Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Some.” Thorliff turned as Cook pushed open the swinging door from the dining room. “Benjamin said to thank you for the cookies. He shared them around most generously.”

  “Ah, that boy. He must have a hollow leg.” Her chuckle meant she enjoyed feeding half the underclassmen at St. Olaf.

  “Or three. He says the woman where he stays wouldn’t recognize a cookie if it crumbled in her coffee.”

  Cook’s chuckle rumbled from under her apron-clad bosom. “Never mind. I baked some sour cream cookies for you today. You take them in the morning.”

  “He needs some for late tonight too, Cook. He has lots of work ahead.”

  “Elizabeth.” Annabelle entered the room, looking up from the list in her hand and smiling at Thorliff. “Good afternoon, young man. I hope you both had a productive day.” She stopped beside Elizabeth, who was still taking off her boots. “Your father made it home a day early. He asked for you to come down to the office as soon as you got home.”

  “Ooh, and I just got my boots off. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, sorry.” Annabelle started to leave the room but stopped at the door. “It does smell delicious in here, Cook. Will supper be ready at six?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Pork roast, like you said.”

  “And Mr. Bjorklund, will you be staying?”

  “Ah . . . I . . .”

  “Good. You can come back with Phillip then. He promised he would be home for supper tonight.”

  Thorliff looked at Elizabeth, who raised her right eyebrow in a perfect arch. As the door closed behind her mother, she whispered, “The queen has spoken.”

  “Now, you don’t go being smart, missy. Your mother means well. Always.”

  “Not that I’d want to argue that, but let’s get a bite to eat, and then I’ll put my boots back on and see what it is the newspaper czar desires.”

  Cook flapped her apron at them. “And here I made apple kuchen special just for the two of you. You don’t want any, eh?”

  “Just try to keep us out of it.” Elizabeth jerked on the tie of Cook’s apron as she passed them on the way to the pantry.

  “Uff da, such a saucy one.” But her chuckle left no doubt of her affection.

  “Father, welcome home.” Elizabeth called her greeting even as the bell over the door announced their arrival. “I have brought you a treat.”

  Phillip stood from behind his desk to peer over the high front counter. “Hello to you and, ah, Thorliff, I’m glad you are here.”

  “And here I am the one carrying the treat. I think you shall not have it after all. I’ll put it back for Thorliff to have later.” She reached up to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek. “You look tired.”

  Phillip sniffed the package she waved under his nose. “Apple something. Ahh.”

  “Kuchen, your very favorite.” She set the parcel down and folded back the tea towel to reveal a large square of flaky pastry, apple filling oozing from the edges where the knife had cut. Cinnamon-sugar syrup had puddled on the plate and soaked into the towel. She whipped a fork from her pocket and laid it on top of the offering.

  Phillip cut a bite and put it in his mouth, his eyes glazing in delight.

  “No one makes better kuchen than Cook, even if she is Norwegian instead of German.”

  “And I have other good news for you too.” Her eyebrow rose in Thorliff ’s direction.

  He shook his head, made quelling motions with his hands. No, he mouthed.

  “Thorliff is too bashful to tell you, but he is working on a monumental story that I believe you will want to run in the paper in installments.” The words rushed out, sprinkled with laughter like the top of the quickly disappearing kuchen had been dotted with sugar.

  “Oh, really?” Phillip laid down his fork. “Installments? What do you have?” His gaze drilled into Thorliff.

  “It . . . it’s not ready yet.” Hands knotted, he took a step backward, glaring at Elizabeth’s back. If only he could run out the door or at least disappear into his room.

  “So, you minx, you’ve let the cat out of the bag.”

  His daughter shrugged, her head tipped slightly to the side. “He’d wait until it was too late to tell you, until the story had been polished to a brilliant sheen.”

  Her chuckle made Thorliff clench his teeth to match his fists.

  Elizabeth paused for the coup de grace. “And been hopelessly out of date.” She looked over her shoulder, beckoning him to come forward. “Please, Thorliff, tell him what your story is.” Now she wore a winsome look, as if she hadn’t turned his confidences inside out. And back again.

  All right, Bjorklund, take it like a man and get even later. Why did I tell her what I was thinking anyway? He shook his head, but the silence in the room forced him to comply.

  “It’s fiction. A story.” He glared at Elizabeth, which earned him another chuckle. She surely was enjoying herself at his expense.

  “It’s very good, Father.” She’d leaned closer to Phillip, her eyes dancing in the light from the gas lamps.

  “Let him tell me. You’ve caused enough problems already.” Phillip sent Thorliff a look that bespoke centuries of men outflanked by their friends or family of the female persuasion.

  Thorliff thought of Astrid. She’d often worn that same look of delight he saw on Elizabeth’s face. Delight at having flummoxed either of her brothers or both at the same time to make it the supreme attainment. “It started—”

  “We were having a fight about unions.” Raising her eyebrows, Elizabeth assumed an air of innocence.

  “A discussion, sir.”

  “Ah.” A nod accompanied the response. He turned to his daughter. “If you cannot wait for Thorliff to tell me his way, you may go write the obituary for old Mr. Thompson. The information is right there.” He pointed to a stack of papers in the wire basket on the corner of his desk.

