A Winter's Promise (9 page)

From then until they were in bed, the children balked
continually whenever Emma told them to do some
thing. She was on the verge of spanking all three of
them, but held herself back lest she spank much too
hard. When they were finally quiet she stood, fingers pressed against her temples, and tried to think what she had to do before she could crawl into bed.

She carried more wood in from the lean-to, filled the stove, and closed the draft almost all the way. She braided her hair and drank another cup of milk.

In bed, Emma let out her breath jerkily as waves of
pain swept through her.
Lord, please ease the pain. Help
me sleep and please, oh, please, make the storm stop.

It seemed to Emma that she had hardly fallen to sleep when the baby cried. It was no surprise; he
needed much more milk than she had supplied to
day. Fearful of nursing him in bed, lest she fall
asleep and smother him, she pulled the rocker clos
er to the stove and sat there with a comforter
tucked around them both.

There was so much she should do tomorrow.
She always scrubbed the pine floorboards with lye soap the day before Al came home. Not this week,
she decided. She
’
d have all she could do to carry water, feed the children, do morning chores, and
water the cattle at noon. And there was the bread to bake, and—
”
Oh, my goodness!
”
she whispered.
“
I forgot to set the yeast. I
’
ll do it as soon as I put the baby down.
”

All those long hours ahead of her. What was it
Kate had said?
“
Take one hour at a time. Do the
best you can that hour.
”

“
Oh, Kate!
”
Emma whispered.
“
I
’
ll try. But I sure wish you were here to help me!
”

Before she shifted George to the other breast, Emma leaned over and opened the draft. The baby
protested with s
harp c
ry.

“
Oh,
Liebc
hen,
you
think you have troubles,
”
she w
hispered.
“
I wish I
were little again.
”

She wiggled into a more comfortable position, letting her thoughts take her back in time. She could see the
streets
in Oshkosh from her early childhood. She re
called how strange the board sidewalks of Ogema
seemed that day she and Mama and the other children arrived by train, leaving Oshkosh behind.

Poor, Papa! He had met them at the train and tried to
lift her down, but she wouldn
’
t let him because she
didn
’
t know him with a beard! He
’
d been gone a year, working in the Northern Wisconsin pine forests so far from his family. He must have
been so lonely, she realized
now.

The board sidewalks
were soon left behind as they
walked through what seemed to be endless woods. Ten
long miles they had hiked, taking two days to do it. She
’
d never forget seeing that little log cabin by the
creek for the first time. It was like living in a storybook.

How many times she had walked that ten miles
since—including the day of her wedding, when she
walked with her right hand in Al
’
s, her left hand finger
ing the smooth poplin of her silvery-gray wedding dress.

Ma would have frowned and scolded, had she seen
Emma fingering her dress like that.
“
You look like a baby doing that—like you
’
re still dragging your baby
quilt around. You used to feel its edge till you were
three. Then when you let go that quilt, you
’
d be sittin
’
there fingering your skirt every time I looked at you.
”

It was an odd habit. Emma wasn
’
t usually aware she was doing it till Ma scolded or her brothers teased. That thought took her back to the night of the square dance. She was sitting, watching t
he dancers and feeling the cali
co material of her skirt slide through her fingers, when nine-year-old Dick ran past and yelled,
“
Want your blanket, baby?
”

P
robably no one el
se had heard
him, but her
face
flamed.
I neve
^r
should have told Al I
’
d come. I can
’
t
dance.

The last time she
’
d tried, she had made so
many
wrong turns that Walter
and Dick said she looked like a
cow trying to find the right stall. This night she felt like
all eyes were on her
, though she hadn
’
t made quite a
s many blunders. When she twisted her ankle, she
was se
cretly glad and pretended it hurt more than it really did
so she could limp to a seat.

But then she had to sit and watch Millie Luft flashing her big, brown eyes at Al as she swooped and twirled, never making one wrong move. Hattie, her best friend,
had sat with her a little while but then off she went,
whirling as gracefully as Millie, while Emma sat with
the old ladies.

Surely Al would
sit
out one dance and talk with her.
She waited and smiled at those around her, and even clapped her hands. But Al just kept on dancing.

When Emma felt like she had been sitting there for hours, Ma came up.
“
You
’
re riding home with us.
”

Emma looked pleadingly at Al, and Ma said,
“
Dick, go tell Al Verleger that Emma
’
s going home.
”

Al didn
’
t even wave when she hobbled to the door.

