“This is one of the bands that hid out in the Black Hills after the massacre at Wounded Knee. They were without supplies for a long time, and when they finally came to Rosebud . . . well, it has taken a long time to catch up. Then the troubles they had with the first Indian agent who was assigned to this area. They don’t have much respect for the white man.”
Astrid heaved a sigh. “And now this epidemic. Trust that is lost is hard to regain.”
Haakan refilled her gourd. “Our government has a lot to be ashamed of. I am glad we can bring the Indians some help now. They need to get back to school. There used to be local schools wherever there were enough families to warrant one. This band is so small. . . .” He shook his head. “Mr. Moore has a lot to overcome.”
“When will supplies arrive again?”
“He’s hoping next week.”
“The land here is so barren, how will they plant gardens? Will wheat grow here?”
“I don’t think so. There’s not enough rain. Cattle and sheep are about all that can survive here.”
“Do you think this creek flows year-round?”
He shrugged and turned to answer a question from Johnny Solberg.
Astrid took the gourd back to He Who Walks Tall. But when she found him asleep, she didn’t wake him. They could talk later. Instead, she dumped the soup back in the kettle and scrubbed the gourd. Metal cups were far easier to sterilize, but they had so few. Where did the Indians buy things and what did they use for money? She had so many questions and most had no answers.
When Mr. Moore hailed her, she turned with a smile. “Good morning.”
“Dr. Bjorklund, I’ve been meaning to talk with you.” He joined her at the fire. “How is He Who Walks Tall faring? He has been silent, not forthcoming with me. After Chief Night Hawk died at the beginning of this epidemic, the tribe chose Dark Cloud as temporary chief. He Who Walks Tall is to become their permanent chief. He can speak English but would rather not.”
“Do you have any idea how many of the tribe are still alive?”
“Depending on how those still in your care will fare, I’d say thirty-five, forty. This is not a large enough group to have a station here, but . . .” A faraway look came into his eyes. He brought himself back. “We will do what we can.”
“What about a school here?”
“I asked for that too.” He studied the fire and then turned back to her. “My list of requisitions was long. I’m not sure how much of it I will receive. I am writing a letter to go along with my next request for supplies. Are there items you would like to request?”
Astrid swallowed her surprise. “You mean besides sufficient food so the people are no longer starving?” At his slight backward step, she bit off the remainder of her diatribe. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to you. I do understand that you are doing all you are able.”
When his shoulders relaxed, she continued. “Red Hawk will be returning soon, and it would be good to have things like bandages, carbolic acid, sutures, needles, surgical supplies, sheets, blankets, and perhaps an examining table.”
“I am not certain he will be returning to this portion of the reservation. The government will most likely assign him to the Rosebud station. I don’t know if there is a doctor there now or not.”
She had a feeling that Red Hawk would make sure these people were cared for. “Would they do better to move closer to the station themselves?”
“I suggested that.”
“I see.” From his frown she realized the elders did not take well to Mr. Moore’s opinion. “Would you like me to write up a list of medical supplies?”
He almost smiled. “Yes, thank you. I will put it in the mailbag that goes back with the lead driver.” He started to leave and then turned back. “Mrs. Moore would be delighted if you could join her for tea this afternoon. I know she is wishing for female companionship.”
Thinking before she spoke was a trait her mother had long sought to instill in Astrid. “Ah . . . um . . . Tell her thank you, and I’ll see her about three, if that would be all right.” Since none of her patients was critical, she had no excuse. After all, she’d turned down two invitations to dinner, pleading her patients’ care came before socializing. Her far was talking about leaving in a few days, so she’d better make an appearance again.
When He Who Walks Tall awoke, she thought the better of serving him herself and asked Pastor Solberg if he would see if he could get the brave talking. Solberg had spent much of his time with the elders, seeking to build the kind of relationship that could allow continued assistance. He and Haakan and Mr. Moore had spent hours in discussion also.
“Of course,” Solberg answered. “You know that keeping this young man from dying is a real feather in your hat.”
“As if I want a feather in my hat?” She motioned to the flat straw hat she wore because the sunbonnet was far too hot.
He chuckled at her sally. “You have done well, my dear doctor.”
“We have all worked around the clock to return these poor blighted people to some kind of health. I’m sure the epidemic would not have been so severe were they not starving too.”
“They have no resistance to the white man’s diseases, as you and I have discussed. Smallpox wiped out hundreds of thousands of native people.”
“It wasn’t too good for the whites either.”
“True.” He filled the gourd with the soup and headed for the infirmary.
Astrid washed herself, redid her hair, and donned a clean apron to go visit Mrs. Moore. At the last moment she removed the apron and shook the dust off her skirt. To be proper, she pinned a brooch at her neck, wishing for a mirror. She would have to make do with what she had.
When she knocked at the door, Ann, the young Indian woman, answered. “Mrs. Moore expecting you. This way.”
Astrid followed her. Ann must have learned some English at school before the massacre. Everything seemed to be tagged to before or after the massacre. At least in her opinion. Interesting the difference in her attitude now and her attitude when she’d read of it in the newspaper. It was even different from when Red Hawk had told her about it.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Bjorklund.” Mrs. Moore greeted her from a chair in the shaded room, fanning herself all the while. With the drapes drawn and the windows closed, the room felt like a steamer.
