Bleak Landing

by Terrie Todd

  “Thank you, Mr. Nilsen,” Mr. Lundarson said as Bruce took his seat. “I’d now like to call Mr. Victor Harrison to the podium.”

  I wondered what Victor might promise the people of Bleak Landing if they elected him. Better roads? A new school? I’d heard him and his parents discussing ways to draw newcomers to the area once the war ended, particularly those who’d served their country and might be returning with seen and unseen wounds. He’d even talked about changing the name of the town to make it more inviting. All this was the direct opposite of Bruce’s platform.

  The room grew quiet, the people ready to hear what Victor had to say. But when he finally said it, I thought I’d heard wrong.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to take this opportunity to announce my withdrawal from the election. For personal reasons, I’ve decided not to run after all, and since he now has no opponents, I believe Mr. Nilsen here wins by acclamation. So, before I return to my seat, I’ll say congratulations to him and may God bless his term of office.”

  Victor returned to the empty chair next to me and sat down. Nobody moved. I stared at Victor, then looked around to see everyone else doing the same thing. Had we heard correctly? When my gaze reached Bruce, I saw a slow smile of triumph cross his face. He was the only one besides Victor who did not appear shocked.

  Mr. Lundarson returned to the podium, but he was clearly at a loss as to how to proceed. He fumbled through the papers in his hands. The room buzzed again. Finally, Mr. Lundarson pounded his gavel once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a most unusual turn of events. However, according to our election bylaw, the deadline for any candidate to withdraw has passed. Ballots have been printed, and we still need to vote. I suppose the best I can do is ask you to respect Mr. Harrison’s decision to withdraw and honor his wish. Are there any questions for the remaining candidate?”

  “Let’s just get on with it!” someone yelled, while heads nodded all around the room. Mr. Lundarson declared the debate period over and the voting open. I wondered what the point was now but sat quietly in my seat. Rules were rules.

  Victor had disappointed me. In the last week, I’d come to think he’d turned into a man of real integrity and courage. Why on earth had he dropped out? If he wasn’t taking this seriously, he never should have agreed to run in the first place. He was soon surrounded by people who were probably saying the same things I was thinking. I moved aside and stood by the wall.

  Miss Johansen was the first in line to vote. When she was done, she came over to me.

  “I’m so sorry, Bridget,” she said. She searched my face, as though hunting for some glimpse of her former student. “I guess I . . . well, Bruce’s warning carried a lot of weight, and . . . I suppose I’ve just never seen such a transformation in anyone before!”

  “It’s okay.” It made me happy to know I’d changed that much. “I’m surprised you still had my poem.”

  We nibbled on sandwiches while she chatted about her hopes and dreams for the school. I told her how I’d completed high school, and she told me how sorry she was that I hadn’t had a “normal” high school experience. She talked of the purpose she found in her work and how she hoped her board would soon be able to hire a second teacher or at least a helper for the students who needed extra assistance.

  “Too many get discouraged and drop out, when all they need is a little more guidance. But if I give those students the time they need, the little ones suffer and don’t learn their basics. It can be so frustrating.”

  At eight o’clock, the scrutineers carried the ballot box to the kitchen, where they sat in a corner tallying votes—to what end, I couldn’t imagine. Bruce Nilsen would be the new mayor of Bleak Landing. Just one more reason for me to sell my property and get back to the city. That gave me an idea.

  As if he could read my mind, Victor came over to me.

  “Congratulations, Bridget! I knew people would come ’round.”

  I scooted over so he could stand next to me against the wall. “Thank you. I thought I’d be the one congratulating you tonight. Why did you withdraw?”

  Victor smiled at me. He took a deep breath and grew more serious. “Like I said, it’s personal. And I have my hands full, between the farming and the pastoring.”

  “Did your family know about this?” I knew they hadn’t, and he shook his head. “They’re not going to be very happy with you.”

  “I know.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “They’ll recover. So, what’s the next step for you?”

