“Oh, Jan works much too hard. I will insist he take a few hours to go to town. It will be good for him,” was Amalie’s response through Uli who, waving her hand at Rose’s concern in such exquisite imitation of Amalie, nearly made Rose giggle.
What an interesting relationship this couple has! Rose marveled, wondering if Mr. Thoresen would do as Amalie expected.
Early Wednesday morning as Amalie promised, “little” Karl, accompanied by Mr. Thoresen, drove their two bays and wagon into Rose’s yard and found her ready, indeed eager, to leave for town.
Karl was at that stage of youth where growth of limb and leg had seriously outstripped social maturity. Rose found him so shy and unwilling to speak that she gave up on him after only a few futile attempts. Mr. Thoresen was not quite as reticent, but there were no subjects they could converse about for more than a line or two before they came to the end of his English vocabulary. So Rose sat back and enjoyed the drive, observing from her seat on the second wagon bench how Mr. Thoresen related to the young boy.
He made a few comments on Karl’s driving that made the boy grin and change his grip on the reins slightly. Since they were speaking Norwegian, Karl seemed to lose some of his shyness and began to talk about something that interested him because his eyes sparkled while telling Jan. Mr. Thoresen, in return, nodded and added his thoughts here and there.
The boy respects and loves him, that’s obvious, Rose thought in approval. All of their children are well-behaved and brought up.
Rose looked anxiously at the freight dock when they drew near—what if her things weren’t there yet? She had been so sure they would be; this was the first time that it occurred to her that maybe they had been delayed for some reason. Mr. Thoresen helped her down, and she searched around for Mr. Bailey.
“Howdy, Miz Brownlee! Glad t’ see ya got yer self some hardy men.” He punched Karl’s arm good-naturedly and the boy blushed and grinned. “I b’lieve all the boxes came fer ya will fit in that one wagon—cept’n that ’un.” He pointed to the crate stenciled liberally with the words “Fragile” and “Do Not Drop” under the eaves of the station. “Reckon you’ll hafta take my wagon, too. My boy kin drive it back when it’s empty. He’s a mite small yet, but he kin handle the horses okay. Over here, Mr. Thoresen. All these boxes here.”
In the shade around the side of the freight office were Rose’s things. She was taken aback at how much there was.
“Just what did Mother and Abby add to all this?” she asked herself. “Mr. Bailey, which are the perishable goods?” Rose inquired.
“Well, they’re inside here.” Pointing to his little house next to the office he added, “Mrs. Bailey saw the things needed waterin’ and brought ’em in overnight. Seems ta have perked ’em up some, but there’s a few I’m feared didn’t make it.”
Rose knocked on the door and introduced herself to Mrs. Bailey. She seemed to be an exact female counterpart of her husband, rough, easy-going, and cheerful.
“Landsakes, Mrs. Brownlee, do come in! It’s a pure pleasure to meetcha finally. Hope ya don’t mind me bringin’ yer bushes and such inside, but they looked pretty poorly. Last time they’s watered was three days ago. The boxcar ain’t even been opened since then. Sorry ta say, it looks as though these four didn’t make it, but t’ others may.”
“I’m most grateful to you for caring enough to water them—thank you so much! And I would be pleased if you would accept a few bulbs from me for your own garden when I get them unpacked.”
“Why, sure, I’d be likin’ that fine, Mrs. Brownlee.”
“Good! Then I’ll be seeing you with them soon. I’m surprised I haven’t met you before, Mrs. Bailey. I’m in town for church on Sundays and have met most everyone who lives here.”
Mrs. Bailey’s open face didn’t flick an eye. “I reckon we ain’t church goin’ folk, Mrs. Brownlee. We came once a few years back but t’ preacher said we weren’t proper Christians and couldn’t belong.” This was stated matter-of-factly but still, Rose’s mouth dropped open.
“What! What ever did he, I mean what his objection?”
She shrugged. “Mr. Bailey and me’s both raised in the Roman church. Hadn’t been fer years though, an’ ain’t one ’round here anyway. Preacher said we’d just have to do without.”
