A Dream to Follow (38 page)

The two of them walked back to the office after supper. Lights glowed in windows and threw square outlines onto the lawns. Arm in arm, father and daughter watched the streetlights come on as the lamplighter took his long pole from post to post.

“Summer is indeed past when they start lighting the lamps before seven.” Mr. Rogers checked his pocket watch to be certain. He couldn’t have read it had it not been for the streetlight. “I have set something in motion that I must tell you about.”

“Oh? You sound serious.”

“Yes. I have let young Hans go.” Rogers shook his head. “He was never going to make a newspaperman. In the two years he’s been with me, his writing hasn’t improved a mouse’s whisker, and he and the printing press are mortal enemies.”

“Um.” She knew he’d been having difficulties for some time, so why the switch now?

“I heard him calling my press Bessie the . . .” He hawked and spat. “Well, I would never use such words around ladies, and I fear that he might have where you are concerned. Is that true?”

If he knew she’d fended off Hans’s groping hands, he would have not only fired the youth but run him out of town as well. On a rail or worse. She’d heard more contemptible terms in her travels with the doctor, but she’d never let on. Like blood, you got used to it.

“But, Father, he learned that from you.” She kept an innocent tone in her voice to match the look on her face. When she peeked out the corner of her eye, she saw him scowling.

“You minx. You just like to tease your old father.”

“What else have you been hatching without telling me?”

“I’ve hired a new man. I decided that since there has been some money missing, I would rather someone stayed at the office through the night. Just a precaution, mind you.”

“Of course.” She had an idea that with Hans gone the change drawer would not be losing any more change. But she couldn’t prove it and hadn’t wanted to smear the young man’s character. “So?”

“So I want you to look at that back room and see what needs to be done to turn it into living quarters. The young man I hired attends St. Olaf, so I thought perhaps he could walk you to school in the mornings as dawn comes later and later.” At her snort, he clamped his arm closer to his side, squeezing her hand in the process. “Now don’t you go arguing with me on this. You are too precious to me to take any chances. Besides, the world needs a doctor of your caliber.”

“Father.” She reached up and kissed his cheek. “I’m not a doctor yet.”
And it sounds like he is finally in agreement with me.

“But you will be and a blessedly good one too.” He pushed open the door, setting the bell to tinkling. “Let’s look at that room.”

“Fixing a room up is more in Mother’s domain than mine.”

“I know that, but I’d rather present this to her as a
fait accompli
.” He turned on the gaslights as they made their way down the hall. The back room had become the catchall for anything out of use that still had possibilities. Not that any of the things stored there were ever brought back into use, but her father hated to throw anything away. A furnace down in the basement heated the entire building, including the attic if they opened the vents.

Elizabeth stopped in the doorway. “Needs a massive cleaning out. Can that young man come help do that?”

“What a good idea. And isn’t there a bed and dresser up in the attic at home? I thought to give him a desk too, so he can study here under the gaslight.”

“It would help to put up a partition, then you would still have a storage room here.”

“We could do that later. I shall ask him if he can come on Saturday. Then perhaps he could start the first of next week.”

“What will he cook on?”

“Oh, can’t he eat at the college?”

“Not if you promised him room and board.”

“Did I say he’s already been published and plans on being a writer? Perhaps we can turn him into a journalist.”

“Father, you are changing the subject.” Elizabeth fetched a pad of paper and, with a pencil, began making notes. “He will need a rug. I know there’s one at home that would work. Some kitchen things. Perhaps Cook would make extra, and he could pick up his supper on the way home at night.”

“I knew you would think what’s best to do.” Her father turned back to his office. “I’ll leave you to that while I finish my editorial for this week. Have you written that article on the incoming freshmen at both Carleton and St. Olaf?”

“It’s almost finished.” She crossed to the window and looked out. “How dreary. We’ll need curtains for sure, but mostly it needs a good scrubbing.” She sniffed. “I sure hope he doesn’t mind the smell of ink. If he lives here, it will permeate his very pores.” She wandered out to the desk in the front of the shop where she did the accounts and sat down to finish her article.
I wonder if I’ve seen him on campus
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Blessing, North Dakota
October 1893

“Mor, I miss Thorliff something dreadful.”

“I know, Astrid, me too.” Ingeborg gave the cookie dough one last rolling. “You want to cut these out?”

“I guess.” Astrid took the cookie cutter and placed it precisely on the edge of the dough so as to use every scrap. “Have you seen Andrew yet?”

Ingeborg turned at the careless tone of her daughter’s voice. She knew that tone. It meant Astrid was hiding something. “No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wondered.” Astrid waited while her mother slid the pancake turner under the cut dough and lifted it off the floured board. “Shall I sprinkle sugar on them?”

“Or you could make faces with the dried currants.”

“Or both?” Her blue eyes reminded her mother so much of Thorliff that her heart turned over. “I think we shall box up some of these and send them to a certain person away at college.”

“Can I put in that muffler I knit for him?”

“I thought that was for Christmas.”

“Well, it froze here last night. He might get cold there.”

“Ah, Astrid, you surely may. I’ll put in a jar of rhubarb jam too. If he is doing his own cooking, he will like that.”

Astrid cut some more cookies, then cocked her head. “Does Thorliff know how to cook?”

