Dakota Dream (8 page)

Thoughts of the curious bear of a man wriggled in and out of her mind as she continued with her tasks of the day. What would he look like without that matted rat’s nest of a beard? Why wouldn’t he talk with her, even to say just the polite formalities? Why had her picture been on the table? Why didn’t she just ask Mrs. Norgaard and get her questions answered?

That night as she prepared her charge for bed, Clara could feel the questions welling up and pleading for voice. After blowing out the lamp on the stand, she cleared her throat. Only the light from the hall disturbed the darkness.

“Would you repeat our psalm again?” Mrs. Norgaard derailed Clara’s train of thought.

“Ja, that I will.” Clara sat down on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. Her voice gentle, she began. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .” As she continued, the words sank into her heart and mind, reminding her of the promises God wrote for everyone. When she finished, she bowed her head.
Peace and quiet have the same sound,
she thought.
Why is it that words written so long ago have such power to bring peace?

“Our Father which art in heaven . . .” Mrs. Norgaard’s voice with these other ancient words only added to the blanket of comfort. Clara joined her and together they whispered “Amen.”

When Clara began to rise, Mrs. Norgaard laid a hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Stay with me awhile, if you will. I have a story I want to tell you.” The words came softly out of the shadowed bed.

Clara settled herself with her back against the carved walnut foot. She waited.

“It all began a long time ago. A man here in town lost his wife one winter and left him with a small son. He had a hard time of it but eventually found another woman to marry. There has never been a surplus of marriageable females here in the Dakotas, so he felt blessed. The family was fine until the new wife had a baby. All she could think of was her son, and the older boy was pushed aside.

“Now as the lads grew, the younger son was quick to learn. None could resist his laughing eyes and curly hair, least of all his mother. And so he grew to take advantage of his older brother, who was not so quick to learn or glib of tongue.

“When the older was ten, the father died, making his elder son promise to care for his stepmother and half brother. They both treated him cruelly, but he finally left school that, although he was slow, he loved, and he then took an apprenticeship under the local blacksmith.

“When the blacksmith died, he willed his business to the young man, who had proven to have an amazing aptitude.

“And the younger son? Since his mother spoiled him so terribly, he felt that others should treat him like she did and drifted in with the wrong element of town.”

“And of the older brother?” Clara forced the words past the lump clogging her throat.

“He continued to withdraw, caught, I believe, in a web of agonizing shyness, convinced he was not worth more than his family had repeatedly told him. And that was nothing.

“It reminds me of Esau and Jacob.” Mrs. Norgaard sighed and a pause deepened. “I don’t know, God worked a miracle for those two brothers of so long ago and I pray the same can happen today.”

“You’ve prayed for them?”

“Oh, for years. The elder and I struck up a friendship back when he was a lad and was helping me in my garden. My Einer was much too busy in the bank to dig up the garden and help prune the trees. We never had children. Sometimes I wonder if God didn’t trust us enough to take good care of them.”

“Oh, no.” Clara bit back any more of a response, afraid she would halt the flow of gentle and dreamy words.

“So I made it a habit to acquaint myself with the village children and help where I could. One of my girls attended teachers’ school in Fargo and one young man has finished medical school. Dr. Harmon keeps hoping this young man will return to North Dakota where we need doctors so desperately.” Silence again.

“I receive letters from others who have married and moved away. They all were so special to me, not that I spoiled them, you know. I just made sure that if they wanted to do more with their lives, they could.”

Clara drew a bit of flannel from her pocket and blew her nose. “And the younger brother?”

“I haven’t seen him in a long time. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say, but then I have to remember my Lord’s commands and pray forgiveness both for my bad thoughts and his bad actions.” The clock chimed from the top of the six-drawer chest.

“You must go to bed now, my dear. Thank you for listening to an old woman’s ramblings.”

Clara bent over and brushed a kiss on Mrs. Norgaard’s forehead. “
Mange takk
.”

“God bless.”

I have to help him.
Clara lay in bed and stared upward at the canopy she could barely discern.
How can I? What can I do? He won‘t even talk to me.

She waited for heavenly inspiration.

The clock chimed the quarter hour.

An owl hooted out in the backyard.

“How, God, how?”