Rose burned with shame. “Mrs. Bailey, our present pastor doesn’t believe that at all. My good friends, the McKennies, are Catholic too, but they worship with us. They do because they love Jesus just like we do, like I do. That’s what counts!” She struggled to explain, to apologize.
Mrs. Bailey shrugged again. “Guess it don’t make no never-mind, ’ceptin’ if you don’t ’ssociate with non-Christian folk. Don’t you worry none about it now. We get ’long all right. Well, the fellers should come git yer bushes an’ stuff.”
Rose hurt so badly that the joy of having her things arrive went out like a candle. She wandered outside and told Jan and Karl where to find the other crates. Mr. Bailey was with them.
“Mr. Bailey,” she said boldly, “On behalf of Pastor Medford and our church, I want to cordially invite you to come to service anytime—this Sunday in fact. You will be most welcome!” This last line was said almost defiantly.
Mr. Bailey’s eye’s narrowed slightly but he acknowledged her invitation. Jan and Karl stared at Rose in surprise, then finished the work of loading the rest of the crates and got ready to leave. Karl and eleven-year-old Jeremy Bailey sat in one wagon while Mr. Thoresen helped her into the other one. She saw Mr. Thoresen go back and say a few words to Mr. Bailey who looked down at his feet. Jan put out his hand and they shook.
Out of town and down the road, Rose spoke. “Mr. Thoresen, what did you say to Mr. Bailey just then?”
He didn’t answer right away, but finally replied, “Say, ‘Mr. Bailey, come church. God luffs you. God vants you.’”
“Oh, Mr. Thoresen, how wonderful! I feel so shamed that the Baileys have thought they weren’t welcome in our church. Why, I think they’ve believed that God didn’t love them! And I—”
He clucked his tongue. “Mrs. Brünlee, talk so slow, please.”
Rose laughed. “Sorry, Mr. Thoresen. It was kind of you to tell him.”
“Ja,” he answered. “God is kind, gud. Ver . . . ” He couldn’t find the word and shrugged. “What in boxes?” he asked later.
“My dishes and some household goods from back east.”
“Ah! So, you like stay?”
“Yes. This year anyway. Then . . . we’ll see. It’s very pretty right now.”
He looked around at the fields and the vast prairie. “Need rain.” He pointed at McKennies’ wheat field that edged the road. “Too dry.”
“It rained last week,” Rose offered.
Something in the way his mouth twitched told her she’d spoken ignorantly.
“I guess we need more than that, though?” she amended.
He removed his straw hat and wiped the perspiration off his neck and forehead with his sleeve. The years and rigors of dry-land farming showed in the leathery brown of his neck, but his full head of white-blond hair made her think how much like Søren and Karl he must have looked twenty-five years ago.
“Ja,” was all he said.
Rose recovered her excitement when they began to unload and pry open the cases. At first, Baron raised a fuss about the strangers, especially Mr. Thoresen, so Rose had to tie him up. Then she didn’t think there would ever be enough room for everything as it piled up on the table, bed, and even floor. Rose had them open the large crate whose boards were stenciled “Fragile” and “Do Not Drop” repeatedly outside. Inside, the packing was wadded solidly around its contents. She stood on a stool in the yard pulling it out.
“Now,” she indicated to Mr. Thoresen, “You can pull the other boards off—but carefully, please.”
He got his crowbar and glanced inside before attacking the casing.
“Hah!” he grunted with interest.
The crate came apart under his efforts
revealing a cherry-wood spinet piano.
“Oh, isn’t it sweet?” she crooned, caressing the glassy veneer. “Let’s put it inside right away—out of the sun.”
Jan, Karl, and Jeremy (who stayed to see all the interesting things unpacked) picked the piano up and gently placed it against the wall built halfway across the cabin. Rose followed with the winding stool and set it in front of the instrument.
Mr. Thoresen examined it closely, stroking the grain, scrutinizing the workmanship.
“Play, please,” he requested.
“Oh! Well, maybe just to try it . . .” She ran her hands lightly over the keys and played a few bars of an old air she’d known most of her life. Several notes were sadly out of tune. Still it was soothing to hear.
Jeremy Bailey was thrilled. “Gosh, Mrs. Brownlee, that ’uz beautiful! Never heered nothin’ like it afore.”
