‘‘Well, we have God’s promise to care for His wayward children.’’ Pastor Solberg shook his head again. ‘‘If He can take care of sparrows, He will watch over them.’’
Ingeborg stood. ‘‘I need to be getting on home. You’ll let me know as soon as you hear anything?’’
‘‘Ja, we will do that.’’
‘‘Could we pray, please?’’ Without taking time for answers, Pastor Solberg bowed his head. ‘‘Lord, we come to you with pain that hurts even more when it involves our children. Thank you that our children are your children, as are we. We know you will watch over Sophie and that you will heal our hurts, for so you have promised. Let us cling to you, and I pray for extra grace and wisdom in the months ahead. In your son’s precious name, amen.’’ He stood. ‘‘I’ll be praying extra hard for all of you.’’
‘‘Thank you, Pastor.’’ Kaaren sniffed and forced a partial smile.
Lars thanked the pastor and shook his hand, but the tightness had not left his face or his voice.
After Pastor Solberg dropped Ingeborg off at her house, a thought stopped her on the back steps. Wait until Hildegunn Valders got a hold of this. All in the name of Christian caring, of course, but gossip was gossip, and this was going to cause a storm of it. How could she protect Kaaren from the worst of it?
8
September 9, 1901
‘‘I’M SORRY . . . she’s gone.’’
Garth Wiste stared at the midwife as if looking at her the wrong way through a telescope. ‘‘And the baby?’’ He forced the words past the block in his throat.
‘‘Still alive but weak.’’
My Maddie . . . how will I live? ‘‘I will see her now.’’
‘‘If you would wait until I clean things up a bit—’’
‘‘Now.’’ He pushed past the woman blocking the bedroom door and crossed to the bed to kneel by his wife’s side. Taking her hand in his, he kissed the skin so transparent he might look right through. The blood. All over like there had been a battle fought here. All her life drained out. ‘‘Oh, Maddie, I . . .’’ He fought the tears, but like stopping the ocean, it was impossible. He stroked her cheek, tucked her hair behind one ear with a tender finger. Never again would she tease him, make him laugh, hold him, play with her children, love him.
He gathered her close as if willing life back into her cooling body. ‘‘God, how could you? She had so much to live for, and you took her away. How could you?’’ Anger flared, a rage so hot that surely the tips of his fingers burned her skin. He kissed her forehead and laid her back down, arranging her hair, tucking the sheet around her arms. ‘‘Oh, God!’’ His groan rent the stillness. ‘‘I cannot do this. You ask too much of me.’’
A whimper came from the basket in the corner. Who would feed this baby? Surely the midwife would know someone to wet-nurse it. It? One did not refer to one’s infant as it. Was it a boy or a girl? He’d not bothered to ask, so concerned he was for his wife.
‘‘Mr. Wiste, please let me clean things up in here,’’ the midwife said from slightly behind him.
He’d not even heard her come in. ‘‘About the babe?’’
‘‘Your daughter, sir.’’
‘‘Ah, yes. Do you know someone who could take her, a wet nurse?’’
‘‘I have a friend who would help out, yes.’’
‘‘Fine.’’ He got to his feet and stared down. Were it not for the drying blood and the blue of her skin, he might think Maddie only slept.
‘‘It’s God’s will, Mr. Wiste.’’
He turned on her, impaling her with his eyes. ‘‘No! I cannot believe this is God’s will! If He is a God of love, this . . . this horror cannot be His will!’’ And if it is, I want nothing to do with Him!
He strode toward the door without a backward look. He’d said his good-bye.
‘‘Don’t you want to see the baby?’’
He jerked the bedroom door open and slammed it behind him.
A thin wail heaped flaming coals on his agony. Treating the stairs and the front door with the same force, he thundered down the sidewalk and onto the street. He recognized no one, heard nothing. Had he been at the mill, the heat of him might have caused an explosion— when heat and flour dust combusted it could bring down a mighty building.
