Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Is it that obvious?” Thorliff couldn’t remember his face looking that different in the mirror.

  “Well, I have not heard you whistling one time until now. My mor always said that when a boy whistles in the morning, he has sunshine in his heart.”

  “How come then my mother says, ‘Whistling girls and crowing hens always come to two bad ends’?” Elizabeth set her book satchel on a chair.

  “Whistling is for boys, not girls.” Cook made her pronouncement with all the certitude of a philosopher.

  “It’s not fair.” Elizabeth whistled three bars of “Yankee Doodle.”

  Thorliff sat facing the door where Annabelle appeared in the middle of the whistling concert. He waggled his eyebrows to catch Elizabeth’s attention, but she went blithely on until she caught the shake of his head. She let the notes trail off and wrinkled her forehead, her shoulders rising in a flinch.

  “Elizabeth Marie Rogers, what has come over you?”

  “It’s Thorliff ’s fault and Cook’s. They dared me.”

  Thorliff and Cook exchanged wide-eyed, raised-eyebrows looks and turned as one to shake their heads at Elizabeth.

  “Are you ready to go?” Phillip stuck his head in the back door.

  “Saved by the bell,” Elizabeth muttered as she grabbed her things and dashed out to join her father. “Have a good day, Mother,” she called over her shoulder.

  “That girl.” But the slight smile on Annabelle’s face belied her words.

  Thorliff couldn’t help but whistle as he followed her out to the sleigh.

  “Mr. Bjorklund, could you please stop by my desk after class?” Mr.

  Ingermanson stopped by Thorliff ’s side.

  “Ah, of course.” He watched the slightly stooped gentleman make his way to the front of the room without pausing to talk with anyone else. Now what? But Thorliff kept his questions off his face and out of his mind and forced himself to pay attention to the lecture. At least he wasn’t behind in this class, and his papers had been getting better grades. When the dismissal bell rang, he waited and let the others file out ahead of him.

  “You got trouble now,” Benjamin whispered as he passed by. “Meet me in the dining room when he lets you loose.”

  “Ja, I will.” The “ja” gave his tension away. No matter how he tried to conceal it, a summons to the professor’s desk made his stomach clench.

  Mr. Ingermanson turned from talking with another student. “Just a moment.”

  Thorliff nodded and made himself stand still. His feet twitched to run, not walk, out the door. He studied the instructions written on the board as if he had not already copied them into his class book.

  “Ah, good, thank you for waiting.” Mr. Ingermanson shuffled through some papers on his desk and came up with what Thorliff recognized as one of the chapters of his story from the newspaper.

  “This has been brought to my attention. I did not realize you wrote for the local paper.”

  “Ah, I started out cleaning the press and things like that. Mr. Phillips wanted someone to be in the building at night, so he offered me room and board in exchange for my staying there and helping.”

  “Very good.” Mr. Ingermanson read a few sentences and looked at Thorliff over the rim of his gold-framed glasses. “This is a good story.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Some places could be improved, but . . .”

  Thorliff waited, sure that the next comment would elucidate all the shortcomings of his story.

  “I was wondering if you would like to join our magazine staff. Usually we don’t take on freshmen, but you have proven yourself more than worthy, or rather capable.” He read a bit more.

  Thorliff swallowed, even that small action sounding loud in his ears. How can I do this? How can I not do this?

  “What other things have you written for publication?”

  “Some other articles for the paper.” He wanted to wipe his hands on his britches. “And Harper’s Magazine bought a story last year.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Ingermanson laid the newspaper back down on his desk. He half sat, half leaned on his desk and crossed his arms. “I had no idea we had a celebrity in our class.”

  Thorliff looked up from studying the back of his textbook to see if the man was being sarcastic. When he saw only approbation, he half shrugged. “One or two stories do not a celebrity make.”

  “Modesty is becoming in a man.” Mr. Ingermanson leaned forward enough to look over his glasses. “The grades I have given you must have been hard.”

