A hawk’s scree floated from above, and she and Astrid immediately looked toward the chicken yard. Ingeborg shaded her eyes to find the bird spiraling against a blue so intense that the few clouds cottoning the heavens glistened white. Astrid sprinted for the chicken yard to chase the hens out of harm’s way. While a full-grown hen was pretty big for a hawk to kill and carry, the chicks and half-grown stock were fair game.
‘‘I’ve got to get the potatoes on,’’ Ingeborg called to Astrid, who waved back at her. The inside of the house felt dark after the brilliance of the sun, but the smell of chocolate made her hustle to the oven. She pulled the cake pan out and frowned at the edges pulled away from the pan and slightly crispy. ‘‘Uff da, good thing we have plenty of cream. How could I go off and forget the cake like that?’’
The cat blinked golden eyes at her from the chair cushion where he liked to curl up and sleep. He yawned, tongue pink and teeth shards of white, then closed his eyes and tucked his chin back into the fur of his front legs.
‘‘Sorry to bother you, Goldie. Don’t you think you could look for the mice on the porch instead of laze your days away like this?’’
His ears twitched along with the tip of his tail.
Ingeborg peeled the shriveled potatoes and sliced them into the cast-iron kettle. She dusted each layer with flour, salt, and pepper, wishing she had onions for flavor. The ones in the garden weren’t large enough to eat yet. With the potatoes stacking to an inch from the top of the kettle, she poured in milk to almost cover the potatoes and added a layer of thinly sliced cheese to top it off. She took out the roasting pan that held the ham and slid the kettle in. She opened two quarts of canned string beans into another kettle and set that on the back of the stove to simmer until the potatoes were done. They had at least an hour until dinner.
Buttermilk, butter, and flour turned into biscuits as she stirred, added, kneaded, and patted the dough out to an inch thick to be cut with a round cookie cutter. Sliding those onto a flat cookie sheet, she cleaned up her powdery mess, dropping the leftover flour into a crock she kept on the warming shelf for gravy. She frowned at the overly browned cake. What would her mother say about such sloppiness? Well, at least it wouldn’t go to waste. That would be far worse than being slightly burnt.
Glancing out the window she saw Astrid still on her knees in the garden. Should she go back out or set the table and let Astrid keep weeding? She opted for setting the table, knowing her daughter would rather be outside. ‘‘Like mother, like daughter.’’
Goldie meowed and rose in an arch to stretch every muscle and ligament. He leaped to the floor and padded over to the door, where his chirp suggested she should open it for him. When she didn’t come immediately, he raised his voice in a commanding meow.
‘‘I’m coming.’’
Suddenly a call rang out. ‘‘Tante Ingeborg! Come quick!’’ The urgency in Sophie’s cry made Ingeborg throw open the door to answer her niece.
‘‘Dear God above, what’s happened now?’’
CHAPTER THREE
Northfield, Minnesota
‘‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’’ Phillip Rogers, owner of the Northfield News, a weekly paper, looked over the top of his glasses.
‘‘Thank you, sir.’’ Thorliff glanced over to see his employer leaning against the doorjamb. The windowless printing room was located directly behind the office, where a high counter separated the patrons from Phillip’s desk. A large plate-glass window fronted on the sidewalk, allowing the customers to frequently ignore the Closed sign if they saw lights on and someone working inside.
‘‘You’ve spoiled me, that’s all. I thought last summer was about the longest I’d spent in my business, even after Mrs. Rogers came in to help. With you and Elizabeth both gone . . .’’ He paused and shook his head. ‘‘While the new press was supposed to make life easier, with all the new business, it’s just . . . well . . . busier.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Thorliff Bjorklund wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He’d spent half the night studying for final exams, had taken one this morning, and was back in the pressroom where the printing press created more heat than the furnace ever did, especially on this hot June day. He watched as the paper feeder again ran smoothly, the printed handbills stacking up like they were supposed to. No matter how new the machine, it had to be watched carefully to catch a problem before paper, ink, or precious time was wasted. The pungent odor of ink permeated his very pores.
