“You’re looking mighty fine.” He tucked her hand onto his arm.
“Jesse!” A stocky man jumped up and sprinted toward them.
“You old dog! You half a wife and not tell us!” His accent sounded German—no, Jesse said they were Norwegian. He hugged Jesse, pounding him on the back, then held him at arm’s length. “Look at you! No beard. You shave now you half a wife?”
“Sure! Don’t want to scratch when I kiss her. And by the way, this is no half-wife. You won’t believe all she can do.”
Ivar faced her. “He’s always making fun of how I speak. All his fault; he taught me English.” Susannah stepped back, but to her horror, he lifted her. “I don’t know, Jesse. She may be half-wife if you don’t start feeding her.”
When her feet reached the ground, Susannah stumbled. Jesse steadied her with an arm around her shoulders. “Susannah, this is our neighbor, Ivar Vold. Ivar, my wife, Susannah Mason.”
How odd to be introduced as a wife, with a new last name. Ivar pumped her hand. Strawlike hair stuck out from his hat and the lower half of his apple-cheeked face. She glanced at Jesse. His neck and jaw were a shade lighter than the rest of his face.
Ivar motioned toward the blanket. “This is Marta and our baby, Sara.”
A woman with a thick braid of light brown hair sat cross-legged, nursing a baby. To Susannah’s surprise, she showed no sign of embarrassment. Ellen had nursed her own infants, but Susannah had never seen her do so in mixed company.
Ivar addressed his wife in Norwegian, and Susannah’s heart sank. Marta didn’t know English. Susannah turned away and pretended to cough, struggling to compose her face.
Marta spoke.
“She says, will you help her learn English?”
Susannah blinked. “Oh. Yes, of course. I would be glad to.”
Marta returned her smile.
“Good news!” Jesse tuned his guitar. “Susannah brought a copy of Fanny Crosby’s brand-new hymn. We’ll have a new song this morning.”
“But I was just learning your old song.” Ivar winked.
Jesse passed the magazine to Ivar, who sat by Marta and interpreted. Their voices joined together in “Blessed Assurance.” In her good-sized Detroit congregation, no one noticed if Susannah sang or not. On the banks of the Sheyenne, she comprised the entire alto section.
“Marta says she is thinking of the book of Ruth,” Ivar began, pausing for his wife’s words. “Like Ruth, Susannah has traveled far to marry a man she did not know. Like Ruth, may you find great joy in your new family.”
Blinking away tears, Susannah extended her hand to Marta.
“I am thinking of the first man, Adam.” Ivar opened his Bible to the beginning. “He walked and talked with God, yet he was lonely. God saw this and made Eve. Susannah, your husband walks and talks with God, but he has been lonely. So God brought you here. Genesis says, ‘A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall be one flesh.’”
Susannah felt the heat rise to her face and looked down at her hands. She was a married woman; she shouldn’t blush.
“I cannot say welcome to Paradise,” Ivar continued. “I don’t think it snowed much in the Garden of Eden. So I say welcome to Dakota. I hope you and Jesse will be as blessed as Marta and me.” He smiled at the baby sleeping in his wife’s lap.
There was an interminable pause. Susannah stared at her clenched hands, afraid to look up. Was she expected to say something? She’d never spoken in church. Throughout years of Sunday school, her sole contribution was reading a lesson. Itinerant evangelists, with their habit of calling on the congregation for testimonies, struck fear in her heart. She always hid in the pew behind the large Goodman family, each child an advertisement for their father’s confectionery.
“Thank you.” Jesse nodded at the Volds. “Susannah’s folks recently passed on. She’s left her home and friends to come out here. This song, from Psalm 30, is for you, Susannah.
“‘Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing for me—’”
Sunlight flickered through the cottonwood leaves, the same sun that glistened through the stained glass windows at Lafayette Avenue Church. Susannah could almost hear Miss Ferguson embellishing the final chords of the postlude with glissandos. She could see Reverend Mason bent over Mrs. Griswold’s hand, inquiring about the health of her cats. The congregation, their escape blocked, would mill helplessly around as Ellen homed in on a soloist for the next service, an assistant for the boys’ Sunday school class, someone to sit with Susannah’s mother.
