Sophie's Dilemma

by Lauraine Snelling

  The hurt on Helga’s face lanced the boil of his anger. He backed away, fearing to spew the poison he felt on her. ‘‘I-I have to leave. I’m sorry.’’ He spun and was out the door before she could get over her shock to respond. He heard her call from the doorway and, shaking his head, flapped a hand at her. ‘‘Later.’’

  Where to go? Not back to his own house next door. Not to the cemetery where they’d buried that box holding his life. Not to the local saloon; he might never come out. Instead, he pounded the street down to the river whose rapids powered the mighty wheels grinding the grain from across the Midwest into flour. The river walk had been one of Maddie’s favorite places. She loved the cool spray from the falls, the roar of the water, the sunlight dancing on the swirls and deeper pools. Today would have been one of her ‘‘gifts from God,’’ as she called the sunny fall days of October. With the leaves exploding in all shades of red, rust, and orange swirling down the river, she’d dreamed of following the water all the way to the Gulf of Mexico one day.

  ‘‘No-o-o, it’s not fair! Not Maddie!’’ After roaring at the falls, he glanced around, hoping no one heard him. But the shocked look on an elderly woman’s face said she had. She nodded and turned away. At least she hadn’t run screaming like he wanted to do. He turned back to the falls to hide the tears that now gushed like the water between the rocks.

  When he finally had himself under control again, he walked the mile back to his house and stared up at the blank windows. How could a house look so desolate in such a short period of time? One month since Maddie died. Weeds greened her flower beds. She’d pulled them all out just before . . . He could see her if he narrowed his eyes. . . .

  ‘‘What are you doing?’’ He’d hurried up the walk, ready to lift her bodily.

  ‘‘I’m getting the flower beds ready for winter. What does it look like?’’ Instead of kneeling, which was impossible with her girth, she sat on a low stool and dug out weeds and the annuals finished with blooming. The full basket attested to her efforts. ‘‘Grant is sleeping, so I snuck out here.’’ She lifted her face to the evening breeze. ‘‘Don’t worry, I checked on him just a minute ago and left the windows and door open so I could hear him.’’

  ‘‘It’s you I’m worried about. Didn’t the doctor say to take it easy?’’

  ‘‘I am taking it easy, just sitting here on the stool. I could be scrubbing the floors, I suppose.’’

  He couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss her laughing lips. Never had she looked so beautiful. He’d heard of women who blossomed when they were with child, and his Maddie was one of those. She admitted to loving being pregnant, over and over saying they would have six children, three of each.

  ‘‘Your supper will be ready in three shakes of a lamb’s tail.’’ She held out her hands for him to pull her up. ‘‘But you better brace your feet before lifting this elephant.’’

  He pulled her up and into his arms.

  ‘‘Garth, what will the neighbors think?’’ But she laid her cheek against his chest for just a moment before straightening.

  ‘‘They’ll pretend to be horrified at our show of affection, and inside they’ll be jealous.’’ He tucked her hand through the crook of his arm, snagged the stool with the other, and handed it to her while he carried the full basket. ‘‘Let’s go around back, and I’ll dump this on the pile.’’

  She told him all the day’s happenings as they strolled through the side gate and into the backyard. ‘‘Oh, there is Grant. Hear him?’’

  Garth paused. Sure enough. A small voice was calling, ‘‘Ma?’’

  ‘‘Out here, son. We’ll be right there.’’

  ‘‘Now he’ll probably not want to go to sleep when he should, but I just wanted to finish a few things around here before the baby is born.’’

  That was before the baby was born. When the world stood still. And collapsed around him. When the baby was born—and she left.

  He dashed the tears away again and mounted the three steps to the front porch. Her fern hung in dead sticks with dry brown leaves. No one had bothered to water it and bring it inside like she always did before the frost. He’d been gone to North Dakota less than a week, but he’d not been back to the house since Helga came to take the rest of Grant’s things and he’d gone along to her house.

  A faint coppery scent still hung on the still air. The smell of blood and agony refused to be banished no matter how much the cleaning woman had scrubbed both the room and the linens. With his eyes straight ahead, he mounted the stairs to the second floor, retrieved a small trunk from the closet, and emptied the drawers from the chest into it. He added work clothes from the closet, a suit and shoes, and slammed the trunk closed. Their wedding picture occupied a prominent place on the dresser, but instead of packing it, he laid it face down in the empty top drawer. He hauled the trunk up to his shoulder and made his way down the stairs and out the door, locking it behind him. Helga could come get whatever else she needed for the children, if she hadn’t already.

  ‘‘Surely you will stay the night?’’ Helga insisted when he walked back to her house to tell her he was leaving.

  ‘‘If you’d like to move into the house—well, it might be a good idea. It is bigger than yours, and since you are renting, it would save you some money.’’

  ‘‘Garth, please wait until Dan comes home so the two of you can discuss that.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘I cannot.’’ If I see the children . . . He swallowed hard. ‘‘It is better this way.’’

  ‘‘But Grant asks for his pa.’’

  ‘‘Once I am settled there, I will come for them. And you too, if Dan agrees.’’

  ‘‘We need a name for the baby, Garth. You have to give her a name,’’ Helga implored.

  ‘‘You name her. What are you calling her now?’’

  ‘‘Baby.’’

  ‘‘Choose whatever you want.’’

  ‘‘She should be baptized.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead.’’ I cannot. If I get started on what I think of God right now, all those pious church people will go running for the doors.

  All the way to the station and through the long night as he dozed on the hard bench, he castigated himself for not visiting his mother, for not showing Helga his gratitude, for not being the man he thought he was. The next morning he bought a cup of coffee and a slice of bread before boarding the train.

