“Okay.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, I ate over at Paul’s.”
“Oh.” Ragni headed for the cooler. “I’ll just get some cheese then.”
Erika was back to scrubbing out the cabinets when Ragni returned to the house, water bottle in hand. She set it down on the counter and turned to look at the stovepipe. Rather than cleaning it out, perhaps she should just buy a new one. Parts of it looked rusty, and with the stove all shined up, new pipe would look much better.
“What do you think, pitch out this pipe and start new, or clean it up?”
“Can you afford to buy new?”
“Spoken like your mothers daughter.”
“New.” Erika gave her shelves a last swipe, dumped the rag in the bucket of soapy water, and jumped to the floor. “How do you get it down?”
“How should I know?” Ragni walked behind the stove and studied the sections. A straight pipe came up from the stove into a curved section, then a piece went straight back to the brick chimney.
“Bang on it and see what happens.” Erika stopped beside her.
Ragni slapped the pipe with the flat of her hand. Something made a scrunching sound. She banged again and they saw bits of dust fly from the joint. “So do we take it out of the stove or the wall first?”
Erika raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Whichever is easiest.”
“Thanks.” Ragni thumped the pipe again, then wrapped her hands around the piece where it went into the stove and pulled up. Nothing but a groan, so she tried twisting it. More groaning and scraping sounds.
“Here. Let’s do it together.” Erika reached for the top, closer to the bend, and clamped her fingers around the pipe. “One, two, three.”
They both jerked up at the same time, the pipe came loose, and chunks of black soot rained on the floor and their boots, fine dust billowing around them.
“Ahhh, yuck!”
“Grab that top piece and jerk it free, and we’ll carry the whole thing out the door.” Ragni tried to keep the bottom part over the attachment to the stove, but when Erika jerked the top part loose, they were both scrambling to keep from dropping the pipe with a joint at the ninety-degree angle. “Tip it up!”
They hauled it outside and dumped it on the grass far away from the tent.
“Gross.” Erika waved her grimy hands.
“All that stuff on the floor. I’ll go sweep it up quick. We should have put newspaper down.”
“If we had any.”
“I need to read the news anyway. After you wash, write newspaper on the list.” Ragni looked at her hands and arms. Wash first or sweep? “I can’t wait for a shower.” She grabbed the broom and swept the bits of black into a couple of piles. No wonder they called them chimney sweeps and always showed small dirty boys. Although no child would get through pipes like these.
The window went in with only one slight cut from the sharp triangular points that they pounded in to hold the glass in place. They took time out to apply a Band-Aid to Ragni’s finger. Then Erika read the instructions and practiced with the caulking until she ran a smooth bead all around the inside of the window. Outside, Ragni swept away the cobwebs and dirt so Erika could complete the caulking.
When they finished, they stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“Good work, kiddo,” Ragni said. They high-fived and grinned. “Although it sure makes the rest of the panes look filthy.”
“We’re not washing them now. You said do these two things and we get a shower.”
“I know. I’m not reneging,” Ragni held her palms up in self-defense. “Did Paul say when the rain is coming?”
“Maybe tonight.”
“Then we’d better take down the tent and bring our things inside the house.”
Erika took a swig of water. “Shower, swimming pool, heaven.”
A short time later they climbed in the car and headed for town. No cows were near the watering hole, but they saw them grazing along the road further up the hill. Ragni slowed down in case one meandered out in front of her.
Erika giggled when two of the calves hightailed it across the ditch and into a meadow.
“Now I know where that saying came from,” Ragni commented.
“Which?”
“Hightailed. I thought of the phrase when I saw them running with their tails up in the air like that. As in, ‘The calves hightailed it into the field.’ Wonder what the difference is between a meadow and a field?”
“Ask Paul.”
Ragni glanced over at her niece. No earphones, no iPod. Watching out the window, voice on dreamy station. Far cry from the girl of a few days ago. I do think there is more to the story about her art than what she told me about the third grade. But then it doesn’t take much to permanently scar a little kid. Perhaps I can get her to talk it out? And as Erika said, what about me?
The garden plot looked huge.
Nilda, with Eloise on her hip, watched as Hank rounded an outer corner with the team of horses pulling the plow. Rich dark earth curled over, looking like row upon row of half buried, dark tubes. She knew she should be starting supper—surely Mr. Peterson would be on his way home by now—but the soil called her to stay. She kicked one row with the toe of her shoe, just for the pleasure of seeing the dirt crumble.
Eloise giggled. “More, Mama.”
Nilda kicked another and chuckled with her daughter. She stepped back when the two horses approached, heads nodding as they leaned into their harnesses. Hank grinned at her and, taking the reins in one hand, waved at Eloise.
The little girl glanced up, caught her mother’s nod, and waved back.
“Soon we’ll have her up riding on these old sons,” he called.