  “No, thank you.” Elizabeth sat back primly, as if to convince them of her sincere obedience, but her eyes gave her away. Hurry up, they seemed to say, why must you take so long?

  “All right, this story came from a discussion about the unions, which I am sure my daughter instigated and made sure you understood her opinions on the matter. Opinions which I know to be vehemently antiunion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you, I take it, are on the opposing side?”

  “Yes, sir.” Will I lose my job over this? Should I not fight for what I believe to be right? No, not fight, there is too much of that going on, but argue for? He paused. No, write a story about what I believe in. He sucked in a calming breath.

  “My story is of two young men—one of wealth, one of poverty— who exchange places on a dare or a bet.”

  “And I take it one is a union sympathizer and the other a member of the upper echelons of society?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much have you written?” Phillip leaned back in his chair, the squalling of metal on metal loud against the hissing of the lamps. “One of these days I must oil this thing.” He moved enough to create more agonizing shrieks.

  Thorliff gave himself a mental order to take care of that when he returned from supper. “I’ve written a partial outline and part of the first chapter. There are still many holes to be thought out. Have you read Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal?”

  Phillip thought for a bit. “Yes, a long time ago. Is this story you are thinking of a political satire like that one?”

  “No, but having read more of his work lately, I—” I dreamed of writing something that could make a difference in how people see things, writing that would have layers upon layers. He brought himself back to the room, where two pairs of eyes studied him. “I’d like to do something similar.”

  “And if you can do so, I’d most surely want to publish what you write. Is there any way you can write a chapter a week? We’d run it in installments like Elizabeth suggested.”

  “But, but you haven’t read it yet.”

  “I know. So where is your f
irst chapter?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I knew Thorliff would do it, I just knew it.

  Elizabeth flipped the Northfield News so the page stayed upright. She continued reading chapter three of The Switchmen. She finished the final line and closed the paper, not bothering to read the other news of the day.

  “You finished it?” Annabelle entered the study carrying a tea tray. “I thought you might like some refreshment.” She set the tray down on the desk and motioned toward the paper. “The story has started a stir. People who missed the first two installments are asking for back copies of the paper.”

  “And Father said we have at least twenty-five new subscribers.” Elizabeth reached for the teapot. “You want milk with yours?”

  Annabelle nodded. “I’ll be right back. I won’t disturb you if I sit here with my needlepoint, will I?”

  “Of course not.” Elizabeth poured both cups and added milk and one cube of sugar to each before leaning back in her chair, china cup warming her hands. No matter that the fire in the hearth snapped and flared and the furnace poured heat through the registers, she could not seem to get warm.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Her mother reentered the room.

  “Why?”

  “It’s hot enough in here to open the windows, and there you sit with a shawl over your shoulders and a hot cup of tea cradled in your hands.”

  “Yes, and Jehoshaphat at my feet, who’s purring besides playing foot warmer.” She stroked the cat’s back gently with a wool-slippered foot. “He likes my slippers. You think the catnip I planted in the toes has something to do with that?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I did. Some that Cook had dried for him.” Elizabeth sipped her tea, enjoying the fragrance as much as the heat melting down her throat.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Branson. She was such a sweet thing.”

  “Me too.” That’s probably why I can’t get warm. Her house was so cold, and watching her cough her life away . . .”And there was nothing we could do. It seems with all the medical knowledge we’ve gained in the last years that we could have done something for her.” She shivered at the memory of the trickle of blood that had come from the corner of the woman’s mouth after a coughing spell.

  Elizabeth could feel anger simmering just below the surface. Dr. Gaskin had warned her again that she must not take the loss of a patient personally.

  “And you don’t?” she had asked him.

  “I try not to, but some do get through anyway.” They both knew he was referring to Mrs. Mueller.

  Elizabeth had tried to see his face in the silver dawn.

  “If she had been willing to come to the surgery . . .” He had paused. “No, I cannot say that for certain, but Miss Browne is a mighty good nurse, and if we could have caught this before it went so far . . .”

  His face looked as gray as the lightening sky. He turned his head. Elizabeth would never forget his eyes.

  “That’s the most important thing, to get some of these infections before they get entrenched. Folks don’t have the money, so they wait too long. I’d rather they never paid me a dime if they would just come for help sooner.”

  Elizabeth took her hand from under the heavy robe and patted his arm. “Education is part of it.”

  “And pride. They don’t want to take anything from anybody unless they can pay for it. Stubborn Norskys. And the Germans are no better.”

  “Nor the Swedes nor the . . .”

  “Human nature, I guess.” He pulled the horse to a stop in front of her house. “You go on in now and get some sleep. Things will look better after a rest and a good breakfast. At least that’s what the missus always used to say.”

  And you still miss her, she thought. “And you’ll do the same?” She tucked the robe back around his legs.

  “For a bit.”

  She knew he’d be at work at nine when Nurse Browne opened the doors to his patients. “You have any surgeries today?”