He pounded the earth for miles until pain radiated from his feet, up his legs, and finally registered on his brain. He sank against a fence post, dazedly looking around, with no idea where he was. Other than in the country. Cows grazed in the field, unaware of his pain, as if nothing mattered but the next mouthful of grass. How could the birds fly about so unconcerned? The sun shone when surely it should be shrouded. He propped his elbows on his bent knees and buried his face in his hands. The tears drizzled on his chin, ran through his fingers, and soaked his sleeves.
When the deluge had put out the fire, he tipped his head back against the wood and permitted the setting sun to dry his face. Finally staggering to his feet, he found the cows in a semicircle behind him, watching him and chewing their cuds.
‘‘So do you know the way home—to my home in Minneapolis, that is?’’ He must be deranged, talking to cows like this.
One swished her tail and belched up another chaw.
‘‘No, I guess you don’t.’’ He looked around. A farmhouse lay up the road to the west. But which side of the city had he come through? He set off to ask his way.
The burial took place on Wednesday. Garth felt as though he were hovering up in the tree limbs, watching the action and not a part of it. Maddie was laid into the ground, and the mourners returned to the church for a noonday meal. He knew he’d accepted condolences and made the appropriate responses because later one of his brothers told him he had done well. What he didn’t know was how he would keep going day after day without her.
‘‘Grant is crying for you,’’ his sister Helga Larson announced while she and their two sisters cleaned up the kitchen at his house after the funeral. ‘‘He doesn’t understand why he can’t come home. He stands at the window watching every time you leave your house.’’
‘‘And what? Bring him here?’’ Even though Garth lived next door to Helga, he couldn’t bear the thought of having his son around. He knew how terrible he looked when he’d shaved that morning. Mirrors never lie. The thick mink-colored hair that Maddie loved to stroke looked like rats were nesting in it. His hazel eyes peered coldly out of black circles. A cut on his square chin told of his carelessness with the razor. ‘‘Can’t he stay with you?’’
‘‘He can, and after this babe is born I can take your daughter too.’’ She rested her hand on the mound that looked large enough for two in spite of the full dress designed to disguise her pregnancy. ‘‘She won’t need to stay with the wet nurse much longer.’’ Helga sank into a chair with a sigh. ‘‘But Grant needs his father.’’
‘‘He needs his mother, but we know how impossible that is.’’ Garth hated the words that were spewing forth, revealing his barely banked rage. He couldn’t look at her, despising the pity he knew to be in her eyes. ‘‘I-I’m sorry. I can’t.’’
‘‘You have to name the baby,’’ Garth’s mother said several days later when she came to make sure he ate something.
‘‘You name her.’’
‘‘Didn’t you and Maddie discuss baby names?’’
He shook his head. Perhaps, but not that he remembered.
‘‘Grant is asking for you. I’m taking him home with me when I leave here. Helga thinks her baby will come tonight.’’ She poured him a second cup of coffee, patting his shoulder at the same time.
‘‘Good. Mange takk.’’ He didn’t realize he’d slipped back into the language of his grandfather and father—the language he’d spoken until he had turned three and his father remarried.
On Monday he returned to work, for only there did he not see his Maddie’s beloved face or something that reminded him of her.
The flour mill became his refuge.
‘‘Hey, Wiste, you heard about
that new mill they’re opening in a place called Blessing, North Dakota?’’ one of the millmen asked.
‘‘No. What about it?’’
‘‘They’re looking for a manager.’’
That night after gathering all the needed information, Garth sat down and wrote a letter to Hjelmer Bjorklund of Blessing, North Dakota, and posted it the next day.
One week later, after receiving a telegram from Hjelmer saying to come right away, Garth arrived in Blessing and asked the stationmaster for information.
‘‘The mill’s right down the street. You can’t miss it. Shoulda seen it coming in on the train like you did.’’
‘‘Thanks. Is there a place where I can get a room for a night or two?’’
‘‘Blessing Boarding House—good beds, good food. You can’t beat it. It’s right next door.’’ He indicated to the south.
Since Garth had been sitting on the other side of the train, he hadn’t seen much but farmland and farm buildings, but he nodded and walked toward the door.
