Years (13 page)

When her lessons plans were done, she unfurled the American flag and hung it from its bracket up front, printed the words to the “Pledge of Allegiance” on the blackboard, then her name in large block letters:
MISS BRANDONBERG.
She stood back, surveying it with smiling satisfaction, brushing the chalk dust from her fingers, almost giddy at the thought of ringing the bell at nine o’clock tomorrow morning and calling her first class to order.

It was only mid-afternoon, and she hated to leave the pleasant schoolhouse just yet.

On a sudden inspiration she sat down and began drawing a series of large alphabet cards to augment the textbooks, each with a picture to represent the letter. On
A
she drew an apple. On B a barn. On c a cat. She enjoyed drawing, and took time over the task, stopping often to ponder long and hard over what symbol should represent each letter. Striving to make them pictures of things to which the children could relate, she made
H
a horse, rather misproportioned, but she did her best —
M
a mouse, and s a sunflower. And with a smile, she began next on a thistle.

But upon beginning, she realized she’d need to see the plant to capture the Russian thistle accurately.

She walked down the road with the sun beating hot on her hair, dreaming idle dreams while the cottonwoods tittered in the gentle afternoon breeze. Spying a gleaming amber rock in the middle of the road, she squatted, plucked it into her palm, and remained hunkered for long minutes, chin on knees, savoring the warmth of the stone — smooth and weighty in her palm. In places it glittered, and in the center bore a translucent stripe reminiscent of the color of Theodore’s eyes. She closed her own and remembered the touch of his arm next to hers in church, the odd sense of unity she’d felt while singing with him. She had never before been to a church service with a man.

She rubbed the stone with her thumb, popped it into her mouth, tasting its warmth and good earthiness, then spit it into her hand and studied the brown stripe, wet now, gleaming, its color intensified to the deep amber of Theodore’s eyes.

She smiled dreamily, hunkering yet in the center of the road.

“Lawrence,” she murmured aloud, “isn’t it funny, I’ve known
you all this time yet I’ve never noticed the color of your eyes.”

She stood up, squeezing the stone in her palm. She looked into Lawrence’s eyes. “Oh,” she noted disappointedly, “they’re green.” Then she forced herself to brighten. “Oh, well. Come on”
—
she grabbed Lawrence’s hand
—
”I’ll show you a Russian thistle.”

She found one in the ditch not far up the road. It grew in a ball. In winter it rolled before the prairie wind and caught on barbed-wire fences, causing thick drifts to build up around it. Come spring, it had to be manually dislodged. But now, in September, it was a perfect orb of tiny green flowers. A pair of blue-green bottleflies buzzed around it, and a fat bumblebee came to dip into its flowers.

Linnea leaned her drawing pad against her waist and began sketching.
“Now tell me, Lawrence, don’t you find that a pretty plant? Look how the bee drinks from it.”

Coming over the crest of a small rise of land in the wheat field to the northeast of the schoolhouse, Theodore raised his eyes to the small building in the distance. From here it appeared no larger than a dollhouse, but as the horses plodded along the gentle slope he made out the coal shed, the swings, the bell gleaming in the sunlight. A motion caught his eye and he noticed a figure some distance from the school, standing in the ditch near the far corner of the field. Unconsciously his spine straightened and his elbows came off his knees. Beneath the brim of his hat his brown eyes softened and a small smile lifted his lips.

What was she doing out there, the little missy? Standing in weeds up to her knees with something in her hands, something he couldn’t make out from here. Such a child, dawdling in the ditch as if she had nothing better to do with her time. He gave a silent, indulgent chuckle.

He knew the moment she spied him. She straightened, alert, then lifted whatever she was holding to shade her eyes. An odd exhilaration fluttered within him as she suddenly flung both arms in the air and waved in wide arcs, jumping up and down several times.

He shook his head a little, smiling as he eased forward again, elbows to knees, and continued studying her.

Such a child, he thought. Such a child.

* * *

Linnea watched the three sickles cross the field, coming her way, but too far to tell who was in the lead. It was a stunning sight, and she wished she possessed the skill to capture it in a painting, in bright yellows and blues to duplicate those of the wheat and the sky. There was a magnificence about the men and horses, so small against the majesty of all that land, spread before her in vast oceans of undulating yellow. That they controlled it and made it bountiful increased her admiration. Something clutched her heart with a wondrous ferocity and the words of a song came with awesome clarity...

Oh, beautiful for spacious skies
For amber waves of grain
...

Could there really be a war happening when before her lay nothing but beauty and bounty? And they said it was happening to preserve exactly what she was looking at. She thought of the flag she’d just hung, the words she’d just printed on the blackboard. She watched three men drive their teams through the thick stand of wheat. She breathed deeply. And leaped three times in sheer appreciation. And waved.

And one of them waved back.

6

L
INNEA HAD SLEPT
in a state of excitement. Awakening the first morning of school, she heard a rooster crowing out a reveille. Dawn promised a clear day through her little square of window. Downstairs, Nissa was making noises in the kitchen. Linnea bounded from bed with vitality and an avidity to begin the real thing at last.

She took great care with her hair, parting it down the middle, forming the tight twist that began just behind her ears and contoured her nape in a crescent shape. She donned her new green skirt and the matching Black Watch plaid shirtwaist, buttoning it high up the neck, then stretching the thin waist ties from front to back where she formed a bow before twisting on tiptoe to check the results in the mirror.