  This was my chance. “I’ll be putting my property up for sale as soon as possible. You interested?”

  Victor blinked about five times. “In buying?”

  “Yeah.” I stood as tall as I could, trying to sound like a person who understood business. “You could expand your own lot or maybe plow it up. There’s enough there for a small crop of some kind.”

  He was staring at me. “I think merging our properties is a terrific idea, Bridget. But it will be years before I can afford—”

  The pounding of Mr. Lundarson’s gavel interrupted us again. “The votes have been tallied,” he announced. “Mr. McNally, please tell us the results.”

  Mr. McNally stepped forward and consulted the card in his hand. In a loud and clear voice, he said, “One hundred and sixty-three votes for Victor Harrison. Two votes for Bruce Nilsen.”

  Chapter 43

  Victor shook the last hand in a long line of well-wishers and looked around the community hall for Bruce. He expected him to be sulking in a corner somewhere, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Victor stepped outside and saw a light on in Bruce’s law office half a block up the street. He walked over and went inside.

  Bruce looked up from his desk and back down again, busying himself with some paperwork. “If you’re here looking for my congratulations, you’re wasting your time. And if you’re just here to gloat, get out.”

  “Neither,” Victor said. “I’m here to collect the necklace.”

  Bruce raised his eyes to Victor’s without moving his head. “Pretty nervy for a guy who didn’t hold up his end of the deal.”

  “I did.” Victor raised both palms. “I withdrew.”

  “And then promptly voted for yourself—you and everybody else in this godforsaken place except for me and my own mother.”

  Victor didn’t have the heart to tell Bruce he was the one who’d voted for him.

  “C’mon, Bruce. You agreed that if I withdrew and didn’t tell anyone why, you’d give me the locket. I did my part. Why are you so stubborn?”

  Bruce sighed and looked Victor in the eye. “You threatened me.”

  What was he talking about? “Threatened you? How?”

  “You brought up my sister. I suppose if you don’t get your girlfriend’s bauble, you’ll tell everybody what happened to my sister.”

  Victor stared into Bruce’s face. How had he taken that as a threat? The two of them had never discussed that awful day in the Nilsens’ home, and Victor had wondered whether Bruce even remembered. They’d been so little. For the first time, Victor saw the pain in his old friend’s face and realized he’d carried the guilt about his sister’s condition all this time.

  As gently as he could, he said, “Bruce, no one can say whether that fall caused your sister to be how she is. She could have been born that way.”

  “Exactly. And there’s no point bringing it up now.”

  “Bruce, I wouldn’t—”

  “I had that necklace appraised, you know.” Bruce tapped a pen on the surface of his desk. “It could bring enough to cover my sister’s expenses for a long time.”

  “Then why haven’t you sold it?”

  “I figure if I can hang on to it until the war’s over, maybe I can get even more.”

  Surprised that Bruce was divulging this much information, Victor continued. “But it’s not yours, Bruce. You know it.”

  “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t. Who’s to say what Bridget traded it for?”

&nbs
p; Victor felt anger rising in his chest again. Lord, help me lay my feelings for Bridget aside for a moment. “Bruce. Listen to me. It might do your heart a world of good to tell someone—besides me—what happened that day with your sister.”

  Bruce glared at him. “If you break my mother’s heart, Victor, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Victor closed his eyes. Confidentiality dictated that he say nothing about the day he’d made a pastoral visit to Mrs. Nilsen, before Bruce ever returned to Bleak Landing. They’d sat sipping tea in her kitchen, and when Victor asked how he might pray for her, Mrs. Nilsen had begun to cry.

  “You’re a good man, Victor,” she said. “I’ve never told this to anyone, but every Sunday I sit in church with this tremendous burden of guilt. No matter how many times I ask God to forgive me, it’s still there.”

  Victor leaned in, encouraging her to continue.

  “My little girl isn’t right. Lars always said it was my fault, that God was judging me for past sins.”

