“You’d spit too if some giant grabbed you up and stuffed you in a pouch like that.” Lars reached for the handkerchief, pulled the ends up tight, and held them fast with a bit of twine he pulled from his pocket. “There now. That’ll keep ’em.” He glanced around the group. “Anyone else want to come? I got another hook or two.”
“Later.” Thorliff finished pulling his boots off and grabbed one of the horses by the halter. “Come on, Nellie, you need a drink.” Hamre took the other horse, and after kicking off his boots, they waded out knee deep. The horses drank, nosed the water, and drank again. Prince, the dark gelding, buckled at the knees and, before Hamre could stop him, flopped on his side, legs thrashing the water, and rolled. When the horse surged to his feet, Nellie took her turn. Already drenched from the horses’ brief swim, Thorliff and Hamre dove into the water and came up blowing like porpoises.
Dragging their lead lines, the horses ambled out onto the bank and put their heads down to graze. For a change they had real green grass, not the dried-up pasture they’d grazed elsewhere.
“Let ’em be,” Haakan said when Thorliff started to follow them. “Throw us the soap.” He waved at Mrs. Sam. They all soaped their clothes and rinsed them by diving and swimming.
Thorliff surfaced after rolling around to rinse his clothes and set his feet down on the sandy bottom. He sat back, his shoulders under the water. Lily Mae and Mrs. Sam were dipping and rinsing. As if attached by a pull line, Thorliff stared at Lily Mae’s slim figure, her clothes molded to a body that had begun to assume its female shape. He gulped and felt the water sizzle as he ducked under.
Anji, I miss you so. If I were staying home instead of going away to college, we could get married. Far would give us some land, and we’d build a house.
He stayed under until his lungs screamed for air. When his head broke the surface, he was turned the other way, the lowering sun shining a golden path across the water. He kept his eyes wide open, for every time he closed them, he saw Anji, dressed in her yellow graduation dress, as if etched onto his mind for all eternity. Sadness sat like a buffalo robe on his shoulders. Stiff, heavy, cumbersome. Breathing took an effort.
He removed his shirt and, twisting it with his hands, wrung out what water he could. He climbed out of the lake, sat down, and pulled on his boots. “I’m going to help Lars catch our supper,” he announced and left without a backward glance.
“Don’ stop with supper. Breakfast be a good time for fried fish too.”
He stumbled along the bank, his mind screaming “what if ’s” all the while. What if he were making the wrong decision? What if something happened to Anji? What if . . . ? When he located Lars, he took the pole he was handed.
“Thanks.”
“Right out there beyond that log is where I been getting most of them.” Lars pulled his forked stick out of the water. “I’ll take these so we can scale them for supper.” He stopped for a moment, studying the younger man. “Are you all right?”
Thorliff nodded. “Sure.” But he knew if he looked Lars in the eye, all his sad and terrified thoughts would be seen. Here he was supposed to be a man, and he felt like blubbering like a little boy. When a fish hit his hook, he jerked it with a vengeance, then had to search for his catch in the reeds.
He could feel the others glancing at him that evening around the campfire. Bellies full, they lounged on the grass, no one wanting to leave the coolness and sounds of the lake. Loons called, their song a haunting plea. But soon the mosquitoes drove them back to the wagon and to the shadowy monstrosities they served.
Thorliff flipped from one side to the other, plagued by every worry he’d ever suffered.
Before dawn they pulled out, the clanking and groaning fitting right in with his state of mind. Rather than driving the cook wagon, he motioned for Hamre to take the lines, and he took a place on the tailgate of the wagon carrying the barrels. One of the hired men cocked an eyebrow, but no one said anything.
That night Haakan drew him aside. “Since we are close to the train line here, how about you head on home in the morning?”
Thorliff nodded, his boot toe making circles in the dirt. Even his father didn’t want him along. Sadness must be contagious.
“See you when we gets home.” The next morning Mrs. Sam handed him a tow sack with sandwiches, some venison jerky, and a jug of water.
