Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  Her father found her back in bed, alternately shivering and sweating.

  “Ah, did too much, eh?” He laid the back of his hand on her forehead.

  “No, I did not do too much. I have done nothing of any worth for almost two weeks now, and here this confounded illness is back again. I thought to go up to school tomorrow, and look at me.”

  “No need to bite the hand that will feed you tonight.”

  “I don’t need feeding.” She sounded like a cranky child and castigated herself for that too. “If I miss any more school, they are going to say I have to take this term over, and—” She exploded in another coughing spell and tried to catch her breath.

  “I’m calling the doctor.”

  “There’s nothing he can do. He’ll just say bed rest, and drink lots of beef or chicken broth, and use the cough syrup he already left.” She fought to catch her breath between phrases. How had this come spinning back so quickly? “I even played the piano for mother today and thought I was so much better.” Tears wanted to leak from her eyes, so she rubbed them with her fists.

  “Thorliff sent his greetings, and Thornton dropped by the office to see how you were. He was just released from quarantine at his uncle’s house. The children all had the measles too.”

  “And he didn’t get them?”

  “No, he took care of everyone else. He offered to come read some of your textbooks to you if Doctor will let him.”

  “Has he had the measles?”

  “Must have, or he’d have them by now.” Phillip leaned against the carved post at the end of her bed, his fingers absently stroking the pineapple carved at the top of the cherrywood post. “I’ll send Cook up to bathe you.”

  “I just got out of the tub an hour or so ago.”

  “I meant to cool you off.”

  “Just open the window, and I’ll throw back the covers and let the wind take care of me.”

  Phillip chuckled. “You must not be terribly sick. Your tongue is sharp as a needle.”

  She sighed. “Sorry. Please hand me that cough medicine. It will put me to sleep, and perhaps I will wake feeling better again.”

  Phillip did as she asked. “I’ll fetch a spoon.”

  “No need.” She raised the brown bottle to her lips and took two serious glugs, the medicine burning clear to her belly. When she could talk again, she rolled her eyes. “Must be enough whiskey or brandy in that to drop a horse.” Handing back the bottle, she rolled over on her side. “Thank you.”

  Phillip stoppered the bottle with the cork and set it back on the stand. “Ring your bell if I can get you anything.”

  “I will.”

  “They say doctors make the worst patients.” Dr. Gaskin replaced the now empty cough syrup bottle with another.

  “How would I know? If I stay in bed all the time, I won’t have to worry about becoming one.” Two days had passed, and while Elizabeth knew she was better, she felt virtually unable to keep her mouth from spewing out her resentment.

  “I think spring will show her face soon.”

  “Right, and I’ve spent most of February in bed.”

  “Better than the grave. I lost another patient last night, and you know how close your mother was.”

  Elizabeth bit the inside of her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are. But please listen to me, and let’s not do this again.”

  “Can I read now?”

  “Unless it bothers your eyes. You’re done with the measles, but the secondary infections are what death uses to carry folks off.”

  All right, quit being such a spoiled brat and behave yourself. “How bad has it been?”

  “Four dead, two still borderline, and everyone else slowly recovering. Miss Browne has been a trouper. You found a jewel when you found her, and I thank you for it.”

  “Good.” Elizabeth hacked and coughed up more phlegm. She checked her handkerchief. No longer green at least. “How is Mother?”

  “Weak.” His brow wrinkled. “You will be on your feet far faster, I’m sure.” He shook his head.

  “I’m far younger.”

  A one-shouldered shrug greeted what she had meant as humor.

  “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

  Gaskin checked his watch, then tucked the gold timepiece back into his vest pocket. “I must be going.” And with that he was out the door before she could overcome another cough and ask him more questions.

  Elizabeth threw back the covers to follow him but flopped back on the pillows, her heart pounding at the effort. “I hate being sick!” She felt tears burning her throat and coughed again. “And I will not cry!” She hugged her shoulders with both hands. “And please, oh, please, Lord, make my mother well again. All the way well.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  March 1894

  Dear Thorliff,

  There is not much news here. I am sorry I haven’t written more often, but I do appreciate your letters. It sounds like you are working very hard and getting the things you wanted, like writing and becoming published. Father is much the same, but Mr. Moen comes to sit with him, and they visit. That is why I am able to take time to write to you now. I am sure you will enjoy talking with him when you come home. He is so interested in the lives of Norwegians in America, and since you came as a little boy, he wants to hear your story.

  Swen has asked Dorothy Iverson from south of Blessing to marry him. They will begin to build a house this spring and be married in the fall after harvest.

  Again, thank you for writing.

  As ever,

  Anji

  Thorliff read the short letter again. Was this the man his mother had also mentioned? It must be. But why was he talking so much with Anji’s father? Joseph didn’t come from Norway. His mother and father did. Joseph was American, not Norwegian. Wishing he could put his finger on what was bothering him, Thorliff folded the letter and put it in his pocket before heading up the stairs to the classroom. Why can’t I be more pleased?

