by Terrie Todd
“So good to have you girls home,” she said, swiping a tear from her cheek. “You and I have some more crochet stitches to master, Bridget.”
I walked with Mr. Ross so Maxine could have her mother to herself. They held hands and spoke softly—a definite contrast to Max’s usual boisterous and annoying demeanor. But as we neared the house, she became more like her old self and greeted the family dog with all the enthusiasm his wagging tail inspired.
And she’d been right. Our argument was forgotten by the time we snuggled into a warm bed that night, our tummies full of Mrs. Ross’s homemade bread and beef stew, Christmas carols still playing on the phonograph in the living room, and the warm smells of cinnamon and nutmeg lingering in the air. From their prayers around the table at supper, I could tell her parents felt every bit as much concern for their sons as the Weinberger family had felt for theirs. But nothing about the atmosphere was the same. I drifted off to sleep knowing that this home embodied something I wanted in my life more than anything. Though I couldn’t completely identify that something, I was beginning to sense that it might have a direct connection to the baby whose birth we were about to celebrate.
Maxine and I spent the next day decorating the Christmas tree and baking shortbread cookies and gingerbread. As promised, her mother taught me to crochet some new stitches and, more importantly, how to follow written instructions to create patterns with the yarn. That evening, we attended a joint church service in the community hall. Pinehaven Fellowship had initiated a service that would bring its nondenominational congregation together with the Catholics and Lutherans to celebrate Christmas and to pray for the young men of the community who served overseas.
“Of course, there are some who refuse to participate,” Maxine’s father said, shaking his head. “Each group has those few who claim the other churches are doing the devil’s work and say we should have nothing to do with them.”
“But those few don’t have sons off at war,” Mrs. Ross countered. “They don’t understand that we need all the prayer and unity we can muster.”
I’d never heard of different religious groups cooperating like this before—not that I had much experience with such things. I’d noticed a marked contrast in styles when I’d visited two of these congregations in other years. I knew I could count on ritual and ceremony at the Catholic church, while the pastor at Pinehaven Fellowship talked like an everyday Joe and prayed in English instead of Latin. I felt drawn to both styles, but I had yet to enter the confession booth at the one church or walk to the front for prayer at the other. I hadn’t been to the Lutheran church at all.
The service began with a short pageant presented by the children of all three congregations and organized by the Lutherans. Small shepherds and angels delivered their lines as a miniature Mary and Joseph laid a bundled-up doll in a wooden crate filled with hay. Adults smiled at the cuteness, and some wiped tears from their cheeks at the sight of their little ones learning the foundations of their faith and playing their roles with such sincerity.
Next, as the red-robed Catholic choir sang “Ave Maria,” two boys in white robes lit dozens of tall candles held in curving candelabras, transforming the auditorium into a reverent sanctuary. The choir led us through the more subdued carols, including “Silent Night” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” But it was when they began the beautiful harmonies of “Dona Nobis Pacem” that a holy hush fell over the big room. By the end of the piece, everyone had joined in singing, some with tears on their cheeks. In this frightening time of uncertainty and war, the meaning of the Latin words was not lost on anyone: Grant us peace.
After the singing, Pastor Collins from Pinehaven Fellowship delivered a brief message. He talked about how the birth of Jesus made God’s presence with us possible; how one of his names, Immanuel, means “God with us.” He told us we need never be afraid because God is always by our side. That God wants us to live every aspect of life together with him, but that he is also a gentleman who waits to be invited into our lives. How there is no greater “present” at Christmastime—especially in a world at war—than the ever-present God.
Immediately following the service, Maxine was swallowed up in a gaggle of her old school chums. I found Mrs. Ross and excused myself from the gathering, preferring to spend a little time alone. I headed toward the peace and quiet of their farm as the sounds of the community faded behind me until all I could hear was the crunch of my own boots on the snow. The stars, which I saw so rarely in the city, seemed to be putting on a particularly outrageous show just for me. I nearly tripped as I craned my neck to take in the magnificent country sky.
