Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “No, you grew, but this way.” She spread her hands a couple of feet apart.

  “You’re saying I got fat?”

  She rolled her eyes and gave him another dumbbell look. “No, you look more like Pa, you know, broader in the shoulders and chest. That kind of growing.”

  “Well, if I don’t get back to work, this corn won’t get a chance to grow. Thanks for the lunch.” He took another cookie and climbed back up on the implement seat. “Mange takk.”

  “You’re welcome.” Her laugh floated back on the breeze as she ran back across the field.

  Thorliff looked to the south to see where Andrew had his teams. Over to the Knutsons, Haakan and Lars were working on the steam tractor. Though the iron monster never tired like the horses and oxen did, it needed constant maintenance. Just like he did.

  Even with heavy leather gloves on, his hands felt like ground meat. His legs cramped at night so bad he leaped out of bed and scared even Andrew awake. In spite of the brim on his hat, the sun burned his neck to a blaze, and if he could ever truly quench the thirst, he’d—what? He didn’t know. Had he truly gotten so weak living in town that he never realized how much strength and endurance farming required? Strange, when he was in Northfield he had dreamed of home, and now that he was here, he dreamed of Northfield. He lifted his face to the breeze. Thank God for that at least. Now if only the wind would bring the rain. That’s all the men talked about when any two or more got together—the needed rain and the low prices.

  When he heard the dinner bell ring, he unhitched the doubletrees, hooked the traces up to the rump pads, and turned the team homeward. Memories leaped from the soil itself: he and Andrew running out to ride one of the horses back to the barns, Paws coming to greet them, yipping and jumping in his excitement. Riding Jack the mule in to Tante Penny’s store. He could barely remember his real pa, only shadows of a sober-faced man with a deep voice and gentle hands when he lifted a small boy onto his shoulders. So his memories of growing up always included Haakan.

  “Hurry, Thorliff, or we’ll start eating without you.” Astrid cupped her hands around her mouth to help the holler carry clear to him.

  “Go right ahead.” Thorliff stopped the horses at the barn door and began removing the harnesses. Andrew grinned at him as he took a harness and hung it on the racks inside on the barn wall.

  “Don’t say a word,” Thorliff cautioned him. “Not one word.”

  “Oh, I won’t say that you look really bad, but if you want to go up and wash, I’ll finish with the horses.”

  “Smart-mouthed kid.” But even the grumbling felt good compared to staggering in behind the team. He should have ridden like he’d thought, but that would have meant admitting defeat.

  “Another week and you’ll be back to normal.” Haakan handed him a towel and pointed to the washbasins that lined the bench on the south side of the house. “Astrid even poured you warm water.”

  Thorliff knew they were all trying to make it easier for him, and that made him feel even worse. He worked hard on the printing press. That was no slack job, but he had to be honest. It didn’t continue day after day like this, and sitting at a desk writing did not build the kind of muscles the farm demanded.

  They applauded when he made it to the table.

  Instead of snapping like his insides demanded, he laughed along with them. When they bowed their heads for grace, he was most thankful for a chair that didn’t move and a cushion to pad his rear.

  “Tomorrow everyone will be here for dinner after church to welcome you home.” Ingeborg passed the platter of fried chicken to him.

  “Just like always.” Thorliff took a thigh and a breast and passed it to Andrew. He took a bite and closed his eyes in bliss. “No one makes fried chicken like you, Mor.”

  “I fried the chicken.” Astrid flipped her braids over her shoulders.

  Andrew burst out laughing. “You should see your face.”

  Thorliff looked from his plate to his sister. “Really?”

  “Ja, Astrid is a big help now. She can cook anything I can.”

  “Does she make cheese as good?” At their shrugs, he continued around his mouthful of chicken. “When I go back to school, I have to bring at least three wheels of cheese with me. I could set up shop and sell Bjorklund cheese to pay my way through school.”

  “That’s at least one product we can keep selling at a decent price. I’m thinking we should keep some of the fields in pasture and buy more cows.”

