Tinsmith 1865

by Sara Dahmen

  “They are.”

  He surveys me again, his eyes speculative. “Your Father’s been keeping up with the orders?”

  “And me. So far.”

  Danny has the grace not to be overtly shocked when I say I’m working as well. Instead, he just nods.

  “And the tinkering. Copper and tin both—it’s going well?”

  “Yes. There’s some backlog, but of course that is expected. We have the help of the tools.”

  He cocks his head. “There is talk of all the machines. They were expensive, I’m sure.”

  “It was my mother’s inheritance.”

  “That is good. No debt, then.”

  I push my mouth closed. Debt! That’s all I think about! Our damn debt!

  Father stands and works around to the front and holds out his hand. “I have been speaking to your father. He is being a good man about this arrangement.”

  Danny bobs his head. “He’s reasonable, usually.”

  “And he is hearing how we are doing well. Me and Marie. She is a help to me with her brothers gone. A very good one.”

  His words zoom through me, and melt inside the deepness of my bones. Has he forgiven me? Please it is so!

  Danny glances around the room at large, taking in the additional partition along the back, where our private space hides. Unlike Tom or Thaddeus, Danny is clean-shaven like Jimmy. Or perhaps, like others of his heritage, he does not easily grow a beard. My heart beats fast, but it is not because I am taken with him and his general good looks. It’s because I wish he’d tell me our fate. My feet feel glued to the dirt under my boots.

  “I hope it is fine that we made some changes to the building,” I wave my hand at the back, where the door stands ajar. Anything to fill his silence.

  “Improvements.” He nods again at me, then at Father, and a smile lights his face, transforming it completely. “Have you had your midday meal yet?”

  The question throws me. “I—no. It is just Father and me, and to stop work to make a meal is a waste.” Why am I telling him the mundane reasons behind my daily life?

  He shifts his head side to side as I say this, though, as if he does not mind hearing it.

  “That’s well. I have plenty in the bags. Our housekeeper packs enough to feed three men. Might I share the meal here with you? I have more questions about your business.”

  Even if I wish to refuse him, I could not. His family owns the ground we walk on, the roof over our heads and the walls of our shop. He can ask much of me. I nod at his questions, and the heat of the day matches the heat spreading over my belly. It’s fear and it’s nerves, and I wish Father were his talkative self. I wish I was as sparkly as Mother.

  He goes out to his horse, which I assume is hitched in front of the blacksmith forge, and returns quickly, a large leather saddlebag slung over a shoulder. I move to the back room, where our kitchen and beds combine, touching Father lightly on the shoulder, and he shrugs in agreement. Oh please! Is this the melting of it? The end of his silences?

  In May, I had assumed Father would lash out with anger and hurt before reacting with his stoic calm. Instead, he sank into this undecipherable murk I cannot seem to break, at least not until today. His unending anger chafes me so hard I feel my spirit is bleeding. But we’ve a guest. There is no time to lament my family’s issues. And he’s talking!

  “I’ll clear the table, Mr. Svendsen,” I say, bending over to pull yesterday’s tinkering from the center. My own housekeeping has much to be desired as I now have no time at all for it. Mother would be so appalled. A good Polish woman should keep a neat house as a matter of pride! At least I had made paper lace curtains before the boys left. It gives the place a little touch of home and softness.

  “Mr. Svendsen! You must call me Danny. It feels odd to hear you call me anything else.”

  “Well, let me get the plates.” I turn away from him, dodging Father’s soft shuffle as he comes into the living quarters.

  “Well, Marie,” Danny says calmly, piling out a small feast of cold duck, stuffed tomatoes, and baked beans with pork. “You’ve gone above and beyond with your brothers’ absence. Though I am sure it is difficult to keep up with everything?”

  Does he ask this to find out how well-equipped I am to manage everything? Or to gauge how much to charge us, now that we are making use of his land and coming up with a profit to boot? What will he say if I told about our debt?

  “It is difficult to do it all, though with only Father to care for, it is easier than it might be. I hope my brothers will be back soon,” I say slowly.