A warm red glow called to me from the Rosses’ barn. I pushed the door open and went in. Mr. Ross had set up a heat lamp for a new calf that had been born out of season. I sat on a bale and watched the mother and baby resting peacefully in their corner stall, the mama chewing her cud and the calf sleeping. A gray-and-white barn cat jumped into my lap and instantly started to purr. I welcomed its warmth. I tried to imagine having a baby in such surroundings, as Mary had. The cozy children’s pageant had failed to depict the reality of barn life, with its filth, odors, and discomforts. I wondered if I would ever be a mother, and couldn’t imagine it. How would I know how to be one? Who could I use for an example?
Mrs. Harrison came to mind. I’d finally sent off the letter I’d written her for the school assignment, leaving off my new address. I hoped that with this act I would be closing the Bleak Landing chapter of my life once and for all. But all too often, thoughts of my past, and of my hometown and its people, still came to mind unbidden. It was becoming increasingly difficult to push them away. I wondered how Victor was faring. I shook my head to rid it of its wondering, placed the cat on the floor, and walked out of the barn.
Back at the house, I left the lights off and lit the candles Mrs. Ross had placed in the living room. Something in me wanted to re-create the solemn moments I’d experienced in the church service. Mrs. Ross’s favorite recording of Christmas carols performed on harp and guitars still sat on the phonograph, so I switched it on. I studied the painting of the Good Shepherd hanging on their wall: Jesus carrying a lost lamb in his arms. How long I stood staring at it, I’m not sure. Maybe it was just because I was still cold from the outdoors, but I found myself desperately longing to enter the picture frame and become that little lamb. The Ross family Bible sat on the coffee table, a tall candle on each side. I approached it the way I used to do with Mr. Webster’s dictionary and randomly flipped it open.
“God,” I said aloud, “if you really do care about me, I need to know it. I need peace. I need to know my life matters for something, and whether or not I’m headed for hell like Pa said. I need to know it makes some kind of difference whether I’m here on this earth or not.”
I read the words before me and my heart did a flip.
The first thing I read was Jesus telling his disciples a story about a lost sheep, and about how the shepherd called his friends together to rejoice when he found it. He used the story to illustrate that there is marvelous rejoicing in heaven when one sinner repents.
He went on to tell about a woman who loses a precious coin and, after much searching, finds it again and rejoices. Immediately, I thought of my locket. In my case, it wasn’t so much lost as it was stolen—which made the pain even deeper. Would I ever see it again? Would I call people over to celebrate with me if I found it someday? The scenario seemed impossible, but what if God were big enough to handle even little details like this one?
Next, Jesus told a story about a lost son who ran away from his father. I wanted to stop reading, but I couldn’t pull my eyes from the page. The son rebels and wastes his inheritance until he’s so desperate he has no choice but to return to his father. For that son, though, it is only a matter of swallowing his pride. The father who awaits him with open arms will not beat him or swear at him or threaten to sell him to the highest bidder or wish him dead. The father runs to his son, embraces him, and welcomes him home wi
th a big party.
How would it feel to be loved like that? To know that no matter what you did, you were wanted, loved, celebrated? Maxine always told me God loved me that way, and I fiercely wanted to believe her.
I could hear her voice and her parents’ soft responses drifting in from outside. The door opened, and I heard them stomping the snow off their boots. The light in the kitchen snapped on, and I quickly brushed tears from my cheeks and rose to greet them.
Chapter 28
April 1943
Spring had arrived in Manitoba, and with it came Canada geese, crocuses, and renewed hope. Maxine was taking me out to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. With a dozen or more quality dresses in my closet—cast-offs from Caroline Weinberger—I knew I’d look as sophisticated as any woman in the restaurant of the prestigious Fort Garry Hotel. I chose a peach-colored two-piece outfit with white collar and piping, a belted waist, and a flared skirt. Maxine looked pretty spiffy herself in a red chiffon dress her mother had sewn and given her for Christmas.