‘‘How many more exams do you have to go?’’ Mr. Rogers picked up one of the handbills for the political rally, checking to make sure the proper amount of ink was laid down.
‘‘Three. Two tomorrow, one the next day.’’
‘‘And then you can be here every day?’’
‘‘Until school starts again in the fall.’’
‘‘Good. Good for me, but I’m sure your folks aren’t real happy.’’
‘‘No.’’ Thorliff thought of home, milking the cows, working the fields, of Astrid, who he knew was heartbroken because her older brother wasn’t going back to Blessing for the summer. While he’d not yet received a letter from his family, he figured one would be arriving shortly. One he would not want to read. Choosing to stay in Northfield had not been a hard decision but one that made him sad when he thought of home. And he knew his being gone was a hardship for those he loved.
‘‘What are we doing after this run?’’ He took the stack of handbills and set them on the bench kept to the side for that purpose.
‘‘I thought we’d start on your book next.’’
Thorliff stopped and stared at his employer-cum-mentor. ‘‘Really?’’
Phillip nodded, his glasses catching a glint from the lamplight. Or was it a twinkle in his eyes? ‘‘We can do the pages first since we haven’t designed a cover yet. I’ve been waiting until I could afford a binder, and that will be coming next week. Never thought I’d go from newspaper printing into the book publishing business too. And all because of you. We’ll be able to do booklets for the county, and the Fire Department has asked me to print them some. One of the professors from Carleton came in the other day and wanted me to print up his family story. I’m sure there is a market out there for some book printing, and once we get real good at it, I’ll begin to advertise.’’ He slapped the printing press with one hand. ‘‘And to think I went all those years without this, all because I didn’t want to use my wife’s money. Moral of the story—don’t let pride get in your way, son. Bible’s right when it says, ‘Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.’ ’’
Thorliff checked the paper roll to make sure they had enough. ‘‘The Bible also says that pride goes before a fall.’’ He grinned at his employer.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Bjorklund.’’
The bell tinkled over the door, announcing a customer. While Thorliff stayed with the press, Mr. Rogers headed for the front desk. When the print run finished, Thorliff stacked the handbills and tied them in bundles of twenty-five. The mayor would be handing them out at the Fourth of July celebration. Politicians always had something to say, it seemed. Even when it wasn’t an election year.
My book. All those chapters of The Switchmen will be bound together into one volume. The year before Thorliff had proposed a story to be run in the paper a chapter a week, and Mr. Rogers had taken him up on it. The final chapters ran the summer before and had even been picked up by a paper in St. Paul. Over the winter he’d edited it and rewritten portions he wasn’t happy with, knowing that eventually Mr. Rogers planned to bring it out again in book form. They’d had many requests and sold even more newspapers than during the Christmas season when they ran a contest for the best holiday stories. The second year they did that had outdone the first.
The first volume they had printed after the advent of the new press was a compilation of the winning Christmas stories. By adding those that had received honorable mention, they’d produced a slim volume for each year. Overnight the books became
collector’s items, especially when the readers began shipping their copies as far away as Norway and Germany.
Thanks to Mr. Moen, a Norwegian writer visiting in Blessing, several of Thorliff’s stories had appeared in newspapers in Norway. Now he’d had a request for more. Perhaps this summer he would find time to do more writing. The printing business didn’t run from dawn to dark like farming. Thorliff thought about Ivar Moen, the man who’d come to America to talk to Norwegian immigrants about their experiences in the new land and fallen in love with Anji Baard. Anji, who’d at one time been promised to him.
He jerked his wandering mind back from that track. While he’d forgiven her for what he thought of as her perfidy, even though he knew the sorrows she’d been through with her mother and father dying most likely contributed to her change of heart, sometimes the pain made his heart clench. Life sure didn’t match the dream he’d had at his graduation from high school.
