Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Of course he will.” Haakan dunked another cookie in his coffee. He leaned back, rocking the chair on the two hind legs until the squeal from the wood earned him a warning stare. “Are they both upstairs?” He’d dropped his voice to a whisper.

  Ingeborg shook her head. “They’re by the stove in the parlor.”

  “The box came today.”

  “You saw Penny?”

  He nodded. “I hid it in the machine shed.”

  “Good.” So strange it seemed to order Christmas presents from as far away as Chicago or Minneapolis, when for so many years, they’d made all their own gifts. But this year she’d wanted to give Astrid a real doll, one with a porcelain face and curly hair. The set of books they’d ordered for Thorliff would make his eyes sparkle, and the wood-carving tools for Andrew . . . ah, such pleasure she would have watching their delight on Christmas morning.

  Another box had come earlier, one her dear husband knew nothing about.

  “Why are you smiling so?”

  “Nothing. And don’t you go pushing. It’s almost Christmas, remember?”

  His chuckle made the secret even more fun. Surprising Haakan was hard. He seemed to have a second sense about gifts.

  “Bedtime.” She crossed to the arch that led into the other room. Andrew looked up from his papers.

  “I’m almost done. Sure wish Thorliff was here to help me. He thinks writing stories is fun.” From the tone of his voice, obviously Andrew didn’t.

  Astrid closed her book with a sigh. “That was such a good story. I bet Thorliff could write just as good though.”

  “Someday he will. I’ll be up to hear your prayers in a minute.” Ingeborg returned to the kitchen to dump out the dishwater and pour the rinse water into a bucket to reheat in the morning. She folded the wet dish towel and hung it on the rod behind the stove.

  “I’ll bank the stove.” Haakan closed his Bible and crossed his hands on top of it. At the quiet in the kitchen they could hear the wind prowling and whining about the eaves. The sound made her feel even more snug and safe within the walls of their home.

  “You’ll be in to bed soon?”

  Ingeborg felt the tingle raised by the special tone in his voice.

  “Ja, soon.” Strange how after ten years of marriage she still felt like a young bride when he spoke like that. She climbed the dim stairway, light from the children’s lamps beckoning her upward.

  She peeked in on Andrew first. He shut his book when he saw her in the doorway. “Just think, Thorliff will be here for almost a week.” He glanced at the side of the bed his older brother used to occupy. “You think he and Anji will make up?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand what the problem is.”

  “He could write to her and make things all better.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” But she knew that was a rhetorical question. Andrew listened, plain and simple.

  “Gus said she cries a lot. I don’t like that Thorliff makes her cry.” He shook his head.

  Ingeborg sat down on his bed. “I think Anji has more to cry about than just Thorliff.” At the thought of Agnes that leaped into her mind, Ingeborg swallowed back the tears. And if she still struggled with the grief, so much more for Anji.

  Andrew cocked his head. “You think Manda and Baptiste are okay?”

  “Sure they are. Mrs. Solberg had a letter just last week.”

  “Can Metiz read?”

  Ingeborg studied her son’s face. “No, I don’t think so.” Always so concerned about others, what was he leading up to now?

  “So does she know how Baptiste is?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Solberg read her the letter, along with one written to her.”

  “Good.” Andrew slid down and pulled his covers up around his shoulders. Not long and his feet would be hanging over the end of the bed like Thorliff’s had at the last. If Andrew had his way, aging Paws would be up here instead of curled in a box behind the stove. She stood and bent down to kiss his cheek. “Good night, son of mine. God keep you.”

  “I prayed Thorliff would get here all right.”

  “Me too.” She blew out the lamp. “Perhaps tomorrow.” She patted his shoulder, missing the hugs he used to give her. Bone crunchers some of them were before he realized how strong he was becoming. Just this fall he had passed her in height, and last week she’d had to let down the hem in his pants, and they were still too short. Perhaps if Thorliff has grown, he has pants I can cut down for Andrew.

