Sedalia.” She nods toward Father, and then me. “You know he is handsome—tall and fair—and so much a businessman. The ranch has nearly doubled since ’64.”
What will happen when the Svendsen son visits? Will he demand we leave? That I rip up my flowers? That we pay more rent? The thoughts jumble and panic.
I look across the table at Father’s laggard eating, and wish desperately he’d start to thaw toward me. He stares ahead. I want to shake him, to beg him to return to himself, to stop worrying on the boys. There is nothing to be done, and we have so much to manage, the two of us. The pile of orders and tinkering tomorrow overwhelms me on top of this new revelation, not least because I still feel as though I am swimming in a trade among tin patterns I barely understand. Can’t Father look me in the eye, and give me a plan on how to deal with the landlord when he comes? Shouldn’t we be thinking what it would cost to build a new shop if we are asked to leave? Will he listen to me if I explain Percy’s plan for our loan and rent? Why should I have to speak up for us both? What I would give for some help!
There is a press to my boot, and when I ignore it in my reverie, a metal spoon raps across my knuckles. I jerk my hand backward and nearly upend the potato klubb Mrs. Andersen brought over.
“Don’t fret yourself so. Danny’s an old friend.”
I glance up at Thaddeus. “To you. But maybe he’ll want more rent. Or he won’t want a smithy on his property.”
“He’ll take a smith if you can pay rent.”
I think about Percy’s half-threat. “I hope so.”
Thaddeus’s face melts under his beard, as if some of the uptight, wounded, anger has dissipated. He looks more like he did when I first met him. Calm and earnest and stoic like Walter. Has he been wearing his anger so profoundly? Did my words help him see beyond his own selfishness?
“You won’t be set out of the shop if it comes to it, and there’s no time for you to build something else right now. Danny will understand.”
I look away. I wonder how the boys are doing in the west, in the growing heat of oncoming summer and surrounded by the buzzing of insects. I hope we will get more word of them before too long.
“What about next spring? In a year. Will he ask us to leave then?”
He frowns. “Are you always so worrisome?”
“No. Well. Usually. But, I have to be, now,” I mutter, stabbing the meat with my knife. “There’s no choice, what with all of the work in the shop, and—”
“I’ve been thinking on that,” Mrs. Andersen speaks across the table, jumping into our quiet conversation. “You need more help, Marie, what with the boys still gone. Just something to consider, kjære, that’s all.” She smiles. “Harry Turner keeps talking about how poor you’re getting on, and I might be able to help.”
I smile back, the ghost of it whispering away as I glance up at Thaddeus. He is observing me again, his face neutral, his eyes hung with tiredness.
“What?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you considering handling the housekeeping?”
He snorts and rises from the table. I do too, to help Mrs. Andersen with the dishes. Behind us, Walter pulls up the chair to sit next to Father, where he has not moved on the bench. They sit in silence, with Walter slowly feeding his worn pipe.
“It’ll be summer soon enough,” Mrs. Andersen tells me, her tone implying that she is ready to settle into a long chat. “And then the Army will come through again in a large group to change out their numbers perhaps, which usually means a boom of business for everyone. My son Jarle will be glad for the work at the tanner’s. And you might get your father to your church again soon, Marie?”
“We’ll see.” These days I go without him, standing next to Walter and Thaddeus. Neither of them sing, like Al and Father used to do, so the Mass feels weak and stilted. Afterward, I always answer the same questions about whether I’m managing or not.
Mrs. Andersen continues chattering, dropping hints of her niece Astrid’s eligibility, which I gather is meant for Thaddeus’ ears, and of the new reverend coming to town on the heels of St. Diana’s Lutheran Church’s construction. She tells me new
s of people I do not know, and names I have not heard, mostly farming families from further out of town and the names trip over themselves in my ears.
The flow of her words washes over me, and reminds me of Mother’s happy chatter. It feels so good to have someone to talk to instead of the singular banging of the shop work, and Father’s ringing silences.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1 August 1866
“Are you Marie Kotlarczyk?”
My hands are busy with heated coppers and I cannot look up at once. My heart leaps, though. I have been waiting for weeks for Danny Svendsen to arrive, and every time someone comes in that I do not recognize, I crackle with fear.
“In a moment,” I breathe, my eyes stuck on the fine, thin, line of tin, hoping it releases from the copper tip of the iron. I run out of solder at the very end, a few more centimeters needed to make it airtight, but instead of going back in, I stick the coppers into the brazier and look up at the newcomer.
He is tall, and as handsome as Mrs. Andersen has warned: blond, square-jawed, and strong, with light eyes watching me carefully. Before I took over Father’s shop, I would perhaps have found myself in a tizzy around such a man, flustered and flushing. But he is my landlord—or at least, speaks for his father. He is intimidating and he is unknown. I’ve been beyond anxious about what he will ask of us.
“I am Marya. Marie.”
“I’m Danny Svendsen,” he says, though it is unnecessary to do so. He is every bit the Norwegian, and is dressed like a rancher except for the polish on his belt, which looks newly applied to the brass.
“So we’ve heard you were in back the area. That you would be stopping.”
“We? I heard all your brothers were gone to Fort Phil Kearney this past spring.” He glances toward the back of the shop, where Father is sitting and carefully, slowly, cutting out the curve of a coffee pot from a pattern.