“No, I’ll be gone then.” If I go. How can I not go? Because my father doesn’t want me to, that’s why.
He wanted to scream at the voices fighting in his head.
“Oh, dat’s right. Well, you take care of yourself in that big school, you hear?”
“I will.”
“Dey better feed you right.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sam. You took good care of us out here.”
He turned and climbed into a wagon going into town. No one was even taking him to the train. He just begged a ride with a stranger. With his bedroll tied over his shoulder, his journal and extra clothing inside, and his food sack in his hand, he knew this was the best way, but somehow his insides didn’t agree.
“So how’s the harvesting been in other places?” the driver asked.
“Same as here. Bad.”
“You been with that rig long?”
Thorliff shook his head. Did three years constitute long?
The man took the hint and didn’t ask anything else, taking to whistling between his teeth instead, a two-tone hiss that repeated as often as the horses’ hooves clopped.
Thorliff shifted on the seat. He clasped and unclasped his hands, then dropped his head forward. He tried to picture Anji’s face. Forced himself to think what he needed to pack to take to college.
Why bother? You aren’t going anyway!
Shut up! Clamping his hands over his ears under the guise of scratching his head didn’t even help.
“You always whistle like that?” He couldn’t believe the words coming from his mouth.
“Well, ex-cuse me.” The whistling stopped, but now Thorliff had something else to feel guilty over. Why would he treat another like that? His mor would box his ears for being so impolite. Cruel, in fact.
Never had he felt such relief at seeing the train station. “Thank you for the ride.”
The man grunted and clucked the horses forward.
When he asked what time the train left, the man behind the window shook his head. “You just missed it by no more’n half an hour. Not another one going east until tomorrow morning.”
Thorliff groaned. He heaved a sigh and shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to wait.”
“ ’Bout all you can do.”
“Can I throw my bedroll down here at the station?”
“Don’t know why not. Can’t offer much in the way of comfort, but you’re welcome to the floor.”
“Thanks.” Thorliff spent most of the day wandering the dirt streets of Devil’s Lake.
When he returned to the train station, he took out his journal and, recalling every Bible verse he’d learned about honoring one’s parents and living peaceably, wrote them out. Sure that if he went to St. Olaf he was going straight to hell, he curled up on top of his bedroll and let the mosquitoes have a feast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Northfield, Minnesota
Late August
“Don’t forget we are having company for supper tonight,” Elizabeth’s mother said, meeting her as soon as she arrived home after finishing the bookwork at her father’s printshop.
Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, Mother.” She hated to ask the next question.
“And I want you to wear something nice.”
Elizabeth skipped the next question, as it had already been answered. “And who is this surprise person of the male persuasion that I am to dress nice for?” Why couldn’t her mother just give up? She hated to count the number of nice, meaning eligible, young men who had been invited for dinner or supper or the theater or . . . The list went on.
“His name is Thornton Wickersham, and he is a nephew to P
astor Mueller. Mr. Wickersham plans to attend Carleton College this fall and is coming to town a bit early to get settled.”
Thornton Wickersham? Elizabeth did all she could to keep from laughing out loud. With a name like that he must be a dandy of the first order. “So”—she swallowed her chuckle—“are the Muellers coming too?”
“Yes, of course. And Dr. Gaskin. I think it’s about time he began to mingle with his friends again.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and counted. When she could speak without biting off her mother’s head, she continued. “Mother, first of all, you and father are not necessarily friends of the doctor, and secondly, it’s only been two months since Helen died.” Thinking of the doctor brought a vision of eyes that no longer twinkled and a mouth that drooped like his mustache. In spite of the ministrations of his capable and caring housekeeper and amiable and able nurse, the lines seemed deeper on his face and his hair whiter by the time Elizabeth arrived at the office every morning. He left more of the initial exams up to her and came in to make sure her diagnoses were accurate.