Four good-looking soldiers rushed up the sidewalk just to pull the door open for us. When they beamed at me with appreciative smiles, winks, and whistles, I knew I was no longer the awkward ragamuffin who’d arrived in town six years before. I held my head high and ignored their attention while we breezed through the door and let it fall shut behind us, the soldiers still gaping from the sidewalk. The maître d’ welcomed us respectfully and ushered us to our table. I tried hard not to gawk at the glittering chandeliers that put even the Weinbergers’ to shame.
We ordered the cheapest item on the menu—chicken breast supreme—skipping drinks and dessert. We’d come for the atmosphere, which did not disappoint, and ate slowly to make the meal last. A live swing band was on stage, and Maxine and I wondered if we might be asked to dance. I looked around the room to see if all the other diners were already paired off. Not that I was any great shakes as a dancer, but I did enjoy a nice beat. Besides, Maxine and I had practiced in the apartment while the radio played some of these same tunes. It would be a shame for all that effort to go to waste.
This band wasn’t quite Glenn Miller’s orchestra, but they did perform a scaled-down version of “(I’ve Got a Gal In) Kalamazoo” complete with whistling, just like Maxine and I had seen in Orchestra Wives. I half expected two male tap dancers to burst out and entertain us with fancy flips and splits, running partway up the wall just the way they had in the movie.
As I was surveying the room for possible dance partners, a guest seated on the opposite side of the dance floor made me do a double take. My body froze as I stared at the young man, who was engaged in conversation with another man and two women. Dressed in a nice suit, he looked much older than he had the last time I saw him, but I was certain I would recognize Bruce Nilsen anywhere.
“Maxine.” I practically hissed her name.
She was so caught up in the music and watching couples on the dance floor, she didn’t even hear me the first time.
“Max,” I said louder, my voice cracking.
In my peripheral vision I could see her looking at me, but I still hadn’t taken my eyes off Bruce. I was almost afraid he’d disappear if I did.
“What?” she said, but all I could do was stare across the room. She looked that direction and then back at me. “What is the matter with you? I don’t know what you’re looking at.”
I turned toward her and she gasped. “Bridget! You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter?”
I leaned in. “It’s Bruce Nilsen.” I held up one hand to shield my other hand, which I used to point at Bruce’s table.
Her jaw dropped. She looked in the direction I was pointing, then back at me. “Bruce Nilsen? The one who took your locket? I thought he died.”
“No, that was Lars. Bruce’s dad. Bruce lives in Winnipeg now. He’s some kind of hotshot lawyer, or will be soon. Mrs. Harrison told me. I can’t believe he’s here.”
Maxine drew in her breath with the kind of dramatic flair only Maxine could pull off. “You’ve got to talk to him, Bridge! Maybe he knows what happened to the necklace.”
Part of me wanted her to be right, but the situation was so complicated! Bruce was my childhood bully, and I still hated him. I didn’t want anything to do with anybody from Bleak Landing, and I certainly didn’t want him reporting back to anyone there that he’d seen me. But what if he did know something about my mother’s locket?
“C’mon, I’ll go with you.” Max was already standing and tugging on my elbow.
“Wait!” I pulled away and stayed seated. “I can’t just march over there.” The thought of Bruce humiliating me in front of Maxine was unbearable. I felt as though my two worlds were about to collide and I’d die in the process.
“Why not?”
“I can’t. I just . . . can’t.” I felt like I might pass out.
“He’s an old schoolmate, isn’t he? What’s the big deal?”
“You don’t understand.” How could I explain all the years of being addressed as Carrots and Woodpecker, the stench of that outhouse, the sight of that taunting grin that crowded in on me until I thought I’d suffocate? It was as if someone had dropped me in the middle of a snake pit and I dared not move.
