Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Thornton, what is wrong?” She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I cannot keep up with you today, and you know I am a fast walker.”

  “Sorry.” He covered her mittened hand with his own, still staring off in the distance. “It is not something you can do anything about. I’m not sure even I can.”

  Fighting against her nature to urge him on, she waited.

  “Let’s walk, or you’ll get chilled.”

  “Only if you talk.” She upped the candle power of her smile.

  “I . . . I’m concerned about my uncle.”

  When he didn’t continue, she prodded. “Yes?”

  “I fear he is making a fool of himself. She is so young.” He uttered the words with a noticeable lack of feeling, or perhaps the feeling was trapped behind a wall of propriety.

  And any relationship is too soon. She ignored her jaw that wanted to clench. No surprise this. “Can you talk with him?”

  “As in, ‘Please pass the salt’ and ‘Do you think it will snow today,’ of course.”

  But not as in, “What’s wrong with you, Uncle?” Elizabeth clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. Why can men be so smart in some things and so terribly dense in others? “How can I help you?”

  “You already are.” He tucked her hand under his arm. “More than you know.”

  True to form, he tucked his cares away behind a wide smile, and they skated until the setting sun turned the snowdrifts to sparkling fire and then dimmed to the shades of her favorite pink rose with blue in the hollows.

  “You will stay for supper?” She turned to ask over her shoulder as she opened the front door.

  “Of course. I already agreed to that. And after we eat, you will charm us all with a private concert?”

  “Of course. You know that is such a trial for me.” She hung her skates back in the closet, along with coat, scarf, and hat, before sitting down on the dark oak Parson’s bench to pull off her boots.

  “Let me.” Thornton knelt before her, taking her boot in both hands to pull it off. He glanced up at her to find her studying him. “What? Am I some bug under your microscope?”

  “No, not at all.” Their eyes locked.

  “Oh, there you are.” Annabelle dusted off her hands as she came down the hall. She stopped midway, trying to hide a smile. “Excuse me if I am interrupting.”

  “No, not at all.” Elizabeth turned with a smile, one that she didn’t feel any further than an upturning of her mouth. What is hiding back there, dear friend, behind the smile you so glibly apply?

  “We had a marvelous time skating, Mrs. Rogers. You should have come along.”

  “Everyone was out.” Elizabeth tucked her boots under the bench and stood, wishing she could move back the clock to moments before and yet grateful for that impossibility. Surely Reverend Mueller wasn’t behaving improperly?

  That evening Cook came to the door of the parlor where everyone, including Thorliff, had gathered. “Supper is ready.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle answered, laying down her needlepoint. She raised her voice to be heard over the discussion raging in front of the fireplace. “Excuse me. It’s time to go eat now.” When no one responded, she rose to her feet and took her husband by the arm.

  “Wh-what?” He obviously didn’t want to be interrupted, the resentment that flashed across his face told her that, but when he realized who had tried to get his attention, he pasted on a smile and rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” She leaned against his shoulder.

  He patted her hand and stepped between the three young people, who had yet to hear her summons. “Enough talk, everyone. Supper is ready, and there will be no arguing over the food.”

  Thorliff ’s neck grew red, and he took a step backward. “I-I am so sorry. I—please forgive me?” His eyes pleaded for Annabelle to release him from his misery. At her smile and nod his eyes spoke his gratitude.

  “Thorliff, you didn’t commit mayhem or murder. Not that your precious unions haven’t done just that, but—”

  “Elizabeth.” The tone of her father’s voice made her clamp her jaw shut. She glanced up to see Thornton hiding his glee behind his hand, as if he’d coughed or was about to.

  “Just for that, you don’t get dessert.” She poked Thornton’s arm with a stiff finger. “Come, Thorliff, you at least take current affairs at their proper seriousness, not like someone else we know here who is arguing just for argument’s sake.”

  “No more unions, no more worry about keeping St. Olaf open. We will have nice quiet supper conversation.” Annabelle glanced up at her husband. “Right, dear?”

  “What else is there?” Elizabeth muttered under her breath.

  “I heard that.” Annabelle didn’t even bother to look over her shoulder as she and Phillip led the way into the dining room, the three younger bringing up the rear.

  By the end of the meal, even Thorliff was turning down Cook’s encouragement to have another helping.

  “You two young men need plenty fuel to walk home in the cold.” Cook backed out the door, a stack of plates on her tray. “I bring in dessert now.”

  Thornton groaned. “Does she want us to pop?”

  “No, but you can be prepared to take food home with you. When she knew you would both be here, she cooked plenty extra.” Phillip leaned back in his chair. “A fine meal, my dear.”

  “Tell Cook, not me.” Annabelle tucked her napkin back into the silver ring. “Let us adjourn to the music room. We can have our dessert in there.”

  “No time for the males to enjoy a cigar?” Phillip rose quickly enough to pull out her chair.

  “And cognac? No, I think not.” Annabelle smiled up at her husband. “You wouldn’t want to corrupt two such fine young men, would you?”

  Elizabeth shook her head and rolled her eyes. “As if you enjoyed a cigar anyway, Father. And if you did, it couldn’t be in the music room. Smoke is not good for my piano.”