No longer . . .
“‘Oh Lord my God, I will give thanks unto Thee forever.’” Jesse finished the song and strummed the final chord.
“Your husband half a song for everything,” Ivar said. “And a prayer.”
They joined hands and Jesse began, “Dear God, thank You for friends, old and new.” He squeezed Susannah’s fingers. “Watch over us during this harvest season. Grant us fair weather and good health. Forgive our sins and help us grow. All these things we ask in Your name. Amen.”
“Does he do as good a job as his brother?” Ivar asked.
“He doesn’t take as long,” Susannah blurted. Jesse grinned and seemed to take no offense.
After dinner, Marta settled her sleeping baby on a blanket and stood. With a graceful turn of her wrist, she beckoned Susannah to follow. Arm in arm they strolled the riverbank, collecting plums. Marta pointed out canes of wild raspberry bushes and vines of other fruits, next summer’s harvest.
Marta didn’t walk, she glided. She had wide cornflower blue eyes like her husband, but instead of his ruddy complexion, Marta’s skin was smooth and white like the inside of an oyster shell. She wore an embroidered bodice and white blouse over a sapphire blue skirt. The Norwegian style seemed more feminine than the fitted basques and unwieldy bustles in fashion of late, and more comfortable too.
When they returned they found Ivar stretched out, snoring. Jesse carried on a deep conversation with the baby in his arms.
Marta smiled. “Is good man.”
At the sound of her voice, he turned. “Sara really listens, like she knows what you’re talking about.”
Ivar rose on one elbow, rubbing his face. “You will half one of your own soon, then you’ll see how much work it is.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Jesse winked at Susannah and passed the baby back to Marta.
The Volds headed north, along the bluff. Susannah followed Jesse east.
“I need your help with the wheat this week,” Jesse said as they swished through the grass. “Ivar says the crew’ll be by Friday, to thresh what we’ve got cut. They take bags of wheat in payment. Save us a couple weeks’ dusty work, give me time to build a chicken coop before we go to town. Ivar will help me pitch sheaves. Marta can give you a hand with cooking. She makes the best lefse—it’s like a thin pancake made from potatoes. You can make sourdough and baked beans. Use up whatever’s in the brine barrel. I’ll go hunting Saturday; I’m hungry for fresh meat. How’s the coffee holding out?”
Jesse turned and stopped. Susannah dipped her head and motioned for him to continue walking. Too late. He’d noticed her tears. He set down the lunch basket and guitar and opened his arms. Closing her eyes, she steeled herself for his touch. One hand rubbed her back, the other pushed her hat off and guided her head to his shoulder.
“Go ahead, cry it all out.” He kissed the top of her head.
The wind wrapped her skirt around his legs. She gulped. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.”
“You’re upset because Marta doesn’t speak English.”
This man. Could he read her thoughts?
He continued, “Ivar learned pretty quick. We got along fine. So will you and Marta.”
She nodded. “Foolish of me to assume she’d already know.”
“Guess you’ve missed Ellen.” His warm fingers rubbed a knot in her neck. “Know what Dakota means? It’s Sioux for ‘friend.’ All this week I’ve talked un
til my throat’s sore, but you’ve hardly said a word. I’ll be your friend, if you’ll talk to me.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say to you. I’ve never had a male friend before.” Truth be told, making friends with women wasn’t easy either.
“Well, start with what you were planning to say to Marta.”
She tried to pull away, but he held on. She condensed her thoughts to the briefest answer possible, a statement she hoped would make him retreat. “Just woman things.”
The mere suggestion of “woman things” would be sufficient to deter most men. Not Jesse. “Like what? With my pack of sisters, I got more than a passing acquaintance with woman things.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re all wound up, and I want to know why.” He leaned down to look her in the eye, but it seemed safer to burrow into his shoulder. “Going to make me figure it out on my own, are you? I’m guessing it’s marriage, what a husband and wife do in bed.”
She flinched.
“Bull’s-eye. Now, what were you going to ask Marta?”