Maxine finally registered my distress and changed her approach. “Bridget. You can do this. I’ll go over there with you. Who knows when or if you’ll ever get another chance?”
I let out a big puff of air and tried to breathe normally. I knew Max was right. I needed to do it. I’d been watching him long enough to have seen him glance our way once without showing a hint of recognition.
“His father died,” Maxine said. “You could offer your condolences, for one thing. Right? Isn’t that what people do?”
“Sure,” I said. Normal, healthy, mature people. People who weren’t trying to escape their past.
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
My heart could vibrate its way right out onto the floor.
I followed Maxine to the table where the foursome sat talking and laughing together. They all glanced up at us with expectant expressions. I looked at Bruce. His eyes darted from Maxine to me and back again.
“Yes?” he finally said.
Maxine nudged me, but not one word would come out. What was wrong with me?
Max came to my rescue with a bright smile.
“Hello there, I’m Maxine Ross. This is my friend Bridget Sullivan.”
We both waited for some response from Bruce, but all he said was “Good evening.” This was followed by an awkward round of good evenings from his companions.
Max was looking at me again, but before I could say anything, she jumped in. “The two of you went to school together.” Maxine waved her hand between Bruce and me.
“I . . . I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for someone else,” he said. “I would definitely know it if I’d gone to school with you, Miss . . . I’m sorry, what was your name again?” His friends chuckled and nodded as if they were in on a good joke.
I stood in my spot like a statue.
“Sull-i-van,” Maxine said slowly. She looked back at me with a disgusted look that said she’d completely given up on me. She turned back to Bruce. “You are Bruce Nilsen, right?”
His companions twittered.
“Yes.”
“Then you must remember Bridget.”
“I do. I remember a girl with a similar name, but she’s dead. Trust me; this isn’t her.” He turned to me. “You, young lady, are not the Bridget I knew, and you can thank God for that. You’re much too pretty and much too quiet.”
Young lady? We were practically the same age!
He turned back to Maxine. “Now, I don’t know how you know my name, miss, or what kind of game you’re playing. But I’m not falling for it. Goodnight.”
I grabbed Maxine’s elbow and tried to pull her away, but she shook me off. She leaned into Bruce’s face and spoke in a voice his friends would have had to strain to hear.
“We
need to know what you can tell us about Bridget’s locket.”
Bruce frowned. “Her what?”
“Her locket. Your father stole it from her, six years ago.”
I wanted to holler “To the day!”
Bruce either truly didn’t know anything about my locket or was an awfully good actor. “My father is dead.”
“We know.” I couldn’t believe Maxine was still talking! I pulled on her arm again, but she would have none of it. “And we’re sorry for your loss. Bridget knows what it is to lose a beloved parent, and that locket was all she had of her mother. She deserves to get it back.”
“Well, I’m sorry for her loss, too,” he said, sounding truly sincere. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about, and even if I did—this person is a fraud. Does she even speak English? Does she speak at all?”
Finally, I managed to spit out three words. “Maxine, let’s go!” I gripped her wrist as tightly as I could and pulled without looking back. As we walked away, I could hear Bruce muttering to his friends.
“Do I look like someone who would fancy a girl’s locket?” They all laughed, and I kept pulling on Maxine’s arm until we reached the ladies’ room.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” she said as I pulled her inside. She was angry, but so was I.
“I don’t know!” I released Maxine’s wrist. “I don’t know, okay? You didn’t have to badger him like that!”
“Badger him? I wouldn’t have had to say anything if you’d stood up for yourself and just talked to the guy.” She ran water in the sink and dabbed at her face with wet hands. “Honestly, I just don’t understand you sometimes.”
With a heavy sigh, I sat on a bench upholstered in red velvet. “Sometimes I don’t understand me, either.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“Positive. Anyway, he admitted to his name.” I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and blew my nose.