  Victor sent up a swift and silent prayer for wisdom. “Oh, Mrs. Nilsen. That’s simply not true. God loves you and your daughter very much.”

  “Lars once said it was too bad we didn’t live in Germany. If we did, Mr. Hitler would have seen that our girl was put away and we’d have been spared the burden. He worked hard to keep her in that . . . that place,” she sobbed. “And he refused to let me see her. Said it would hurt too much.”

  Victor allowed her to cry. When her sobbing subsided, he spoke with as much authority as he could. “Mrs. Nilsen, with all due respect, your husband was wrong. This was never your fault. You don’t need to ask God’s forgiveness for your daughter’s situation, because there is nothing to forgive. You’re a good mother.”

  He was never entirely sure if his words landed in her heart, but he thought he’d noticed a lighter countenance on Mrs. Nilsen’s face the following Sunday at church. She shook his hand with a warm smile that seemed to return frequently in the weeks that followed.

  Now Bruce sat before him, exposing what could well be the same false guilt—but in anger instead of remorse.

  “Bruce,” he began. “You were just a little kid. Yes, you should have told your parents what happened right away. I should have told. But I didn’t. We didn’t.”

  “So we’re both to blame?” Bruce sneered. “You should be riddled with guilt, Preacher.”

  “I’d be willing to go with you to talk to your mother about this, Bruce. You might be surprised to find her relieved to hear the whole truth.”

  “Relieved? Are you kidding me? I swear, Victor, if you so much as breathe a word, I’ll—”

  “I know. You’ll kill me.”

  Bruce only scowled at him.

  “Hand over the necklace, Bruce.”

  “Is that an ultimatum?”

  “No. I’m not going to tell your mother. It’s not my story to tell. Do it for your own peace of mind. Do it because you need your old friend to know you still have a decent bone somewhere in your body.”

  Victor watched while Bruce let the words sink in. A lone tear escaped one eye, and Bruce quickly wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. He looked down at the floor with a sigh. With a sudden jerk, he yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out a wad of tissue paper, and tossed it across the desk. It skidded across the surface and nearly fell to the floor. Victor studied his friend’s face, wondering whether he really could still call him friend.

  Bruce refused to look up.

  Victor carefully picked up the tissue and unfolded it. Inside—still completely intact, its green stone reflecting the overhead light—lay Bridget’s locket.

  He tucked it inside his coat. Bruce had not moved. “Thank you, Bruce. You won’t regret this.”

  Bruce kept his eyes on his desk and dismissed his old friend with two words. “Get out.”

  Chapter 44

  I was washing milk bottles at Mrs. Harrison’s sink when Victor came in from the barn with the morning’s milk. His sisters’ task was to pour the fresh milk through the separator and fill the clean quart bottles with milk and the pints with cream. Victor would deliver the dairy products, along with eggs from the henhouse, from the back of his truck, where the winter air kept them cool.

  “Need a ride into town?” he asked me.

  I smiled up at him. “Yes, please. I can’t believe the mayor himself is offering to drive me.”

  He ignored my teasing. “I imagine you’re expected at the land titles office.”

  “Let’s hope it all goes smoothly.” I dried my hands and went to change out of the housedress Nancy had loaned me and fix my hair. By the time I put my coat on and headed outside, Victor was loading milk into his truck. It was a cold but sunny January morning, and the snow sparkled so brightly I had to squint. Victor was whistling as we climbed into the cab.

  “You’re happy today,” I said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” He turned the steering wheel and we rolled onto the gravel road that led toward town. “I just defeated Bruce at his own game. The Nazis are sure to surrender any day now, and this awful war will be behind us at last. And if all that’s not enough, I’m driving down the road with the most beautiful woman in Bleak Landing.”

  I tried to stifle a grin but couldn’t do it. “Sure hope you’re right about the war.”

  At the land titles office, Mr. Robertson was indeed expecting me. He didn’t seem surprised to see Victor behind me, either.

