Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

Thorliff tried to think of something to say, but nothing would come. He laid a hand on her shoulder, but somehow she drifted away from him without hardly moving. Anji, I want to hold you like we did last summer. I love you. You said you love me. But such a mess this has all been.

  “Anji, I . . .” Mr. Moen stopped in the doorway. “Oh, excuse me.”

  Thorliff bit back the words that surged behind his teeth. Get out of here. You don’t belong.

  “I’ll be out in a minute, Ivar.”

  “Anji, we need to talk.” Thorliff knew he was rushing in, but what else could he do?

  “Soon, Thorliff. Let me get through the next couple of days, and then we will talk.”

  “But . . .” He saw the sorrow on her face and stopped. “Of course. If there is anything I can do, you will let me know?” Such stilted words and so useless. God, give me the words. What do I do here?

  She nodded, closed her eyes for a moment, and straightening her shoulders, walked ahead of him back to the crowd.

  A week passed. The wheat fields wore their mantle of green, gardens needed hoeing already since the weeds always outgrew the seeds, and several new calves in the pen bawled for their mothers.

  “I’m going over to see Anji,” Thorliff said after supper. “Do you have anything you want to send along?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Ingeborg glanced around the kitchen. “Astrid took over bread this morning.”

  “I’ll be back later then.” Thorliff set off, thinking back to this time last year. Should he have stayed home? He shook his head. Should he have come home? Again he knew the answer. She hadn’t let him. So why had she not written?

  Was there more to this whatever-his-name-was from Norway than anyone was saying?

  “Come, let us walk out among the apple trees,” she said after the first greetings were over.

  He nodded and wished she would put her hand under his arm like she used to. But instead they walked side by side with a canyon between them.

  She stopped at one of the trees and looked up into the leafy branches. “Looks like we’ll have a good apple crop this year.”

  Why did you not write? “Yes, us too.”

  A silence, not the comfortable kind of two longtime friends finally having a good visit, but one fraught with twanging and crashings, felt but not heard.

  “Thorliff, I’m sorry.”

  He left off studying the bark patterns of the tree and looked at her.

  “For what?”

  “For not writing, for not . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat, and tried again. “Things change, that’s all.”

  What changed? He waited.

  She blew out a breath. “I truly thought I loved you this time last year.”

  “Past tense.” He swallowed, but nothing went down.

  “I planned to write, and then time went by, and what with taking care of Pa and missing Ma and . . .” She lifted hands and shoulders, and when she let them fall, she looked close to collapse herself. “This is so hard.”

  Even in the gentle dusk he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.

  But he could find nothing to say. His thoughts darted around like a hungry bat catching bugs in the evening, but he could make no order out of them.

  “Thorliff, my dear friend . . .”

  I am not your friend. That is far too common a word. I love you. Can you not hear me? I love you.

  But how was she to hear words never spoken, especially when she struggled so hard to find words of her own?

  She took in another deep breath and looked into his eyes. “I loved you with all my girlish heart, but now that I am a woman, I . . .” She didn’t bother to wipe the tears away. “I . . . I have to say . . . I no longer love you more than as that friend of my childhood.”

  Thorliff closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears. A picture of her standing beside Moen in church and then again at the funeral blasted through his mind.

  “And you love another. Is your word so weak that you could not wait?”

  “I take it all upon myself. I am sorry. That is all I can say.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times. I think . . . I think it is that he needs me.”

  “And I don’t?”

  “No, Thorliff. You are building a new life, and I do not see you living it here.”

  “I would. I would give up school and—”

  She drew herself straighter. “No! You will not. The price is too high.”

  “But what about the price I am paying now?” He felt a shudder start at his feet and race toward his head. “I cannot wish you God’s blessing.”

  “I don’t expect such right now, but someday . . .” She paused and gazed at him through her tears. “Someday you will know the dream to believe. I know you are on the right path for that dream. God gave you a big dream, and now you can grow into it.”

  “But we were to do this together!”

  “I know. I’m so sorry, but . . .” She shook her head again and began walking back to the house.

  He watched her go, knowing that to forgive was all that was needed, but the rage that soured his mouth and stomach burned the thought of forgiveness like paper in the fire pit. How to get even? Make that intruder pay! He locked on to that thought and strode off toward home, pounding the dirt beneath his feet, wishing it were Moen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  July 1894

  Storm clouds do not rain make.

  Thorliff stared at the black thunderheads on the western horizon. They looked just like he felt, but they could either send the life-giving rain or blow over. Neither of which seemed possible for him. About the time he got the hurt and rage under control, he’d see Moen with Anji at church or hear someone talk about what an interesting man they had living in their midst.

  On top of all that, he owed the Norwegian a thank-you. He should have written a letter before he left Northfield.

  He stopped the team to put some grease on the moving part of the sickle bar. All he needed was a breakdown to make the day complete. He climbed back up on the seat, now baked hot by the sun, released the lever to lower the bar, and nudged the horses forward. If the seat branded his own, what of it. One more pain that would be small in comparison to that of his heart.