  “Really?” Thorliff asked.

  Elizabeth cocked her head to one side. “Yes, if I can get away with it.” She made a face. “I hate cigar smoke. A pipe is fine, but cigars, ugh.” She made her way to the piano and settled onto the bench, lifting the keyboard cover in the same motion. “Is there anything special you want?” She looked from one young man to the other, both of whom leaned against an opposing leg of the instrument.

  Thorliff shrugged. “Anything. I just enjoy whatever you play.”

  Thornton leaned on one hip. “Something gentle, please. No crashing chords or thundering arpeggios.”

  “As you wish.” She loosened her fingers, stretching them in front of her, and proceeded to bring forth laughing brooks and spring rains, flowers dancing in the meadows, and birds serenading their mates.

  While the others enjoyed their coffee and apple pie, Elizabeth lost herself in the symphony of sounds, segueing from piece to piece, creating the graceful melodies that wove one into the next, and dreaming of nothing and everything, becoming bathed and saturated with song. When the last notes died away, she opened her eyes, returning slowly from the land she lived in when she played. She looked up to see tears pooling in her father’s eyes, approval in Thornton’s gaze, and awe deepening the blue of Thorliff ’s eyes.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Phillip brushed the back of his hand across his face. “I think you play more beautifully all the time. Just amazing.”

  “Thank you.” She could barely lift her hands from her lap, and her head seemed weighted by a storm, as if with the cessation of music, all her energy had floated away on the lingering notes.

  Phillip rose to check beyond the draped windows. “I’ll get out the sleigh if you boys like. Looks to be pretty cold out there.” The moon painted dark shadows on the pristine snow.

  “I can walk, thank you.” Thorliff stood and turned to Annabelle. “Thank you for inviting me to stay.”

  “You are indeed most welcome.” Annabelle laid aside her needlework. “Cook fixed a packet for you.” Annabel
le smiled. “She is determined that you fill out.” Her hands sketched a wider form.

  “She feeds me well. At school they fight over the cookies she sends.”

  She smiled and reached out to pat his hand. “Will we see you in the morning?”

  “Ja, for sure.”

  The two young men walked out together but parted at the next corner since their homes were in different directions.

  After bidding Thornton good evening, Thorliff picked up his pace, his breath clouding before him. Thinking back to the music that still played in his soul, his mind skipped across the miles to Blessing. Guilt pinched and stung. He’d not thought of Anji all evening. In fact, he wasn’t sure she’d been part of his thoughts at any time during the day either. She would have loved the music. Why didn’t she answer his letters? He’d sent two since returning to Northfield from Blessing.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The blizzards might as well have continued for all the time Thorliff had for winter fun like skating, skiing, or tobogganing.

  Unable to keep up with his deadline of a chapter a week, his story The Switchmen had to be extended to every other week. His fans sent letters to the editor wondering why they had to wait so long.

  Eugene Debs, founder of the American Railway Union, became a household name as he created more tension between the unions and the employers. The nation fell deeper into depression with gold losing ground and some saying the silver standard was to blame. Railroads and many other companies went bankrupt and employers laid off more workers so that the numbers of unemployed swelled to unheard-of proportions.

  At St. Olaf, following the catastrophic news the previous autumn that the Lutheran Church would no longer support the school, rumors abounded about doors closing or both the college and the academy either shutting down or cutting back.

  Thorliff sat with the other students in the chapel and prayed with everyone for God to bless their efforts to keep their school in session. Where else will I go? The question died aborning when President Mohn assured them God would find a way. Thorliff nodded. Such total conviction he has. President Mohn closed his speech with his favorite line, “Remember, boys, remember the college.” He sent Reverend Ytterboe on his quest to churches and families to raise the funds to keep the college operating.

  After writing an article for the Northfield News regarding the college’s plight, Thorliff tried to ignore the turmoil around him—the chapters of The Switchmen that tried to take over his life, working at the newspaper, concentrating on his lessons. Each day he checked for mail in his box, only to be disappointed when nothing came from Anji. He reread the one and only note she sent in response to his post-Christmas letter, seeking to see something else between the lines that he hadn’t seen before.

  Dear Thorliff,

  I too am sorry for the blizzard. Thank you, though, for the letter. I was beginning to think you did not want me to write to you anymore since you never answered the last one I sent you.

  Thorliff shook his head and rubbed the grit from his eyes. Mor must have spoken with Anji by now and told her I hadn’t received another letter last fall. If only they’d been able to really talk over Christmas. He stared out the window of his room, the sides and sill framed in drifted snow with frost feathers and swirls glazing the pane. A streetlamp outside cast a faint golden tinge through the window, making the frost painting sparkle and wink.

  So tell her yourself. He groaned at the advice. But it’s not fair. Should I be the only one writing? After all, she’s the one who spurned my offer of help last fall. And I’ve written another letter that she has yet to answer.

  So write another. The inner voice would not leave him alone. Remember your vow to write to her whether you heard from her or not.

  “One more, and that’s it. If I don’t hear from her, I shall know that she has changed her mind about loving me.” Remember your vow. He wished he could brush that voice aside.

