Deep Harbor

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Oh, I have so much to do. The funeral to plan—”

  “A walk would do you both good,” she repeated. Although only fifteen years Elsa’s senior, the woman talked to her as a mother to her child. It soothed Elsa’s aching heart.

  Elsa sighed. “Very well. Directly after lunch. Can we speak about the funeral plans now?”

  “Yes, yes, let me just go tell the boy. He’ll be so pleased.”

  As with so many things, Mrs. Hodge was right. Kristian eagerly took her hand as Elsa forced herself out the front door on Third Avenue. They lived in a fine section of town—just down the street from Sara and Henry Yesler’s nearly completed, forty-room mansion—in a house for which Peder had proudly paid cash. Formerly owned by a mining millionaire, their two-story home was a classic, yet understated, Queen Anne with none of the showiness that some of Seattle’s founders, like the Yeslers, had succumbed to. It fit Elsa perfectly, and she had been as excited as Peder to move in.

  Just down the street was a city park, and Kristian pulled her hand, eager to get there and play on the seesaw or swings. He seemed thrilled that Elsa was moving, and willing to spend some time with him. A stab of guilt shot through her, and Elsa resolved to spend more time with her son, to force herself to be “alive,” if only to him. Her grieving could take place at other times. Her son, and the child within her, needed her to take care of herself and give them all she could.

  As they walked, they passed a cemetery, present in the city since its birth more than thirty years before. Many of the headstones had moss growing on them, and the lettering was difficult to read on others. Kristian pulled her hand to a stop and stared through the iron fence. “Bobby Francis says that Papa’s name will be on one of those things,” he said, pointing at the headstones, then looking up to Elsa as if asking her to deny it.

  Elsa swallowed hard. She nodded once, staring out at the hundreds of headstones, testimonies to hundreds more who had grieved as she did—there was odd comfort in the fact. “Yes, Kristian. We are going to mark a grave with a headstone that would make your papa proud. We need a place to remember him, to honor him.”

  “Because he disappeared in the sea?”

  Elsa paused, then said, “Yes. We have no body to hug one last time. We can’t kiss him once more. But we can make a place that is his alone. A place where we can go and remember how special he was to us.” She knew her words sounded mechanical, forced. But inside she felt as dead as Peder. She hoped her words would encourage her son, at least.

  “What’s it gonna look like?”

  “The headstone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought we’d put an anchor on it. Because he loved the sea. But he also loved Christ.” She knelt down beside Kristian and spoke in his ear. “God is our anchor in the severest storms, Kristian. He keeps us safe. Always remember that. It would make your father proud.”

  Kristian nodded soberly. “Can we go to the park now?”

  “Yes,” Elsa said, raising her voice to make it sound lighter. “Let’s go swing.”

  The funeral came and went as Elsa had planned it. She did not cry during the whole ordeal, and the ceremony itself brought little of the comfort she had hoped for. In retrospect, she thought the most crucial moment was when they shoveled dirt onto his empty casket. Inside her, she felt a door close at last. It was as if she finally believed it was real. Now she could stop imagining Peder miraculously pulled from the water by another ship; perhaps her dreams of him swimming to shore would end as well. She was at the edge of saying good-bye.

  She could not do it during the service, nor at the house during the reception, nor in the receiving line as people left, murmuring their condolences. It was only that night, when she could not sleep, that she rose, dressed, lit a lantern in the downstairs hall, and made her way to the cemetery. The streets were ghostly in their quiet, the houses dark, their inhabitants long asleep. Yet Elsa felt no fear. She moved toward the cemetery as if she were meeting Peder again.

  She opened the creaking iron gate and made her way to the freshly covered grave, visible from the street. In her hand she carried a single marigold, the only flowers left in the garden. Silently, she approached the grave, remembering a hundred moments when she had seen Peder at night. Working on the charts and the logbooks at his desk. Sipping tea and reading a book by lamplight in the sitting room so she and Kristian might sleep. Standing at the wheel of his ship, a rising moon on the sea beyond him, his hair waving in the breeze. How happy he had been! It brought a smile—the first sincere smile she could remember since his death—to her face. And tears.