  He laid his Greek text on the desk and reviewed the paper he’d written about Sophocles, not much different from the ones Pastor Solberg had required of him in high school. The good foundation he’d received in Greek made this class easier than some of the others. Since his school assignment was finished, he worked on the next chapter of The Switchmen for the newspaper during his study time.

  “Hey, it snowed again,” Benjamin announced as they left for the day. “You want to go tobogganing?”

  “I wish I could. I told Elizabeth I would bring her assignments to her, and we print the paper tonight.” Shrugging into his coat, Thorliff tucked his muffler inside and pulled on his mittens. “Unless you want to toboggan down the road to town.”

  “No, we’re using the slope into Norway Valley. Sorry you can’t come.” Benjamin waved and headed off toward the valley where shouts and laughter could already be heard.

  Thorliff looked longingly after him. The fresh powdery snow would be perfect for sliding. Instead, he turned his face toward town and hunched his shoulders against the wind.

  “You have a letter.” Phillip handed the envelope to Thorliff when he reached the newspaper office.

  “Thanks.” Thorliff looked at the return address and then at his boss. “New York. From Mr. Gould.”

  “Hope it is good news.”

  “I could use some.” Thorliff took the letter opener from the pencil cup and slit the envelope. The heavy paper felt rich in his hands.

  Dear Thorliff,

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to respond, but I wanted to say congratulations on your article in Harper’s . Imagine my delight when I saw your byline. There is nothing like starting at the top. Harper’s has the pick of the crème de la crème, as you well know. I am very interested in hearing how your year at St. Olaf and your work on the newspaper are proceeding. I know the drought has been a hardship for those in North Dakota and the other prairie states, and I am sure it would have been very easy for you to remain at home on
the farm. It is a tribute to your parents that they see the value of college for a young man of your talents. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  David Jonathan Gould

  “Good news?”

  Thorliff nodded and handed the open letter to Phillip. Since he’d told him the story of Mr. Gould’s beneficence, he knew the newspaperman would be keenly interested. Thorliff watched as a smile widened on Phillip’s face.

  “Never hurts to have a man like him in your corner.” Phillip returned the letter and, tipping his chair back, locked his hands behind his head. “Amazing how things work out. Your mother gets lost in New York City, and years later you receive money for college from the man who helped her—you and the others you graduated with.”

  “And our school library received books. Don’t forget that. Gould is a most generous man.”

  “He’s also involved in railroads. . . .” A raised eyebrow accompanied the comment.

  “I know, and not likely a union sympathizer.” Thorliff thought a moment before adding, “Life holds many hard choices and few easy answers.”

  “And the easy answers don’t usually follow the path of wisdom. Good thing you are learning this young, son. Lessons get harder the later you wait to learn them.”

  “That’s encouraging.” Thorliff shrugged out of his coat and hung it along with muffler and hat on the tree. “How are Elizabeth and Mrs. Rogers doing? Cook was so busy I didn’t stop to chat. She still doesn’t look well either.”

  “I know. Elizabeth is wearing herself out taking care of her mother, so she relapsed. Cook is fussing that she isn’t doing a good job of caring for them, and I sometimes contemplate moving a bed to here in the office.”

  Thorliff smiled back at the self-deprecating grin from Rogers. “I’ll go make a pot of coffee if what remains is from this morning.”

  “Good. It’s so thick now the spoon stands up.” Phillip sat back straight and picked up his fountain pen. “I’ll have this editorial finished soon.”

  That night Thorliff added another paragraph to his running letter to Anji.

  Thank you for the short letter I received from you today. I am grateful Mr. Moen is helping with your father. . . .

  Thorliff paused, rethinking his next sentence. It would do no good to tell her of his displeasure—or was it concern?—at the place Mr. Moen was gaining at the Baard house. After all, no one had told him that Mr. Moen was young. His mind just created that picture. Perhaps Mr. Moen was old enough to be her grandfather, or father anyway.

  I received a letter today from Mr. Gould. He saw my story in Harper’s Magazine and wrote of his pleasure in seeing that. I’m going to send him a couple of the articles I wrote for the Northfield News, and though I was thinking of sending him the beginning chapter of The Switchmen , perhaps since that is political satire against the railroads, it might not be a good idea. Back to my studies. I’m sending you copies of those articles too. I hope you enjoy them, and perhaps your father will too.

  I remain yours,

  Thorliff

  After that he wrote a letter to Mr. Gould and included the articles he’d mentioned to Anji. While he was due to write another letter home, he put his things away and fell into bed. He’d almost fallen asleep studying at school, but when could he fit more sleep in?

  And when could he find time to write in the journal he’d received for Christmas? Too few hours in a day and far more things he’d like to do, if he could find the time.

  By March fourteenth, the day before winter exams, Thorliff, his head stuffed with a cold and his fingers aching from writing two research compositions and rewriting them a third time to make them perfect, was weary to the point of sleepwalking. He wanted nothing more than a week of sleep, off somewhere so no one could bother him. How can one person be so far behind, he asked himself. And then he thought of Elizabeth, recovered enough from the measles to go to school and so far behind in her schoolwork that she was asking for extensions. Not that asking for extensions was in any way unusual. Most of the students who’d fallen prey to the epidemic either gave up and went home to recuperate or asked for extra time. Exams for them would be in two weeks.

