by Terrie Todd
I scanned the ads, running my finger down the page until I saw “Rooms for Rent.” Jackpot!
Available immediately: furnished bedroom in clean boarding house, shared kitchen and bathroom. No children or pets.
The rent was less than my share of our apartment. I grabbed a pencil and paper and jotted down the address and telephone number. A second ad with similar wording and pricing showed up farther down the page and I wrote that one down, too. Either of them would be a simple streetcar ride from work, taken in the opposite direction from Maxine’s. I returned the newspaper, dressed quickly, and left the apartment without breakfast.
The first house was a narrow three-story wedged tightly between two others. A pot of red geraniums clung stubbornly to summer in the chilly October air, and I thought I smelled chicken cooking even though it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. The lady who came to the door informed me kindly that the room was taken but she hadn’t managed to telephone the newspaper office before it went to print.
Disappointed but still determined, I went on to the next address. This house was similar to the first but more rundown. I knocked on the door and looked around while I waited for someone to answer. No flowerpots or cooking smells here. In fact, I spotted a busted pane of glass on the third floor and a broken board at the bottom of the front steps. Finally, the door opened and the smallest woman I’d ever seen looked up at me.
“Yes?” she said around the burning cigarette dangling from her lips.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m here about the room for rent?”
“Got references?” The woman didn’t open the door any farther or smile.
I needed to think quickly. “I work for Weinberger Textiles, ma’am. I’m Mr. Weinberger’s secretary, and I have lived in his family home. I’m certain he would be happy to talk to you.”
The tiny woman looked me up and down. “First month up front.”
“Uh—that would be fine. If I decide I want the room. I’ll need to see it.” I had just enough money in my bank account, though spending it all on the room would mean a stringent diet between now and next payday. It occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have been so generous with George.
The woman opened the door and I was greeted by the meow of a geriatric tabby cat and the musty smell of an old, damp basement. While the cat sat on the bottom step of a narrow staircase, the woman led me past him up to the second floor, coughing all the way. I was surprised when she kept going to a third floor and more surprised to find it consisted of just one room. A narrow bed stood on the far side, under a dormer window. A rickety dresser with a cracked mirror completed the bedroom furnishings. Opposite, on the street side, a small table with one chair sat in front of the broken window I’d spotted from outside. Along the wall between them stood four cupboards and a counter. On top of the counter sat a hot plate.
“A hot plate?” I said. “I thought the ad mentioned a shared kitchen.”
“You can share my icebox and sink,” she said. “I don’t want nobody cooking in my kitchen. And you’ll share the bathroom on the second floor with two other boarders. You want it or not?”
Tempted to say something sarcastic, I bit my bottom lip. I had no time to lose if I was going to be gone by the time Maxine returned home from work. Which I had to be, if I wanted to teach her a lesson. Exactly what lesson that was, I wasn’t sure. But I had no time to think about it now.
“I’ll take it.”
Chapter 31
Bleak Landing. November 1943
May the Lord bless you and keep you; may the Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you; may the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.”
Victor pronounced the benediction knowing no more fitting words to bestow on his church family than these, based on the biblical blessing. He stepped down from the platform to a murmur of amens and walked down the aisle to the back of the church, no longer conscious of his limp. After much persuasion from the church board, he’d agreed to fill the pulpit until a new pastor could be found for their little church. Pastor Jorgenson had retired due to poor health but was instrumental in putting Victor’s name before the board, much to the surprise of some church members.
“The war changed that young man,” the old pastor told the congregation, in Victor’s presence. “The war, and God. He knows his Bible thanks to the godly home he grew up in and all those years of Sunday school—even the ones when he refused to sit still and got himself in trouble every chance he had.” This had been met with a polite chuckle from those gathered. “But now the Spirit’s got hold of him, and that’s a combination you can’t beat. You’ll find I’m right if you give him a chance.”