“He won’t starve.” Ingeborg slid the flat cookie sheet into the oven. “We need some more wood.”

“That’s Andrew’s—I’ll get it.”

Ingeborg looked after her daughter as she darted out the back door.
All right, now what is going on? Andrew either isn’t home from school, or he doesn’t want to come in, fresh cookies or no. Lord, what is it? You know I trust them into your care, but not knowing sometimes makes it hard to leave them there. Do I go looking for him, or do I wait?

Astrid returned with an armload of wood and dumped it into the woodbox beside the stove.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

The little girl shook her head and raced out the back door again.

Wait
seemed to fill the kitchen. The orange cat asleep on a rug behind the stove mewed and arched her back, stretching every limb and hair the way only cats can do. She strolled over and rubbed against Ingeborg’s leg.

“Ja, I know. You want to be petted, but my hands are full of cookie dough. Ask Astrid.”

When Astrid came in and dumped another load, the cat twined about her legs, purring loud enough to be heard past the barn. She picked up the cat and held her under her chin. The purr volume upped, if that were possible. “It wasn’t Andrew’s fault. That mean Toby Valders pulled Ellie’s braids, pulled ’em real hard so Ellie had tears in her eyes, and she’s so much littler than him.”

Ingeborg rolled more cookie dough.

“Pastor made Toby chop wood, and he had to apologize, but he didn’t do so good.” She looked up from petting the cat. “Toby is just plain old mud-ugly mean.”

“Astrid, what a thing to say.”

“Well, he is. Andrew had to sweep the schoolroom and some other stuff. But you won’t tell him I told you, will you? Please, Ma. Andrew didn’t hurt him bad.”

“No, I won’t.”
But I’ll get the truth out of him. Andrew never lies
.

Ingeborg took the first pan of cookies from the oven and, one by one, lifted them onto the towel she’d spread on the table for just that purpose. “Go upstairs in the closet under the eaves and bring me that cardboard box the boots came in. That should be just the right size for the cookies and jam.”

“And the muffler.”

“That too.” Ingeborg turned her head at the sound of Paws barking. Most likely that was Andrew. She knew for certain when the tone changed from warning to ecstasy. If only it were as easy for her to do the same. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know when one of her children misbehaved out of her sight, but God always managed to bring it to her attention.

“You’re home late.” She smiled at her son when he entered the kitchen and handed him a cookie, still warm from the pan.

“I know.” Andrew took the cookie in one hand and dumped a book on the chair with the other. The thundercloud that rode him like Manda rode horses said he hadn’t worked off the anger by a long shot. “Do you know what that Toby Valders did today? He made Ellie cry! He . . . he laughed. Until I hit him. Then he quit laughing.”

“I expect he did.”

“He wasn’t laughing when he was chopping wood either. He was lucky I didn’t hit him with a log.” Andrew stomped across the room and back. “Mor, he can’t go on picking on other people like that. He thinks it is funny, but it’s not. Pastor makes him chop lots of wood, but that doesn’t do any good.”

“Maybe it all depends on how much he has to chop. Hard work takes the mean out of some people.” Ingeborg rolled another circle of cookie dough. “The Bible says to forgive those who hurt you.”

“I know.” He slumped in a chair. “But I forgave him lots of times, and what good has it done? He keeps on doing the same old mean things.”

Lord, give me wisdom, and I need it right now
. “Andrew, you can’t go on letting your fists take over for your mind.”

“I tried not to.”

“And maybe Toby tried not to tease.”

“No, he didn’t.” Pure disgust painted his words.

“How do you know that? Could you see in his heart?”

“Mor, only God can do that.” Andrew reached for another cookie. “I’m going to the springhouse for a glass of milk. You want the pitcher brought in?”

“Yes, please. And some eggs too. I thought a cake might be good for supper.”

That night when Ingeborg checked on Andrew after he’d gone to bed, she found him writing by the lamplight. She sat beside him on the bed and waited.

“I’m writing Thorliff a letter. This room seems so empty without him here.”

“We could have Hamre bring his things in here.”

“Maybe.” Andrew returned to his writing, then put his pencil and paper on the stand that held the kerosene lamp. “You know when I came home from school and was so mad?”

“Oh ja, I know.”

He glanced up with a sunbeam smile and went back to studying the calluses on his fingers. “Pastor made me look up some Bible verses. One said that unless I forgive someone, God doesn’t forgive me.”

“Forgive others as we have been forgiven?”

“Uh-huh. Another said that a soft answer turns away wrath.”

“I know. But that’s not easy to do.”

“So does that mean I should tease Toby back instead of hitting him?”

“You ask hard questions.” Ingeborg watched the flame flicker in the glass chimney. “Are you nice to Toby ever?”

Andrew tipped his head to the side. “I don’t talk to him much ’cause I don’t like him.”

“So what do you think God wants you to do in this instance?”

“Do I gotta love him?” Sheer horror made his mouth drop open.

“What does the Bible say?”

He traced circles on the sheet covering his lap. “To love your enemies and be kind to those who persecute you.” Silence stretched as the circles continued. He looked up at his mother. “God asks hard things, huh?”

“That he does. But He also says He will deliver us from evil, and I believe that includes evil thoughts and evil actions.”

“And punching someone is evil.” It wasn’t a question, but the words carried a heavy load.