  “Don’t you still get milk from the other farmers around here?” Thorliff buttered a roll and ate half of it in one bite.

  “Ja, Sam drives a wagon around and picks up the cans, then goes back to the blacksmith shop. We’re going to have to add on to the cheese house again to have enough room to age it properly. We’ve been selling more of the soft cheese at Penny’s store and in Grafton.” Ingeborg refilled the basket of rolls and handed it to Thorliff. “I’m thinking of getting goats and making goat cheese as a sideline.”

  “Who would milk those smelly creatures?”

  “There are two girls at the deaf school, and I’m sure George McBride would too. You won’t believe the change in him.”

  “That’s because he loves Ilse.” Andrew chewed the meat off a drumstick and laid the bone down.

  “How do you know that?” Astrid looked from her brother to her mother and back.

  “I watch.” Andrew reached for another chicken leg. “When they marry up, he will keep working for Onkel Olaf, and she will keep helping at the deaf school. You watch.”

  “Andrew, you amaze me,” Ingeborg said.

  You need to be more like Andrew, Thorliff told himself. He sees more than anyone I know, other than Metiz. “I haven’t seen Metiz since I got home. Is she all right?”

  “She moves more slowly sometimes but keeps plenty busy. I know she misses Baptiste, but she never admits it.”

  “We all miss him, especially all the game he provided. You never know how much someone does until they aren’t there to do it anymore.” Haakan leaned back and patted his stomach. “Not that we are starving or anything.”

  “Maybe I should run a line of snares for rabbits for Metiz. She runs out of skins sometimes.” Andrew reached for another roll.

  “That would be a good thing to do.” Ingeborg held up the chicken platter. “Anyone want another piece?”

  “When?” Haakan motioned for the chicken. “You work from dawn to dark as it is.”

  “Once the cultivating is done, the hay won’t be ready yet. I’ll do it then.”

  Thorliff listened with only one ear. Somehow he had to find time to write more chapters too. And that was the kind of thing one did in the winter on the farm. Tell them, so they know you’ve made that promise. He started to argue with himself, but after a drink of water, he leaned forward. “I promised to send Mr. Rogers a chapter a week for the newspaper serial until it is finished. He said if I had time to write any articles, he’d run them too. And funniest thing.” He told them of his letter from Ivar Moen. “So if I can find time, I could send some things to his paper in Norway. He must be a pretty nice guy.”

  “Did you bring home the last two installments? That’s sure been a good story.” Andrew filled in the silence and turned to look at his older brother. “I guess I didn’t know you could write such a long one.”

  “Guess I didn’t know it either. One of these times I have to come up with an ending.”

  “Astrid has been reading it to us the evening it comes in the mail. Then we take it to school, and she reads it there too.” Andrew nodded to his little sister. “She’s a real good reader.”

  “I had no idea.” Thorliff looked around the table. “You want to hear some good news about it?” At their eager nods he continued. “Mr. Rogers might print it in a book. He’s gotten lots of requests.”

  “Oh, Thorliff, your first book.” Ingeborg set a piece of custard pie in front of him, laying a hand on his shoulder at the same time. “And to think you are only on
e year in college.”

  “He didn’t need college to write that book. He learned it all here on the farm.” Haakan tamped the tobacco down in his pipe and waved the pipe for emphasis. “But his articles on the Pullman strike, now those are real reporting.” He motioned Astrid to bring a lighted spill from the stove. “One day a man in Grafton asked if I was related to that reporter Thorliff Bjorklund. Can you beat that?”

  “How did he get one of my articles?”

  “I asked him. He said a relative from Northfield sent them on. The world’s getting to be a smaller place every day.” A cloud of smoke hovered above his head.

  Thorliff inhaled the fragrances of home—pipe smoke, fresh bread, fried chicken, coffee. A rooster crowed from out in the chicken yard. The orange cat mewed and leaped up in Astrid’s lap, chirp changing to purr as she stroked his head. Home. How he had missed it in the beginning. How would he be able to leave it again?

  “How’s your hands, son?” Haakan asked around the pipe stem in his mouth.