Clara woke with the same thought. As she hurried through her morning ablutions, she ignored the gray skies without and the gray cloud within. How could someone have mistreated a young boy so? Especially the woman who agreed to be his mother.

And what could be done now?

No wonderful solutions had come to her during the night. Was she expecting too quick an answer to her prayers? She brushed her hair, frustration lending vigor to her brush strokes. Mrs. Norgaard said she’d been praying for years . . . and nothing. The lilt had left Clara’s voice when she answered the summoning bell. Along with the snap in her step.

Shortly after dinner, the doorbell pealed. Clara wiped her hands on her apron and hurried down the paneled hall between the kitchen and the front entry. It was probably the doctor needing a cup of coffee during his daily round.

“Ingeborg!” Clara reached out to draw her guest inside and instead found herself enveloped in a hug that immediately made her think of Mor. “Come in, come right on in.”

“I hope I’m not intruding. John agreed to stay home with the little ones while they napped and so here I am.” Ingeborg unbuttoned her coat and let Clara remove it from her shoulders and hang the heavy black wool on the coat tree.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Norgaard might be asleep. She had a busy morning.” She led the way into the parlor. “I’ll go see and be right back.”

“No, I came to talk with you.” Ingeborg took a seat on the brown velvet sofa and patted the surface beside her. “‘For, you see, I have an absolutely marvelous idea and I need your help.”

“Me?”

“Yes, I am thinking of starting a class to teach English to those Norwegians who just immigrated.”

“Like me?” Clara put a hand to her chest.

“Yes.” Ingeborg gave a bounce on the slippery sofa.

“Wouldn’t you love to be able to speak and read the language of your new country?”

“Ja, for sure that I would.” A cloud dimmed the rising excitement in her eyes. “But how could I leave Mrs. Norgaard?”

“I think that can be arranged. I just kept thinking what a struggle Nora had had and I know many others feel cut off because they can’t talk easily—”

“That’s it!” Clara clasped her hands and buried them in her apron between her knees.

“What? Tell me what?”

“You said anyone who needs help with talking?”

Ingeborg nodded.

Clara turned to face her friend. “Even though he—I mean, they, might have lived around here all their lives.”

“I hadn’t thought to include someone like that, but, of course.” Ingeborg’s brow wrinkled in concentration.

“Dag Weinlander.” Clara leaned against the back of the sofa. “Ingeborg, you are the answer to my prayers.”

“I’m glad to hear that since you aren’t making a lick of sense.”

“What do you know of Dag Weinlander?”

Ingeborg rolled her eyes upward and pursed her lips. “Not a great deal, I must admit. He doesn’t come to church or any of the town socials. Besides, I have never found him to be very friendly when I’ve met with him anywhere. You know, in a town this size, everyone knows everyone else and all their business, too. But he seems a puzzle.” She tilted her head to the side and studied her friend. “I take it you know more?”

Clara told her the story she’d heard from Mrs. Norgaard. At the end of the tale, Ingeborg removed a cambric bit from her bag and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “I had no idea. Oh, the poor, poor man.” She paused, staring at the bit of fabric in her fingers. She nodded and looked up at Clara, a smile widening her lips as she spoke. “We’ll just have to help him out, won’t we?”

That Sunday at church, during the announcements, Reverend Moen invited all those who would like help with their English to meet at the church on Tuesday evening at six-thirty.

Ingeborg looked over the heads of her brood to Clara. Their private smile acknowledged that others would be invited, too.

When Clara returned home, she hung up her coat and tripped lightly up the stairs. The closing hymn kept echoing in her mind so she sang along, “Blest be the tie that binds, our hearts in Christian love . . .”

Mrs. Norgaard waited for her in the chair by the window. “I love to hear you sing and that song is one of my favorites. Maybe I’ll soon be able to go to church again. I think I miss the music most of all.”

“Ja, these folks, they sing good.” She took the other chair. “He did it—Reverend Moen said the English class will begin on Tuesday.”

“Good. Then our next step is to invite Dag here for me to tell him about the class. His shop is not open for business today, so the livery is where he’ll be. After dinner, if you would, walk over there with a message for me. Do we have any more of your apple cake? He seemed to enjoy that.”