‘‘Thorliff, when you’re done with that, would you please go on out to the Creamery and pick up their advertising copy?’’ Phillip stopped in the doorway. ‘‘Stop by the house on your way back. Cook has packed us a basket, so we don’t have to stop the press. I’m going to start the typesetting while you’re gone.’’ They’d been working on the design and layout for Thorliff’s novel in their off hours.
‘‘Sure.’’
‘‘Oh, and take the bicycle. I parked it out back.’’ Since purchasing one of the latest bicycle designs, the horse and buggy came out only on Sundays if the family wanted to go out in the country for a drive. The bicycle became the favored mode of travel, including riding around to get stories like the barn fire at the Olsens’ the week before and the baseball games between Carleton, St. Olaf, and other teams in the area. Thorliff had played first base on the team this spring and, thanks to his hitting, helped win a couple of the games. When someone asked him where he got his skill, he’d said in the cow pasture at home.
Enjoying the cooling breeze as he pedaled his way along, his thoughts returned to the challenge Reverend Mohn had given to all the students the final day of classes. He’d read the Beatitudes from Matthew, his rich voice making the word blessed one of great desire and approbation. Thorliff knew them well, since Pastor Solberg in all his school years had insisted on his students memorizing large portions of the Scriptures. But memorizing and what he’d heard that day were two different things entirely, although knowing the words helped understand the challenge.
‘‘My challenge to each of you is that you choose one of these Beatitudes and live it out. Let it permeate deep down into your heart and soul so that you check your thoughts and actions against the words of Christ Jesus our Lord and Savior. What does He mean? Not only what do the words mean, but what is Christ saying to you? How can living the Beatitudes make a difference in your life?’’ He paused to let his words sink in and then began to pray. ‘‘Father God, I ask thee to reveal thy words to our hearts and souls that we might live lives that honor thee. As Christ taught those crowds upon the hillside of Galilee, so teach us now. In thy name we pray, amen.’’
He opened his eyes and looked around the room, meeting each of their eyes. ‘‘Now, each one make your choice, and I’ll look forward to our discussions on this topic with those of you returning in the fall. God bless you today and always and especially as you finish preparing for your exams.’’
‘‘You don’t suppose he really means for us to choose one,’’ Benjamin, Thorliff’s best friend at the school, turned to ask Thorliff as they filed out of the room.
‘‘I think he does. You know he always says to study the particular so you can understand the general. Which are you going to choose?’’
‘‘I’m thinking of ‘Blessed are the poor.’ You can’t get much poorer than me. I have not a dime left in my account or on my person.’’
Thorliff thought of the account he’d opened with the hundred dollars given to him at his graduation by Mr. Gould. More than half of it was still there because Mr. Rogers paid him beyond room and board for his work at the paper. Should he offer to help Benjamin come fall?
‘‘What about you?’’
‘‘I’m not sure. For some reason my first thought was to choose ‘Blessed are the pure in heart.’ Perhaps I’ll undertake that one.’’
‘‘I’m not even sure I know what pure in heart means. You know, this is going to cause consternation all summer. What if I learn nothing over the summer on my Beatitude, and when Mohn asks me in the fall, I just look stupid?’’
‘‘Knowing Reverend Mohn, he’s going to be praying that we all learn our lessons from this, or he wouldn’t have made the challenge.’’ Thorliff shifted his books to his other arm. ‘‘I’m going up to study. You coming?’’
‘‘No, I’ve got a meeting with Professor Ytterboe. He asked to see me.’’ Benjamin rolled his eyes. ‘‘I’m sure it’s not good.’’
Thorliff’s thoughts came back to the present as he pedaled the bike onto the road leading to the Creamery, the largest commercial establishment in Northfield. Milk was hauled in from the surrounding dairy farms, bottled, and delivered by horse-drawn wagon to the houses of Northfield. The cheese they made didn’t begin to equal that which was produced on the Bjorklund farm in Blessing.
‘‘I’m here for the advertising copy.’’ He nodded to the woman behind the desk.
‘‘One minute.’’ She turned back at the doorway. ‘‘That was some hit you made the other night. I thought that ball was going to fly clear to St. Paul.’’