  And I hope we get some more money, too.

  Danny glances down at the goods on the table. He gestures, his long-fingered hands graceful and blemished with the calluses of a working man.

  “Please—eat. There is more than enough.”

  He does not take anything until I serve Father and then put vittles on my own plate. After I’m finished choosing, he takes it upon himself to add another bit of beans on my plate. His offering is both intimate and careful, but it draws me up and makes my shoulders crease with tension. I’ve not had a man—anyone—do such a forward thing. Does he do it to intimidate me?

  “I don’t want any more beans,” I say, and push them off and back into his crock. “What I have is enough.”

  He pauses, and then cleans the rest onto his plate. We fall to eating, and for a few awkward moments, there is silence until Danny starts to ask questions again. Perhaps he asks them for his father, the true landlord behind it all, but some of his questions are personal, such as whether I have a beau or children.

  “I have neither, I suppose, though I am not sure why it matters.”

  “You suppose you have neither beau nor children?” He raises his eyebrows. “Children, for instance, either exist or not.”

  I flush. “I have no children, and any semblance of a beau disappeared with my brothers and the Army. But please, Mr. Svendsen—Danny—this dancing around the issue is trying my nerves. Will you let us stay here? Or should I look for a new space?”

  His head comes up quickly. “Why on earth would I have you leave the premises?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you don’t want a smithy on your land. Or you’ll want some more rent money.”

  He sighs, and wipes his mouth with a kerchief before leaning away from the table slightly and bracing his wide, lean, shoulders against the wall.

  “Look, Marie. I … it is my father who asks for rent from the land. We do more than ranch, and it is how we make a living, pay for more cattle, pay for feed in winter if we need it.”

  “And the railroad money helps.”

  He freezes. I stand to clear plates, but he puts a hand on my forearm. I yank out of his grasp.

  Danny puts his hand back on the table and swallows. “The railroad money is tempting, yes,” he admits finally.

  “We are understanding. But we must be knowing what your plans are for us,” Father finally jumps in.

  Danny presses his lips together, then drinks slowly from his mug. Even though I am stacking dishes, I can feel his bright eyes on my back and the fuzzy black-brown braids on my head. He takes his time answering, and I’m halfway through the few dishes when he appears next to me, his familiarity and closeness both disconcerting and surprising.

  “There will be more rent, Marie and Mr. Kotlarczyk, but know you stay here as long as your family must—or wishes to. If you’re holding your own with the work, it shouldn’t be hard.”

  “How much more rent?” I look up at him, and he does not glance away, holding my eyes steadily and without blinking.

  “Less than you might think. Father wishes eight dollars a month.”

  Eight? Impossible! I choke back a retort, covering my teeth with my lips, struggling to hold in a strangling type of scream. We might have afforded such a price in Chicago, with a long list of clients, but not here!

  “We might be slow in getting you money, sometimes,” I say instead, grinding my teeth as I promise, anyway. B
ut I’m stuck so soundly I can’t see straight. We owe money to Percy and the bank for the lumber on the place and our overages at the general store. Now more for the damn rent?! I admit part of me hoped the Svendsens would let us be without asking for anything more. But we are trapped.

  There’s no way we can afford to go home, or afford to build a new shop from scratch. We simply have more debt. I need to see the numbers, today.

  “Take your time paying. I’ll keep my father calm,” Danny says. “I’m sure you’re good for the funds, or I think you might have said otherwise. Aren’t I right?”

  His eyes twinkle at me. I want to go along with his incorrect judgement of my character, so I nod, guilt raining into me as I do.

  “But—why?” I can’t let it go completely, and my voice cracks into the tangible feelings stretching between us. I find him beautiful, overwhelming, and yet casual: a combination that befuddles me.

  “Why what?” He stops at the door of the shop and looks at me squarely, smiling slightly, as if holding a secret I do not understand.

  “Why will you ask your father to be patient? That is very generous.”

  His grin widens. “I’m a kind businessman.”

  “Or one that will go out of business,” I say lightly. “Your father won’t like it.” I know nothing of the older Svendsen, but I can only imagine him as strict and hard-nosed.