  “Ja, they were, but I have been learning, and that is what I came to school for.”

  “Good. Striving for excellence. Would that everyone would take that as his creed. Now, I come to my reason for asking you to stop. Am I clear in understanding that you plan on becoming a newspaperman?”

  “That and write stories too. I like both.”

  “I see. Well, the normal rule here is that one must be a sophomore before being asked to join the Manitou Messenger staff, but we have decided to make an exception in your case due to your experience. Would you be interested in joining the staff?”

  Thorliff swallowed, desire warring with practicality. “I . . . I’d be honored.” Tell him the truth. “But I have a problem with the matter of time. Since I earn my room and board working at the newspaper, and I have that ongoing story, and I try to keep my grades up, well, I have so little time. . . .” I s’pose I’ve really messed up now. “I’ll have to give it some thought. And prayer.” God, what am I to do?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  February 1894

  “Quarantined!”

  At Thorliff ’s exclamation Dr. Gaskin turned from nailing the sign to the front door of the Rogerses’ home. “Sorry, son, but that’s what we have to do with the measles. Elizabeth came down with them last night.”

  “But what about Mr. Rogers?”

  “He hasn’t had them before, so he cannot leave either.”

  “And the newspaper?”

  “I imagine he shall miss a couple of issues.” Dr. Gaskin put his hammer back in the outside pocket of his black bag. “Mr. Rogers said to tell you that he will be talking with you on the telephone. Right now he is trying to find someone to take over or at least to help you.”

  Thorliff heard and felt his stomach rumble. Obviously Dr. Gaskin did too, for he smiled. “And you are to eat at my house.”

  “Ah.” Thorliff could feel his neck get warm. It must be about as red as his nose. If there was some way to keep from blushing, he sure wished he knew it. “Mange—er, thank you.” Stuttering too. “I’ll go to your house, then on to school. If you talk with Mr. Rogers, please tell him that.” He strode off down the walk without a backward glance, his mind going ten times faster than his feet, which picked up to just short of a run.

  How can I help him? How can I find help? Who will help me? I cannot put out the paper by myself and keep up with school. Lord, help me, please. I need a miracle—or maybe ten.

  The faster his mind ran, the faster his heart pumped, and he knocked on the door to the doctor’s house, puffing like he’d run five miles.

  “Good morning. You must be young Mr. Bjorklund.” The woman who answered handed him a brown-wrapped packet. “I figured you might want to head straight up the hill, but if you come earlier tomorrow, I’ll fix you a hot breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s plenty there for both breakfast and dinner. Come by here for supper on your way home.”

  He nodded. “Yes, thank you.” And tipped his hat. “See you late this afternoon.”

  “Dr. Gaskin said about four?”

  “Ja, that is good.” He heard his accent deepen. Careful, you have no time for fretting. That will only make things worse.

  “Worry, my dear Thorliff, is the work of the devil. Our Lord says to cast our cares on him, that He will redeem our hours and our efforts.” Thorliff heard Pastor Solberg’s voice as if he ran right beside him. He slipped once on the ice goin
g up the hill to Manitou Heights and St. Olaf, so he kept to the snow-covered side of the path. He made it through the door to the classroom just as the bell rang, totally out of breath from running the two flights of stairs.

  “Good of you to join us.” Reverend Ytterböe’s smile took any sting from his words. Often an assistant taught the class, since the good reverend spent most of his time on missions to the surrounding towns and congregations, working to raise the money to keep the doors of St. Olaf open.

  Keeping his mind on the classwork took every stitch of Thorliff ’s concentration. Every time his mind skittered off to think about the newspaper, which needed to be put to bed that evening, he jerked it back until he felt like a yo-yo with a first timer tangling the string.

  Down in the dining room after his first two classes, he inhaled his breakfast at the same time as his dinner and left his mates to go study.

  Ignoring their taunts, he huddled in a corner to prepare for the next day, since there would be no study time this evening.