Might as well tell him. He’d figure it out soon enough. “My mother . . . maybe she didn’t think I’d ever get married. I don’t know . . . what to do.”
“I’ve never done this before either, if that’s what you’re asking. Sometimes parents explain spooning in funny ways, based on their own experiences. So maybe you’re better off not talking with your ma about this.” He rested his cheek on her forehead. “Judging by the number of people on this planet, I’d say plenty of men and women have figured it out just fine. We will too.”
He didn’t release her. “Susannah, one of the reasons I like living out here is getting away from the ‘shoulds.’ Back east, you should be wearing mourning clothes, I should be sitting in your parlor a couple nights a week. But reality is, the sun would bake you if you wore black, and there is no parlor. There’s just us. So let’s leave behind the ‘shoulds’ and enjoy what we’ve got.”
“But I’m asking so much of you. Patience, self-control—”
He sighed. “With the threshers coming Friday, we’ll be lucky if we do any sleeping, much less anything else in bed this week.”
This week, Susannah thought. But what about next?
Chapter 9
Lord Jesus, were You ever too tired to pray?
Bang! Bang, bang!
Susannah sat up in bed, her heart pounding. The banker! No, it was the door of the soddy in Dakota. She covered her mouth, stopping a scream.
Jesse’s warm palm squeezed her shoulder. “It’s the Volds.”
From the other side of the door, a hoarse voice yelled, “You spend all day in bed now you half a wife?”
“It’s still dark. How did they get here?” Susannah groaned. The week had flown by in a blur of cutting wheat, binding wheat, stacking wheat, without even time to change clothes. She tugged at her waist where stale perspiration had stuck her drawers to her skin, and her neckline where chaff formed a crust. “At least we don’t have to worry about getting dressed.”
Jesse grunted in agreement, lit the lamp, and opened the door.
“Threshers on their way,” Ivar announced. He carried in an armload of firewood. “Coffee will get you moving.” He sounded far too cheerful for this early in the morning, but then, he already had his crops harvested.
In the light of the lamp, Ivar caught sight of Susannah’s windburned face. “You half worked outside!” He stomped to the doorway and spit out a Norwegian word, drawing a hiss from Marta.
Susannah shrank into the corner. She hadn’t minded the hard work. At home, she took care of her mother, managed the house and garden, and helped with her father’s patients. Here, harvesting the wheat kept Jesse too tired to talk and Susannah too tired to worry about his staring.
“Just this one time.” Jesse rooted under the bed for dry socks. “Next year I’ll buy a reaper, hire a man.”
Ivar snorted. “If you married Norwegian—”
“Too late. The only one she knows is already hitched.” Jesse knocked off his neighbor’s hat on his way out.
Susannah followed. Stars twinkled in the dawn air. A sliver of pink glimmered on the eastern horizon.
“Isn’t it early for frost?” Their breath puffed white.
“We usually get a light freeze this time of year.” Jesse handed down Marta and the sleeping infant.
Susannah settled Sara in the middle of the bed. “Oh, to be a baby and sleep all day.”
At least threshing day meant variety in the menu. To free her time for fieldwork this week, Jesse had started a kettle of beans on Sunday. Every dinner since featured them: beans with corn cakes, beans with sourdough, beans with crackers. Fieldwork made her so hungry not even last night’s dinner, bean mush, went to waste.
The four adults crowded into the soddy, bouncing off each other like croquet balls.
“Ut!” Marta pointed to the door. Jesse complied. Ivar continued to rifle the food baskets. Marta repeated her command, swatting him on the seat of his pants. Slinking out, he mumbled two words from the corner of his mouth. Countering with a remark of her own, Marta flicked her apron at him and sent him howling into the yard.
Susannah busied herself with unpacking and tried to conceal her shock. Marta had touched her husband—on his buttocks! How could she be so familiar, so relaxed, playful? Had she known Ivar a long time, perhaps growing up on neighboring farms, perhaps marrying him before she came to Dakota? Susannah could not imagine bantering like that with Jesse.