  “Not that I know of and no babies due in the next week or so. Of course that never kept some of them from coming. Babies come when they are ready, not when the calendar says. Thanks for coming along. I know you were a comfort to Mrs. Branson. You have a good way about you.”

  In spite of the cold, Elizabeth could still feel the warmth that his compliment had caused.

  “You’re not catching something, are you? That’s what I worry about when you go off on these home visits with Dr. Gaskin.” Annabelle watched her daughter over the rim of her cup.

  Elizabeth didn’t answer. She had no good answer, other than that’s the risk doctors take. She had given in to her mother’s request that she not go out on school nights unless it was an emergency.

  She left the desk and went to stand in front of the fire, her back to the blaze, still sipping her tea.

  “You should have stayed in bed longer.” Annabelle pulled the fine wool yarn through the eye of the needle and began the methodical stitches that would fill in the background. She already had the blousy ring of roses finished.

  Not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered how her mother could keep from keeling over from boredom at the repetition of inserting the needle, pulling the thread through, and pushing the needle down through the next hole, square, or whatever you wanted to call it. But since this was the twelfth chair seat besides all the pictures, footstool covers, and gifts she’d made, her mother must get some satisfaction from it.

  Elizabeth would rather stitch wounds closed. But then, that would not appeal to her mother in the least. Her medical skills tended more to bringing tea and chicken soup, not that those weren’t helpful.

  Jerking her attention away from her mother, she asked, “Have you been reading Thorliff ’s story?”

  “Of course. I read every word of the paper; well, not all the ads. I can tell who wrote each one, whether it has a byline or not. Each of you has your own style and viewpoint.”

  “Mother, all I write are obituaries and family news. Oh, and I help design the display ads.”

  “Your father appreciates your help, you know.”

  “I know.” Elizabeth crossed to the desk to refill her cup. She held up the pot, asking without words if her mother wanted a refill also. Annabelle shook her head and continued stitching. Father wants me to follow him in the newspaper business. Mother wants me to marry Thornton or some nice young man and become a concert pianist. Doesn’t it matter what I want?

  Elizabeth Marie Rogers, quit feeling sorry for yourself. You know both your parents are supporting you to get the education you want. You can put up with a few sighs, looks, and innuendos. She made her way back to the chair and took up her pen. She had a paper due in her American Literature class, and for a change she hadn’t finished it early. Finding time to read and compare Poe and Melville took longer than she had planned.

  She’d much rather be studying physiology.

  Sometime later Elizabeth heard the ringing of the doorbell.

  “I’ll get it,” she called over her shoulder as she headed down the hall to answer the summons. Opening the door, she smiled as brightly as the sun on the snowbanks. “Why, Thornton, how nice to see you. Come in.” Stepping back, she motioned him inside, then shut the door.

  “I was hoping you might take pity on a fellow student and come along ice skating with me. If I have to read another line, I shall go stark raving, maniacally mad.” He made a face fit to scare a young child.

  “Now, really, it can’t be that bad.” She motioned for him to hang up his coat and scarf.

  “It is in that house. Between Uncle talking on the telephone, the boys fighting, and the dog barking at the boys, I—well, I just left.”

  “You could bring your books to study here.” She led the way into the parlor.

  “Who was it, dear?” Annabelle entered the room and answered her own question with a pleased smile. “Ah, Thornton, it seems like ages since you were here. I shall order tea and—”

  “Thornton has asked me
to go skating.”

  “Oh, well, in that case we shall have tea when you return, or if you like, you could join us for supper.”

  “If you are sure that wouldn’t be imposing.”

  “Of course not. I’ll tell Cook. Now you bundle up well, Elizabeth. We can’t have you coming down with something.”

  As Annabelle left the room, Thornton raised an eyebrow at Elizabeth.

  “It’s nothing, just that I was out on a call all night with Dr. Gaskin, and we lost a patient. I couldn’t seem to get warm this morning after that.”

  “You can’t let . . .”

  She held up a hand, flat palm out. “Don’t you start too. Knowing to do something and putting that into practice takes just that, practice.

  Some things are harder than others.”

  “I know.” He gazed through the arch into the music room. “Perhaps this evening you could play for a while?”

  “That I will. Now, if you are warm again, let’s be off before the sun sets and the wind whips up.” She heard a male voice in the kitchen.

  “Or I get asked to do something else.”

  “By all means.” He held her coat for her. “Do you have your skates?”

  “Here.” She shoved her arms into the sleeves and turned to the closet where she pulled skates and boots out at the same time. Within a minute they were out the door, still pulling on gloves and tucking scarves into the necks of their coats.

  “Oh, what a glorious afternoon. Thank you for getting me out of the house.”

  “And for me. You have no idea what it is like at Uncle’s. I feel so sorry for the children, but at least they have their aunt Sonjia there now. She is young and lively.”

  She watched a cloud darken his face. “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  But she knew from the twitch of his upper lip that something was indeed bothering him. Should I tease him out of his mood or find out what lies behind it? As they strode down the street toward the pond, she thought some more. Rather than the usual half smile, his eyebrows drew a straight line across his forehead, two lines carved the sides of his mouth, and his usually smiling eyes made her think of storm-tossed Lake Superior.