The Brushstroke Legacy (20 page)

“Paul said for us to stay off the roof. He’s afraid it’s not safe.”

So big deal for Paul.
Ragni shot a look at Erika. “We could run a hose through it.” Ragni stood, hands on hips, and stared at the wall. “I bet Poppa’s snake would work.”

“That thing he cleaned out drains with?”

“A more useful kind of snake, at least in this instance.”

“You know, I used to dream that the floor was covered with snakes, and if I let my hand or foot move off the bed, I’d be bitten.”

“Eeuw. What a terrible dream.” Ragni shook her head and shivered again. “I’ll probably have nightmares after my reptile encounter.”

“Aren’t there people who clean out chimneys?” Erika boosted herself up to sit on the counter.

“Yes, if we had a telephone to call them. I thought of starting the fire anyway, but with all that soot in the pipes, we might burn the place down. At least that would take care of Paul’s concern.”

“I thought you liked not having a phone.” Erika, arms rigid on the counter, stared down at her swinging feet. “But if the cabin burned, the hay field might burn, and then Paul would be really unhappy.”

“True.” Ragni felt the need to get back to the situation at hand. “Well, I’m going up on the roof with the broom, and you can dig soot out from in here. Let’s put down that tarp I bought so we can carry the crud outside and dump it.”

“Slave driver. We got all clean, and now we’re going to get really dirty.” Her face said quite clearly what she thought of the coming mess.

Getting on the roof was more difficult than Ragni thought it would be.

“Let me do that.” Erika stood at the bottom of the stepladder. “I can get up there easier than you can.”

Ragni wavered—in her mind, not her body. Erika was definitely more agile than she was, not that she was decrepit or anything. But seventeen more years of living made a lot of difference, as did more pounds.

“No, I will. Hold the ladder.” She clung to the roof as she climbed onto it. “Hand me the broom, please.” Taking the broom from Erika, she turned over to hands and knees, then pushed herself upright. She was fine now, as long as she didn’t look down.
You are the biggest sissy of all time. It’s not like you’re on a skyscraper, or even a two-story building. Just this little old cabin.
Scolding herself took her mind off the drop from the edge of the roof to the ground.

Once at the chimney, she bumped a brick in the cap; it slid off and thumped down the warped and moldy shakes, taking a shake
with it as it clattered to the ground.
Lord, what am I doing up here anyway? How can I be so stubborn and stupid?

Hearing a truck coming down the road, she looked up to see dust billowing. The now familiar tan truck slammed to a stop in front of the cabin, and Paul leaped to the ground. “What do you think you’re doing up there?” His shout could be heard clear to Medora.

“I’m cleaning out the chimney so I can start the stove.” With effort, she kept any quaver out of her voice.

“You trying to kill yourself or what?” Paul stood back far enough from the house to see her clearly.

She looked down at him, all six-foot-plus of righteous male indignation, arms akimbo, fists planted at his belt. The hat brim shaded the upper part of his face, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but from the rest of his body language, she knew they were flashing fire. Looking down was not a good idea—not a good idea at all. She blinked several times, as if trying to get a lash hair out of her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, but the only solution was to sit down and close her eyes.

Answering him took more air than she could suck in at the moment. The need to keep from lying flat out or curling into a ball supplanted the desire to tell him exactly what she thought of his domineering behavior.
Kill myself indeed.
“Aunt Ragni, are you all right?” Erika asked from the stepladder. She looked over her shoulder. “We have to help her.”

“Why in the world would she…?” Paul muttered, coming closer to the house.

“We’re just trying to clean the chimney.”

Ragni would have smiled at the bite in Erika’s voice if she could think that far. Is this what women used to feel like when they were
about to swoon? She let her head drop forward as far as it would go, but when one was sitting on a roof with knees bent, the soles of one’s boots flat, and ancient, buckled shakes digging into one’s posterior, nothing helped much. She scooted forward slightly. The sound of ripping fabric made her freeze.
My pants.
She nudged herself forward again, but now she was stuck.
Not only am I scared of heights, now I can’t move, and my pants are ripped.
If only she could sink through the roof.

“Hang on, I’m coming to help you.” Paul motioned Erika off the ladder and climbed up to step catlike onto the roof. The creaking sound came from the boards beneath the shakes. “Are you dizzy?”

The nod was not a good idea either.

“Heights been a problem before?”

“Mmm hmm. Thought I was over that.”

“Take my hand.”

Ragni looked up to see his extended hand. Her hand had a mind of its own as it left her knees and…

He took a step, and the shake he stepped on broke away, knocking him slightly off balance. He took a step the other way, onto the slight dip that extended from the chimney to the lower edge of the roof, a dip that would be noticeable only as a shadow when the sun was right. The ensuing crash sounded like the whole roof was caving in.