Marta handed Susannah a sack of potatoes. Donning her cleanest dirty apron, Susannah sat on the trunk to work while Marta unpacked and started a second pot of coffee. The Norwegian woman moved efficiently, never hurried, pausing only to hold up an object for Susannah to name. She was a quick student, but it would be a long time before meaningful conversation would be possible.
Jake’s bark proclaimed the arrival of the threshing crew. Ivar assembled a table from the soddy door and a pair of sawhorses. Marta set it with muffins, sausage, a kettle of oatmeal, and the coffeepot. Susannah tended the stove while Marta served. The men devoured the meal, then hurried to their machine. Setting the dishes to soak, the women ate breakfast. When Susannah reached for the dishrag, Marta motioned for her to wait, then held up a mirror.
Susannah groaned. “No wonder you kept me inside.” She covered her rat’s nest with her hands. In Michigan, neighbors gossiped about women who neglected their appearance. Only ten days into her marriage, Susannah had joined the ranks of the slovenly. Why didn’t Jesse say something? Father certainly would have.
Marta seated Susannah on the stool and brushed the tangles, hairpins, and wheat chaff from her hair. Then she wove a long braid and secured it with a thread. The simple plait running down Susannah’s back fit this land better than her chignon. Even a dozen hairpins were no match for Dakota’s wind. “Thank you,” she told her new friend.
Susannah started dinner, then joined Marta in the doorway where she nursed the baby. The breeze carried the low cadence of the threshing machine.
Baby Sara cooed from her mother’s lap. The infant had given Jesse a smile. Would she smile again?
Marta touched Susannah’s waist. “Baby?”
“No.” She shook her head, then took a deep breath. “Who helped you . . . when the baby came?”
Marta shrugged. Susannah asked again, with pantomime.
“Ivar help. Marta help Susannah.”
“Did it hurt? Ow?”
Marta nodded. “Ow. Marta help Susannah.”
Susannah knew a good deal about breeding stock and, as with Ma Ox’s twin calves, had midwifed the delivery of animals. Her knowledge of human birth, however, was less complete, cobbled together from vague medical texts and whispered horror stories. Every girl in school knew about boys and babies, but the information was hidden behind a veil of giggles and hints. The sisters next door had been present at the arrival of their last sibling, and they claimed knowledge about how babies started.<
br />
No, Susannah decided, if it had not been for the language barrier, she would have set aside her manners and asked questions.
Marta reached an arm around her and murmured a quiet word. The Norwegian woman’s peace highlighted her own nervousness. Could Susannah ever find such tranquility?
Jake’s barking heralded the arrival of the men at midday. The women loaded the table with pork and beans, sliced sourdough, cookies, coffee, and the Norwegian potato flatbread called lefse, which was rolled out with a large grooved rolling pin and cooked on a griddle.
The crew sprawled on the grass to eat. They were a scraggly lot, dusted in wheat grit, a mix of ages, national origins, and attire. One wore an entire Union cavalry uniform. Jesse caught her eye and winked. After ten days, his was the familiar face.
Jake wandered under the table, foraging for scraps. Susannah leaned over to scratch behind his ears.
“Know something, Jake?” she whispered. “He might not be so bad after all, that master of yours.”
His curly tail wagged in agreement.
Late afternoon a shout came from the field, indicating the end of threshing.
Marta sliced the corned beef, and Susannah set out the rest of the meal. After supper, Jesse brought out his guitar.
“‘Jeanie!’” the men shouted. “‘Oh, Susanna!’”
Jesse honored a few requests, then launched into a railroad ballad with the crew joining in on the chorus. Despite the grueling harvest, Jesse reveled in the gathering. Between songs he told jokes and absurd stories, many about the War. To the delight of the men, Jesse stopped a song in the middle to try to find a note the crew chief could sing in tune. Calling each by name, he divided the men, lining out harmonies and counterpoints for the halves. Now he resembled his brother, Jesse the minister and the crew his congregation, exhorting, encouraging, directing.
Susannah drifted to the creek where a boy watered the team. The horses stood with straight backs, weight even on all four legs. At her approach, first their ears, then their heads turned, eyes bright and curious.
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