Would his life have been different if Agnes had lived?
One of those questions without answers. No looking back, he ordered himself. You vowed, no looking back. But your mother acts as the doctor in Blessing. The thought sounded an awful lot like his father Haakan’s voice. But Mother wasn’t a young woman, and besides— He cut off the thought, knowing this was not a topic to bring up with Elizabeth.
‘‘Okay, here’s the lemonade. I will see you back here for supper?’’
‘‘Mange takk.’’ He looked at the parcels, wondering how he was to carry them all on the bicycle. ‘‘But no, I will be studying from the time we close up until I get done. I’ll just eat the leftovers.’’
‘‘Well, don’t blame me if you never fill out. I try to feed you enough.’’
‘‘I won’t. Thanks again.’’ He juggled everything to open the screen door and, once outside, set the jug and the cookies in the basket and hooked the handles of the picnic basket over the handlebars. Whistling the catchy tune of ‘‘A Bicycle Built for Two,’’ he pedaled back out the drive and down the street toward town.
‘‘Hey, Mr. Bjorklund, that was a right fine article on the abuses of the railroad last week. But why aren’t you running another story like you did last year?’’ Old Mr. Henry Stromme, who lived one block away from the Rogerses, called from his rocking chair on the front porch.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff coasted to a stop and braced with his feet. ‘‘I had no time to write the story this year, but we’re thinking of one to start in the fall.’’
‘‘Good, good. I’ll be looking forward to it.’’ He pointed a shaky finger in Thorliff’s direction. ‘‘You going to run the contest again at Christmastime?’’
‘‘We’re contemplating a Thanksgiving contest this year. What do you think?’’
The old man nodded, his head keeping time with his rocking chair. ‘‘You think folks run outta Christmas tales?’’
‘‘No, just something different.’’ Thorliff set one foot up on the pedal. ‘‘Glad you’re happy with the paper.’’
‘‘Near’s I can figure, Thanksgiving ain’t nowhere near important as Christmas.’’
‘‘True.’’
‘‘You ask me, and I’d say stick with Christmas.’’
Thorliff thought a moment and couldn’t stop the grin. ‘‘You don’t by any chance have a story you’re planning to send in?’’
The old man cackled like a hen just off her nest, announcing to the world that she laid the best egg ever. He slapped his knees and shook his head. ‘‘You be one smart young feller to figure that out. I might be. I just might.’’
‘‘I’ll tell Mr. Rogers your opinion.’’ Thorliff waved and pedaled off. ‘‘Best to you.’’
‘‘And you.’’ Another cackle followed him down the street.
Thorliff parked the bike behind the newspaper office and entered through the back door, hanging his hat on a peg in the wall by the door to his room. He glanced longingly at the bed that had hardly been slept in for the last few days and continued on to the office, where Mr. Rogers was waiting on someone at the counter.
‘‘Ah, Mr. Bjorklund, I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .’’
He turned from setting the picnic basket on the desk and smiled in the direction of the woman crowned by a broad-brimmed straw hat that dipped seductively to the right. He couldn’t see her face because the window light threw her in shadows, but he’d recognize the voice anywhere.
‘‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Simpson? What can I do for you?’’
‘‘I was wondering, are you going to write another story for the paper? We just adored the one last year.’’
Why a woman her age fluttered her eyelashes at every person in pants was beyond him, but he kept a smile in place no matter. ‘‘You’ll have to ask the boss here. After all, it is his paper.’’
‘‘Oh, you silly boy, of course Phillip will run another story if you but write it.’’ She tapped her fan on the top of Phillip’s hand lying on the counter.
Thorliff could feel the laughter rising both within himself and the man next to him. ‘‘We’ll do our best, ma’am.’’
‘‘That we will.’’ Phillip Rogers pushed a receipt across the counter. ‘‘Thank you for your advertisement. I’m sure the town will support your ladies’ social. Anything to help our more unfortunate brothers.’’
‘‘And sisters.’’ She turned to leave, but her hat bobbled and flopped, so she had to grab it with one hand. ‘‘Good day, gentlemen.’’ With that, she sailed out the door.