  Astrid left the warmth of her covers to kneel at the side of her bed, resting her cheek on her mother’s knee when Ingeborg sat down. She murmured her prayer in Norwegian, then ran down the list of those she cared for, “Bless Mor, bless Far . . .” clear down to the cat now curled on the end of her bed.

  “Mor?”

  “Ja?”

  “It’s only four days until Christmas.”

  “I know.”

  “And Thorliff isn’t home yet.”

  Ingeborg nodded, meeting Astrid’s imploring gaze. “He better hurry or he’ll miss Christmas.” A frown dug in above her nearly white eyebrows.

  “He better get here before the blizzard.”

  Amen to that. “How do you know we are going to have a blizzard?”

  “Far said so.” And if her father said it, in Astrid’s eyes, that was next to God talking.

  “Yes, please, Lord, bring our son home before the blizzard.” Ingeborg barely repressed a shudder that tried to shake her clear to the bottom of her soul.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On a Train West

  December 22, 1893

  The sea of white continued to eternity.

  Thorliff made himself return to his book rather than stare out the train window. Hoarfrost rimmed the sides, sending feathers out to take new territory. He’d already scraped it away once. At least he didn’t have to study. Exams were over, as was his first term. He’d made it through. What a relief.

  “Grand Forks. Next stop, Grand Forks.”

  Thorliff watched the conductor sway his way down the aisle, stopping to answer a question posed by a man most likely a drummer, from his appearance. The salesman looked a mite familiar, perhaps one of those who frequented the Blessing Boarding House.

  Why, Lord, can I not read here? I can with the babble of students in the reading room or even when the press is running. His thoughts roamed back to the pressroom where the antiquated press tried to shake the walls down. But there he could concentrate on his books and listen for the slightest change in the printer cacophony that signaled trouble, trouble that occurred with dismaying regularity.

  Taking the printer apart, fixing the problem, and putting it back together came after he’d learned to set type, put away type, clean the rollers, and grease the gears. Greasing the press wasn’t a whole lot different from greasing the combine or the steam tractor. If the part moved, grease it, was his father’s maxim. Who would have thought his hours helping his father and uncle Lars with the farm machinery would be put to use with a cranky printing press?

  Thorliff’s stomach rumbled, even louder in his ears than the clackety-clack of train wheels on rails. The screech of applied brakes let him know the train was indeed nearing the Grand Forks station where he needed to change trains. They crossed the bridge over the frozen Red River, and steam billowing past his window from the braking reminded him to fetch his satchel from the rack above his head and slide his book into the outside pocket. He hadn’t needed to pack much for such a short visit.

  When he stepped to the platform, a snowflake floated down and settled on his nose. The gray sky promised a multitude.

  When he made his way to the counter to buy something to eat, he glanced around at the waiting passengers. Wouldn’t it be a surprise to see someone he knew?

  “I’ll take a hunk of that cheese and two slices of bread, coffee if you have some.”

  The woman behind the counter nodded. “That there is Bjorklund cheese. You ever heard of it?”

 
“Ja, I have.” Should he tell he most likely helped make that wheel of cheese?

  “They make the best cheese anywhere. Better even than Wisconsin.” She handed him his dinner. “That’ll be forty cents, please.”

  Thorliff kept himself from shuddering. Like his bestemor always said, “They rob you on the railroad.” And that was true whether buying food or shipping grain, cheese, hogs, whatever.

  “Takk.” He took his change, his mind spinning off to an article he could write for the paper. Alternately taking bites of bread and cheese, chased down by coffee that could almost be called hot, he made his way to a high-backed wooden seat, much like the pews in most churches. When he glanced up to the reader board, he shook his head. One hour to wait. Now dusk would fall before he could get home.

  Setting his coffee carefully on the seat beside him, he drew his textbook out of his satchel and tried again to read.

  A baby crying reminded him to take a sip of his now cold coffee. He glanced in the baby’s direction to see a young man and woman trying to comfort a quilt-wrapped infant. The baby was having none of it, screaming as if they were beating him. The young mother got up and took her unhappy offspring to the necessary.