Though the skirt fit snugly across the front, its rear plaits were deep and full, billowing slightly across her spine, giving a faintly bustled shape that lifted the gathered tail of the shirtwaist. Seeing her reflection, she felt adult and confident. Still on tiptoe, she struck a pose, arms elevated, wrists gracefully cocked.

“Why, thank you, Lawrence. How I wish I could, but you see, today is the first day of school, and I’ll have a building full of children by... ” She suddenly looked down at her chest
and gave a chagrined laugh. “Oh, dear, I’ve forgotten my watch. You’ll have to excuse me while I fetch it.”

Dropping the whimsy, she moved to the dresser and took up a dainty gold pendant watch that hung suspended from a delicate bow-shaped pin. Over its face was a paper-thin gold cover etched with an all-over design of roses. It had been a graduation gift from her mother and father and was the first timepiece she’d ever owned. She pinned it just above the fullest part of her left breast, then stood back once again to admire herself with pride.

Yes, now I look the part. Miss Brandonberg, teacher.

With a smile, she went down to breakfast.

The others were there already, the men seated at the table while Nissa scuttled back and forth between it and the stove.

“Well, good morning, everyone! Mmm... that smells delicious, Nissa.” Linnea sounded as cheerful as the wake-up rooster, and her step was sprightly as she crossed to her usual chair.

John pivoted in his, gave her a longer inspection than ever before, turned the color of a freshly cured ham, and seemed unable to find his tongue.

“John,” she greeted, dipping her knees in a brief curtsy. “Kristian.” She swung his way with a gay smile and found him wide-eyed and gawking.

“Good —” But his voice cracked and he had to start again. “Good morning, Miss Brandonberg.”

“Theodore.” She gave him her brightest smile, but he scarcely glanced up as he filled his plate.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled.

Well, what have I done now, she wondered. Probably nothing. Theodore was just being his usual bright, sunny self.

“It looks like we’re going to have a beautiful day for our first day of school,” she chirped.

Nobody said a word except Nissa, who came to join them and offered, “Sure does. Everybody’s here so let’s pray.”

Theodore again did the honors in Norwegian, and though Linnea tried several times to break the barrier of silence through the meal, she met with little success. She complimented Nissa on the breakfast, then brought up the subject of yesterday’s lunch.

“If I keep eating this well, I’ll be fat in no time. My sandwich
Saturday was delicious, too.” She looked up inquisitively. “What was in it?”

“Tongue.”

Linnea felt her stomach lurch. “T... tongue?”

“Beef tongue,” Nissa clarified.

“Beef t —” But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word again. She gulped and felt slightly nauseated while four pairs of eyes slowly lifted to her.

“Never had tongue before?” Nissa inquired.

“N... no, thankfully.”

“Thought you said you liked it.”

“I thought I did. But...
tongue?”

“Hadn’t you heard? There’s a war going on. We don’t waste no part of the cow around here, do we, boys?”

She could feel their amused gazes on her and suddenly felt foolish. Still, she had to ask. “Did you put it in my sandwich again today?”

“Matter of fact, I did. It was the only cold meat I had. Course, I could fry you an egg and put it in there instead if you... ”

“Oh, no... no,” Linnea was forced to insist. “I don’t want to make any extra work for you. The t... tongue will be fine.”

For the first time that morning, Theodore’s eyes rested on her for more than a flash. But they wore a glint of amused mockery as he said, “Wait till you taste Ma’s heart stew.”

A chuckle rippled around the table before the Westgaards returned to their eating, but Linnea found it impossible to take another mouthful.

Rising, she offered lamely, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some things to get ready for school.” She gestured limply toward the stairway, then made her getaway.

But not even the prospect of tongue sandwiches could daunt her later when she checked her watch and found it was at last time to set off down the road.

Nissa was waiting to bid her good-bye. Kristian must have been in his room changing clothes, and the other two had already gone off to the fields. At the door, Nissa said, “Kristian says to give you this. I put a chunk of cheese in your lunch pail to bait it with.”

Linnea looked down at the mousetrap, accepted it gingerly between two fingers, and placed it on top of her grade book.

“Oh, he remembered. I’ll thank him when I see him.” She looked up and smiled, drew a deep breath, held it several seconds, then said, “Well, here goes. Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it, I don’t think. Just make ‘em know you’re boss and you’ll do good.”

Linnea set out on her twenty-minute walk eager and happy, her step animated as she strode along the crunching gravel. Beside the road the tall grasses were sleek with dew, glistening in the low sun, bending toward her in lissome arcs that scarcely quivered in the windless dawn. Beyond the ditches the fresh-cut grains dried in the long-stretching fields like a woman’s freshly washed hair. And everywhere was the scent of harvest: a nutlike quality tinctured with the dusty smell of chaff that hung before the sun in gilded motes.

A red-tailed hawk drifted high on an updraft, its wings as still as the grasses below, only its tail occasionally twisting as it circled and searched for its breakfast. The world was resplendent, silent, its night sounds ceased in the flush of early morning. The sun was an orange ball of flame, hot and blinding, warming Linnea’s front but leaving her back cool. Even squinting she could not make out the bell tower of the schoolhouse only half a mile away.