Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Today we are starting with Psalm one.” Kaaren raised her voice to be heard above the conversations around the room. Slowly quiet fell, and she began. “ ‘Blessed is the man who walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.’ ” She continued on with that psalm, and then went on to others.

  Mr. Moen sat back and listened along with the rest, but Ingeborg noticed that some part of him was always moving, a finger tapping his thigh or a tick pulsing above his right eye. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasping and unclasping. She was tempted to offer him a needle and thread to keep his hands busy and perhaps lessen the strain. She drew herself back to listen to Kaaren’s reading.

  When Kaaren finished, Mr. Moen moved from table to table, greeting and visiting with the others. The women went about their quilting as usual, but the normal visiting and laughter didn’t reappear until after dinner and the men had left.

  “Whew,” Penny said with a mock wiping of her brow. “Now we can be us.” The others greeted her sally with chuckles and agreements.

  “You mark my words,” Ingeborg said on the way home. “I feel something real disquieting about Mr. Moen being here, and I have no idea why.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Northfield, Minnesota

  Sorry it has taken me so long to return to my letter, but getting the newspaper out is always hectic. Because it was a larger edition and a house burned down not far from here, and Mr. Rogers asked me to write an article about the fire at the last minute—forgive the clumsy sentence—I felt like I was on the cattle guard of a train engine pushing down the track and throwing aside anything in the way. I have the bumps and bruises to prove it. Another thing that slowed our progress was that we have two new machines here. Mrs. Rogers gave her husband a new printing press as well as a Linotype machine for Christmas. From the way I understand things, she has an inheritance, and he doesn’t want it spent on the newspaper, so she gave him these much-needed gifts. What could he say? I think you can tell by the rush of my writing that I do indeed love working here.

  Thorliff stopped and reread his entire letter, then dipped his pen and continued.

  I promise to write more often, and I pray I can bring some lightness to your heart.

  School won’t start for another few days, and in the meantime I plan to work on another article, hopefully for Harper’s again. The editor said he would like to see more from me. I brought all the stories I wrote when I was younger with me, and perhaps I can rewrite one of those to get it ready for publication. The library at St. Olaf has so many magazines that I can send things to, and perhaps I can earn money for next year. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

  Greet your family for me and know that I hold you close within my heart.

  Yours,

  Thorliff

  He addressed the envelope while waiting for the ink to dry, at the same time remembering the look of utter weariness—or was it despair?—on Anji’s face. Why can’t she let the others help her? Yes, Joseph wants her there and is more calm when she is with him. Lord, isn’t that unfair?

  He shook his head and set the envelope on his desk. Fairness— did the Bible ever promise things would be fair? He thought back to all his Bible verses, all the reading he’d done. The Bible promised an abundant life, freedom, love beyond comprehension—but did it ever say fair? He thought to the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew, the “Blesseds,” as he called them. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Mercy should be Anji’s middle name, the very breath that she breathed. But where is it for her? Where was the joy promised for those who served the living God?

  What was going on in her heart and mind? That was another question that nagged at him. They used to share their secrets, their dreams. Wasn’t that part of love?

  Questions followed him into sleep and rode him hard all through the night, leaving him wishing for rest that did not come.

  He was already writing at the news desk by the time Phillip Rogers set the bell over the door tinkling at his entrance.

  “Good morning, Thorliff.” Phillip hung his hat on the coat-tree. “Cook sent your breakfast with me. She was hoping you would get some extra rest before school started again.”

  “I decided I needed to use this time wisely, so I’ve gathered a couple of articles, stories actually, that I plan to send to magazines.”

  “I don’t keep you busy enough?” After hanging up his coat and muffler, Phillip laid the food packet on the desk. “I see you already made coffee.”

  Thorliff stood. “I’ll get it for you.”

  “No, I can—”

  But Thorliff was already pouring two cups, one a refill. He handed one to his boss and picked up his packet.

  “Where are you going?”

  Thorliff pointed to a table toward the back of the area crowded by filing cabinets, bookshelves, and an armoire that held back copies of the paper.

  “Sit down here where the light is good.” Phillip picked up one of the papers Thorliff had written and, alternately sipping and reading, nodded, smiled, and nodded some more before he picked up another.

  Thorliff opened the packet to find sliced roast beef and cheese between two thick slices of bread spread with butter, two cinnamon buns with currants, and two hard-boiled eggs. “Cook means to make sure I don’t go hungry.”

  “She means to fatten you up. She’s concerned that your mother and father think she hasn’t been taking good enough care of you.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “That’s what she said.” Phillip set his coffee cup down and, using both hands, evened the sides of the papers by banging them on the desk. “You wrote some of these back during school?”

  “All of them. Just the top three I’ve edited and rewritten.”

  “I’d like to buy the one on the little boy lost in the tall grass.”

  “That was my brother, Andrew. He’s eleven now and growing like pigweed.”

  “I’ll print it next week, and you can still sell it elsewhere.”

  “All right, but that’s not why I laid them there.” Thorliff swallowed a mouthful of sandwich.

  “Did the wolf really find him, or did you make that up?”