  “And not kept her word.” Weary of arguing with himself, he sat down and wrote again.

  Dear Anji,

  I have not heard from you, and this grieves me beyond measure. If you did not receive my letter of January 20, then this is to replace it. But if you did, how can you not find it in your heart to respond? Are you ill? Mor has not written of illness, other than your father’s, and I am so sorry to hear of his persistent suffering.

  I told you about the ongoing story that I am writing for the newspaper. Between work, school, and the adventures of The Switchmen, I am running to keep up much of the time.

  Greet your family for me.

  As ever,

  Thorliff

  He folded it, addressed the envelope, and placed it in his coat pocket so he would not forget to post it.

  Thorliff groaned when he glanced at the clock Mr. Rogers had given him. How can time go by so swiftly? He dug at his eyes with one hand and opened his Greek textbook with his other. Two chapters to read, and then he could devote some time to his story—the story he’d rather write than work on anything else.

  He woke up several hours later, shivering, with his head on his desk. The furnace needed stoking, and the crick in his neck bit him every time he moved his head. After taking care of the furnace and setting the dampers for the night, he undressed and crawled into bed, heartily wishing for a warm brick from the oven at home to warm his feet. As he did every night, he prayed for Anji, but this night all his other regular petitions faded before the need for sleep.

  When he arrived at the Rogerses’ house in the morning, he greeted Cook and took the steaming cup of coffee she handed him while pointing him to sit at the table at the same time.

  “Elizabeth is running late today.”

  “Ah.” The first sip of coffee burned his tongue. “Mange takk.” He smiled up at her when she set a plate of pancakes with maple syrup in front of him, two eggs on the side and a slice of ham. “I really have time to eat all this?”

  “Yes. I’ll be taking you up the hill.” Phillip strode into the kitchen, settling his tie and straightening his suit coat. “How’s your next chapter coming?”

  Thorliff swallowed his mouthful of pancake, wishing he’d not been asked the question. “I’ll have it ready for you in the morning.”

  “Won’t give us much time for edit and rewrite.”

  “I know.” I’d have had more completed if I hadn’t written to Anji. What am I to do? I cannot continue to be torn like this. The sour taste of resentment overrode the flavor of the sweet maple syrup.

  The thought plagued him through the ride up the hill and on into the afternoon. He caught himself dwelling on it, rather than the lecture, mulling it over when he should have been studying. That night after finally turning out the lamp but before crawling under the covers, he fell on his knees beside the bed.

  “Lord, I cannot handle this. I am being torn from within, and all my without is grinding to a halt. I’m getting behind in everything, and sometimes I feel so angry, I could curse and fight. Is this what love is supposed to be? If so, I want none of it.” He braced his forehead on his clasped hands. Cold seeped through the rug and into his knees. “Lord God, this is what I felt. What she said last summer—it was a beautiful thing. So why does she not answer? Why can’t I live up to my vow and not let her lack of correspondence bother me?”

  He waited, listening with all his being. As if floating on a breath so that he inhaled the words, he sensed a response.

  Thorliff, my son, are you going to trust me?

  Thorliff held his breath. Nothing more.

  “Of course, I trust you. Haven’t I always?” His words stopped his heart. Have I been trusting Him? Condemnation rode his shoulders with spurs raking his sides. His eyes fought to close, his tongue heavy, his heart weeping.

  “I-I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. Instead of trusting you, I have been railing against you, against the things that are happening, things over which I have no control . . . no matter how much I want to. Please show me how to trust, Lord. I will trust you in all thi
ngs.” As if a dam had burst and all the water run out, he slumped into a heap. A verse floated through his weeping mind. “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”

  “Thank you, heavenly Father.” He forced his shivering body to stand long enough to crawl into bed, where peace wrapped him in a feather quilt and warmed him with his Father’s love.

  At five sharp the following morning, he came fully awake, as if someone had just called his name and shook his shoulder. His mind singing thank-yous and praises, he washed, shaved, and dressed in record time, and when he sat down at his desk, his pen flew over the pages. The story flowed as fast as he could write, his mind creating pictures and his pen recording the perfect words to describe them. By the time he needed to be on his way to the Rogerses’ house, he had finished the chapter he’d promised and written another. He gathered up the pages and laid them on Phillip’s desk.

  On the way to the Rogerses’ home, he toyed with Psalm 84, setting the words, “Blessed are they that dwell in thy house. . . . Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee. . . .” into a tune that played over and over in his mind before bursting forth into a whistle.

  “My, you sure are a happy one this morning.” Elizabeth met him at the door.

  Thorliff stepped inside and leaned slightly toward her. “I finished my chapter and another one besides.”

  She stepped back and with a grin laid one hand on her heart.

  “Goodness, did you not sleep at all?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Come and eat so we can get going. And tell me your secret. I need to feel as cheery as you. Studying half the night gives me nothing but a headache.” She rubbed her forehead. “I shall be delighted beyond measure when this test is over.”

  Cook took one look at Thorliff when he came into the kitchen and shook her head. “Something good surely happened to our boy.” She took a plate out of the warming oven and set it on the table with a motion for him to sit.