Ma had tried to console her when they got home.
“
He
’
ll come by tomorrow, you
’
ll see.
”
But he hadn
’
t. In fact, it was almost September before she saw him again.

Emma could see that scene in her mind just as plain
as if it had been yesterday. There was Al, coming up the lane, his hair blowing in the wind, his coattail standing straight out behind him. Her first impulse had been to
have Ma tell him he could just go see Millie Luft, but
she found herself at the door, hoping he couldn
’
t hear
how hard her heart was pounding.

When she opened the door, he took her hand and
pulled her right out on the stoop. His words tumbled
out.
“
Emma, I wanted to come see you the day after the
dance,
but I had to help Pa.
New
families came from
Germ
any, and I
’
ve been working and working ....

She squeezed his hand.
“
You
’
re here now. Want to
sit down?
”

“
Soon as I get a drink,
”
he said, taking the tin cup off
the wire hook on the pump. He held the cup in his left
hand and pumped with his right—something Emma
couldn
’
t do because her arms weren
’
t long enough to
reach.

When he sat down, he took her hand again. She,
didn
’
t want to pull it away, although the thought flitted
through her mind that she really ought to. She soaked
up his enthusiastic words about the land he had filed a
claim on and about the new settlers coming in. It was
wonderful to hear what was going on outside her own
household. She hoped he wouldn
’
t ask her what had been happening in her life, because nothing had. The only new things she ever saw were what baby Anne
learned.

Al stayed for supper that night, but it seemed to
Emma that he paid little attention to her. At dusk he said he had to leave and asked Emma to walk to the
main road with him. He didn
’
t even hold her hand, she
remem
bered, until they reached the road. Then he gave her hand a quick squeeze and said,
“
You
’
re gonna be at
the box social next week, aren
’
t you?
”
and he was gone.
She walked back to the house that night in a welter of
emotions—miffed because he had talked with the fami
ly all
evening, disappointed because he hadn
’
t offered to
take
her to the social, and yet thrilled that he had come
to see her and was, perhaps, looking forward to seeing
her again.

So long ago. ...
Emma held baby George up to her
shoulder, kissed the top of his head, and sm
iled, remembering how excited
she had been preparing her
l
unch and decorating that box for the social.
Ma had helped her cover the box with some material
leftover from her new skirt. It
had looked real pretty
when they were done. Ma found some blue
yarn that
just matched, and Emma tied
the
box with it and made a
bow on the top.

She
’
d had t
o
wear her old skirt that night, or every
one would know which box was hers. When the bidding
started on her box, she could hardly breathe. Big, old,
re
d-faced Gus kept bidding, but so did Al. He hadn
’
t
even placed a bid on another box. How did he know it
was hers? Or did he?

Al got it for seventy-five cents, one of the
highest bids
of the evening. He led Emma to a quiet comer of the
hall where the girls hung their coats. She took out the
napkins and arranged the sandwiches on them. She
’
d
take out the molasses cake later.

“
I was wondering how I
’
d ever kn
ow your box, but
then I saw your material.
You wore that skirt the night I
had
supper at your house. Emma, I didn
’
t know you were so clever!
”

Emma felt her face burn.
“
I never thought of that, Al,
honest! I never thought you
’
d remember my skirt mate
rial.
”

He gave her a quick, one-armed hug.
“
Now I can
walk you home. I wanted to bring you this evening, but
that
’
s not exactly fair at a box social. I might have had to
see another girl home, if I
’
d ended up with her supper!
”
What a dummy I was! I was wishing Al would kiss me
that night, but still I was scared. Maybe he knew I was
scared, and that
’
s why he just hugged me and said it was
nice to be with me.

She smiled into the darkness, thinking how Al
’
s
huge frame would fill the doorway tomorrow evening.
The little ones would cling to his legs, and he
’
d wink at
her over their clamor. She
’
d pretend to be busy, but she
’
d be waiting until the children
’
s excitement had subsided. Then he
’
d come and wrap her in his long
arms. She wouldn
’
t even mind the odor of greasy camp
cooking that clung to his, woolen shirt, or his week
’
s
growth of whiskers. She
’
d just cling, unaware for a mo
ment of the children, and let all her tension seep into his strong body.