  “Tolerable. Has anyone heard from Manda and Baptiste?”

  “The Solbergs have gotten two letters, and Mary Martha went right over to Metiz’ house to read them to her. They’re hoping to bring another herd of horses home to sell this summer.”

  “Good for them. They like Montana?”

  “I guess so, but you know Manda. She didn’t waste too many words on paper either.” Ingeborg took the plates from the table and slid them into the pan of soapy water steaming on the back of the stove. “Solbergs are coming over tonight to see you.”

  Thorliff glanced up from his coffee cup. That meant he couldn’t go see Anji tonight either. When would they ever get a chance to talk? And yet he couldn’t not be here. That would be insufferably rude. On the other hand, why did no one ask him first before planning out the time?

  “We better get back out to work.” Haakan stood and took his pipe to the stove to clean out the bowl with the tip of his knife, the residual tobacco falling into the coals in the firebox. He tapped the bowl against the rim of the opening and set his pipe back up in the pipe rack on the warming shelf.

  Thorliff watched the ritual, filing it away for one of the characters in his story. Far was right. Most of what he wrote came from his life here on the farm, even though much of the current story was set in cities and towns along the railroad. He’d read that some famous writer said you write what you know, but while he knew the most about farming in North Dakota, he’d learned more than he wanted in reporting on the strikes and battling strikers. He could hear Astrid and Ingeborg talking, but the voices sounded farther and farther away until he heard them no more.

  “Naptime is over.”

  “Huh?” He felt someone shake his shoulder at the same time as he heard her speak right in his ear. He jolted straight up. “What?”

  “I said, naptime is over. Pa said to let you sleep awhile, and then you are to take the oxen out to finish your field.”

  “Let me sleep?” Thorliff glanced around at the clean kitchen, table cleared, with salt and pepper, sugar bowl, and jelly jar all centered on the board with a lip he’d made for that purpose one year in school. The oilcloth tablecloth was wiped free of crumbs, the chairs pushed back in.

  “How long did I sleep?” He rubbed the crick in the back of his neck that told him some time had passed.

  “An hour or so.” Astrid leaned against his shoulder. “I was afraid you would topple right off on the floor, but you didn’t.”

  Thorliff rose and stretched, every bone and muscle in his body screaming in protest. He crossed to the water pail and raised the dipper for a drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hung the dipper back up on the hook.

  “Guess I better get back on out there. I’ll probably never live this one down.”

  “Maybe in a year or two.”

  “Yeah, sure, or ten or never.” He patted her on the head. “Thanks for the good dinner.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Thorliff stood at the door to greet their guests that evening. “Good to see you, sir.” He returned the handshake of the man who’d made so much of his education possible and become both mentor and friend.

  “Ah, Thorliff, sorely have I missed you. School just is not the same without you there. I’ve had to work twice as hard since my assistant is in Northfield.” His chuckle and a clap on Thorliff ’s shoulder said all the rest that his eyes added.

  “Thorliff, you’ve grown up—er—out—er . . .” Mary Martha gave him a hug. “I’m so glad to hear you are doing well.”

  “Better by the end of the year, but . . .” Now it was Thorliff ’s turn to shake his head.

  “Not easy, eh?”

  “Ma.” A towheaded boy tugged at her coat.

  She pushed him forward. “Thorliff, this is Johnny; he is four now, Thomas here is three, and Deborah is holding Emily.”

  “They sure look alike.” Thorliff grinned at Deborah, who smiled shyly back. “Except for you. And how come you went and grew up while I was gone?”

  “She sure is a big help. I reckon I’d be right lost without her.” Mary Martha reached for the baby. “You go on and play with Astrid, darlin’. I know that’s what you all want to do.” In spite of her years in Blessing, Mary Martha still had a trace of her Missouri accent and didn’t try to hide it.

  “So have you heard again from the Montana people?”

  “Oh my, yes. In fact just the other day. I’ll let you read the letter soon as I put this one down.” She grinned up at him and thrust the baby into his arms. “You hold her for a minute while I take out the letter.”