  In English class Mr. Ingermanson stopped by his desk. “Have you thought about writing for the Manitou Messenger?”

  “I-I want to, but right now it is not possible.” Thorliff felt his stomach do a flip. “Mr. Rogers and his family are all quarantined with the measles, and that means I need to get the Northfield News out by myself. It goes to press tonight, and I know all the typesetting is not finished. I’m still getting used to the new Linotype machine, so it takes me longer than it used to.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Ingermanson stroked his pointed beard. “You do indeed have a problem. Is there anyone else you need besides typesetters?”

  “We have a new press too, and I am just learning it. I did all right with the old one.” No matter how Phillip raved about the new press, Thorliff hadn’t gotten it all down perfectly yet. And tonight he would be running it alone.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Mr. Ingermanson turned to the rest of the class. “I’m sure you all have your papers ready. We will start with Mr.

  Hanson. Read from the front of the room, please.”

  Thorliff knew he was supposed to be making notes to improve the read manuscripts, but he found himself composing an editorial instead—on the vagaries of quarantines and how they could wreak destruction on businesses and lives. By the end of the class, he had a satire going on the doom of Northfield if all the residents were locked in their houses.

  Would Mr. Rogers mind running something like that? Or had Thorliff just created for himself another hour’s work that would be required to finish it? Let alone the hour he’d just wasted in class.

  “This is utter nonsense.” Phillip Rogers stomped around his study, his hair standing all awry from raking his fingers through it time and again as he vented his extreme frustration. Pulling his hair seemed preferable to pounding his fists on the desk, the walls, the doors.

  “Now, dear.” Annabelle stopped. She rubbed her eyes with fingers that had suddenly started to shake. One minute she was freezing cold, the next wishing to tear off her clothes and fling herself in a snowbank.

  “Phillip, I-I think I will go upstairs now.”

  “How can I—” He stopped long enough to truly look at her. “Oh, my word. You have them too.” He took her by the arm and led her to the stairs.

  “I-I’m fine. I must check on Elizabeth.” The stairs undulated before her, and looking clear to the top made her think of mountains she had seen on the stereopticon.

  “Can you walk up alone?”

  His voice came from a distance, as if he were standing in the basement perhaps, calling up the stairs. “I . . . of course.” Annabelle set a hand on the banister, only to be attacked by another bout of chills that shook her head to foot.

  “Here.” Phillip put an arm around her waist and half carried her up to the landing. They both took a deep breath and made it the rest of the way up, then down the hall.

  “I . . . have . . . so . . .”

  “You are going to bed.” He guided her to the four-poster in their room and held her up with one hand while he turned down the covers with the other. “Do you want me to help you undress, or . . . ?” She started to tip sideways when he sat her on the edge of the bed.

  Tears pooled in her eyes and overflowed as she looked up at him. “I don’t . . .”

  “I know.” Phillip unbuttoned her brown morning dress and slid the garment from her shoulders. Untying her chemise and the bow on her padded winter petticoat and removing the garments would have been easier had she been standing, but the stark white of her skin, dotted by red, warned him away from any untold motion. By the time he had her garbed in a flannel nightdress, he felt as though he’d been through a skirmish, only not with soldiers but with yards and yards of fabric. Perhaps dressing women in britches was not a bad idea after all. He laid her back on the pillow and swung her feet to the bed so he could pull the covers up to her chin. It would have been much easier to call Cook, but he had an idea she wasn’t feeling too well either. Could everyone in the world have the measles at the same time? Annabelle definitely had the measles. He had seen the telltale red dots on her neck and shoulders.

  Following the same orders the doctor had given for Elizabeth, he pulled the drapes closed, darkening the room, and headed for the kitchen to bring up a pitcher of water. Making sure she drank plenty of water was important, since he’d been warned the fever could be high.