“I will have your whole family over sometime, and we will have a regular concert. I play guitar, too. My guitar should also be in one of these boxes.”
That reminded them of the crates still left to open. While unboxing her goods, the two boys splintered the crating into a large stack of kindling by the back door and Mr. Thoresen toted the other contents inside. By the time they were ready to leave, Rose was surrounded by piles of linens, unpacked dishes, and miscellaneous goods.
“May I pay you all now?” Rose asked, getting her purse.
Jeremy was enthusiastic and Karl was, too, although he tried to disguise it as she paid them. Mr. Thoresen just clucked his tongue and shook his head.
“Nei,” he stated mildly. “Venner.”
“Pardon, Mr. Thoresen?”
“Venner,” he repeated. “Friends.”
Rose was touched. “Thank you! You’ve been so kind to me. I do thank you so much.”
Jan Thoresen’s glacier blue eyes glinted and he nodded. “Come, Karl.”
Rose was left alone amid her “plunder.” She sank down and decided to eat her very late lunch before putting things away. The Baron scratched at the door to be let in, but Rose had no intention of letting him in while everything was on the cabin floor! She ate on the porch, keeping him company, excited about getting organized, and turning her house into a real home.
Lifting the lid of a large trunk, Rose began to systematically remove its contents. She pulled out a winter coat, woolen stockings and warm underthings, umbrella, several pairs of gloves, scarves and shoes; boots, hats and an afghan. Under them lay books; one layer of good reading: Bronte, Austin, Dickens, Browning—all her favorite authors. These she stacked on the shelves the Thoresens had built for her.
Below the layers of clothing were also pictures and mementos. Not many, but each tenderly wrapped and packed. A photograph of her and James on their wedding day. Rose gazed deeply into his eyes, remembering their hazel color and how his look had warmed her. Quickly she put it aside. She removed pictures of their children and set them resolutely aside also. Others were watercolors and pastels, just pretty scenes to hang upon a wall.
Far into the evening she worked. First she cautiously unpacked her good dishes, expensive china that had been her wedding service, silverware, her everyday dishes, glasses, cooking utensils, and kitchen linens. The dishes went in the cupboards Mr. Thoresen had fashioned, and she distributed her kitchen things between the drawers, the walls, and the shelves built below the work surface. Next, a quantity of linens, towels, blankets, and an unexpected supply of fabrics and yarns from Abby were carefully laid on shelves. A set of irons and sewing baskets followed.
Rose made her makeshift bed with fresh linens, humming contentedly. When she snuggled contentedly in her bed, happy to have her things at last, the Baileys came to mind, and she prayed for them.
“Oh, Lord! You love them and sent Jesus for them. Let them have the courage to look for you again. I will do my best to show them what you are like!”
She thought about the Schmidts, how Berta, so different in background, was not any different as a woman than she was or the wretched unnamed wife and mother Rose felt for. She even prayed for the angry young man, Mark Grader, whose brother was in prison. She thanked God for the Thoresens whose help had gone past simple “neighborliness.” The McKennies, Thoresens, and Medfords: Vera, Amalie, Sigrün, Meg, and Fiona’s friendships were a dear part of living here. All these people made up the fabric of this new life, this new home.
Rose stroked the coverlet on her bed thoughtfully.
“I believe if I didn’t have these things I would love living here anyway. The people who are my new friends are not impressed by ‘things,’ and they, not the relative comforts of this house, are the pieces of my new home.”
Chapter 20
The next few days Rose took her time really making her little house what she had envisioned. As she put her linens in order she found her mother’s letter in the stack of towels:
Dearest Rose,
I cannot begin to express my concern over this unexpected and inadvisable lifestyle you have undertaken. As you requested, we have sent your things—but Rose, dearest, you are so far from your family and acquaintances, even the very manner of living in which you have been raised and are accustomed. It has been difficult to explain to my friends just what it is you are doing and your purpose in doing it.
Let me encourage you to consider returning home after you have rested and had your little “experience,” but certainly before winter. We understand how you must be struggling to begin life again; just please remember that your real home is here with us, your family.
We will be waiting to hear from you soon, darling.