Phillip turned to Thorliff. ‘‘You better get crackin’ on that story. Miss Simpson has spoken.’’
‘‘Strange, but that’s the second one today. Old Mr. Stromme hailed me—’’
‘‘From his front porch?’’
Thorliff nodded.
‘‘From whence he rules Northfield?’’
Another nod. ‘‘I guess. But he insisted we need another Christmas contest this year—along with another serialized story.’’
‘‘If I had a dollar for each request . . .’’ Phillip shook his head. ‘‘You’re king in Northfield, young Bjorklund. You better enjoy it while it lasts.’’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘‘I’m done!’’
‘‘Me too!’’
Meeting on the front steps of Old Main, Thorliff and Elizabeth stared at each other, both noting the circles under eyes, the sag of weary shoulders. The broad lawn lay like a smooth skirt around the distinctive mansard-roofed brick building.
‘‘I want to sleep for a week.’’
‘‘I’d take one good night. I have to start writing the new story tomorrow.’’ Thorliff reached for her bag, and Elizabeth was too tired to even protest. They walked down to the shaded path that led to town, grateful for the breeze that rustled the leaves above them. Rainwater from showers the night before still lay in puddles in the hollows, but soon the heat would drink them dry. Thorliff inhaled the fragrance of rain-washed leaves and grass. Daisies nodded where the sun poked through the covering. Blue and purple violets peeked out from under the bushes, too shy to push their way forward like the sun-loving daisies.
‘‘It surely does smell good, doesn’t it?’’ Elizabeth followed his lead, only stopping to sniff again where a particularly delightful perfume caught her nose. ‘‘Ah, honeysuckle.’’ She turned her head, following the scent like a hunting dog on point. ‘‘See, over there.’’ She pointed to a shrub polka-dotted with the fragile white blossoms blinking in the dancing shade.
‘‘You want one?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ She started forward, but Thorliff stopped her with a cautionary hand.
‘‘Might be poison ivy in there.’’ Keeping an eye out for the attractive leaves, he picked a sprig of honeysuckle and brought it to her.
Her thank-you wore a well-washed gown of grudge. Frequently sniffing the fragrant offering, she strolled down the path, forcing Thorliff to keep his pace sedate or be rude and go on ahead. There was more than one feminine way to get even. ‘‘So do you have your new story all figured out?’’
‘‘No, but I’m working on it.’’
‘‘What’s the general idea?’’
‘‘A continuation of The Switchmen with Douglas now head of his own company and seeing things from the other side. A sort of Horatio Alger’s story.’’
‘‘I think you need more female characters to draw in more women readers.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’ Thorliff rubbed his chin, an unconscious imitation of Haakan in deep thought. ‘‘Makes good sense.’’
‘‘Well, can you believe that? Mr. Bjorklund can take a suggestion from a mere woman.’’ Elizabeth batted her eyes.
‘‘You don’t simper well, so forget it.’’
‘‘Thorliff, you are the most insufferable—’’
‘‘Miss Elizabeth.’’ He loaded extra emphasis on the Miss. ‘‘I am too tired to argue with you or even carry on a decent conversation, for that matte
r, so sniff your posy, and we’ll go at it again tomorrow.’’
‘‘Or the next day when I finally wake up.’’ Elizabeth stifled a yawn. ‘‘I never did simper well.’’
‘‘Not enough practice.’’ He held the back door open for her and followed her into the kitchen, which seemed huge for its emptiness. ‘‘Where’s Cook?’’ He set Elizabeth’s satchel down on one of the red-cushioned chairs by the turned-leg table. A vase of roses nodded in the center of the red-and-white checked tablecloth.
‘‘I have no idea.’’ She saw a note on the counter and crossed the room to read it aloud. ‘‘Thorliff’s dinner and supper are in a box in the icebox. There is salad for your own dinner. Your mother is at the ladies social at the Lutheran church, and I have gone to the market. There are extra cookies in the cookie jar if Thorliff cannot make it to his room without food. Cook.’’ Elizabeth pointed to the cookie jar. ‘‘Help yourself.’’