  Watching the tall grass fall behind the sharp chattering bar and keeping the horses going straight was not enough to occupy all of his mind. Too much of it had time to go off on schemes, schemes to get even, get rid of the man, or get back at Anji.

  Black flies bit both him and the horses, and while the horses could swish their tails, he needed both hands on the reins. A fly landed on the back of his hand, the bite sharp and vicious. Sweat trickled down his back and blackened the flanks of the team. A meadowlark broke from the grass in front of the horses and sang in spite of the interruption. Rabbits hopped away, and gophers dodged back down in their holes.

  The grass continued to fall, lying in sheets behind the mower. By the time he made a second pass around the field, the sun was already doing its work, leaching the green from the stalks, readying it for the rake. Right now during haying would not be the best time for rain, though the gardens and the pasture surely could use it.

  “Why did he have to come here anyway?” The horses responded with ears that swiveled to hear him better. “Sure she wasn’t writing a lot, and to be sure, she didn’t want me to come help her, but that was Anji, thinking of what was best for me instead of herself.” He gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring at the injustice of it all. “Lord, you know all things. You could have stopped this.” He felt like shaking his fist in God’s face, but what would be the sense of it?

  The clanging of the dinner bell broke into his ruminations. He stopped the horses, unhitched them, and walked behind the team back to the barn. His hands and shoulders no longer ached from the labor, and calluses now hardened the skin. No longer winter hands, but the tan and toughened hands of summer.r />
  Now if he could only harden his heart the same.

  He and Andrew drew up their teams in the shade of the barn at the same time, the shade bringing instant relief from the unremitting sun.

  Andrew nodded toward the west. “You think we’ll get any rain?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t smell like it.” Thorliff unbuckled the harness and pulled it off, hanging it over the pegs on the wall for just that purpose.

  “You all right?” Andrew paused in his return for the second harness and studied Thorliff ’s face.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You mad at Anji?”

  “Andrew, sometimes you ask things that are none of your business.”

  “And Mr. Moen?”

  “Leave it alone!”

  “I thought so. Mor said you would be all right eventually.”

  Thorliff clenched fists and jaw and swung around, the harness buckle slashing around and catching him on the side of the face. He uttered one of those words that he knew should never be used and almost threw the harness against the wall. It caught on the pegs but only because habit prevailed. A red glaze sheeted his eyes, and he charged at Andrew, head down and fists balled.

  The snarl that came from his chest lent speed to his feet. He swung, and only through Andrew’s quick footwork did the punch miss his brother’s jaw and land on his shoulder instead.

  “Thorliff!” Haakan’s voice cut the charge before he had time to land the second one.

  Thorliff plowed to a stop, shook his head, and stared at Andrew. What had he done? Struck his brother? In all their years growing up, he’d never . . .”I . . . I’m sorry, Andrew.” Guilt and shame warred with each other, using him as the punching bag. “Please forgive me?”

  “Ja, of course.” Andrew rubbed his shoulder. “You pack a good punch for never fighting.”

  “What came over you?” Haakan, arms akimbo, stared from one son to the other.

  “I nagged him with one too many questions.” Andrew settled his hat back on his head and took two lines to lead the horses into the barn.

  “Is that so?”

  Thorliff shrugged and led off the other two. They’d water them after they cooled down. Andrew not only took the punch and didn’t fight back but then took the brunt of his father’s disapproval. Crawling under a sow’s belly would be easy about now, and it would serve him right if she stepped all over him. He deserved every glare and recrimination sent his way.

  He followed the other two up to the house to wash at the basins full of sun-warmed water.

  “What was that all about?” Ingeborg asked when they entered the kitchen.

  Did even my mother have to see me lose my temper like that?

  “Nothing.” Andrew responded before Thorliff could think of an answer. He looked up to catch that gleam in his mother’s eye that said she’d not ask more now, but be sure this was not over yet.

  That evening after the milking was finished and he was returning to the house, he heard Astrid ask their mother, “You think Thorliff is going to stay mad like this all summer?”

  “I certainly hope not, but sometimes when your feelings are really hurt, you take it out on someone else.”

  “Like when Andrew got in trouble over Toby Valders, and he growled at me?”

  “Just like that.”

  “I hate that Mr. Moen.”

  “Astrid.”

  “Well, if . . .”

  Thorliff closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with soap on the rag, the burning of the soap in his eyes a just punishment. Out of the mouths of babes . . . What kind of a man was he that his whole family could read him like this? Shouldn’t he be able to keep his feelings to himself? Were they being intrusive?

  If only he had stayed in Northfield, none of this would be going on. He’d still be thinking Anji would be waiting. He wouldn’t know about Moen. Ah, life was easier before the knowing.

  The clouds blew on over without dumping their largess.

  Sunday morning Ingeborg stared at her oldest son. “You aren’t ready for church.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “But . . .” She crossed the room to lay a hand on his forehead.

  “No, I am not sick. I’m just not going.” He spaced his words carefully, not raising his voice but cutting each word precisely.

  Ingeborg glanced at the clock on the shelf and back at her son. “But this is communion Sunday.”