  An arrow of sorrow pierced Thorliff’s heart. That could have been him and Anji in a couple of years if she hadn’t cut him out of her life like she had.

  Unbidden, thoughts of Anji took over his mind. Graduation, her speaking so movingly, their first kiss, holding her hand, walking through the fields, laughter, the times they had danced together before he knew her to be more than a good friend.

  Was college worth giving her up? Not that he’d given her up at all. She was the one who refused to let him help. She was the one who said not to come home. She was the one who failed to answer his letter.

  Somehow, dredging up any anger was beyond him. He would be seeing her soon. Surely they would be able to talk again, to iron out their misunderstandings.

  He forced himself to return to his history of the early church, not the most inspiring reading for one whose mind had a tendency to fly across the miles to home. When the train finally chugged into the station, he nearly leaped up the steps.

  Never had the miles passed so slowly. Gray clouds hung low over the white-sheeted prairie, heralding an earlier than usual dusk. As they left the lights of town behind, the houses grew farther apart. Those he saw already had lamps lit, and all had smoke rising from chimneys. Surely many of the families were doing their last minute Christmas baking, the houses redolent with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Mor would have apple cider simmering on the back of the stove, perhaps a roast in the oven, fresh bread on the counter.

  His mouth watered at the thoughts. He should have asked his family to leave his skis at the boardinghouse in Blessing. Why do I always have such good ideas so long past the time to make them happen? He shook his head and continued to stare out the window.

  “Hey, aren’t you young Bjorklund?” The conductor stopped beside his seat.

  “Ja.” Thorliff kept his finger in the book to mark his place as he glanced up at the blue-clad man.

  “I thought so. Henry Aarsgard, he married your grandmother, right?”

  Thorliff nodded again.

  “That Henry, he sure thinks the world of all of you. No more than if he was truly your own kin. You went away to school, to college, right?”

  The man needed no more than an occasional nod to keep on talking.

  “Does my heart good to see my old friend so happy.”

  “Do you see him often?” Thorliff wished he had his pencil and paper out. Somehow he sensed there was a story here—he just wasn’t sure what it was yet.

  “Your grandmother, she’s about the best cook anywhere. Why, just the other day she sent a basket of cookies and breads and such for those of us who knew Henry. Even had some of that Bjorklund cheese in it. Your mor makes that, right?”

  Another nod.

  “That Henry, he is some lucky fellow.” The conductor glanced up in response to someone’s call. “Coming.” He raised one hand in acknowledgment, then turned back to Thorliff. “You give Henry my best now, you hear?”

  “I will.”

  “And a blessed Yule to you and all of yours.”

  “And you.” As the man took two steps along the aisle, Thorliff called him back. “Sir, I don’t know your name.”

  “Just tell him Sig. He’ll know.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Sig, I will.”

  As the train steamed north, Thorliff put away his book so he could identify every place and look for changes. One farm looked deserted. Was that the family Mor had written about that gave up and went back East somewhere? Or did they go back to Norway? He couldn’t remember. Either way, one of the Bjorklunds had most likely bought up his land. There’d be more fields to work come spring.

  With the river frozen over, most likely his father had started cutting ice and hauling it to the ice house. Since there were no more trees to cut within hauling distance, the sawmill no longer ran in the winter. He knew that he’d missed the trek over to Minnesota to cut the Christmas tree. He shook his head at his fancy. Of course the tree was already decorated and waiting in the parlor to light the candles on Christmas Eve.

  I missed all of the preparations this year. The thought tugged his spirits downward. In spite of the concert at school with both the choir and the orchestra, he still didn’t feel like this Christmas was real.

  Even printing out the booklet with his Christmas story for those at home hadn’t made him feel in the Christmas spirit. So why not? He asked himself the question for the whatever number of times.