Why didn’t the woman sit out on the back porch in the shade, where a breeze would feel cooler?
“Good afternoon.”
“I hope you brought a fan along. This heat is dreadful.”
“What if we were to move the chairs outside on the back porch in the shade? At home that is the favorite gathering place in the summer.”
“Oh no. The flies are dreadful. And the dust blows something awful. Why, my face would wrinkle up like an old prune.” She fanned harder.
“If I might make a suggestion, from a medical point of view of course?”
Mrs. Moore shrugged.
Astrid sat in a chair and leaned forward. “Life on the prairie is a far cry from life in the cities.” She almost smiled at the rolled-eye response. “Please, put away the corset and the petticoats. You should be wearing lightweight dresses, with one petticoat at the most. You might get heatstroke otherwise.” She stopped before saying anything about the woman’s powdered face. She had read that the white powder could be poisonous.
“But Mr. Moore needs a wife who represents the finer things of life. Fashion and art, music and dancing. As my mother’s letters constantly remind me, it is important for me to keep up appearances, to provide him a home that is a respite from the terrible conditions he is working under.” She shook her head, perhaps to disguise the quiver of her chin. “No matter how difficult it is for me.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. “How old are you?” The question popped out.
Mrs. Moore raised her chin. “Why, I am twenty years old, if it is of any matter to you.”
She is trying too hard. Surely there is a soft spot inside her, if I coul
d only find it. Astrid smiled. “Why, you and I are much the same age.”
“How did you become a doctor so quickly?”
“I studied with our local doctor and then in Chicago.” She leaned forward. “I am fully accredited.”
“And you came here to treat these Indians. Why?”
“Because a friend of mine from medical school, Dr. Red Hawk, asked me to.”
“I don’t see how anyone, a woman especially, would choose to come here.” Mrs. Moore leaned back in her chair. “I just don’t.”
Astrid was forced again to not say what she was thinking. “It is a shame that you cannot enjoy the people your husband is working so hard to help.”
“Enjoy?” The fan picked up speed. “What is there to enjoy out here in this desolate place?”
“Have you ridden out over the hills, watched a sunrise or sunset, heard the meadowlarks singing, planted some flower seeds and watered them carefully so that you could have fresh flowers, especially ones that smell good?” She ignored the shaking head and continued. “In the spring the daisies bloom to cover the hills with robes of white and green. There might be wild strawberries. They are so sweet and so tiny that it takes a lot to make strawberry shortcake, but it is so worth the time and effort. The women of the tribe would know where the wild things grow.”
She paused and heaved a sigh. The look on Mrs. Moore’s face would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Aghast would fit. Horrified too.
“Your tea is ready,” Ann said, stopping in the doorway with the tray in her hands, waiting for acknowledgment.
“Set it here.” Mrs. Moore indicated the round table in front of them.
Astrid watched as Ann crossed the rug-covered floor and set the silver tray carefully on the table. The tray bumped a porcelain figurine that might have toppled to the floor were it not for Astrid’s quick catch.
“I told you I don’t know how many times to be more careful,” Mrs. Moore hissed. “Clumsy.” She glared at her maid.
“Sorry.” Ann’s face went blank, as if she’d just stepped out of her skin and left the room.
“Where is the sugar bowl?” Mrs. Moore asked, a whine joining her anger. “I cannot have tea without sugar.”
“I will get it.” Ann straightened and left the room, her moccasinclad feet making nary a sound.
“What am I to do? Mr. Moore tells me to be patient, but this woman is impossible.” She inhaled as much of a breath as her corset would allow and straightened her spine. “I swear I will have my mother send a woman from her own staff out here to help me. There is no sense in trying to bring civilization to these . . . these savages.”
Were those tears in the young woman’s eyes? Could fear be causing all of this? Astrid clamped her teeth, her jaw aching with the effort to be polite. If there was any hope for Mr. Moore to become a successful Indian agent, his wife would have to make some changes in her attitude. Perhaps it would be better when Red Hawk arrived and she saw that the Indians could learn as well as any white person. If the Moores lasted that long.
She accepted the cup of tea offered in a porcelain cup so thin the light shone through it, with a matching saucer. “I believe you wanted to ask me something?”
Mrs. Moore finished fixing her own tea and took a swallow before answering. “I know you are most likely the only doctor between here and Omaha.”
Astrid nodded. “There might be a physician at the Rosebud station or maybe Pine Ridge. But how can I help you now?”
The woman, only a girl really, dropped her gaze. “I . . . I believe I have missed two of my monthlies.”
“Ah, I see.” Lord God, send your grace and mercy here please. How can this woman possibly have a healthy baby under these circumstances? Wisdom, please. I need wisdom.
“Have you ever delivered a baby?”
“Mrs. Moore, in spite of how young I appear, I assure you that I am qualified to assist you. I have delivered many babies and look forward to many more.”
“Pardon me, I didn’t mean to . . . to cast aspersions on your training.” Her hand shook as she set the cup and saucer on the table.