He stepped out of the station house, looked to the south first, and saw a warehouse, a grain elevator, and the flour mill dwarfing all the other buildings. On the same side of the street as the station stood a three-story building with several additions, painted gray with white trim and a long porch facing the street. Although right next to the train tracks, the building had been recently repainted, and tieback curtains made it look right friendly.
Up the other way he saw several stores and a fairly new building that flew a United States flag in front. That must be the post office. A sign said Bank of Blessing on another corner of the building. A church steeple pointed above the stores a block or two away. While Blessing wasn’t a big town, it looked prosperous. He took the steps to the boardinghouse with a lighter stride than he’d used of late. A cheery woman of indeterminate years, but for sure plenty, greeted him from behind a low counter.
‘‘How can I help you?’’ Her Norwegian accent could not be missed.
‘‘I’d like a room for one night, maybe more.’’ He returned her smile. She reminded him so much of his grandmother, he almost greeted her as Bestemor.
‘‘Ja, I have a room. Meals are included, and that will be one dollar— pay in advance.’’ She pushed a ledger toward him. ‘‘Please sign here. Where you from?’’
‘‘Minneapolis. I’ve come to interview for the manager of the flour mill.’’
‘‘Ah, my son and grandson built that. We’’—her w as v made him smile again—‘‘in Blessing have a co-op that owns the mill.’’
‘‘What a good idea. More communities should do that.’’ He signed his name and address as he chatted. ‘‘It looks like Blessing is growing.’’
‘‘Ja, that we are. You will meet my son Hjelmer Bjorklund and my grandson Thorliff Bjorklund. I am Bridget Aarsgard. Aarsgard.’’ Her smile showed her pride, as well as several missing teeth. She wore her snow white hair in a braid that circled her head. Pleasantly rounded with her apron as white as her hair, she came around the desk. ‘‘Come, Mr. Wiste, I will show you your room.’’ She led the way upstairs and opened the third door on the right. ‘‘This be good?’’
‘‘Ja, it will. Mange takk.’’
She beamed at his response. ‘‘Supper at six.’’
He set his bag on the floor, sat on the bed, and stared out across the fields framed by white curtains that looked like they’d been washed and starched just the day before. The patchwork quilt on the bed reminded him of his mother’s house. Maddie would have loved it here. The thought stabbed like a well-aimed spear.
He fled the house, heading for the mill and, he hoped, a new life.
9
‘‘ARE YOU ANGRY AT ME?’’ Sophie asked, turning from the train window.
Hamre shook his head, but he didn’t turn to look at her.
It feels like it. What’s wrong? Why are you sitting there like a wooden statue? He’d been like this ever since they found their seats on the westbound train at Grafton. It felt like hours ago, but in reality was probably less than an hour. Sophie caught herself rubbing her hands together as if she were cold. She turned to stare out the window again. Houses, barns, cattle in the fields, all passing at an alarming rate. Here she thought she would love riding the train, but with Hamre so silent, her joy had seeped down through the floor and was flattened by the clacking wheels.
What would Mor do in a situation like this? The thought caught her by surprise. First of all, her mor would never get herself into a situation like this. Secondly, she would say pray. I did pray, and I sort of thought that God thought it’s all right. Then she remembered some things Pastor Solberg had said about God’s will and . . . She had the tiniest but very certain feeling he’d said something about never crossing God’s Word. The words in her mind keeping in clack with the wheels on the rails repeated the fourth commandment: Honor thy father and thy mother; honor thy father and thy mother.
‘‘Hamre?’’
When there was no answer, she glanced up at him. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. He was asleep! Here she was worrying over what she’d done, and he was sound asleep. A slight snore confirmed it. Her fingers clenched each other, as if seeking comfort from the familiar. But there was nothing about sitting on a train heading west that was even vaguely familiar. I am married. I am now Mrs.Hamre Bjorklund. Sophie Knutson is gone forever. She had gotten her dream. She was on an adventure. She’d left Blessing. And if her brand-new husband was sound asleep . . . Well, he’d driven the buggy all night while she slept. He was exhausted.
Taking that into consideration, why, then, did she just want to hide her head in her mother’s lap and cry until the tears that threatened to drown her were no more?
