But if something could come of it, well, she would be interested in seeing how it would go.
Maybe there would be more to her life now than reading.
Having an interest in a fellow was new to her, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do.
She grinned. She could ask Aunt Ruth. Somehow she thought the older woman would have hours of advice.
❧
They gathered again in Uncle Alfred’s parlor, this time with a plate of gingerbread passing among them. All of them sat in the places they had before, Isaac noted with amusement, just as people sat in the same seats in church week after week.
Christal sat in the rocking chair, her feet tucked under her, and took a piece of gingerbread from the platter. “Thank you so much,” she said with a sigh that radiated happiness. “My very favorite food in the world is your spice cookies, Dr. Bering, but your gingerbread comes in a close second.” She took a bite and grinned. “They’re both especially wonderful this time of year, warming me from the inside out.”
“I heard some folks talking at the church today,” Rev. Everett said, “that even more snow should come soon.”
“Snow?” Isaac sat up straight.
He’d seen snow on the ground now, blown against the corners of the houses and in the cracks of the stone fences on his weekly walk to church, but he hadn’t actually seen the snow come down.
The first flakes had fallen while he’d been inside, and he hadn’t decided yet if he was glad he’d missed it or if he should have gone out and watched it float down and felt it on his skin. His desire to experience it warred with his concern about the cold. The only time he was truly warm here was when he sat directly in front of the fireplace, and then only one side of him got warm.
His uncle chuckled. “It is November, Isaac. We’re heading into winter, and we can expect more snow.”
“It gets quite cold here, doesn’t it?” Isaac asked. He didn’t want to seem like a weakling, worrying all the time about the winter ahead, but the fact was that he didn’t truly know what he was in for. He took a measured sip of his tea then asked in a purposefully casual voice, “How cold does it get here, anyway?”
Rev. Everett shrugged. “It’s not all that bad. We have houses and fireplaces and blankets, so we make it through all right. I’m sure your uncle will make sure you stay plenty warm here.”
Aunt Ruth tapped on the floor with her cane. “The young man asked a question, and he deserves an answer. Alfred, tell him.”
His uncle nodded. “You are right as usual, dear Ruth. Sometimes the temperatures do go quite low.”
Christal leaned forward. “Like this past January. Remember that?”
“Now, Christal, dear.” Mrs. Everett frowned at her daughter. “That wasn’t quite the average day. It’s not fair to—”
Isaac took a deep breath. What was Christal about to say? He had to know.
He exhaled slowly and asked. “How cold was it?”
Christal looked at everyone and grinned. “It was thirty-six below zero here in St. Paul.”
“Thirty-six below zero.” He repeated the words slowly. “Thirty. Six. Below. Zero. I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”
“It’s cold,” Christal said, and everyone laughed. “But it wasn’t as cold as it was in St. Cloud the same day. It was fifty below zero there.”
“How do you manage when it’s like that?” he asked. “Human skin begins to freeze at the same temperature water does, due to the fluid in the cells. If there is wind, we know that increases the danger of frostbite considerably.”
He stopped when he realized that the others were staring at him, slight smiles forming on their faces.
“I am sounding like a textbook, aren’t I?” he asked. “I am lecturing you all about frostbite, and yet I’ve never been anywhere that it was even a danger.”
“Well, it’s a danger here,” Aunt Ruth said, “and I daresay you’ll see your fair share of blackened fingers and toes.”
Isaac bit back the fear that rumbled in his chest.
“Most of the folks here are pretty much aware how dangerous cold weather can be,” his uncle said, “but Ruth is right. Every year I do see some frostbite.”
“So is it that cold—what was it, fifty below? All winter long?”
“To be exact, the fifty below was in St. Cloud, which is west of us. We were only thirty-six below. But within three days the temperature rose to almost fifty degrees above zero.” Rev. Everett smiled. “It was very odd.”
Isaac’s head spun. The numbers swirled around his brain like a bad dream. What had he undertaken?
“There is one advantage to this cold,” Dr. Bering said. “The Winter Carnival! If it weren’t for our legendary winters, we wouldn’t have this opportunity. By the way, I’ve heard more about it.”
Christal stopped chewing, the gingerbread halfway to her mouth. “Tell us!”
“They met on the second, and they’ve formed a committee.”
Aunt Ruth snorted. “That ought to stop it on the spot.”
“Oh, not this group,” the doctor continued. “George Finch is heading it, and he’s a powerhouse of a leader. So far about forty businessmen are on board.”
“Who’s George Finch?” Isaac asked.
“He’s a top-notch leader in our community, and I’m mighty glad he’s going to be leading the group. There’s also his partner in the wholesale trade, and a banker and a real estate fellow, and many others. It’s going to happen.” Uncle Alfred folded his hands over his stomach. “And quickly.”
“How quickly?” Christal’s gingerbread was still poised midair, forgotten.
“Early in the year. I think they’re hoping to have it in February. I don’t know exactly.”
“That’s not very long. What are they planning to do in that short amount of time?” Aunt Ruth asked. “Put together a snow fort and have a snowball fight?”