While he referred to her as his doctor-in-training, Elizabeth knew he was too tired to carry the load he used to, or too hung over, depending on the time of day. She’d caught him sneaking a drink from a bottle kept in a locked drawer in his desk.
“For medicinal use only,” Dr. Gaskin had said to her before capping the bottle and putting it back. “I’ve had such a backache lately that this seems to be the only thing that helps.”
“Not meaning to be funny, but have you seen a doctor?”
“That young whippersnapper thinks he knows everything, but he knows nothing.”
Having developed great respect for the new doctor, Elizabeth just shook her head. “And how much of your medicine do you take before retiring?”
He glared at her over his half glasses. “That is none of your business, young lady.” But even his voice had lost its power.
Elizabeth left her thoughts on the doctor and looked back at her mother. “Perhaps inviting the doctor is a good idea. Just please ask Father to go easy on the before-supper cocktails.”
Her mother looked over her shoulder. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Hmm. I shall have to resort to tampering then.” Mrs. Rogers beckoned her daughter with one finger. “Follow me.”
Elizabeth did as told, curiosity bubbling as she kept pace. Her mother stopped at the tea cart that served as a repository for cut glass bottles of various shapes, all containing the liquor served in their house. Her mother took a pitcher from the under shelf and, removing the stopper, poured about a third of the liquid out of the bottle. Then taking another pitcher, this one full of water, refilled the decanter and set it back in its place. She then took the pitcher with bourbon in it to the kitchen where she poured it into a bottle kept far back in the cupboard.
“We have solved his problem, at least for this evening.” Annabelle dusted her hands as if finishing a less than nice job. She smiled at her daughter, the kind of smile that two women exchange when they are outmaneuvering the men in their lives. Especially when it is for the good of the men in question.
“Mother, if you dislike drinking so much, why do you keep these here?” Elizabeth motioned toward the bottles.
“Because your father insists.” Annabelle sighed. “And because my father insisted too. So I do what I can to see that drunkenness is prohibited.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I see.”
Arms linked, they left the parlor and climbed the stairs to their rooms.
“Now, you take a nice cool bath and have a lie-down so that those circles I see under your eyes disappear and you are able to enjoy our evening. I shall do the same. Thank God for Cook.”
Elizabeth laid her head against her mother’s shoulder. “In spite of your trying to marry me off, I do love you.” The tender kiss on her forehead returned the compliment. She chose the lie-down first, the breeze entering her room through the shade of the mulberry tree cooling her skin. She poured water into the basin on the nightstand from the pitcher of water and dipped a cloth in it to wipe off her face and neck. Sighing with the pleasure of it, she lay down on her bed and fell instantly asleep.
“Ah, my dear,” her father said, meeting her at the foot of the stairs some time later, “is this the same girl I sent home because she looked so tired?”
“Yes, Father. Sometimes I think the smell of the ink is what gives me a headache.”
“Or perhaps the pounding of the press.” He took her hand and pulled it through the crook in his arm. “Come, I have someone for you to meet.”
“Thornton Wickersham?” She kept her voice to a whisper.
“Yes, but I think you shall like him in spite of your mother’s finagling. For a change, I do.”
“That’s something.” Elizabeth’s droll smile made her father chuckle.
They paused in the arched doorway, surveying the room that glowed with fresh flowers and the evening sun slanting through the lace-curtained windows. The French doors leading to the backyard framed beds of brilliant three-foot zinnias and marigolds fronted by rioting petunias. Pinks, reds, whites, golds, and oranges—the hues blended into a symphony of color.
“Oh, here you are, dear.” Annabelle beckoned from the settee. “Let me introduce you, and then I promised Dr. Gaskin that you would play for him.”
Elizabeth nodded, but her father intervened. “I’ll do the introducing while you make sure everyone has a glass of lemonade.” His slight twist on the word gave his opinion of their liquid refreshment. Elizabeth pinched her father’s arm but kept a slight smile in place. Wait until he finds out his whiskey isn’t what he thinks it is.