  Anji. Her name echoed in his heart. The closer he got to home, the stronger her name rang. At school he’d been able to keep so busy he could ignore his heart, at least part of the time, but not here with the clackety-clack of the train.

  “Blessing. Next stop, Blessing, North Dakota.” Sig smiled as he swayed by.

  Out across the white-drifted prairie Thorliff could see the Baard farm and on beyond that, the Bjorklund barns. The train slowed. The silver blue of twilight shadowed the drifts. If he craned his neck, he could see the grain elevator up ahead. Steam billowed past his window as the engineer applied the brakes, the screech a more sure announcement than the conductor’s call. The snow-shrouded elevator, Onkel Olaf’s furniture shop, and out the window across the aisle, Bestemor’s boardinghouse. The station. Thorliff reached for his satchel and stood. Strange, but he felt in another world or at least another time period than Northfield, as if he’d traveled through a telescope back in time. In spite of his knowing better, the feeling persisted that nothing had happened in Blessing while he was gone. It had remained frozen in time like children playing statues.

  He swung down, using the bar by the door with his free hand.

  “Thorliff!”

  He turned at the calling of his name to see a horse and sleigh waiting at the far end of the platform.

  “Astrid?” What was she doing driving the sleigh like that, a little girl like her?

  She whipped the reins around the whip stock and leaped from the sleigh, her braids bouncing from under her red knit cap as she ran toward him. He dropped his valise in time to catch her when she threw herself into his arms.

  He fought the burning behind his eyes and sniffed. Surely the cold, that was all. “Astrid, how did you know to meet me?”

  “I’ve been coming every day since school was out. You almost missed Christmas.” She released her stranglehold on his neck to lean back and see his face.

  At her accusation, he could do nothing but nod. “I know, but I’m here now, and I think you’ve grown a foot since I left.”

  “No, already had two, didn’t need another.” Her saucy grin said she knew just what he meant, but just because he was a big college man, he wasn’t above being teased.

  He grabbed her again and this time swung her around in a circle like he used to do when she was little. Only now he held her by the waist and the spinning almost sat h
im down in the snowbank.

  They ignored the train leaving and arm in arm headed for the sleigh.

  “Do you want to stop and see Bestemor first? Or . . .” Her eyes grew round. “You haven’t seen Gus.”

  “Gus?”

  “Penny and Hjelmer’s baby boy.” Patience colored her tone.

  “Sorry.”

  “He’s the sweetest baby in the whole world.”

  Thorliff shook his head. “No, I think I’d rather just go home.”

  “You want to drive?”

  “Ja.” He glanced toward the church and school. “Pastor Solberg isn’t in town, is he?”

  She shook her head and climbed up into the passenger side of the sleigh. “No, he’s at home, but said to come on out any time you wanted. We’ll see him at service on Christmas Eve.”

  Thorliff tried to focus on her words, but all he could think about was Anji. Should he stop now or come back later?

  “Mor will have supper ready when we get there. She’s made rommegrot just for you.”

  Sitting himself on the sleigh’s seat, he grasped the buffalo robe at their feet and pulled it up over his sister’s legs. “Good, I haven’t had any since last winter.” He unwrapped the reins and pulled slightly to back the horse so they could turn and head for home. He’d have to go see Anji on the morrow. If his mor was beating rommegrot, they needed to be there when the butter came.

  “The men should be done with chores by the time we get home. They started early.” She touched his arm. “You haven’t forgotten how to milk cows, have you?”

  He clucked the horse to a trot. “Astrid, I’ve only been gone for three months, not a lifetime.”

  “Seems like one.” Her sigh caught his heart. “Nothing’s been the same with you gone.” She scooted closer to him. “Andrew shoved Toby Valders headfirst into a snowbank the last day of school. Toby was some mad, but he had it coming. Pastor Solberg had told Andrew if he hit Toby again, he didn’t know what he was going to do with him, but Andrew didn’t hit him.”

  “Does Mor know about this?” Thorliff jerked his thoughts back from Anji and looked at his little sister, who was no longer very little.