With love,
Mother
Rose folded the letter carefully and put it in her lap desk. It was the kind of response she had expected and it didn’t hurt her.
“Mother will not understand, at least for a while, why I won’t be coming home, but she will be consoled by her friends, and Tom is there for her,” Rose concluded.
She laid her personal things neatly in drawers. Most of her dresses and suits, too fine and therefore out of place, she covered and hung on hooks to preserve them. Doilies and scarves, cut-glass lamps and vases, knick-knacks, books, music, and an exceptional old clock all had their places now, and the windows were hung with frothy white-lace curtains. Even the floor boasted two beautiful, thick carpets, one in her parlor/bedroom, the other in her dining room/kitchen. A plain throw rug was laid in the kitchen to stand upon while working and foot mats were at each door.
All of this did not take precedence over her yard, though. Rose knew that any starts to survive the trip and the lateness of the season must be planted in the cool of the day. Because of this, she dug their holes during the day and as soon as the sun went down in the evening she began to plant. The roses and the trumpet vine went in first, followed by the several varieties of flowering shrubs and climbing vines. Mr. Thoresen had put two trellises on the porch as she requested; one was on the northeast end just to the left of the front door. She planted a sturdy trumpet vine trunk there. The other trellis was on the south side of the porch right in front of the parlor window, and she set a climbing rose there. In addition, she planted lilac, forsythia, wisteria, and Virginia creeper starts. Abby had sent more than she’d asked for, and Rose earmarked several for Amalie and Fiona. One risky extravagance on her part had been fruit trees. Only four out of eight looked to have survived—a cherry, two apples, and a plum. Without other cherry and plum trees in the neighborhood they wouldn’t bear, but Rose planted them anyway, promising to acquire “mates” for them next year.
She looked fondly at the four tiny saplings on the far side of her garden.
“Maybe someday there will be a real grove of fruit trees here, even if it does take five or six years,” she predicted.
By nightfall all the shrubs, trees, and starts were in and watered. Sad and sickly looking though they were, Rose believed enough of them would endure to make the effort worthwhile, and admired them for their expected effect on her homestead.<
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Early, before the sun rose, she watered again. The thirsty ground drank the moisture greedily so after chores Rose watered once more. To her gratification, a few bushes with straggly leaves appeared a little “perked up.” She stared skyward anxiously—if it was tremendously hot today her new arrivals might all die anyway, still in shock from the trip and transplanting. Since she would gain nothing by worrying she went about her other yard work, sowing flower seed and planting bulbs in the bare beds beside the house.
Along about two-thirty she was delighted to see a thundershower begin to form up. There had been several of those in the last weeks—Rose was getting good at recognizing the signs: hot, humid, still air and thick, dark clouds that piled up overhead like railway cars plowing into each other. Around four the weather broke and large drops of water pelted the ground for an hour. Afterwards, a twilight sunset took place and the sweet, steamy smell of warm earth filled the evening. Rose felt sure her plantings had benefited from the cooling shower and would now start well.
On Sunday next Rose invited several of her friends to have a special lunch at her house: Berta and Vera from town, Amalie, Sigrün, and Fiona from the neighborhood. Meg was working as usual and couldn’t attend.
“Uli must come too,” Rose insisted, delighting that little person. Rose had more than one reason in mind for including Uli. She wanted to be able to talk with Amalie and enjoy her conversation and her companionship, and Uli was indispensable in that capacity.
The menu was to be special too, but not too elegant. Rose planned cold chicken salad; assorted muffins, biscuits, and crackers; and cool tea. And as a distinctive treat, a plate of exquisitely fine chocolates, a gift sent by Tom to his sister, found packed with care amid the other household goods.
Rose laid a delicate beige lace cloth, her fine patterned china, and silver candlesticks transforming her plain wooden table. Rose had brewed tea, light and lightly sweetened that morning. It was chilling in a pitcher set in a bucket surrounded by cracked ice. The ice had been a block in Brian’s icehouse that Rose had tried to pay for. Truthfully, ice became scarce as summer went on, and Rose deserved to pay for it, but Brian set his jaw in mock resentment and insisted on giving it for the festive occasion.
A Rose Blooms Twice Page 16