Nilda knew her mouth dropped open. This tiny girl on the back of one of those big brutes? Although, when she thought of it, both horses looked friendly, ears pricked forward, then swiveling back when the man spoke. Blotches of sweat made their reddish brown hides look darker in spots and glisten when the sun hit. With a sigh, she left off her watching and returned to her scrubbing. The floor had dried while she’d been outside. It still wasn’t as clean as she wanted, but she’d not yet gone down to the river to find some stones to burnish it with. Hank had said the stone around the area was mostly sandstone and would do a good job of smoothing down the floors.
At dinner, she’d hated to serve beans again. Hank, who was quickly becoming her fount of information, said they ate mostly beans, biscuits, and whatever meat they could hunt or snare, or catch from the river, even through the ice in winter. Real baked bread had been a rare treat.
“But those cans of food on the shelves?”
“Use those in emergency. Had canned peaches at Christmas, along with a goose we’d shot and froze earlier. There’s plenty of water-fowl fly over in the spring and fall.” He mopped up the bean juice with his biscuit. “We didn’t come close to starving, not like some of the poor blighters up on the reservation.” At her look of confusion, he added. “Indians, ma’am.”
“Wild Indians?” She’d read stories of the Indian wars and women scalped and ravaged. Oh, the questions she’d not known enough to ask.
“No more wild than me or you. ’Less they get some firewater. Indians and liquor don’t mix.”
As far as she was concerned, nothing and no one mixed well with liquor. She’d suffered the consequences once, and that was enough.
She stared around the kitchen. What was most important to do next? If she washed the windows, she’d see more of the dirt in the cabin, but the golden light from the sun would make everything more cheerful.
“Thirsty, Ma.”
Nilda took out a bottle of milk that she’d set in a bucket of cold water and poured each of them a cupful. Might as well drink it as let it go bad. With Eloise sitting at the table, drinking her milk and nibbling a leftover biscuit drizzled with honey, Nilda dipped more water out of the reservoir, added a few drops of kerosene, and attacked the kitchen windows over the sink.
She heard the jangling of the horses’ harnesses near the door, and a moment later Hank came in. “You want to come see if this is good enough?”
“Oh, Mr. Hank, I’m so grateful…” She shook her head.
“Look, Mrs. Torkalson, just call me Hank, please. We don’t stand on formality much out here. Now, come look at your garden, and I’ll tell you what I’d do next.”
“Ja, as you wish.” She scooped up Eloise. Carrying her daughter out into the sunshine and breeze made both of them smile. She took the corner of her apron and wiped away the milk mustache on Eloise’s upper lip.
“Now I know this is rough, and I’d just as soon let it lay for a week or so, but them seeds will need to get in the ground if you want a harvest before the frost comes. So tomorrow I’ll disk it a couple of times, then drag it. There’s still going to be some clumps, but you can plant around those.”
They both looked up at the clip-clop of trotting horses, the jangle of harnesses, and the creaking of a wagon. Dust rose from the wheels and spurted from under the horse hooves.
“You have the coffee on?” Hank asked.
“Not fresh, but I can heat it up quick-like.”
“You go do that. Will make him right pleased.”
And we must please the master. How many times had she heard those words from the woman of the house and the head housekeepers? It was a shame she didn’t have something baked as a special treat.
Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. She slid several smaller chunks of wood into the firebox, opened the damper, and pulled the granite-ware coffeepot to the hotter part of the stove. Would he have eaten dinner already in town? Or would he be hungry? If he was hungry, like many other men, he would be grouchy or at least testy. If only Eloise were taking a nap, but she’d napped earlier. Her daughter’s fear of the big man worried Nilda.
If only these men would tell her how they wanted things to be instead of making her guess. He’d said he would be home for supper, not in midafternoon. She heard them talking outside, so she peeked out the open door. Boxes, bags of foodstuffs, and gunnysacks of grain filled the wagon. The washtub holding smaller parcels tied up in brown paper and string was taller than the wagon sides.
“Where do you want all this?” Mr. Peterson waved at the wagon.
Good thing I’ve scrubbed the shelves and floor. “In the corner. I’ll put it all away as soon as I can.”
Both men hauled supplies in for ten minutes, filling the corner, covering the counters, grunting as they dropped sacks of rice, flour, sugar, and beans to the floor.
“The rest goes in the barn. Looks like we’ll need to make a pantry of some kind. Maybe on that wall.” He nodded to the north wall, a good part of which was taken up by the stove and woodbox.
“I have the coffee hot. Did you eat dinner?”
“Ja.” He turned from searching through the smaller packages stored in the new boiler. He raised one in triumph. “Here.” Joseph handed Nilda the packet and pointed to Eloise, who sat at the table, hiding behind the back of the chair. “For her. Well, all of us, but her mostly.”
Nilda untied the string and folded back the brown paper. Four red and white peppermint sticks lay side by side. “Candy. You brought Eloise candy.” She knew her heart spoke from her eyes as well as her tongue. “Mange takk, Mr. Peterson. Tusen takk.” First a cow and now candy sticks. And yet he spoke and looked much like a bear she’d seen at a circus. She broke off a piece and crossed the room to give it to Eloise. “Tell Mr. Peterson thank you.”