  Danny shakes his head, throwing a farewell over his shoulder. “I’m not concerned. Besides, he will be glad I’ve finally met a woman who captivates me.”

  When I turn around, Father is looking at me fully, in a way he has not in weeks. For that alone I am thankful for Danny Svendsen’s visit.

  Dear Marie,

  It’s like winter here already, though by the time this gets to you, it’ll probably be winter by you, too. Please don’t worry. We are warm in Fort P K, though we have to leave for woodcutting duty tomorrow. Have you heard from Al? They sent him out to Fort Sully and we haven’t had word. Maybe he’ll be home before we are. Your brothers send their affection.

  With my own,

  James

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  13 November 1866

  “Miss Kotlarczyk. How goes it?”

  Percy Davies darkens the door and I swallow hard.

  “Well enough, sir.”

  “Keepin’ busy, it seems?” he asks pointedly, jutting his chin at the pattern I’m making. It’s my first try to measure out frustums of cones without Father’s help and it’s slow going.

  “Always.”

  “And the rent? It’s still the same?”

  I swallow even harder. “It hasn’t gone up since we last spoke.”

  “Hm. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” He tucks his thumbs under his vest and rocks onto his heels, surveying the work around us and nodding at Mrs. Andersen, whose queenly head watches us sharply from her butter churn next to the brazier. His eyes fall onto the machines and he wanders over, stepping beyond the counter without asking and nodding briefly at Father, who only gives one, curt tweak of his neck in return. I wish Father would actively take over this part of living in Flats Junction, and I wonder if he has lost all interest in living here without the boys underfoot right now.

  “Which one is this?”

  “A setting down machine.” I stand and follow him.

  “Ah ha. And it does?”

  “It sets down seams, sir.”

  He gives me a shrewd once over, and narrows his eyes. “I wish you’d call me Percy. Everyone does.”

  I flatten my lips and run my hand over the oiled machine, touching the sideways gear briefly. “Did you want to see how it works?”

  “Surely.”

  Feeling foolish, I take a scrap of tin and bend it at a ninety-degree angle, and then tack it to another bent in the opposite direction. Sliding the two pieces under the kissing wheels of the machine, I tighten the top crank and then wind the handle carefully. I’m not a master of any technique and doing anything in front of an audience always makes me squeamish. The two pieces squish together as I run them through over and over, tightening as I go, until the metal is pressed tightly. I only slip out twice and cut my hand once with my trembling fingers.

  “There,” I say, handing him the finished scrap. “Saved me likely at least one hundred hammer pounds, and it’s smoother than I’d get by hand, anyway.”

  “Very nice, Marie, very nice,” Mrs. Andersen says soothingly, nodding and bobbing her head all at the same time. “You know, Percy, my Dag is very much the artisan too, even though people say his buckets leak. He’ll make a cooper yet, you’ll see. He and young Franklin can set up a big cooperage, wouldn’t that be nice? It would be good for the town, especially if the rail comes in.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.” Percy heads her off and hands the tinwork back to me, his eyes gleaming and his Welsh thicker with firmness. “Assumin’ we can keep the railroad comin’ through as it is, and where we need it to go. If it goes north, it bypasses the General and the saloons, and Flats Town doesn’t become a stop on the rail. We need it to be a stop. Don’t we, Marie?”

  My stomach clenches and my hands match it, but all I can do is nod. I wish I could be outspoken with this man. I wish my stubbornness would find the words to tell him I don’t want to be stuck in the middle. But I’m trapped.

  When will that damn Army money come? It was supposed to be every month!

  “Well, carry on, then,” he waves vaguely, and marches smartly out.

  Mrs. Andersen waves at his back before clattering around me to settle in with the churn again, the milky curd sloshing along the interior.

  “The Salomons are going to go for a goose from the farmyard for Christmas dinner. Do you think your Father would like to help select one?” Mrs. Andersen asks conversationally, as she churns and I scrabble over the mathematics of the new pattern. I look up at her from the tin in my hands and give a one-shouldered shrug.