Victor was shocked by the endorsement but reminded himself that with so many men gone to war, it was slim pickins and he would be replaced just as soon as they came home.
News stories offered some promise on that front. Adolf Hitler had issued Führer Directive Number 51, anticipating the Allies would invade Nazi-occupied France. He had transferred troops and reinforcements to Western Europe, surely having become nervous and less confident as the rest of the world rallied against him. It was only a matter of time before the Nazis surrendered. Victor prayed for this constantly, and leaned heavily on God to help him fulfill his new calling on the home front.
He stood on the church steps shaking hands with people as they stepped out into the frosty November air. While some hurried home on foot, others stood visiting on the sunny side of the church. The last to exit the building was Lars Nilsen’s widow.
“Fine sermon, Victor.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nilsen.” Victor shook her little hand.
“I have news from Bruce.” She smiled up at him. “He’s coming back to Bleak Landing and setting up his own law office right here.”
“He is? Well, isn’t that good news?” Victor couldn’t imagine how Bruce could muster enough business in Bleak Landing to make a go of it, but since none of the surrounding communities had attorneys, either, perhaps they’d all come to him. “I’ll look forward to seeing him.”
“Victor!”
Five men approached from around the corner of the building. Victor recognized three from the church, along with Mr. Lundarson, who ran the general store, and Mr. McNally, who used to live next door to the O’Sullivan place.
The group appeared to be on a mission.
“Gentlemen,” Victor said. “What can I do for you?”
“You can run for mayor!” Mr. Lundarson held up two sheets of paper. “We’ve got the nomination forms right here, and all the signatures we require.”
Victor laughed. “That’s a good one, Mr. Lundarson.”
“We’re quite serious, young man,” Mr. McNally said.
“You think we’d go to all this trouble for a joke?” Mr. Lundarson pushed the papers into Victor’s hand. “You’ve been home from the war over a year now. Long enough for us to see you’ve become a fine leader.” In addition to his interim pastoring, Victor ran the Boys’ Brigade club after school and had helped organize a metal drive for the war effort.
Mr. McNally chimed in again. “You’re a hero around here, Victor. And we need a new mayor. You’d be a good one.” Victor had bought McNally’s property for a song six months earlier, after Mrs. McNally declared she needed a house on the right side of the tracks or she was leaving her husband for good. With his father’s help, Victor had already torn down the McNallys’ old house and hoped to start building a new one come spring.
“But Mr. McNally, I don’t know anything about being a mayor.”
“Nobody does when they start out, son. And you’d have a town council with some experience.”
“Then why doesn’t one of them—” Victor began.
Mr. Lundarson leaned in close enough to whisper. “The only councilor interested in the job is Hans Hansen. He’s pushing eighty-five and stone deaf. Can’t read, either.”
Victor’s father approached the group, and Mr. McNally welcomed him into the circle. “Tell him
, Harrison. He’ll listen to you.”
Victor looked down at his feet. There was no way Pa would agree with the men. Even though they’d been farming together for the past year and Victor carried more than his share of the weight, his father would never see him as mayoral material.
But Pa surprised him. “I think it’s a fine idea. He’s proven himself on the battlefield, and he’s doing a fine job on the farm.” He turned toward Victor. “I’ll even be your campaign manager, son!”
The men chuckled and thumped Victor on the back as though it was a done deal.
“I’ll need to pray about it,” he said, looking around to see whether one of them might finally own up to it all being a prank. But on the inside, his heart soared with the echoes of his father’s praise.
Ten days later, while his sisters helped him put up their hand-painted election posters in the general store, Victor looked up to see Bruce Nilsen walking toward him.
“Bruce! Your mother told me you were coming. Welcome home!”
The two of them shook hands. “Thanks, Vic. Good to see you. Putting up the old campaign signs, I see.”
Victor nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure what I’ve got myself into, but they tell me running for office is a valuable experience even if you don’t win.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, since I intend to win.”