“No, but I could put one in to bake while I finish the dinner.” Clara stood and barely refrained from skipping out the door.

Down at the livery stable a while later, Will came out at her call, rubbing the dust off his hands as he came. “C’n I help you,
froken
Johanson?” His grin displayed a gap between his front teeth, besides showing his delight at her arrival.

“I hope so. Is Mr. Weinlander here?”

“He’s at the forge. You need a horse or sumpin’?”

“No.” Clara shook her head, a wistful smile betraying her desire as she looked to the stalls. “Perhaps someday I’ll ride again, but for now, Mrs. Norgaard is asking for Da—Mr. Weinlander to come see her.”

“Right away.” Will touched a finger to his forehead and trotted back through the barn to the separate building facing the other street. Ringing sounds of hammer on steel announced that Dag was hard at work. The lad returned in a matter of seconds. “Said he’ll be right over, soon’s he finishes the piece he’s working on.”

“Thank you.” Clara refused to recognize the letdown feeling the answer gave. Had she expected him to walk back with her? She paused a moment. “You know, there’s fresh apple cake if you would like to come, too.”

Will rubbed his mouth with grimy fingers. “That’d be right fine, Miss, but one of us has to stay here. There’s a team comin’ back.”

“Maybe another time?”

“I’d like that.”

Clara quelled the urge to walk slowly in case Dag might overtake her and instead hurried to prepare the tray and make fresh coffee.

Dag was more taciturn than ever, if that were possible, when Clara showed him upstairs. He answered each of her carefully thought-out questions with a grunt or nothing at all. She shook her head as she left the room. Getting him to talk was perhaps going to be more of a challenge than she’d thought.

When Clara reentered the room carrying the coffee tray, it was obvious Dag didn’t agree with Mrs. Norgaard. He sat with arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set like a snapping turtle.

“Just think about it, please,” Mrs. Norgaard pleaded. “You would find it easier to deal with your customers if you spoke more fluent English.”

“I have plenty of business.” Hoarfrost shimmered on each word.

“Well.” The old woman straightened her shoulders and shot him a look that would have melted steel. “Do what you must. All I ask is you give it some thought. Set that down here.” She pointed to the table by her side.

Clara hazarded a glance at Dag after carefully positioning the tray so Mrs. Norgaard could pour. He didn’t appear to be melting.

Dag watched her hands as she set down the tray. Each movement flowed with the grace of a half-grown wheat field dancing in the wind. Why should he go to an English class? Resentment chased good sense around in his mind. They talked about speaking, but would the class include reading? He thought wistfully of newspapers and the books that graced the shelf at his mother’s house. He could barely decipher Norwegian, let alone English.

Why had he been so slow in school? Maybe he was a dumb dolt like Jude said. Stupid and slow—and ugly as a troll. Yeh, the trolls were big and strong, like him, and ugly.

He heard a voice as from a great distance.

“Mr. Weinlander, your coffee. And would you have some apple cake?” Her voice sang like the birds at courting time.

Two of his favorite aromas, coffee and cinnamon. He sniffed appreciatively and accepted the offered food. “
Mange takk.” English, speak English, you dolt! Show her you can. But Clara doesn’t talk English,
the other side stated. He felt like his brain had become a battlefield.

“Will seems like such a nice young man.”

Answer her!
Dag choked on his apple cake. He coughed and took a swig of coffee that only made him cough more. When he could breathe again, he leaned back in his chair. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked up at Clara, expecting to see condemnation, but all her blue eyes radiated was compassion.

A glance at Mrs. Norgaard left him reeling. Dag staggered to his feet. “I must go.” He left the house as if a hound of heaven bayed at his heels.

“Wait! Dag, wait!” He was at the gate before her cries penetrated the voices raging in his brain. He strangled the spires on the gate with shaking hands. He could hear her shoes tapping out her hurry.

“Here.” She thrust a napkin into his hand. “I wrapped this for Will since he said he couldn’t come with you.”

Dag nodded without looking above her hands and fled out the gate.

“What are we going to do?” Clara asked that night as she brushed Mrs. Norgaard’s hair in preparation for bed.

“First we pray and then we wait.”