  By the time Phillip called Thorliff, darkness had fallen, and all three of his patients were asleep—for a change. He stood at the wall, waiting for the operator to connect him to the newspaper office. Thank God for the telephone at a time like this. His thoughts on the blessings of all the modern inventions included the gaslights he turned on when dusk dimmed the land, not of course in the rooms of the sick, but if he had to take care of kerosene lanterns like they’d had years earlier and haul in wood, it would be far too much for one man. “I’ve gotten soft with this life of ease, that’s all.”

  “What did you say, Mr. Rogers?” Ina Odegaard, the switchboard operator, caught him by surprise.

  “Nothing, just thinking out loud.” He held the black receiver to his ear. “He must not be there, eh? Try Dr. Gaskin.” He waited again.

  “No answer, but I’m sure his housekeeper is there. I didn’t see her leave.” The switchboard was in a house right across the street from the doctor’s, and Ina kept track of everyone in town from her seat in the bay window and the lights on her switchboard.

  “Hang on just a minute, Mr. Rogers. I might have found him.” A pause and she came back on the line. “Okay, your young man is just leaving the doctor’s house, and from the speed of those long legs of his, he should be at the newspaper office in three or four minutes. You want to ring him again then?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Thank you.” He eyed the oak box on the wall with distaste, as if it were at the heart of this matter.

  The tinkle of the bell told him Annabelle was calling. Elizabeth had one with a more somber chime. After helping his wife to the necessary, he checked on his daughter, still sleeping, and made his way back downstairs to try Thorliff again.

  The ringing phone summoned Thorliff from his seat in front of the keyboard. He lifted the earpiece from the cradle and glared at the monster he’d as soon consign to the nether regions as to keep working with. New wasn’t necessarily perfect. “Yes.”

  “Ah, good, how are things going there?”

  Thorliff shook his head. How to answer? If he admitted how stuck he felt, perhaps Mr. Rogers would feel even worse. The last time he called, Mr. Rogers spent five minutes apologizing.

  “Slow.” Now that was a good safe answer.

  “You are typesetting.” His tone said he knew Thorliff was having trouble.

  “Ja, ja. But it is getting easier.”

  “I wish I could get someone to help you. This quarantine is . . . is . . .” Phillip sputtered to a stop. “But that is getting us nowhere. How can I help you?”

  “I don’t know. The pa
per will just have to be smaller if I am to get it out on time.” The silence let him know what his employer thought of that. “I-I don’t know what else to do.”

  “No, you are right. Smaller and a day late will just have to do. That is better than canceling altogether. Put a thirty-point header on the front page about the measles outbreak. And run about three inches telling the good citizens of Northfield about the importance of keeping those ill in a darkened room. You might get a quote from Dr. Gaskin. I will send my editorial over in the morning.”

  “All right.” Thorliff hung up after they said good-bye and leaned his head against the wooden box. Good thing he’d brewed another pot of coffee. Even with the day’s grace, it looked to be an exceedingly long night.

  When his eyes smarted so he could hardly see the keys, he left off typesetting and tried to study his Greek textbook to prepare for the test he feared was coming. After another cup of coffee that now tasted like bitter sludge, he made himself run up and down the stairs to the basement to get his brain functioning again.

  The clock bonged three when he crawled under the quilt; the hammer pounding in his head made his ears ring. And the paper was not done.

  Lord, do I go to school or work on the paper? Both are important. I haven’t missed any classes up to now, surely the . . .He dropped into the well of exhaustion with nary a ripple.

  Thorliff woke to a pounding he thought to be his head with sun diamonding the windowpane. Leaping out of bed, he realized the pounding came from the front door, and a glance at the clock in the hall told him he was late for class.

  Still pulling up his braces, he unlocked the front door to find Dr. Gaskin about to hammer the wood again.

  “Are you sick, young man?”

  “No, I just overslept.” Thorliff stepped back to let the man enter.

  “You are sure you do not have the measles? No headache, no aching, no dizziness?”