Victor gave his head a shake. “You’re running, too?”
Bruce grinned from ear to ear. “Just signed up this morning.”
“But . . . didn’t you just get back?”
“Been back a week now, and nothing’s changed around here. I know everybody and everybody knows me. Except now I’ve got a law degree and a license to practice. Got my office set up just across the street.” He nodded toward the former barber shop. “I’m on my way to Landeville right now to order my signage. Might dabble in real estate on the side.”
“Real estate? Wow, Bruce. You’re biting off a lot at once.” Victor was still trying to grasp the idea of Bruce running for mayor. “Look, I had no idea you wanted to be the new mayor. Maybe I should just step down. If it’s younger leadership they’re looking for, there’s no point in us both running and splitting the vote.”
“Don’t be silly,” Bruce said. “A little competition is healthy. I think it’s charming that you’ve thrown your hat into the ring.”
Charming? Victor said nothing, but he could feel indignation rising in his chest. Along with, for the first time, a keen desire to win the election.
Bruce grinned. “Want to ride along with me to Landeville? We could catch up on the way, have coffee while we’re there.”
“Thanks, but my sisters need a ride home—”
“You mean to tell me these two fine young ladies can’t drive a car yet?”
Victor hoped Nancy hadn’t overheard, because she always jumped at the chance to drive. But she was at his side in a split second. “I can drive us home, Victor. Go ahead. I’ll tell Pa you’ll be home later this afternoon.”
Victor looked at his sister and back at Bruce. “Um. All right, then.”
They climbed into Bruce’s car and, on their way out of town, drove past Victor’s property.
“I hear you bought the McNally place,” Bruce said. “Got plans for it?”
“Yeah. I hope to put a house on it—starting soon. I suspect it’ll be a drawn-out project, but Uncle Bud’s willing to work with me. And Pa, too.”
“What’s happening with the O’Sullivan place now that the old man’s gone?” Both men turned to look at the sad little deserted shanty surrounded by tall weeds.
“I have no idea. I suppose it belongs to Bridget, wherever she is.”
“You know how her pa got that place, right?”
Victor shrugged. “Bought it, I suppose.”
“Nope. Cheated in a card game. By rights, it still belongs to the previous owner.”
Victor wondered where Bruce got his information, but didn’t question it. “Really? Well, probably serves him right. What kind of idiot gambles away real estate?”
Bruce grew strangely quiet for the rest of the ride.
Over pie and coffee at the Landeville Cafe, Victor tried to determine what was going on in his old friend’s heart and mind. Bruce had avoided the draft after his father’s death by declaring it would be too great a hardship on his family for him to serve. He’d finished law school and gave every appearance of being a successful attorney, yet he had returned to Bleak Landing and was currently living with his mother. And he’d immediately jumped into the mayoral race with apparent confidence, although Victor felt he knew Bruce well enough to suspect something else under the show of bravado.
“What made you come back to Bleak, Bruce?” Victor asked. “Most people never do.”
Bruce’s eyes darted around the room. “Opportunity, pal. Big fish, small pond. Here, I’m the only lawyer for miles around. Oh sure, maybe this town is just a hopeless little pimple on the landscape. But where else could a young guy like me be the mayor?”
Victor felt his hackles rising again. “You’re not the mayor.”
“I will be.” Bruce lit up a cigarette and offered one to Victor, who shook his head. “No offense, Vic—but did you even finish high school?”
“You know I didn’t. There are other ways of receiving an education.”
Bruce blew a hefty dose of smoke off to the side. “Anyway, it’s only temporary. This war will be over soon and when it is, I’ll have enough dough squirreled away to leave Bleak Landing behind for good. Just a stepping stone, my friend. Just a stepping stone.”
Victor cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“’Course.”
“The day you came to our house to tell us your father had passed, I um . . . I saw a necklace fall out of your pocket. A lady’s locket. It looked real familiar, even though I’d never seen you with it before.”