“Snow fort? Not exactly. More like an ice palace.”
“Ohhhh.” Christal sighed, and a chunk of gingerbread fell onto her skirt, unnoticed. “An ice palace!” She wriggled excitedly. “Just think of it!”
“Christal Maria Everett, please watch yourself. You have gingerbread in your lap,” Aunt Ruth said.
“Sorry.” She picked it up with her free hand and popped the stray piece into her mouth.
Isaac held up his hand. “Could we stop for just a moment here? An ice palace? What does that mean?”
“In Montreal, they’ve been having a winter carnival for a while, but they’ve got smallpox there, so gathering people together isn’t going to happen. The fellows who do the ice palace up there, the Hutchinson brothers, are already here, planning for our carnival’s palace.” His uncle beamed.
“Can they get it done in time?” Mrs. Everett asked.
Uncle Alfred shrugged. “I suppose. We’ll have to see. They’ll need help here, that’s for certain.”
They were going to build a palace out of ice. In Minnesota. In the middle of winter. They were insane. Isaac had no doubt about it now.
“Didn’t you just tell me that this past New Year’s Day it was a balmy thirty-six degrees below zero?” he asked. “I think I’d rather take my chances with smallpox. If the local people want a festival of some kind, why don’t they do it in summer, when it’s warm?”
“We have the state fair,” Christal offered.
“Aren’t there any buildings that could house a winter celebration? Surely there must be a large structure of some kind here that would work.”
“The idea,” his uncle said, “is to have it outdoors.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Uncle Alfred smiled at him.
“No, not ‘why not?’ Why? Why on earth would you—” Isaac shook his head.
“An ice palace would have to be outside. Otherwise it would melt,” Christal said. Her eyes were glowing. “An ice palace!”
“One more time,” Isaac said. “An ice palace is outside because it’s got to be cold enou
gh to stay frozen. Stay frozen. Did you hear me? Frozen! Who in their right mind would wander around outside to see a palace made of ice?”
“I would.” Mrs. Everett spoke up. “I wonder how big it will be. Is the whole thing going to be made of ice?”
“Maybe there’ll be a prince,” Christal said, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “An ice prince, and—”
“You live in a world of stories,” Aunt Ruth said. “There won’t be a prince.”
Rev. Everett held up his hand. “Not so fast. Christal isn’t that far off with her idea. There will be a king and a queen. I heard about it myself at the church. They’re Boreas Rex and Aurora, Queen of the Snows.”
“Boreas and Aurora,” Christal repeated. “What lovely names.”
Isaac viewed his companions in the parlor, all apparently sane people who were now preparing to celebrate winter with an outdoor carnival. Could anything be more insane?
“Are these real people?” Isaac asked. “I mean, are there going to be real people crowned?”
“That’s what I was told,” the minister answered. “And a Fire King, too. He’s the enemy of the King and Queen of the Snows.”
Christal’s face shone with excitement. “This is going to be so much fun!”
How people could enjoy themselves when they were nearly frozen to death was beyond Isaac’s imagination. A festival of frostbite, that’s what it would be. It would mean more work at his uncle’s office. There would probably be a parade of folks with afflicted fingers and toes and noses during the carnival.
“It will be a great boon to the city,” Rev. Everett said. “We need something to brighten up those long winter days.”
Isaac noticed his uncle regarding him with a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Isaac, you’re not quite ready for this, are you?”
He didn’t know how to respond. As much as he wanted to argue the point with the Everetts, this wasn’t something that was within his control.
Instead of answering, he merely wrung out a faint smile. It was a crazy idea, this Winter Carnival, but it wasn’t his. He needed to let it go and to be supportive as best he could. Debating the merits of an outdoor celebration in the depth of winter wouldn’t change anything.
Let it go; let it be, he reminded himself.
The conversation continued until at last Mrs. Everett pointed out that the hour was late, and with a flurry of coats and gloves and scarves, the minister’s family was on their way home to the house next door.
His uncle put his arm over Isaac’s shoulders as the two of them returned to collect the plates and tidy the parlor.
“Isaac,” Uncle Alfred said, “I know it’s difficult for you to understand what our life is like up here. But really, it’s not that different from Key West. It’s colder, of course, but other than that, people are the same wherever you go. They need something to enjoy, something to anticipate.”
They could do that indoors, he thought. There was so much wrong with this idea. Not only the cold was a concern, but the fact that the entire carnival was to be put together so precipitously spelled certain failure. Haste did make waste. The proponents of the carnival were ambitious—perhaps too ambitious. The plan was to have this ready in three months?
But one of the lessons he had learned early on in his medical studies was that keeping silent was a talent, one that he had rarely used before embarking on his career. It was, his professor had told the class, the way that learning occurred. One must be silent to listen.
It had been a hard lesson. He had wanted to protest assignments as being overly long and convoluted, but after watching his classmates being chastised for weakness, he had trained himself to keep his opinions private.