  “No, Wolf saved our sheep from other wolves one winter too.”

  “Wolf?” Phillip shook his head. “The old timers around here will really appreciate these stories. So much like what happened before the area was so settled.” He pushed away from the desk. “I’m leaving for a meeting for newspaper publishers in Minneapolis tomorrow. Be gone three days. Much of the paper is already typeset, so you and Elizabeth should be able to finish up what we don’t get done today. I’ll be back in time for printing, not that you even need my help with that beauty in there.”

  “How can you possibly say that unions are good for our country?”

  Thorliff shook his head. “If you lived in wheat country and saw what the railroads and the flour mills have done to the farmers, you’d be in favor of unions too.”

  Elizabeth glared at him through the yellow of the gaslights. “But look what is happening. There is rioting, and if a strike occurs, it could end up shutting down the country. You”—sparks flew from her eyes— “you really think that is right?”

  Thorliff thought her hair might catch on fire with all the energy that radiated from her. “No, I never think violence is right.” He thought a moment. “Well, not most of the time.” A picture of Andrew bloodying the nose of Toby Valders flitted through his mind. Some people didn’t understand words, only force.

  “And I suppose the leader of the American Railway Union, Eugene Debs, is one of your heroes?” Sarcasm bit like a viper.

  “Not at all.” Thorliff bit back a stronger answer. Sure, Mor, a soft answer turneth away wrath, but . . . He sucked in a deep breath and slowed his words. “But if you had seen farmers leaving their land because the wheat prices and shipping prices gouged their hearts out, let alone the drought, you might perhaps fee
l differently. The Grange has been a good thing for the farmers, but it didn’t go far enough. There wasn’t enough support from the farmers or the politicians. The railroads and the flour mills united against us and . . .” He raised his shoulders and dropped them again. How to explain to her in ways she would understand?

  “I don’t know much about the Grange,” Elizabeth admitted.

  “It was formed to help the farmers gain a political voice to combat graft and usury by the railroad officials.”

  “You’d feel differently if you owned that railroad and those rabble rousers were cutting off your revenue.”

  “They aren’t asking for the railroad, only for fair practices.” Ever the one to try to see both sides of an equation, Thorliff tried. He’d idolized James Hill for pushing the railroads west, but at the same time, he seemed to care about the farmers and the land they were breaking and settling. And I’m sure Mor said Mr. Gould had a part in the railroads. What if I were he? Thorliff thought back to the college scholarships Mr. Gould had given to him and his classmates.

  A story thread tickled the back of his mind. What if he were Mr. Gould? Or a poor farm boy, which he knew he wasn’t compared to others, a boy who traded places with a rich young man and . . .

  “Thorliff. Hello, Thorliff, where did you go?” Elizabeth snapped her fingers in front of his face.

  He blinked and could see Elizabeth again rather than the two young men. How did they meet? Where? Why? The questions bombarded him. “Ahh . . .” Come on, Bjorklund, you sound like an idiot, what is the matter with you? “What did you say?” His finally focused look made him realize she was worried about him. Anyone would recognize the furrowed brow that reminded him of her father.

  “I asked if you were all right.” She spoke slowly, as if he were hard of hearing or perhaps missing a link in his chain.

  A slight shake of his head, a little snort. “I . . . all right, you are going to think I’m crazy—”

  “You’ve been working on that.” But the glint in her eye told him she was now teasing. “Well?”

  “You know when we were arguing?”

  “We were not arguing. We were discussing.”

  He tried to cover another snort but didn’t quite manage, which caused her to raise an eyebrow. “Look, sometimes stories just sneak in and grab me, tie my mind up in knots, and all I can think is, What if.”

  “What if what?” She took a small step toward him, her gaze encouraging, a far cry from her former exasperation.

  Thorliff shrugged and cocked his head. “Well, sometimes I have to dig and search for a story, and other times they leap into my head, people talking or laughing or . . . or sometimes even fighting, but this time I saw pictures. . . .” He scrunched his face into a shrug. “You don’t really want to know. . . .” Do you?

  “Thorliff Bjorklund.” Her hands smashed into her hips. “Don’t you go telling me what I want to know or do not want to know. I don’t have stories that do this . . . this . . . what you’re describing to me, but I have music in my head, and it pleads to be played. And sometimes it demands to be written down so that I don’t forget it.”

  “You’re a composer too?”

  “Yes, but don’t you ever tell my mother, because she’ll insist that I play the piano, concert style, and I want to be—-I will be a doctor.” Her words rushed out almost as fast as his had.

  “And doctors cannot play the piano?”

  “Of course they can, but my mother wants me to be a worldrenowned concert pianist, and I want to play for pure enjoyment, mine and others’.”

  “I see.” Thorliff stroked his chin, unconsciously mimicking his father. “She has big dreams for you. Could you do that? Be a worldrenowned concert pianist?”

  “Possibly, but I would have to devote every waking minute to it, and I just don’t have that kind of dedication.”

  “To music.”