“Thank you,” Eloise parroted, her eyes huge.
“It weren’t nothing.” Joseph took up the coffeepot and poured three cups full. “You take yours black too?”
“Ah, I’ll—ah, yes, thank you.” I was about to do that. Did I not move fast enough? But she could see no frown thundering across his forehead. Instead he and Hank took their cups and sat down at the table. How could she gently suggest that they needed to clean up some? It appeared to her that neither their clothes nor their bodies had even a nodding acquaintance with soap or washboard.
When Hank scratched his head, another thought entered hers. Lice. While she’d never found the passage in Scripture, her mother always said “according to the Good Book, cleanliness is next to godliness.” The thought of lice in her daughter’s wispy, near-to-white fine hair, or in her own, for that matter, made her shudder.
She sat down at the table and raised her coffee cup. “Now that we have a boiler and washtubs, I’d be glad to heat up water for bathing one of these evenings.”
Both men stared at her as if she’d blasphemed God Himself.
“I could cut your hair too, if you like. I brought my sewing things along.” Nilda Torkalson, you have some nerve. If he puts you back on that train, it would serve you right. Maybe that’s what I want. Right now, just getting this place cleaned up and the garden planted seems as daunting as climbing those peaks across the river—barefoot. She glanced at the heap of supplies. And I need to find places for all that and cook and… Had she not given her word, she’d think about heading back to the train— if she had money for the tickets, which she didn’t… and if he hadn’t bought a cow and peppermint sticks.
Slurping coffee only added to the silence. Both men studied the table as if looking for the secret of a long and happy life.
“Ah, we usually wait until the river warms up some, for bathing that is.” Hank glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Then hot water in a tub will seem…”
Joseph Peterson shoved his chair away from the table and headed out the door.
She thought she heard him mutter, “S’pose she’s gonna scrub our backs too,” but she wasn’t sure. So should she laugh or cry? She glanced up to catch a twinkle in Hank’s eyes as he slowly stood and pushed his chair back in.
“Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Torkalson. Sometimes you got to approach a prickly bear with honey, then let him find it on his own.” He smiled at Eloise and gimped his way out the door, a kind of rolling gait that favored an old wound but didn’t slow him down very much.
Nilda laid her cheek against her daughter’s head and rocked the two of them, not sure if she was comforting her daughter or herself. Why, oh why had she even opened her mouth, except to say thank you? Who was she to be ordering these men around, only the second day she lived there? Well, not ordering. She’d made her comment in a gentle way…
“I cannot abide dirt.” There. She’d said what was in her soul. Every bit of the house felt dirty, even the beds and table, and the land was dusty as well, traipsing itself into the kitchen every time the door opened. Something the apostle Paul said came to her mind, something like, “Not looking back but forward to the prize.”
She’d made the decision to come west to work for this man, and now there was no looking back. Already Eloise appeared stronger, thanks to the good clean air and the extra milk and eggs. What was that in comparison to a rather surly man who rationed his words? Of course, his pounding feet said plenty more.
No looking back. She wandered over to inspect the provisions. One brown-wrapped package must have weighed ten pounds. She hoisted it up, seeing where grease had stained the paper. She sniffed the package as she set it on the counter. Ham, for sure this was a ham, an entire hind quarter if she was any judge. Tonight they would have fried ham slices with red-eye gravy
on rice. She’d open a can of string beans, make more biscuits, and fix up a pudding. She needed to use up some of that milk, and surely by now she’d find more eggs under those hens.
Cooking when one had sufficient supplies made for a happier cook, that was for certain.
“I can go outside?” Eloise stood in the doorway.
“You may not leave the step. You understand?”
Eloise nodded. She stood on the stoop for a moment, then sat down, tucking her pinafore underneath her. She clasped her hands around her knees and looked up the road and then down.
“You won’t move, now?”
“No.”
That yard needs a fence. She could get lost in the grass across the road—or fall in the river! More thoughts to bedevil her and slow her usual working pace.
“Fret not!” She didn’t just repeat the Bible verse, she ordered it. “Uff da.” If worry and fretting were indeed sins, as she’d heard a pastor say, she needed real cleansing herself. Maybe it was time for her to take a dunk in the river.
By the time she’d sorted through all the supplies, filled metal cans with staples and jars with smaller goods, and rejoiced in all that Mr. Peterson had provided, suppertime was fast approaching and she had yet to milk the cow and feed the chickens.
She’d already gathered the eggs, so she could make the pudding; with one of the peppermint sticks crushed and sprinkled on top, it would look like a special treat, a thank-you gift. She set the rice to boiling, sliced thick slabs off the ham, and made the biscuit dough so it would be ready to pop in the oven.
She grabbed daughter and bucket and headed for the barn. The cow was not waiting in her place by the back door. Nilda shaded her eyes and searched the pasture. The fenced-in part wasn’t huge, and there were no places to hide. She checked in the barn, but the bar was still across the cow door. Where could she have gone?
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 16