He had learned much from his silence, more than he would have gained from speaking out as he’d often wanted to do. Even certain protocols of treatment, which had seemed laboriously involved and ineffective at first glance, had proven to be important ways of working through a particular illness or malady.
He called upon that now.
Uncle Alfred chuckled. “You’re holding your tongue, aren’t you? That is something you will need to do quite a bit, you know.”
Isaac’s stomach twisted uneasily. “I should have done that earlier tonight, shouldn’t I?”
His uncle patted him on the back. “Just as you need to understand them, they need to understand you. And you have raised some good questions, and good questions need good answers. Let’s hope that there are good answers.”
The words reassured Isaac somewhat.
“Get some sleep, my boy,” Uncle Alfred said. “Tomorrow comes quickly.”
Isaac climbed the stairs to his room, feeling so completely awake that slumber seemed impossible.
He’d taken another of his uncle’s books with him, this time a book by a man named Mark Twain. Uncle Alfred had said he’d find the book, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County and Other Stories, amusing. Perhaps he could lose himself in the stories. But as he readied himself for bed, the heavy weight of exhaustion fell on him.
He clambered under the covers as quickly as possible to avoid touching the cold wooden floor with his bare feet, his Bible in his hands. The lamp beside him illuminated the pages as he leafed through it in search of some wisdom. He especially liked the Psalms for their praise and comfort. Psalm 4:8 made him smile: “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.”
Even when it was thirty-six degrees below zero.
With the words of the psalmist in his mind, he closed his eyes, let a prayer settle over his heart, and gave the worries of the day to the Lord.
❧
No music came into Christal’s room tonight. The window was closed and latched, as if the early blasts of winter’s chill might sneak under the wooden frame with icy fingers and raise the pane.
The evening’s conversation swirled in her head, the words as thrilling as the notes of a symphony.
A winter carnival! With a king and a queen and a palace!
She couldn’t sit. She walked over to the window and gazed out. The only light on in the house next door was in the parlor, and it soon was extinguished.
How could anyone sleep with this new knowledge?
The palace would be made of ice, her father had said. How would they do it? Would the builders use blocks of ice as if they were bricks? Would it be white when it was done, or would it be transparent?
How big was it going to be? What if it were as big as her house? Even as small as a dollhouse would be wonderful.
She’d never thought about a palace made of ice.
Aunt Ruth was right. It was like a story, one of the fairy tales that she read again and again at the library. But there had never been such a story as this one. And it would be real!
How could she wait?
An ice castle. A snow king and queen. The adversary of fire. It was like a story.
An idea flitted into her mind and batted against the edges of her imagination like a butterfly, faintly at first and then with increasing urgency. A story began to take shape.
Maybe she could be a writer! With her love of stories, she could do that.
What would she need to do? She’d have to put these ideas down in words. How hard could it be?
She thought about it more, but it simply wouldn’t go past the vague notion of the wonderful images, and she realized that without a plot, the pictures in her mind would stay that way—just pictures.
And she definitely wasn’t an artist, so she couldn’t transfer them from what she saw in her head to colorful designs on paper.
Christal sighed. She couldn’t be a writer, and she couldn’t be an artist.
What was she going to do?
The fact was that there weren’t a lot of options available to women. Homemaker. Mother. Wife.
She knew that there were some careers open to her. There were writers. She considered Harriet Beecher Stowe, whose book she had been reading at the library. Now there was a
woman who was a successful author. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a well-known and highly respected book.
There were a smattering of female artists, none of them as popular as their male counterparts, and only a few whose names were familiar to the populace of St. Paul.
It’s not that I want to be famous, God, she prayed, but I’m searching for something to make my life meaningful. I want to make the most of this time here on earth. I could use Your help. If I have a direction, could You guide me to it, please?
What she really wanted from her life, though, was to make a difference somehow, like Isaac was doing, or was going to do. If only there were a way to somehow have an impact upon another person. Doctors did. Ministers like her father did.
As a woman, her choices were curtailed. Housekeeper, wife, mother. That about summed up her future.
Housekeeper? She looked around her room. Books and papers were piled haphazardly on the floor. Her clothing from the day was draped over the back of the chair. Her hairbrush was on the table, and one shoe was near the window and the other near the door, exactly where they had landed when she’d kicked them off after unbuttoning them.
Wife? Wouldn’t she need a husband for that? And if it did happen—she tucked the bright image of Isaac far back into the distant recesses of her mind for the moment—she’d have to know how to do things like cook and sew.
Mother? She thought of her own sweet mother, how she offered advice, how she’d guided Christal through the perilous journey of childhood and into womanhood, how she’d taught her right from wrong. Being a mother was a job that required great things from a woman. Did she have what it would take?
She buried her face in her hands. It was hopeless.
Or was it?
She needed to focus. Even Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, famous novelist though she was, knew how to cook a roast.
It was time she learned.
Five
Christal bounced into the kitchen the next morning, filled with resolve. She tied on an apron and said to her mother and aunt, “Teach me to make eggs.”
“Only God can make an egg,” her father said from behind the newspaper as Aunt Ruth tipped the teapot to fill up her cup.
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