‘‘Thank you. I caught it solid is all.’’ He could feel his ears heating up.
‘‘You catch it solid more than most. I’ll be right back.’’
Thorliff looked around the office, wrinkling his nose at the sour smell that came from the processing plant. Two weeks earlier he’d written a piece on the Creamery and the new equipment they’d recently installed.
‘‘Here you go. And thanks for coming by. Mr. Warren liked your piece, by the way.’’
‘‘Tell him thank you for me.’’ Thorliff touched the brim of his hat. ‘‘Have a good day.’’ Out the door and back onto the bike, he headed for the Rogerses’ house, the envelope with the advertising copy in the basket attached to the handlebars and weighted by a stone. The rain the night before had washed all the dust off the leaves, so the maple, oak, and elm trees that dappled the street with shade wore a patina of green so sparkly he needed the shade of his straw boater to protect his eyes. Eyes that matched the blue of the skies, Bjorklund blue as they called them at home. He waved to two small children playing in a front yard and ignored a small dog trying to sound like a big one while being protected by a newly painted white picket fence. A boy in knickers and a flat hat raced him, keeping a hoop rolling in front of him with the regular application of the stick in his hand.
‘‘You have to go faster than that.’’ Thorliff pulled ahead, turned the corner, and rode into the Rogerses’ drive. The two-story brick home was set back from the street with the front yard shaded by oak and maple trees taller than the house. Roses and honeysuckle perfumed the air, a yellow-and-black butterfly flitting from blossom to blossom. Thorliff leaned the bike against the back porch railing and leaped the three steps to knock on the screen door.
‘‘Come in,’’ Cook called.
Thorliff did as told and sighed in relief. ‘‘Ah, so nice and cool in here.’’
‘‘Not if you come near this stove.’’ Cook, who never had regained her robustness since before the measles attack the winter of ’94, smiled in spite of her brusqueness, which Thorliff knew by now to be a put-on to cover a tender heart.
‘‘I’ll stay away from it then. Smells like you’ve been baking up a storm.’’ He inhaled the scents of ginger, lemon, and pork roast, all overlaid with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘‘It is our turn to bring cookies for the after-church social. And you know how they like my lemon bars, but Pastor put in a special request for gingersnaps, so I made those too. Here’s
some of each for the office.’’ She handed him a wrapped packet and a covered basket. ‘‘And here’s your dinner. What this world is coming to when a man is too busy to come home to eat is beyond me.’’
‘‘We’re starting on my book this afternoon.’’
Cook stopped and shot a firecracker smile over her shoulder. ‘‘Now, don’t that beat all. Congratulations, young man. That is an honor certainly earned. I want a copy of my own, you hear?’’
‘‘I hear. I’ll save you the first one off the binder.’’
‘‘No, the second. You keep the first one for yourself. That is a milestone known by only a few.’’
‘‘You’re right. Thank you for the reminder. Miss Elizabeth studying?’’
‘‘From dawn to dark and thereafter.’’ Cook handed him several gingersnaps. ‘‘I say if she hasn’t got it by now, she’s not going to get it.’’
‘‘She wants top grades, hoping that will make a difference at some of the medical schools she’s applied to.’’
‘‘It would make a difference if she were a man instead of a woman. Those men in charge don’t know up from down. She’s already a good doctor, thanks to Dr. Gaskin. What does she need them for anyway?’’
Thorliff took the safe path and kept his opinions to himself. Not that he didn’t think Elizabeth would make a good doctor—he knew she could do anything she set her mind to—but still, real doctoring seemed to be a man’s profession. After all, what man would want a woman doctor operating on him?
Not that he’d want anyone cutting on him, but if an operation were necessary . . . He thought back to Agnes Baard, who’d had something growing in her belly for the last years. That something had eaten her alive before their very eyes. Could a doctor have taken it out so that she could have lived longer? His mother had suggested it to her, as had others, but Agnes had been adamant. What God had sent her way was for her to endure, and endure she did. Breaking her children’s hearts in the process.
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