  Elsa knelt by his grave, staring at the anchor, freshly cut into the white granite. Beneath it were the words: PEDER LEIF RAMSTAD; APRIL 5, 1856–AUGUST 10, 1886; BELOVED FRIEND, FATHER, HUSBAND. She traced the words, feeling the rough cut on her fingertips and she remembered tracing his jawline as he slept, his beard’s growth scratchy as well. She would never love another as she had loved Peder Ramstad. Love was over for her. She wiped her tears from her cheek and smiled at the stone, visualizing his face once more.

  “I loved you, Peder. With all of my heart. You have taken a piece of me with you. But I would gladly trade it again for the time I spent with you.” Sobs robbed her of speech for several minutes, until she could once again sigh, wipe her tears, and smile bravely at the stone. “Thank you, Father, for the time I had with this man. Help me to dwell on those happy memories rather than the grief I feel inside me now.”

  For the first time in a long while, Elsa felt a measure of comfort from her Lord. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  She stood, brushed the dirt from her skirts, and watched as it fell to the earth at her feet. “Good-bye, my love. I will always, always treasure the life I shared with you.” Elsa wiped one last tear from her eye, picked up the lantern, and turned to go. She looked to the north as she departed the cemetery, and laughed at herself as she found the hope in her heart that she might see the northern lights. The visual reminder of the love God, her father, and Peder had had for her would have helped. But the sky was dark except for a few stars.

  Still, she felt better than she had in days as she walked home, and she began to think about her future. What would she do with herself for the coming months? What would be constructive? Mrs. Hodge was right, there was a time to mourn, and a time to move forward. What would Peder have had her do? An image of Kaatje came to mind, and Elsa smiled. If only she and the girls had been able to come to the city! It would have helped so much to have her near.

  Then an idea struck Elsa. She hadn’t seen her dear friend in over a year, what with all their traveling. And the Skagit Valley was only a five-hour train ride away! She would pack up Kristian and go to her friend. Perhaps she could help bring in the harvest. Some good hard work would feel delightful, and she needed to see Kaatje and the other Bergensers. It would be the next best thing to going home.

  She thought about wiring Kaatje with news of Peder’s death, and of her intent to come for a visit. But then she thought better of it. No, it would be much better to surprise her dear old friend. And it would give Kaatje no chance to dissuade Elsa from the trip. What a delight it would be to see Kaatje’s face light up in a smile, to feel her embrace once more! Elsa smiled and wiped her tears. She would go, just as soon as she could settle her affairs in Seattle.

  nine

  Late September 1886

  Kaatje ignored her aching back and continued her work of cutting and shocking grain. She looked up over the field as she went on, again calculating how much more time it would take to complete her fields. As usual, the Bergensers were there en masse. Even Karl Martensen had come for the day.

  Kaatje guiltily accepted their help, knowing that even though she would go to their farms to assist in the harvest, no woman could do the amount of work a man could. Today, Alaska does not sound bad at all, she thought ruefully.

  Karl was next to her, securing a shock. “You never did tell me what you did after you left the Dakota Terri
tory. The locusts took your crops; how did you all find the funds to travel west again?”

  “Buffalo bones. Pastor Lien gathered us together, shook some sense into us, and set us about gathering. The railroads were paying nine dollars a ton; they sent them east to be made into fertilizer. We took a good thirty wagonloads to Bismarck, and somehow found our way out here. I think Pastor threatened the good train conductor with heavenly wrath if he did not let us on at a discounted rate.”

  Karl laughed, a good, hearty male laugh that made Kaatje stop for a moment. Soren used to laugh just like that—from the belly. She shook off the memory. “So the poor bison who died on the range helped us Bergensers move farther along their old tracks.”

  Karl nodded. “Haven’t seen more than a few bison at a time in years.” He went on working, then said, “It was good you left when you did. The next year, the Dakota Territory saw some terrible flooding. Why, I saw a steamboat up on Third Street in Grand Forks!”