Thorliff did and, leaning against the counter, devoured three in close order while Elizabeth fetched his string-tied box. ‘‘Thanks.’’ He took it and headed for the door.
‘‘Remember, add more women.’’ Her advice trailed him outside as he picked up the pace to his usual half-trot, and with legs the length of his, he passed the block quickly. He glanced at Mr. Stromme’s porch, but the rocking chair sat empty, forlorn, as if not knowing what to do with its spare time. He kept going for half a block, ignoring the voice inside, but finally turned around and took the stairs to the old man’s house in one bound. He rapped on the screen door, staring into the long hallway toward the kitchen. There was no response. He rapped again. ‘‘Mr. Stromme, are you all right?’’
Again only the silence of a waiting house answered.
Thorliff set his school satchel and dinner box in the chair and leaped to the ground to trot around the house to the backyard. It was empty of human habitation, but the wheelbarrow sat out, rake and fork showing there had been a plan for work.
‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’ Thorliff looked around, checked the tool shed, then mounted the back steps. Do I go look for him or assume he stepped over to the neighbors? A voice demanded from inside of him: Go look. He opened the screen door, the screech of hinges needing oil the only sound. Calling every few moments, he checked each room downstairs, then mounted the stairs. ‘‘Mr. Stromme?’’
He found the old man lying beside his bed, fully dressed, his eyes imploring him to help. One side of his face drooped like melted wax, and drool puddled on the floor under his cheek.
‘‘Oh, Mr. Stromme, I am so sorry. Do you have a telephone?’’
A slight shake of the grizzled head, so slight that had Thorliff not been watching, he would have missed it.
‘‘Do your neighbors?’’
Again that minuscule movement.
‘‘Then I shall run back to the Rogerses’ and call the doctor from there.’’
One clawlike hand scrabbled on the painted floor.
‘‘I’ll hurry. I know. I don’t want to leave you alone either, but if I see anyone, I’ll send them up.’’ Leaving the man was one of the harder things Thorliff had ever done. Old Mr. Stromme’s eyes haunted him as he ran the distance, pounded up to the back door and, not bothering to knock, charged into the kitchen.
Cook, eyes wide and mouth agape, turned abruptly, dropping her recently purchased potatoes onto the wooden floor. ‘‘Wh-what?’’
‘‘I have to call Dr. Gaskin. Old Mr. Stromme is on the floor.
I’m sure he’s had a stroke.’’ The words trailed back from over his shoulder as Thorliff strode to the telephone in the hall. He picked up the receiver, set it back in the prong, and cranked the handle on the side of the wooden box. Picking up the earpiece again, he said, ‘‘Hello?’’
‘‘Central.’’
‘‘We need a doctor at Mr. Stromme’s. I just found him on the floor upstairs.’’ He could hear Miss Odegaard ringing the doctor’s number before he finished his sentence.
‘‘You go on back to be with him while I get the doctor there,’’ Ina Odegaard said.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff hung up and headed out the front door to save a few paces.
Cook was halfway down the drive with a basket over her arm. She handed it to Thorliff. ‘‘A cold cloth for his head. I’ll be right behind you.’’
Thorliff ran back down the street, bursting through the gate, taking the steps two and three at a time, then pounded into the bedroom.
The relief in Mr. Stromme’s eyes burned the back of Thorliff’s throat. He knelt beside the old man and, taking the cloth from the basket, laid it across his forehead. ‘‘Would you be more comfortable if I put a pillow beneath your head?’’ Never had he realized eyes could say so much. He took a pillow from the bed, picked up the man’s head, and slid the pillow in place, straightening his shoulders and laying the clawed hand across the sunken chest. ‘‘Are you cold?’’
Again Mr. Stromme responded with a blinking of the eyes. So Thorliff reached up to take down the knit afghan to cover him, all without letting go of the other hand, as if he had any choice.
Cook came panting up the stairs, stopping in the doorway with a hand to her chest to catch her breath. ‘‘H-how is he?’’
Thorliff gave a slight shake of his head and settled himself on the floor beside the patient, gently returning the faint hand squeeze from Mr. Stromme. Lord, please help this poor man. Here, he lives all alone and has always been so spry and busy. Who will tend his garden and take care of him if he . . . Where would he . . . Lord, this is a mess.