Dr. Gaskin started to stand when they reached him, but Elizabeth waved him back. “You’ve been on your feet enough today. You just sit there and let us wait on you.” She peered at his glass. “Can I refill that for you?”
Doctor looked up at her father, glanced at the glass, and raised his eyebrows.
“I take it you have enough?” Her smile said she knew well enough what he was asking for. She caught her father mouthing “later” and tugged the teeniest bit on his arm. Pastor Mueller stood beside his wife, who looked to be in the family way again. While some women bloomed in their pregnancies, Mrs. Mueller faded like a blossom spent and too tired to hold its head up any longer. The doctor had warned her of the dangers of another baby, but . . .
Elizabeth drew her thoughts back from things medical and shook hands with her pastor. “So good to have you here.” What she’d like to have said was “Why don’t you leave your wife here to rest and you go home and take care of those four boys?” But she kept her smile in place and patted Mrs. Mueller’s hand.
“I have someone I’d like you to meet.” Pastor took Elizabeth’s hand and led her toward a young man who stood waiting to meet her. “My nephew, Thornton Wickersham, my sister’s oldest boy. Thornton, this is Elizabeth, whom we’ve told you so much about.”
Elizabeth extended her hand to shake his and, by the look on his tanned face, had caught him by surprise. He shook it and smiled back at her, regaining his composure in an eye blink.
“I’m pleased to meet you. Living up to their enthusiasm would be difficult, but you more than accomplish that.”
Oh, bother. A smooth talker. That’s all I need. Elizabeth quickly catalogued his appearance—dark curly hair cut short, twinkling amber eyes flecked with gold, squared chin balanced by a broad forehead, and shoulders that well filled his jacket. “And you.” But what is my father impressed with? Not looks, that’s for sure.
“I’m looking forward to getting to know you and hope that you will introduce me to some of the young people in town. I’ll be a senior at Carleton. I’m coming here so I can study under Dr. Wahlberg.”
And every girl on campus will make sure you know her name. “I’ll be happy to do just that. And now excuse me. My mother insisted that I provide music before supper.”
“
You minx.” Her father’s whisper tickled her ear.
“Anything special you would like to hear?” she asked the doctor on her way to the ebony Steinway.
“Something light. Debussy, Mozart, perhaps a bit of Beethoven.”
“At your service, sir.” She sketched a curtsy before sliding onto the piano bench, and after loosening her arms and hands, she spread her fingers over the keys. Closing her eyes, she stroked the keys, rippling arpeggios, and flowing from measure to measure of liquid joy.
When supper was announced, she returned from the land of dreams to find Thornton Wickersham leaning against the concert grand piano, his eyes on hers as if waiting for her to awaken.
“That was magnificent.”
“Thank you.” Her fingers found notes of their own, not needing sheet music or even concentration.
“I’ve heard some of the world-class pianists, but you excel even the best. Why are you not on a concert tour?”
“Because she wants to be a doctor.” Phillip Rogers took the young man by the arm. “Come. Supper is waiting.”
“You do?” His gaze had never left hers.
“Yes.” Elizabeth hit a final lingering note, and her hands drifted down to her lap, hands once again, no longer instruments of music.
“I see.”
I doubt that you do, but at least you are not so obsequious you squeak. She stood and walked beside him into the dining room, now lit with two candelabras, one at either end of the twelve-foot table.
All through a delicious meal of roasted capon, she studied him, trying to pick out something to dislike. He made Mrs. Mueller smile with a funny joke, complimented her mother on the food, asked her father about an editorial he had run the day before, and still managed to inquire at length about her dream of medicine. All with the carefree ease of a diplomat with years of experience. And he was nice. Not husband material, but nice.
An idea pecked at the shell enclosing it like a chick on the way to hatching. What if . . . ? She didn’t dare look at her mother for fear the scheme was written all over her face.
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