  “You’re joking!” she said, amazed at the image.

  “No. Most of the Red River Valley was underwater. Snow melted too fast.”

  “We were farther away than that. Our land was so dry it probably has never seen a flood.”

  “Maybe. I still think this is good land, better land.”

  Kaatje smiled and nodded. “Me too. God has been gracious.”

  “And look at your crop! Surely enough to sustain you and the girls for another year!”

  “Yes, and then some. It is good to have a little extra. I’m thinking that I had better have some work done on the barn or it’s going to collapse on poor Hans and Nels.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that myself,” Karl said, leaning his forearm on the top of his rake. “My company is almost done surveying, and I think our feeder railroad will come very near your land. It will be good for you during harvest, as well as your neighbors; you’ll be able to load up your harvest right onto a railroad car and easily get top dollar. But we’ll need some storage space for repair materials and the like out this way. Would you consider renting us a corner of a barn if we built you a new, bigger building?”

  Kaatje gasped. “A bigger barn?” Already this summer had brought them two chickens as well as a hog that had appeared on the road. None of her neighbors had claimed it, so it was hers. They were desperate for space! A new barn would be a godsend. “Yes, yes. That would be wonderful. And you wouldn’t have to rent the space. I’d give it to you, Karl, in exchange for the building itself.” She sobered. “But I’d want to own the building free and clear. No debts to your company?”

  “No debts,” Karl said, shaking his head as he continued gathering. “We’ll write it out so it’s clear.”

  “Fine!” Kaatje said, thrilled at this new turn. A good crop and a new barn! Perhaps she could use the surplus from this crop to improve their house in some way. Or maybe she could squirrel the cash away with the other meager dollars she’d managed to save, just in case … Just in case God didn’t stop nudging her north.

  For now, it was enough to save it.

  Karl smiled to himself as Kaatje hummed beside him. His idea, in his opinion expertly planted, had obviously made her happy. She was clearly ecstatic, suddenly energized in her work. And if he planned it right, he could send out enough lumber and nails to build the barn, while conveniently overestimating enough to build Kaatje and the girls another room on their house. Kaatje deserved a room of her own. She had been through enough!

  Karl was glad for her—and for himself. Business was rolling right along. Trent Storm had responded favorably to the plan he and Brad had submitted by wire to expand the freight service in the Skagit Valley, recognizing as he had the great potential of the land. The Bergensers, and others who had settled here, were only just beginning to tap into the wealth of this fertile valley. With better freight service, they could do perhaps twice what they were doing now, by moving the first crop faster and planting the second right away.

  He wanted to rub his hands together, he was so excited. For the first time in years, he was doing something for others as much as for himself. And it felt good.

  Ever since leaving John Hall’s employ—and his former fiancée Alicia—Karl had felt driven to prove himself along the northern Pacific. At first, he wanted to show Hall that he could do business in an aboveboard manner, succeed as an honest businessman. Later he wanted the thrill of success to bolster his waning confidence.

  While he had not run across Hall again in the succeeding years, he followed the man’s triumphs and tragedies in the paper. Never would he amass the wealth his former employer had, but never would he be caught in the web they had tried to spin around him. Karl felt glad that he was out, yet he still felt largely empty. What was life all about? He had funds that could build Kaatje a huge mansion and increase her property tenfold, without even feeling the loss of it himself.

  But since he had arrived in the Skagit Valley, he was acutely aware that it was not enough. Helping Kaatje like this was a step in the right direction; he knew it to be so. And Kaatje’s suggestion that he go to Peder and Elsa and ask their forgiveness also felt right. He needed to clear the air, to right the wrongs of his past as best he could and get on with life. But he needed, more than anything, to be right with God. With each passing day here, he grew more sure that it was the underlying root of his depression, the cause of his listlessness and dissatisfaction no matter how much he achieved.