‘‘The doctor is here.’’ Cook touched his shoulder and motioned to the doorway.
‘‘Thank you.’’
Mr. Stromme’s eyes fluttered open, and he tried to speak, but when only guttural sounds came out, his eyes shifted to terror again.
Dr. Gaskin nodded to Thorliff and knelt by their patient. ‘‘Ah, Henry, what have you done now? I know, I know. You didn’t fall or anything.’’ While he talked, he applied the stethoscope from his bag to the man’s heaving chest. ‘‘Your heart sounds good. You been having headaches lately? No? What about vomiting? Any dizziness?’’ He stopped and watched Henry’s face. ‘‘Dizzy today or other days?’’
Thorliff felt the man’s hand clench, whether a spasm or in response to the questions he didn’t know. Poor old man.
‘‘Well, we’ll move you over to the surgery where we can keep an eye on you and see if we can get your limbs moving again. I know you’re feeling panicky right now, but I’ve seen lots of folks with a condition like yours improve. It will just take time and work on your part.’’ Dr. Gaskin glanced over to Cook. ‘‘Why don’t you get some quilts or blankets so we can make a pallet in the wagon. And you, young man, go fetch Old Tom. He’s working at my house today. Tell him to bring his wagon.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Thorliff gently released the old man’s hold on his hand and smiled into the watery eyes. ‘‘It’s okay now. Dr. Gaskin is with you. Don’t you worry. I’ll be back.’’ Down the stairs he went and up the street to the Rogerses’ again to call the surgery and leave a message with Nurse Browne.
‘‘I’ll send Tom right over, and tell Doctor I’ll have a bed all ready,’’ said the efficient nurse.
‘‘Thank you.’’ Thorliff hung up the phone and leaned his head against the wall. All this going on and Elizabeth slept through it all. She’d probably be downright cranky with him for not letting her know, but she’d looked ready to melt into a puddle. He thought of the bed waiting for him in the cool back room of the newspaper office. Oh well, he could sleep later. Visions of the old man’s pleading eyes propelled him back out the door and wearing a path to Stromme’s house door.
‘‘He sure took to you,’’ Doctor said a bit later when the wagon bearing the old man to the surgery pulled out.
‘‘He’d call to me from his rocking chair, telling me when he was happy with my story in the paper and other times when there was something he wasn’t too happy about.’’
Thorliff half shrugged. ‘‘Me or Mr. Rogers or the mayor or the president . . .’’
‘‘Or anything else he thought you might like to know. As if you were responsible for it all.’’
‘‘I guess he figured since I work for the newspaper, I might be able to fix something.’’
‘‘Henry Stromme has been a pillar of the community for more years than I care to count. Back in his younger days he ran the grain elevator down by the river. Since they put him out to pasture, he’s kept half the town supplied with tomatoes and cucumbers, all kinds of good things from his garden. But this past year he was too stove up to even do much of that. Arthritis is a mean thing, crippling a person. Henry still managed to keep abreast of all the happenings, including all the gossip. In spite of no phone, he hooked on to the Northfield grapevine.’’
Thorliff listened, nodding when appropriate and wishing he could have done more. ‘‘What’ll happen to him now?’’
‘‘I’m hoping we can get him moving around some. If not, we’ll move his bed downstairs to the parlor and get someone in to help. Knowing him, he’ll be one cantankerous patient, but Nurse Browne will charm him into behaving. Hopefully we can get someone in to take care of whatever he needs done.’’
‘‘No family?’’
‘‘All gone before. His wife died four, maybe five years ago.’’ As they talked, the doctor put his bag back together, and Thorliff folded up the afghan and laid it back on the bed. They walked downstairs to meet Cook coming from the kitchen.
‘‘I cleaned up for him, put things away, figured it might be some time before he gets to come home again.’’ She wiped her hands on her apron, making tsking sounds. ‘‘Anything else I can do?’’
‘‘Not that I can think of. Thank you.’’ Dr. Gaskin patted her arm.
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