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her, fingers locked as if in prayer. “But helping a baby come into the world, stitching a wound, or setting a broken bone and seeing the relief and joy when the person feels good again—now that is the music I want to play.” Her eyes pleaded for his understanding.

  Thorliff felt a smile start down somewhere in his middle and work its way upward to tug at the corners of his mouth and crinkle his eyes. “Ja, stories and music must be cousins.” He started to say “kissing cousins,” but caught himself. Instead, his neck heated up, and he was grateful she could not see the red in the poor light. “I . . . I think I must get back to work.” He motioned toward the printing press that sat in silent beauty. Compared to the old one, that is, which now resided in the storage room. However, even new, the press still required cleaning.

  “Thorliff, have you thought of showing this story to my father?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why, I haven’t even written it yet!”

  “Well . . .” She spoke slowly, obviously thinking the subject through as she talked. “I just have a feeling. You know he said he would buy stories from you. . . .”

  He nodded. “Ja, he bought one before he left.” His mind took off again. The rich young man and the poor young man. Trading places, trading lives. Surely someone had already written such a story. After all, as the Bible said, “There is no new thing under the sun.” But could each chapter be an installment in the paper? Other papers had done such a thing. After all, that’s the way Mark Twain got started, wasn’t it?

  “You want me to ask him?”

  Pulling himself back to the present, he slowly shook his head. “No, I will write the first chapter and let him read it, then see what he says.”

  “Good.” She dusted off her hands as if she’d just been cleaning or digging or something. “I’ll let you get back to cleaning the press, and I’ll finish editing the want ads. I have a feeling that when Father comes home from Minneapolis, he is going to be excited about what we’ve done.”

  I hope so. I most assuredly hope so.

  At dinner on his first day back at school, Thorliff fetched his parcel prepared that morning by Cook as usual and took his place at the dinner table, only to be caught in the middle of another argument.

  “Did you read what Arnet Morgan had to say this morning?” Benjamin bombarded him before he had even sat down.

  “No, why?”

  “Bjorklund, for a newspaperman, you don’t keep up with news very well.”

  Thorliff settled himself and started to unwrap his box. “Did anyone make fresh coffee?”

  “No, there was some already made.”

  “Pure sludge.” He glanced around at his three friends. “What did I miss?”

  No one responded to him, so he threw out a challenge to them. “So if you were in charge, what would you do differently?” Thorliff knew a question like that would get the others going again, and he could eat in peace. As he’d thought, the discussion raged around him, two men from the table behind them joining in. If they wouldn’t have harassed him unmercifully for being a snob, he’d have chosen a chair in the corner so he could write and eat at the same time. As it was, he let the story play in his mind while he concentrated on demolishing the ham sandwiches, gingerbread cookies, and apple pie Cook had fixed for him.

  “You don’t mind?” Benjamin took the packet of cookies and passed them around. “We can’t let Bjorklund have all of these. He has no idea what he is eating, let alone any appreciation of it.”

  Thorliff shook his head. Thank God Cook had a good idea of what young men needed for sustenance and provided enough cookies for half the room. He thumped the hard-boiled egg on the table so he could peel it.

  “So how did you do on that Shakespeare test last term?” Benjamin propped himself on his elbows as the others left for their next classes.

  “All right.” Thorliff got up to get himself another cup of coffee. “You want some more?”

  “Sure.” Benjamin handed up his mug.

  Thorliff waved at several greetings from passing students, poured his coffee from t
he gray graniteware pot steaming on the back of the stove, added a dash of cream to the mug poured for Benjamin, and made his way back to the table, all the while letting his mind play with the story. Why would they change places? Was one willing and the other not—then why? He always came back to the why. Rich but nasty, poor and good. What a cliché. But what if they were on a railroad car when strike breakers attacked?

  “Thorliff, how can you be sitting there with your eyes wide open, and most likely your ears too, and not hear a word I say? Or are you just ignoring me, in which case I shall leave you to your whatevers.”

  “Sorry.” Thorliff glanced up at the round oak clock on the wall. “Oh, I’m late.” He pushed back his chair and fumbled for his things. “Sorry, old man. Thanks for leaving me one cookie.”

  “I’d never let you starve. Tell Cook thanks from all of us.”

  Thorliff had just as much trouble concentrating in his Latin class. At least at home behind a team he didn’t have to try to listen to a lecture when his mind was filled with a story. And this one promised to be a long one.

  On the way down the hill after his last class, grateful for the sprinkled ashes so they didn’t slip, he and Elizabeth both seemed lost in their own worlds. They reached the back door of the Rogerses’ home before Elizabeth shook her head and stamped her boots free of snow.

  “Sorry I haven’t been much company.”

  “Hmm?” Thorliff looked down at her and half laughed. “As if I was.” He held the door open for her. “I’ve never had such a long story come upon me like this.”

  “How is it coming?”

  “I’ve started on it, but I just need time to write. Something besides school papers that is. I have one due for Ingermanson tomorrow, so tonight I must finish the rewrite.”

  “You know Latin, don’t you?” They unwound their mufflers and hung their coats on the tree.

  “Fairly well.”

  “Have you read any essays by Seneca or Pliny the Younger?”