  When Bradford Bresley and Trent Storm had arrived in Seattle last month, Karl had bared his soul. There were few men in his life with whom Karl could have taken such a risk. He decided it was God’s way of helping him that two such men were present when he most needed them. He confessed his lack of peace and sense of aimlessness in his work. He even went so far as to tell them that he had lost touch with his Creator and felt utterly hopeless. They did not make him feel emasculated or lesser for his confession; Trent had even seemed to identify with his quandary. Karl had determined that it was the distance he felt from his Savior and his unrestored relationship with Peder that needed resolution.

  He needed time away from work, and the pressures of business—though he was still working extra hours to find some way to get the Bergensers their railroad line. But that kind of work—more concerned with others than his own gain—did not drain his energies as his regular endeavors did. He needed space. He did not know where he would go or how he would go about the process, but it had to begin.

  Brad, as ever, made light of Karl’s serious intent, but assured his friend that the business would still be there when he returned, although ribbing him that Bradford Bresley would just be that much farther ahead. As if it mattered, Karl mused. There came a time when a man had all he would need for a great while. Then it was time to assess what really mattered. Perhaps that was why he had received such an understanding ear from Trent. The man had been in his shoes—perhaps had remained there for some time.

  “Are you here to work, Martensen, or daydream?” boomed Einar, suddenly by his side. How long had he stood still, staring off into the distance? He could feel the heat rise on his neck.

  “Well, you know, I’ve become somewhat a man of leisure lately. It’s hard on an old man’s back to do this work!” he said.

  “Get this old man a cup of water and a new rake! He needs blisters on his hands again to remind him what a man’s made of!”

  “And a woman? What is a woman with blistered hands?” Kaatje asked, hands on hips, a smile on her lips.

  “A queen!” Einar said, setting the others in the field laughing.

  “And the woman who brings you water and cooks dinner for your hungry stomach?” Nora asked, pretending to be even more indignant than Kaatje.

  “Empress!” Einar said quickly, kneeling at her feet. The men about them laughed harder than before and Karl joined them. How good it was to be with his countrymen! His family! Thoughts of his mother and father in Norway sobered him. His dear mother had passed away this last year of consumption, and his father was
still unwilling to speak to him. It had been Gratia Anders who had notified Karl of his mother’s death. His father had sent him away as a hypocrite, a charge he had largely been living up to these last six years, and which had kept him away. Where was his faith? Where was the faith that had come to him as he traveled with Peder, the faith that had ignited his heart with passion and belief? What had become of the man he had wanted to be?

  It was time. It was time to face the sins of his past and move forward as a man serving Christ. And, he resolved, it would all begin today.

  Elsa drove down the road east of town, as the stable master had directed. It felt good to be in the country, healing in a way, so opposite was it of city and sea. She smiled again to herself, nudging Kristian on the seat beside her in anticipation of seeing Kaatje again. It had been a year! A year! Having only just settled in Seattle, she had not had time to make the excursion north more than once. But she planned on staying in the Northwest for the winter; she and Kaatje would have plenty of time to catch up, to reconnect as the sisters they were born to be.

  Her thoughts turned to her niece. What would Jessie look like by now? She would be five years of age, just a year older than Kristian. Did she look more like Tora? Or Soren? Or had the love of Kaatje so pervaded the child that physical resemblances would not matter? Elsa shook her head. Never had she understood Kaatje’s graciousness in accepting her husband’s misbegotten child from his lover’s hands. Truly, her friend was a greater woman than she. Over the years, she had sent money to Kaatje to help buy Jessie clothing and food, but she had spent little time with her own flesh and blood. A stab of guilt shot through her.

  “Look, Mama!” Kristian said excitedly. “A party!”

  Elsa frowned as she noticed the many wagons beside what she assumed was Kaatje’s house. In the warm light of dusk, the gathering seemed cozy, welcoming, festive. What could be going on? As they turned the corner, she saw the fields of cut and shocked grain standing to dry. It was harvest! She had missed it! And the group of neighbors were celebrating, no doubt eating a huge dinner after working so hard all day. Elsa faltered for the first time since leaving Seattle. What would it be like to enter such a gathering of neighbors? She felt like an interloper, an intruder.