  “Well, congratulations to both of you! That was quite the performance last night. I can’t remember when I’ve had a more entertaining evening, and I couldn’t be happier with the results of both decisions.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “How do we proceed from here?”

  He gave me some papers to sign, and just like that, I was the new owner of the twelve acres my father had won in a card game all those years ago. I took the deed carefully from Mr. Robertson’s hand and held it almost reverently. “How much is this property worth, Mr. Robertson? I’m looking for a buyer and will accept the first reasonable offer I get.” Victor had made it clear it would be years before he could afford the place, and I didn’t want to wait. Or rather, I couldn’t wait. As much as I was enjoying my time at the Harrisons’ place, and the Harrisons themselves, I couldn’t just freeload forever. I had to survive, and that meant figuring out what to do next. Even if the thought of leaving them behind made me feel wretched.

  “Can’t say for sure, Bridget. Last piece of land sold around here went for twenty-five dollars an acre.”

  I immediately did the math. At that price, Pa’s twelve acres would gain me three hundred dollars. Not a fortune, but nearly four months’ worth of wages at the factory. Enough to keep me going until spring. Surely Weinberger’s would be up and running again by then.

  “But I’d hang on to it for a while if I was you,” Mr. Robertson continued. “Once this war ends, land prices are sure to take a big jump—double for sure, maybe triple! I saw it happen last time.”

  “You don’t need to rush, Bridget,” Victor said. I looked at him. “I mean—it’s none of my business, but I’m in no hurry to see Ma bawlin’ her eyes out when you go.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, Mr. Robertson.” I shook his hand.

  As we turned to leave, Victor said to me, “She will, you know.”

  “You mean your ma?” We climbed into his truck.

  “Yeah. She thinks you hung the moon.”

  I let out a snort. “Oh, she does not. She’s just a very kind woman who’d do the same for anyone in my shoes.”

  “Nuh-uh. You don’t know her like I do. She’s been fond of you since you were a little kid.” Without taking his eyes off the road, he added, “I guess I have been, too.”

  I pondered that for a moment, remembering the compassion I’d always experienced at Mrs. Harrison’s hands. Though Victor was certainly beginning to win my affection, I couldn’t say the fondness had been mutual when we were kids—or pretend that he hadn’t had a lousy way of showing his. I responded the only
way I could without lying or being unkind. “I’ve been fond of your mother, too.”

  Victor looked at me and grinned. “Guess I deserve that,” he said.

  I regretted my words immediately and opened my mouth to apologize. Then I quickly clamped it shut again. Can’t let that handsome face make a pushover out of me.

  We made the rounds of milk and egg deliveries, enjoying one another’s company. At each stop, I stayed in the truck while Victor took care of the transaction. But on two of the five stops, customers recognized me and waved from their front doors, hollering, “Good morning, Bridget!” What a change from the week before!

  “You’re practically a celebrity now,” Victor teased.

  I had to admit I enjoyed just watching him climb in and out of the truck, his muscular arms hefting the crates and his handsome face smiling at his customers. A warm feeling came over me each time he took his place behind the wheel, as if I belonged at his side. I knew it was silly, but shaking it off was increasingly difficult. After we completed the deliveries, he surprised me by heading out of town toward Landeville.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “The lumberyard where I got the supplies for my house. I had to reorder blueprints. They should be in now.”

  I sat back to enjoy the ride, trying not to think too hard about how to go about selling my land for top dollar. If I could make myself useful to the Harrisons, I supposed I could take advantage of their offer to stay longer. We chatted about what the economic forecast might be, and I felt honored when Victor told me about a couple of his experiences in the army, like trading the cigarettes from his rations for chocolate bars he had shared with some French children.

  “How did it feel to come home wounded?” I dared to ask.

  He remained quiet awhile. Finally, he spoke softly over the hum of the truck’s engine. “Awful at first. I was in a lot of physical pain, and I was loaded down with guilt for surviving when so many others didn’t.”

  “And now?”