“Perhaps not, but the advice I will give you could mean the difference between life and death, for both you and your baby.”
The woman across from her tried to hide the fear in her eyes, but Astrid caught it. Be gentle, she reminded herself. “I have several questions for you.” At the nod, she continued. “Have you felt tenderness in your breasts?” A nod. “Are you usually regular in your monthlies?” A shrug this time. “Does that mean yes or no?”
Mrs. Moore stared down at her fingers gripping the cup as if to a lifeline. “Not always, but I’ve never missed two before.” Two bright red spots graced her cheekbones.
“Mrs. Moore, if you find it so distasteful talking with me, a woman, how would you be able to discuss this with a male doctor?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Have you told your husband yet?”
“No. I wanted to be sure.”
“Is this your first pregnancy?”
A nod. “I think Ann knows. She has seen me rather . . . indisposed in the mornings.”
“Indian women understand that having babies is part of a woman’s life and usually make nothing of it.”
“I . . .” Mrs. Moore stopped and started again. “I think I shall ask Mr. Moore to take me back home while I can still travel comfortably. Not that coming here is in any way comfortable. My mother will be delighted to take care of me and her grandchild. We can return when the child is old enough to travel.” She stared into her teacup, as if seeking wisdom or perhaps permission.
“That is between you and Mr. Moore, but I recommend that you stop wearing corsets immediately and wear light dresses that will allow you to move freely. And walking is good exercise for a motherto-be. You will be stronger that way and ready to deliver your baby when the time comes.”
Mrs. Moore looked away. “Thank you for coming. I will take your suggestions under advisement.”
“If you have any questions, I will be glad to answer what I can. But we will most likely be leaving in the next few days.” Astrid stood. “Thank you for the tea. I’ll see myself out.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Does the woman not know how to say thank you? Astrid smiled at the young Indian woman stoking the stove, most likely to begin cooking supper. The kitchen was hot enough to send a trickle of perspiration down her spine just walking through it. “Thank you for making the tea.”
Ann nodded, a smile almost reaching her mouth. “Thank you.”
Astrid paused midstride. “For what?”
“For my sister’s life.”
“She had the measles?” A nod was her only answer. “I am glad I was able to help.”
The young woman nodded again, the smile catching in her eyes. “For my family.”
“Good. That is why we came.” Astrid felt lighter than when she’d entered the house. It was such a shame that Mrs. Moore held the Indians in such disregard. They could teach her a thing or two about manners – and life in general. Lord, I should have been more gentle with her. What would my mother say about this? She was fairly sure she knew, and it did not make her feel any better.
8
BLESSING , NORTH DAKOTA
The days plodded by. Ingeborg went about her chores and gardening by rote, missing Emmy more than she’d thought possible. When Inga came out to visit, she was subdued too.
“Grandma, when is Emmy coming home?”
“Hopefully in time for school.”
“In September, right?” When Ingeborg nodded, her granddaughter continued. “August is next and then September?”
Another nod. “How do you know so much?”
“I ask questions.”
Ingeborg picked up the pan of cookies. “Did you put raisins on all of them?”
“Uh-huh. School is a long time away.” She popped a raisin into her mouth. “Emmy wants a kitten. Can she have one?”
“We’ll have t
o see.” If Emmy does indeed come home. Surely that had been a nod from the old man when she asked him to bring the little girl back for school? Emmy didn’t even turn around to wave good-bye to her. Ingeborg sniffed. Such interminable tears. Where had her backbone gone? She knew better than to allow herself to stumble toward the black pit of despair that had trapped her in the past. But sometimes knowing better and doing better were two different things.
Inga stood looking up at her. “Grandma, you sad.”
“I know.” Ingeborg forced a smile to her mouth and hoped Inga wasn’t paying enough attention to read her eyes. Her granddaughter’s shaking head quickly dispelled that hope.
“You want to read me a story?”
“Let’s finish the cookies, and then we’ll do that.”
Inga went to the oven door and sniffed. “These are done.”
To go along with the comment, Ingeborg took up a potholder and, using her apron to protect her left hand, opened the oven door. “Well, look at that. You are right.” She pulled the pan out, the round cookies all wearing a collar of tan, and set it on the table. “You be careful, and you can lift the cookies over to the rack.”
“Who made the rack for you?” Inga asked, holding the tray with the potholder in one hand while moving the cookies with a pancake turner with the other.
Ingeborg smiled, a real smile this time, at her helper. “You know this story.”
Inga nodded and grinned over her shoulder.
“Thorliff made the rack for me when Onkel Olaf was teaching the boys about woodworking in school. He gave it to me for Christmas.”
“How old was he?”
Ingeborg squinted her eyes to help remember better. “Maybe ten? Nine? Somewhere in there.”
Inga took the pancake turner and slid it under one of the waiting rolled-out cookies. “I didn’t put faces on these ’cause Grandpa don’t like raisins so much.” She slid the cookies onto the cookie sheet.
“How do you know that?”
“ ’Cause he always gives his to Carl.”
Ingeborg dropped a kiss on the part in Inga’s hair. “Maybe Grandpa knows how much Carl loves raisins.”
A Heart for Home Page 7