  “I know.” Thorliff tightened his jaw. “You go on now, or Far will be getting impatient.”

  “But what will I say when someone asks of you?”

  He shrugged. “That I’ll see them another time.”

  Ingeborg clamped her jaws together on a humph that said quite clearly what she thought of all this and slammed the screen door a fraction harder than necessary.

  Returning home from church, Ingeborg greeted Thorliff.

  “Pastor Solberg asked about you,” she said, removing her hat and setting it on the shelf.

  Thorliff looked up from the book he was reading. “Oh.” He swallowed to get some moisture in his throat. “What did you tell him?”

  “What would you want me to tell him?” She took her apron down from the peg and tied it around her waist.

  “Nothing.”

  “He asked if you would come and see him this afternoon.”

  “Andrew and I are going fishing.” Thorliff stared at the page in front of him, feeling his mother’s concern wash over him. I don’t want to talk with anyone. Why can’t they leave me alone?

  “Andrew went to Ellie’s for the afternoon.”

  “Oh.” He propped his head on his hands. “Guess I’ll go alone then, unless maybe Hamre wants to go.” He looked up. “Or Astrid.”

  “She went to Penny’s to play with the baby.” Ingeborg pulled the roast from the oven. She lifted the lid on the roasting pan, and the rich aroma filled the kitchen.

  Thorliff heard and felt his stomach growl.

  “Dinner will be ready in half an hour or so, if you want to go find Hamre.”

  “I’ll ring the bell.”

  “Thorliff . . .”

  He turned from opening the screen door. “Ja?”

  “I want you to go over to Pastor’s and talk with him.”

  Thorliff let the door slam behind him. Why can’t they just leave me alone? I’m not bothering anyone. So I’m not happy right now. If Moen would go back to Norway, I’d be a far more genial person.

  If you’d forgive her, you’d be a far more genial person. And forgive him too. The war broke out in his head again. Forgive as you are forgiven. If he banged his head against the barn wall, perhaps he could still the voices clamoring in his head.

  Later that afternoon Thorliff finished his story. I’ll go tell Anji. He shook his head and poured himself another cup of coffee. Wipe that thought from your mind, he ordered himself. Never again. Don’t think of her; don’t dream of her. Never again. He edited the final chapter and copied it over before sliding the sheets into an envelope and addressing it to the Northfield News. Tomorrow he’d run it in to the store to mail after milking.

  “George has asked Ilse if he may court her.” Kaaren and Ingeborg were sitting in the shade of the house snapping beans and catching up on their news.

  “Well, about time. He’s been working up to this since spring.”

  “He had to learn the proper signs first.” Kaaren’s smile said she wasn’t kidding. “He came to me and Lars in a quandary. Trying to understand what he meant took some real figuring, let me tell you, but when I understood, I showed him how to say ‘May I court you? Would you like to go walking out?’ Then Lars gave him permission to use the horse and buggy, and we figured out how to sign picnic. So he was all set.”

  “We had better start a quilt for them.”

  “True. You should have seen the look on her face when she came back from their ride. You’d have thought she’d been given the sun and the moon too. I catch them in secret smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Ah, young love.
Who even needs words?”

  Ingeborg stopped snapping beans. “Ah, does Hamre know about this?”

  Kaaren paused and tilted her head to the side. “He’s not said anything.”

  Ingeborg cocked an eyebrow.

  Kaaren chuckled. “I know, silly me. When does Hamre ever say anything? But he must have noticed. You don’t think he . . .” She shook her head and wrinkled her forehead. “No.”

  A slight shrug this time.

  “Oh, my word. I never thought about that. Hamre has just always been around and . . .”

  “And usually living in our soddy and eating here until this last year when he has pretty much moved to your place. Ever since the blizzard he hasn’t moved back.”

  “Both Hamre and Thorliff, troubles of the heart over new men who came to Blessing. How to help them.” Kaaren dumped the snapped beans in her apron into the basket. “Speaking of quilts, we need to get going on one for Swen and Dorothy. Think of all the time it used to take us to do a wedding ring quilt, and now it goes so fast.”

  “Thanks to our sewing machines. Now if someone would just invent as good a machine for washing clothes.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Chicago, Illinois

  “Miss Rogers, they need you in the delivery room.”

  Elizabeth swung her aching feet off the narrow bed and sat up, reaching for the square cloth folded into a triangle that she wore tied over her head, hair bundled up off her neck. Bare skin cried for any breath of cool air to dry the perspiration that ran down her back. The heat and humidity in Northfield were like spring compared to this hospital in the slums of Chicago, where fresh air died before passing the windows. Slow rotating fans moved the air only enough to keep people breathing.

  Wishing for a shower, Elizabeth shoved her feet back into her shoes and followed the messenger up the stairs to the delivery room, her home away from home. Sometimes she thought every woman in Chicago must be having a baby this July.

  “I need your narrow hands.” Dr. Morganstein looked up from the woman on the delivery table propped against a nurse who was braced against the wall. “If we can turn this little one, perhaps we can keep from doing a caesarean.”