Shooting that half-grown cow didn’t sound like such a bad idea at the moment. Tossing the laughing man in the river sounded like the best idea of all. Nilda stalked over to where the shirt hung snagged on a dead branch of a fallen tree. Now it would need not only washing again but also the services of a needle and thread. Beckoning Eloise to follow her, she gathered up the drying laundry and returned to the house.

The bread had risen all right—over the sides of the bowl to puddle on the counter. With a murderous glare, Nilda punched down what was in the bowl and returned the escaped dough back to the main body. She dumped the entire ball out on the floured surface, slammed and kneaded it a few times, and cut it into five portions for loaves. They only had two loaf pans. She formed the remaining three pieces into round loaves and placed them on the cookie sheets to rise again under a clean dishtowel—one of the first things to be washed and dried.

She could hear the men outside, along with the sound of digging and hammering.

“Ma?”

“Ja.” She turned and forced a smile for her daughter’s benefit. “What do you need?”

“I’m thirsty.”

Oh bother, she hadn’t churned the cream she’d poured into the churn so they would have fresh butter to put on the fresh bread. A cup of buttermilk sounded like an excellent idea right about now. Instead she pulled the milk jug out of the tub of cold water and poured Eloise a cup.

“You take this out and sit on the front step to drink it. Do not leave the step, you hear me?” Visions of her daughter getting lost in the tall grass or bitten by a snake haunted her more than she wanted to admit.
Fret not. If only the doing was as easy as the saying.
“And stay away from the cows.” She wasn’t sure if the warning was for her or Eloise.

Eloise nodded and, holding her cup carefully with both hands, walked to the door and looked over her shoulder to her mother. “Bread?”

Nilda huffed out a sigh. “Soon. Just put the cup down on the step, sit yourself down and then drink it.” She gave the stew a stir and added more wood to the fire.

By the time she rang the bar for dinner, she had the long Johns drying on the tree branches and the bread out of the oven. Guilt over not having bread dough frying for dessert and because the sun was well past straight up made her ring the bell harder than necessary. If anyone commented on her timing, she would not be responsible for her answer.

“Smells mighty good in here.” Hank slicked back his hair, wet from washing at the basin she’d set out, as he came through the door behind Mr. Peterson. The two men took their places as Eloise continued
carefully placing silverware on the table.
They are using the wash basin, and I didn’t even have to mention it.
The thought made her smile inside.

“You know how to fish?”

The question caught her by surprise. So far Mr. Peterson had not spoken to her while he was eating.

“No, I’ve never gone fishing.”

“I see.”

You see what? Are people born knowing how to fish?
“I’ve never lived near a river for fishing.” Had she not been watching, she’d have missed the nod of his head. She waited for more conversation along that line, but he concentrated on his plate, shoveling in the food as if she might snatch it away.

“The posts are up. I’ll string the clothesline after dinner.” Hank wiped his greasy fingers on his pant legs.

“Mange takk.” She caught a quiver of a smile from the big man at the end of the table. He seemed to like her using Norwegian phrases. She used her folded apron to protect her hand and carried the coffeepot to the table.

“You going to eat?” Mr. Peterson glanced up from forking the stew into his mouth.

“When you’re done.”

“Why?”

“Ah, because that’s the way it is.”

“Not here. Sit.” He pointed to the vacant chair. “And your girl.”

Her name is Eloise, can you not say that?
“As you wish.” Nilda settled Eloise on the chair that now had a box on it and took her own place.

“You are a good cook.” Hank reached for another slice of bread and sniffed it before breaking it apart to sop up his stew. “Nothing smells as good as fresh bread.”

“Thank you.” Nilda dished up a small portion for Eloise and a larger one for herself. The fragrance of baking bread still lingered in the house and floated up from the piece she broke in half for Eloise.
We should have butter on it. So much to be done here, and now he wants me to go fishing…

Having a clothesline sped up the laundry the next day so that she could begin planting the garden. She marked a row with two sharpened sticks and the strings left from the store packages. With the row marked, she raked under the string, figuring that it didn’t matter if there were clods of dirt between the rows. After digging a furrow with the hoe, she showed Eloise how to plant the precious bean seeds, one little-girl foot apart. Eloise did as her mother showed her, brow wrinkled in concentration.

I should have sewn us both sunbonnets
, Nilda thought as she felt her own nose grow warm and saw her daughter’s face turn pink.
For us who have never had enough sun, this is a surfeit for sure.
One more thing to do in the short evenings.

“See, Ma.” Eloise pointed to her work.

“Now you must cover them up.” Nilda used her hand to pat the dirt back over the seeds. “Like this.”

Eloise squatted down and mimicked her mother. She held up a blackened palm. “Dirty.”

“It’s all right. We’ll go wash in the river after we finish our rows.”

In a minute Eloise stood, a wriggling worm clutched between finger and thumb. “Look, Ma, look.”

“A worm, you found a worm.”

“Worm.”

“Ja, they are good for the garden. Put it back in its home.”