Without a glance toward Victor, Bruce waved the waitress over to the table. “I’ll get this.” He pulled enough change out of his pocket to cover their bill and laid it on the table. He finally looked at Victor. “That necklace was in my father’s hand when he died. It’s been in my family for generations.”
“Really.” It wasn’t a question. “I find it strange that a Celtic locket would be in a Norwegian family for generations. Don’t you?”
Bruce rose to leave, blowing smoke in Victor’s direction while he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Vic. But whatever it is, you’re wrong.”
Chapter 32
Winnipeg. Christmas Day, 1943
It wasn’t the worst Christmas ever. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself. Memories of sitting home alone, knowing my father would come home drunk and mean . . . listening to his passed-out snore . . . dodging his angry blows . . . all qualified as worse than this. Here, I felt safe at least.
Sure, the room was frigid. But I’d stayed in bed as long as I could, bundled in a nightie and bathrobe and warm socks. I’d made tea and left the hot plate on just to have some heat. I’d stuffed a towel into the broken window and propped my door open so any warmth from the rooms below could drift in. Now I sat at my little table, dressed in two layers of clothing, sipping tomato soup and gazing out the window at the gray sky and deserted street. Darkness was falling, and a short red candle burned in the center of my table, providing ambiance.
Two months had passed since I packed up my belongings and moved into my own place. I had not contacted Maxine and could only imagine the look of shock on her face when she’d returned home that night. Somehow, the thought of it hadn’t been as satisfying as I’d expected.
I’d returned to work two days later, dodging Mr. Weinberger’s questions and nodding whenever anyone expressed condolences on the loss of my father. Though Maxine might not know where I lived, she could have contacted me at work if she wanted to. So far, it seemed, she hadn’t wanted to. And I certainly wasn’t going to be the first to make a move. I wondered if sh
e’d found a cheaper place or if she now shared the apartment with a new roommate. Well, let some other poor girl listen to her nonstop nagging and blathering on about nothing. I didn’t miss it.
You haven’t done so badly for yourself, Bridget. I looked around the room. I’d picked up some spruce branches in the park and placed them in a mason jar on my dresser, decorating them with strings of popcorn and a loopy garland of crocheted red yarn. A Christmas carol played on the brand-new radio that sat on my counter. All right, so it wasn’t exactly new. A thrift shop on my route to work had become my favorite store. There, I’d found pretty curtains to hang on both my windows, along with various household comforts like dishes and blankets. I’d brought home several woolen sweaters and had a nice little routine going. On Monday evenings, I listened to Lux Radio Theatre while unraveling sweaters and rolling the yarn into balls. The rest of the week, I’d listen to The Happy Gang, Fibber McGee and Molly, Jack Benny, and Edgar Bergen while I crocheted the yarn into mittens and scarves. At the end of the week, I dropped off the finished items at a nearby shelter where people needed such things.
I picked up my latest mitten project and stitched another row, remembering how patiently Mrs. Ross had taught me and how she’d kindly told me I had a knack for it. I could picture Maxine’s family now, gathered around a twinkling tree in their warm living room, their tummies full of turkey or ham. Or maybe they were in church. Did they miss me?
I pushed the thought away. I could enjoy Christmas right here. I closed my eyes as I listened to the carol playing on my radio:
I heard the bells on Christmas day, their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat, of peace on earth good-will to men. . . .
And in despair I bowed my head: “There is no peace on earth,” I said.
For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good-will to men.
I walked over to the radio and snapped it off. Most depressing Christmas song ever. Ironically, I’d no sooner turned it off than I heard church bells ringing. From my back window, I could see the steeple from which the clanging came. The church was an imposing stone structure I’d walked by many times, admiring the stained-glass windows. The thought occurred to me that the church would be warm inside, and before I could overthink it I blew out my candle; pulled on my coat, hat, gloves, and boots; and headed down the stairs with my purse.