  “I’ll take her.” Ingeborg reached for the baby, but Thorliff took a step back and shook his head. “I can manage.” He looked down to see two dark eyes staring up at him, as if memorizing his face. Then a smile stretched her rosy cheeks, showing off two glistening white teeth above her lower lip. Emily reached for his face with a chubby hand and gurgled something. When he didn’t respond, she put her finger on his lip and repeated the sounds. “Sorry, little one, I don’t talk your language.”

  At the sound of his voice, she grinned wider and began kicking her feet, telling him something that he only wished he understood.

  “She’s beautiful.” Thorliff looked to Mary Martha. “And so smart.”

  “Thank you.” She handed him the letter and took back her daughter. “She’s going to be a busy one, already rarely still for a moment and crawling after her brothers. I had to warn them to make sure the screen door was latched, or she’d have crawled right out the door.”

  Thorliff turned to see his mother watching him with a faint smile on her face. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t go dreaming about grandbabies yet, Mor. I have three more years of college, remember?”

  “Oh, you.” She shook her head. “Get on in there and talk with the men.”

  Thorliff found Johnny on Haakan’s lap and Thomas on his father’s, but they slid down and ran back to the kitchen when he sat down. “What am I, the scary man or something?”

  John Solberg laughed. “Not to me, that’s for sure. Tell me, what do you like best about school?”

  “Well, I’ve learned not to ask Professor Schwartzhause about the contradiction of the God of the Old Testament and the God we see in the New.”

  “Oh, not open-minded about questioning students, eh?”

  “No. My English teacher, Mr. Ingermanson, does not give top grades without suffering you through lower ones first. He did ask me to be on the staff for the Manitou Messenger, the monthly school magazine, but I had to turn it down for now. The city newspaper takes up a lot of time, but with the new Linotype machine and printing press, I might be able to do both this next year.”

  “You certainly are having a lot of experiences. Amazing how God has put you in that place in such times as we are living through. Your stories of the strikes and riots make one feel like they are right there. And your novel . . .” Solberg shook his head. “So much for such a young man. What a gift.
”

  “Ja, we might set him to selling cheese in Northfield this year. We got another order in the mail.” Haakan set his chair to rocking. “Sometimes I think we ought to grow only enough grain to feed our cattle and turn the rest into hay, so we can go into all dairy for the cheese making.”

  “Really?” Thorliff stared at his father.

  “Something to think about.” Haakan tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and sucked it without lighting.

  When Haakan and Solberg started talking about something regarding the church, Thorliff fought to keep his eyes open. He covered a yawn with his hand and shook his head. He could hear the women fixing the dessert in the kitchen and the girls upstairs chattering. Andrew sat with his carving knives from Christmas and a block of wood that at this point looked only to be a source for the shavings dropping on the floor. And here he’d thought to spend some time on his chapter this evening.

  “Excuse me.” He rose and headed outside to the outhouse. Anything to get some air and wake up again. When he returned, he took his chocolate cake drenched in whipping cream to eat standing at the wall. Later, after all the good-byes were said, he stumbled his way up the stairs and fell on the bed, not even waking when Andrew crawled in a few minutes later.

  As they drove up to the church in the wagon the next morning, he searched the crowd for Anji. When he saw Swen with a girl at his side, he wandered over to be introduced. After he met her, he asked, “Where’s Anji?”

  “Ah . . .” Swen looked over his shoulder and then kind of shrugged. “She was here a minute ago. Mrs. Sam is staying with Pa for today.” He backed away. “Come on, Dorothy, let’s go on in.”

  What’s going on? Thorliff stared after his friend. He acted like . . . like . . .

  “Come on, Thorliff.” Astrid came to take his hand. He allowed her to pull him toward the front steps, nodding and greeting people he’d known all his life. When he sat down next to his mother he glanced forward to see Anji already seated. But from the back he had no idea who the man was sitting next to her. When she tipped her head slightly in his direction to hear something he said, Thorliff felt like a giant hammer clobbered him in the middle. They were together. Who was he? What was going on?