Clara sighed. “But—”

“No buts, my child. Our Dag has his own devils to work out and only our Father can do that for him. But you and I . . . well, I think we shall invite both Dag and Will for supper. Wednesday would be a good night, don’t you think?”

Clara fell into bed, both restless and relieved. Waiting was so hard, but at least she had someone with whom to wait. Dag had no one. Her prayers matched her feelings—confused.

Monday there was a letter for Mrs. Norgaard when Clara went to mail hers to Mor and Far. Clara studied the handwriting. If only she could understand English! On her way back to the house, she went by the blacksmith’s and handed Will a note to give Dag. It was an invitation to supper.

“Umm . . . ah—” Will stuttered. He looked from the note to Clara, over his shoulder to Dag working at replacing a wagon wheel rim, and back to the note, his gaze darting like sparks flying from the anvil.

“Is there a problem?” Clara could sense his hesitation even if she couldn’t have seen it.

“Ah, no.” Will shook his head. “He can’t stop what he’s doing right now or he’ll have to start all over, so I’ll give him this when he’s done.”

“Oh.” Clara felt a stab of disappointment. More waiting! “Well, all right then.” She turned and walked back to the big house, her shoulders hunched against the bite of the north winds. As the postmaster had said, it looked, felt, and smelled like a snowstorm was on the way.

The note, delivered later by Will and crudely lettered as if the writer had missed more school than he had attended, declined the invitation.

Mrs. Norgaard tapped the folded paper against her hand. “I have a question for you, Will, and I want an honest answer.”

Will shuffled his feet, hat squashed between his two hands. “Yes’um.”

“Who wrote this?”

Will wrinkled up his forehead, clicked his tongue, shuffled his feet again, and rendered his hat totally useless. “I did.”

“Did Dag see my invitation?”

Will nodded. He rubbed his chin with one index finger.

This time it was Mrs. Norgaard’s turn to nod. “Clara, why don’t you take the boy down and give him a sandwich and maybe some of that apple cake if there is any left. Good day, young man. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Yes’m. Thank you.” Will bobbed his head and followed Clara out the door. By the time he’d eaten his fill, hard pellets of snow were dashing themselves against the window. He mashed his hat on his head and trotted down the walk, turned once to wave again, and then picked up his feet to hurry home before he froze.

Clara thought about the discussion upstairs as she cleaned up the kitchen. What was going on? And the letter that came. Would Mrs. Norgaard share that with her as she had the others? And on top of all that, what would be their next sally in the war on Dag Weinlander?

“Tomorrow I think I shall want to go downstairs for dinner.”

Clara immediately thought of all the steps. How would they ever manage? While Mrs. Norgaard could now walk around her room, she hadn’t left it in . . . in . . . Clara had no idea how long.

“I want you to go to the smithy in the morning, if the weather cooperates, and ask Dag to come to carry me down. If he refused to join us for dinner, why then he can return to carry me back up.”

Clara felt a chuckle bubbling up from her midsection. She tried to contain it but failed miserably. “Gladly,” she answered when they could both talk again.

“Oh, Clara,” Mrs. Norgaard said, as the younger woman was leaving the room for the night. “That letter, it was from Mrs. Hanson. She’ll be returning next week.”

Clara felt like she’d been struck by a widow maker.

The feeling of doom persisted as she crawled into her bed. If Mrs. Hanson was returning, she could go back to the farm with Carl and Nora. Why didn’t the thought please her? Since the move to town, she’d only seen her sister once and that was at church.

But what would she do for a job? And how could she help Dag when she would be so far out in the country? And what about the English classes?
God, are You sure You know what is going on here? How can I thank You when I am so confused? Every time I think I have things under control or at least figured out, something changes. Please help me.

“Why the long face?” Mrs. Norgaard asked when Clara brought in the breakfast tray. “The sun is shining; we can proceed with our plan.”

Clara nodded and poured the coffee. She probably wouldn’t be doing this for much longer. She walked over to the windows and drew back the heavy draperies. Sun refracted from the diamonds bedded in the inch of pristine snow covering the yard. How clean and pure everything looked. Snow frosted the black branches of the elm tree and bonneted the wrought iron fence posts. An unconscious sigh lifted her shoulders.