If I had paper and a pencil, I could at least write a letter home. But she’d not thought to put such mundane things into her bag. You didn’t think about a lot of things, a little voice whispered. But now you have to make the best of it. What did one do on a long train ride? Look out the window to see plains, farms, a small town once in a while. Just like home only not as flat. Haystacks, grain elevators, stops for water and coal, people getting on, others getting off. A woman across the aisle was knitting. Another was reading a story to two small children. A man puffed a cigar, the stink of it making her wrinkle her nose. Could she ask him to put it out?
Hamre woke with a start. He yawned and turned to smile into her eyes. ‘‘Sorry. I didn’t have much sleep last night.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Not that she did either. Sleeping in a swaying buggy was nothing like her bed at home, curled next to Grace. Grace—does she hate me? She forced a smile to answer his.
‘‘Are you hungry?’’
She nodded.
‘‘We can eat in the dining car, you know.’’
‘‘Really?’’
‘‘Yes. Come on.’’ He took her hand, and all of a sudden her world felt better and her smile came back.
She touched the sides of her hair, smoothing loose strands back into the upsweep. She fluffed her fringe and turned her face up for him to inspect. ‘‘Do I look all right?’’ When he didn’t respond right away, she peered at him from under her eyelashes, only to find him staring at her. ‘‘What?’’
He cleared his throat. ‘‘You are so beautiful.’’
Her heart skipped a beat, and her lips trembled on the way to a smile. ‘‘Thank you.’’ Sliding her arm through his, she leaned her cheek against his shoulder. She could do that now. They were married.
He patted her hand. ‘‘Let’s go eat, Mrs. Bjorklund.’’
In his voice the name gave her an even greater thrill. ‘‘Yes, let’s.’’
He motioned her to go ahead of him. She kept reaching for a seat back to keep from being swayed right off her feet and landing ignominiously in someone’s lap.
Hamre pushed open the door at the end of the car, and she stopped stiff at the sight of the roadbed flashing beneath their feet, the grate looking far too flimsy to be trod upon
.
‘‘Keep going.’’
‘‘I can’t.’’
‘‘Of course you can. It’s perfectly safe.’’
‘‘But it’s moving. Look.’’
‘‘The plates overlap so they cover the couplings between the cars.’’ He nudged her with a hand to her back.
‘‘You go first.’’
‘‘All right.’’ With both hands on her waist, he squeezed around her and, taking one of her hands, led her over the moving floorboards. ‘‘See, I told you.’’ His smile once they were in the next car allayed her fears that he thought her young and silly.
Tables dressed in white linen cloths with fancy silverware and stemmed glasses that caught beams of sunlight from the windows and sparkled at her made her catch her breath. A flower in a bud vase centered every table, and white folded napkins lay under polished silverware. Here was the life she’d dreamed about, with Hamre by her side. Thoughts of Blessing faded away to the accompaniment of clacking wheels.
‘‘Are you sure we should eat here?’’ She tugged on his hand and kept her voice low.
‘‘Yes. It comes with the ticket.’’ He pulled out a chair for her and motioned her to sit down. A black man in a white buttoned-up coat smiled at her.
‘‘I be your server,’’ he said.
‘‘I see.’’ She looked to Hamre as he sat down across the table from her. They had never talked about what money he had, only about the fish he caught. She’d seen pictures of fancy table settings, and Bestemor had white tablecloths at the boardinghouse. But here there were two forks, lying on top of a starched stiff napkin, on one side of her plate and a knife and spoon on the other. A small knife lay at the top of the plate. Whatever was that for? The small plate to the left was maybe for desserts?
Their server set a leather-bound book upright in front of each of them. ‘‘Your menu.’’ He picked up her napkin and, giving it a shake, laid it across her lap. ‘‘Would you care for coffee, tea, ice water to start with?’’
Sophie stared at the man across the table from her. Wasn’t her husband supposed to be the one to guide her? Right now she needed real guiding. Hamre glanced up over the top of the menu he was reading and winked at her. I can do this, she decided and smiled at their server.
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