Eloise looked around, stared at her mother and then at the worm. “Where worm house?”

Nilda laughed and scooped her daughter up to swing her around until she giggled as well. “Worms live in the ground. That’s where you found it, right?” She set her back down and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“Ja, in the dirt.”

Carefully, Eloise put the worm back in the row and drizzled dirt over it. “Worm gone, Ma.”

Nilda marked and raked the next rows. When next she glanced over to check on Eloise, the girl was curled up in the grass in the shade of the house, sound asleep. Dusting the dirt from her hands, Nilda picked up her daughter.

“Come now, lets wash your hands and put you to bed.” She kissed the smooth cheek, warm from the sun and damp from the heat. Without completely waking up through the ablutions, Eloise sighed as her mother laid her on the bed. Nilda felt a love so intense that her eyes blurred. If nothing else, this move was bringing color to her daughter’s cheeks and laughter to her lips. All over a worm. One did not find wriggling worms sitting on a house stoop in the city.

The next afternoon while she and Eloise were planting corn, the sun went behind a cloud, and she glanced up to see purple and gray
storm clouds blotting out the western sky. Thunder rumbled, and the wind quit rustling the cottonwood leaves and began beating the branches about instead. Lightning forked against the blackness. By the time she’d gathered up their tools, the first drops of rain splatted on her forehead.

Eloise raised her face to the cool drops and smiled. She lifted her hands, palms up, and slowly turned in a circle.

Ah, if your bestamor could only see you now
, Nilda thought, taking Eloise’s hand and heading for the house. Grandmothers should be closer to their grandchildren, to see them grow and delight in each new discovery. Like the picture of Eloise playing in the dirt.

Nilda’s fingers twitched to draw such a picture so she could send it to her mother. She’d often decorated her letters with tiny drawings of leaves, flowers—things she saw around her. But she’d never had the wealth of natural beauty that she had here. She’d smoothed the wrapping paper from the packages so carefully—if she had a flat iron, they would be even smoother. As the skies opened and the rain came down in slanting torrents, she sat Eloise down at the table with a glass of milk and a buttered slice of bread with a bit of sugar sprinkled on it. She found the hoarded pencil and began to draw. If only she could catch the beatific expression of the little girl adoring the rain.

Sometime later she looked up to see Eloise asleep in one of the big chairs.
Uff da, what kind of mother am I that I sit here drawing when my child needs to be in bed?
Only when she stood and felt her knees creak in protest did she realize how long she’d been sitting. Looking down, she could only smile. One would have to be blind not to recognize Eloise’s face drawn on the paper on the table.

It had been so long since she’d drawn anything. Nilda flexed her
fingers and stared at her hands. What was it that let her re-create what she had seen? Her mor said it was a gift from God. Looking at the drawing, she could even hear the humming that Eloise sang when she was happy—as she’d been in the rain. But there was no way for her mother to hear that funny little song.

The rain continued to thunder on the roof, the darkness giving her no hint of the time. Did she dare sit down again and write to her mother? Something made her think she must not be caught drawing and writing. After all, she was hired to cook and clean, neither of which was finished for the day. Gingerbread would be good for supper, with a vanilla sauce. The men must be working on the machinery or something in the barn. With rain on the roof drowning out every other sound, she felt tucked into her own little world, safe from the onslaughts of weather, of intrusion, of the need for hurry. She inserted two pieces of wood into the stove, settled the lid, and pulled the coffeepot to the front. While it heated, she took out the bowl and pan for making gingerbread. Good thing she had included some spices on her list the other day, though a new list was growing more quickly than Mr. Peterson would likely appreciate.

While she cracked the eggs into the bowl, she thought about the man who had brought her out here. To say he was a man of few words was an exaggeration. Or was he like that only in the house? She’d heard the two men talking while they worked outside on the fence. Had she done something to cause a silence around her? She thought back to other men in her life, those in the families she’d worked for, their guests. Most of them had few words to say because she was either in the kitchen or serving, and one did not talk to the servants while entertaining.

She drew the line at thinking of that one man, the man whose careless actions changed her life. That part of her past was closed behind a door so solid it could not be moved, secured with padlocks whose keys she had thrown away.

She caught herself humming the same tune that Eloise had been singing in the rain. It was so familiar. If only she could remember where she learned it.

Thank You, Lord, for the rain to water my garden. I wish I’d had more of it planted, but now when the sun comes out, it should sprout up almost overnight.
The thought of having her own garden released something deep inside her. Showing Eloise how to plant the seeds and cover them with dirt was the same thing her own mother had done with her. If only she’d had seeds for some flowers. Sweet peas and marigolds. She hadn’t dared to put such triviality on the list for Mr. Peterson, but next year, if she was still here, she would take some of her own money and buy flower seeds. Somewhere she’d find a start for a rosebush. Surely whenever she got to meet other women, they would share their cuttings with her. When she had time, she would dig up a plot on the south side of the house for her flowers.