  Since snow was falling again, Phillip took them up the hill in the sleigh. “Now that was the quietest trip we’ve ever had.” His comment failed to elicit a response, other than Thorliff blowing his nose.

  “Thank you, sir.” Thorliff stepped from the sleigh and slid on the ice. He grabbed hold of the sleigh frame and leaned over to pick up his satchel that had gone flying.

  “Careful there.”

  Elizabeth, cheeks looking even redder compared to the dark circles under her eyes, didn’t even bother to smile, let alone laugh at Thorliff ’s near fall. “Thank you, Father.”

  “I’ll be up to get you at noon. Don’t want you skating down to Carleton.”

  “Good.” She ducked her head against the snow and wind, letting Thorliff walk on the windward side without a comment.

  “One more day.” Thorliff held the door open.

  “At least for you it will be over then.” She brushed ahead of him and started up the stairs to the classrooms.

  He stared after her, feeling pity for her load and pique at her brusqueness. But there was no way to help her. Right now he could hardly help himself.

  The first two winter exams passed in a daze. While Thorliff knew his papers were good, he wasn’t sure he could even read the exam questions. He wrote all he could, staggered down the hill, and collapsed on his bed to sleep through the night and half the next day.

  “Just checking on you, son.” Phillip stood beside the bed. “Can’t have you coming down with pneumonia or something.”

  “Oh. What time is it?” Thorliff felt as though he were trying to see through a frost-covered window. Everything blurred.

  “One.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  A chuckle greeted his question. “Yes. The sun rarely shines at one in the morning.”

  Thorliff let his face flop back into the pillow.

  “I brought you some chicken soup. Cook says you have to take it now, like medicine, you know?”

  Thorliff pushed his body upright and swung his feet to the braided rug on the floor. “Mange takk.” He didn’t hear Phillip go out the door as he devoured the soup.

  The next morning, Friday, he showed up at the Rogerses’ door, still sniffling but with a fairly clear head.

  “Ah, the resilience of youth.” Phillip greeted him, peering into his face to assure himself Thorliff should be up and about.

  “Yes. I have another exam today and the last one tomorrow.” He accepted the steaming coffee mug Cook handed him and took his place at the table, ready to devour the plateful she put before him. He didn’t stop until he’d cleaned up a second helping. “I am so looking forward to the week off. When school starts again, we should all be in healthier condition.”

  The knowledge that he had earned two A’s and the remainder B’s made his vacation week even more enjoyable as he spent it writing, working on the paper, and writing some more—letters, chapters, articles, and more chapters.

  The chinook winds blew like a blessing on all their activities after Elizabeth passed all her exams the following week.

  “If only mother felt stronger, life would be perfect,” Elizabeth said as she and Thorliff trudged up the hill.

  If only I’d have a long letter from Anji—signed that she loves me still—that would make it perfect. But Thorliff kept his wish to himself, only murmuring agreement to Elizabeth as he slowed his pace to relieve her from puffing to keep up. The more disturbed he was, the longer his strides and faster he ate up the distance.

  “A letter for you.” Benjamin handed him the envelope as they strolled into class at the same moment as the bell rang.

  “Good of you to join us, gentlemen.” Professor Schwartzhause wore his habitually stern expression.

  “Sorry.” Thorliff and Benjamin scurried to their seats.

&nb
sp; A glance at the handwriting said the letter was from Andrew, not Anji, so Thorliff stuck it in his pocket to read later. Later didn’t come until his walk down the hill alone, since this was Elizabeth’s afternoon at Carleton. He drew in a deep breath of air that promised spring on the way and, staying in the track melted down to the gravel, took the letter from his pocket, slit the envelope, and began to read.

  Dear Thorliff,

  I hate to be the one to write this to you, but Mor said you would want to know. Paws died in his sleep behind the kitchen stove last night. I took my quilt down there because Pa said we would have to put him out of his misery in the morning, and I wanted to be with him as long as possible. He could hardly walk anymore and had to be carried outside to relieve himself. He was so embarrassed at that. You know how he was. But in the middle of the night he licked my hand, and then I patted him, and he died just that quick with a little sigh. He was such a good dog, and we all miss him terribly. Mor said the house seems empty without him, and even Astrid’s cat goes around looking for him.

  Thorliff dashed a hand across his eyes, blurred to the point he could scarcely read the words.

  Far says we will get another dog, but one would have to go a long way to make up for Paws. I just know that I miss him, and I know you do too. When the ground thaws out, we will bury him in the corner of the yard under the lilac bush where he liked to sleep in the summer.

  I hope you are liking school more all the time. Christmas went so fast, and just when I was used to having you home, you left again. We had twenty lambs this year, and Bess had her foal, a colt that thinks he is the king of the world. He is so funny. I named him Star because of the perfect star right between his eyes.

  Mor made snow candy yesterday when we had new snow. Thank you for sending copies of your newspaper. You write really good articles and we all enjoy your story. Pastor Solberg is reading it during school.