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps. Though I wish they’d kill the chickens. There’s so very many. What do you think, Father?”

  “Goose is being best.”

  “Well, it will be nice for you all to have a proper Christmas meal anyway, even if your boys don’t come home this season.”

  “I wish you’d join us,” I tell her earnestly. “But I don’t know what Walter and Thaddeus do for Christmas, or if there’d be room for your whole family. If I were the woman of a household of my own, I could invite you in full.”

  Her warm face folds into a soft smile. “Perhaps you won’t need to wait too much longer, Marie. How many times in the past months has Danny Svendsen stopped by for midday meal?”

  I cannot deny what she sees. Mrs. Andersen is here at the shop daily now. Somewhere between my conversations with Harry Turner, and my obvious inability keep up the house, gave her the idea to just jump into the job. Now she keeps house for us, and the fires lit, the water drawn, and does the bone-weary work of constant food preparation. Walter splits some of her meager fee with Father and me, as Mrs. Andersen also prepares the morning and evening meals for the blacksmiths too.

  “Does a man who is courting come for occasional lunches?”

  “You know how it is at the churches, Marie, honey,” she reminds. “Most young men bide their time at the back after the last prayer, and offer to walk a girl home. Danny doesn’t go to the Catholic Mass with you, so he needs to find another way.”

  “Did Grete’s new husband wait and watch for her before he begged for her hand?” I attempt to deflect the conversation.

  “Honey kjære, we’re talking about you. It wouldn’t be such an awful thing,” she adds, looking at my incredulous face. “You’d be able to keep the shop for your family, and likely not charge any rent on account of it belonging to your kin.”

  The idea pierces me with anxiety.

  What would Percy Davies say if I married into the Svendsen family, and there’d be no more rent paid, and old Oddvar would sell to the railroad? I’d be Danny’s wife, but in the banker’s bad graces. I�
�d still be trapped.

  Good heavens, imagine when Danny would discover I’m not a good cook!

  “You’ll help dress Christmas dinner, won’t you?” I ask Mrs. Andersen suddenly. “And I’ll ask Walter if you might stay for the meal.”

  “Don’t you know what your family makes for the holiday? Or Walter should know, at least. And likely you all like your bird flavored differently. We often use apples and some plums as my mother taught me. It is an old Norwegian recipe.”

  “We are liking to make półgęsek smoked goose breast, traditionally. But perhaps we will be having black goose instead.” Father’s voice is rough and low for his lack of use.

  My mouth opens. I want to tell him that I don’t remember how to make black goose. Mother made it sometimes, only allowing me to watch, so it would be perfect for Christmas dinner.

  “We’ll come up with something,” I say benignly instead. “It will be delicious.”

  Mrs. Andersen nods encouragingly at Father. “A goose is a goose. And Marie will manage splendidly on some sausages.”

  Her confidence in me is so misplaced. I shoot her a skeptical glance, but she grins and shrugs. She pumps the butter churn once more before opening the top and looking at the contents.

  “We’re about there, Marie. Your new cow is doing well.”

  We’ve traded in the last ox from the bull team for a cow, adding to the shared farm between us and the Salomon men. Some of the money from the sale went to pay the ongoing bank debt. The rest went to the cow. The animal gave birth last spring, and her milk is still new and fresh and creamy.

  “Leave the churning for the day. It’s late enough, and the light is getting low,” I say, looking out the window at the slowly swelling evening. “Take the lantern home, and we’ll see you in the morning.”

  She grabs her wide shawl before picking up the copper lantern and lighting the candle inside. The glow is warm and slightly dim inside the bone panels. It was one of my first attempts at a lantern. It only wobbles on two ends.

  “Good night, Marie. Stanley,” she says comfortably, and then disappears with a brisk, light step out the door.

  Father says farewell so quietly I am not sure she hears him, and I swallow my annoyance at his rudeness. I no longer make excuses for his apathy to Mrs. Andersen, nor with Walter and Thaddeus. His quiet is a constant reprimand, reminding me of my guilt and my failings.