  With each clack of the train wheels, he left his life behind. Staring out the window into the early morning darkness, he promised himself, I will no longer dwell on that part of my life. It is over. Someday I will have my children with me again, but now I must look forward. It was a good thing he needn’t say his vow out loud, for the rock in his throat prevented any sound.

  When he stepped off the train, dry-eyed and dryer of soul, he made his way back to the boardinghouse. The proprietress greeted him as if he had come home.

  ‘‘Thank you. I’m hoping you rent one of your rooms on a monthly or long-term basis.’’

  ‘‘Ja, we do that. Meals are included.’’ She named a price that seemed to him an undercharge, but he smiled gratefully rather than suggesting she raise her rates. He stared at the book as he signed where she pointed. Was he doing the right thing? Maybe he should just . . .

  ‘‘Mr. Wiste?’’

  Her gentle voice with the heavy Norwegian accent brought him back to the present with a start.

  ‘‘I-I’m sorry, what did you say?’’

  ‘‘I asked if you would like us to pack you the noon meal or if you would plan to return here to eat.’’

  ‘‘I don’t . . . I . . .’’ He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘‘May I make those arrangements after I see how things will be going at the mill?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She named the hours when meals were served and handed him a key. ‘‘We change the beds and clean once a week. If you want it more often, there will be an extra charge.’’

  ‘‘No, that will be fine. Do you do laun
dry for your guests also?’’

  ‘‘You are the only one staying here for an extended time, so we could do that for you.’’

  ‘‘You have my eternal gratitude, Mrs. . . .’’ He paused. ‘‘I don’t remember your name.’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Aarsgard. Bundle your clothes to be washed on the day we clean your room. That will be Mondays, I believe.’’

  ‘‘And my mail will be brought here?’’

  ‘‘You can make arrangements for a box at the post office. It is in the same building as the bank. The new one just up the street.’’

  ‘‘I’ll take my things on up, then.’’ He nodded and failed at encouraging his lips to smile. Climbing the stairs with his trunk on one shoulder and his bag in the other hand, his feet weighed half a stone each. By the time he reached the second floor, his lungs pumped like bellows, forcing him to stop and inhale deeply, letting the air out on a whoosh. Was his trunk that heavy or was it life in general?

  Once in his room, which overlooked the street in front of the boardinghouse, he set the trunk down and surveyed his new quarters. A quilt in shades of browns and yellows covered the bed; a rag rug in similar tones lay by the bed to protect his feet on a cold morning. A five-drawer dresser against one papered wall, a stand with pitcher and bowl, a line of hooks taking the place of a closet or chifforobe—all the comforts of home. The last put a cynical twist on his face and in his heart. Home. Would there ever be a home again? He threw himself across the bed and covered his eyes with the back of his arm. Loneliness with sorrow behind rode him with quirt and spurs.

  By the next morning when he could think again, he figured that with his lodging and meals taken care of, he would have sufficient money to send home, or rather back to Helga for caring for his children. He’d even thought during the long sleepless night that he should ask her to take them permanently. She and Dan could become their real parents. But that thought had brought on the struggle to dam the tears. Lord, what are you asking of me? He cut off the prayer like he’d cut off the tears and snorted as a Bible verse he’d once memorized floated through his mind. God will never give you more than you can endure. What a pack of lies. If God was the loving God some claimed Him to be, why would He take a mother from her babies and a wife from a husband who adored her?

  13

  GRAY WEATHER WEIGHED like a stone chain around Sophie’s neck. It had been days since she’d seen the sun, although it had appeared a couple of the days she’d been here. Hamre had told her that October was usually a good weather month inWashington State and apologized for the clouds.

  ‘‘Breakfast is served,’’ Mrs. Soderstrum called up the stairs.

  Sophie rolled over and pulled the quilt up to cover her ears. Three days with no return of the fishing boat that bore Hamre out to the sea beyond what he so lightly called the Puget Sound. After all his descriptions, she felt safer when he was fishing the sound rather than the open ocean. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if she could go walking, but like a cat, she hated to get wet.

  The mournful hoot of the foghorn made her even more aware of the gray day. The foghorn didn’t call out on a sunny day. But the seagulls cried all day every day. At first she had enjoyed the squabbles, but now all she heard was shrieking.

  She threw back the covers and hastily dressed. Better to visit with those downstairs rather than to hide under the covers. I just need something to look forward to each day. She brushed out her night braid and bundled her hair into a snood. Never in her entire life had there been time to be bored. She could hear her mother as if she were standing right in the room. ‘‘One who is bored is most likely boring.’’ Sophie Knut-son had never been boring. Granted, she’d called some tasks boring, but right now anything looked better than doing nothing.

  She’d had a good time the last three days shopping, though. Not that there were a lot of shops in Ballard, but she’d found a new bonnet. The feather on her other one never recovered from the drenching. Actually she’d gone looking for a new feather, but this hat was made of fur for the winter. And the umbrella was a necessity in this rainy country, as were a tablet, envelopes, pen, and ink. Surely Hamre wouldn’t mind her purchases. She kept reminding herself of that as she made her way down the stairs, trying to ignore his remarks about saving every penny for his own boat.

  ‘‘Oh, good to see you, dear.’’ Mrs. Soderstrum greeted her with a smile. ‘‘I’ll bring your plate right in.’’

  ‘‘Mange takk.’’ Sophie settled in what had become her chair and laid her napkin in her lap. She smiled across the table at the elderly man, Mr. Chambers, who clerked at a bank. He nodded and slurped his coffee from the saucer. A sniff from the pale and precisely plain young woman at the end of the table made Sophie want to roll her eyes. Be polite, she reminded herself, fighting to ignore the barbs of jealousy that she felt coming her way. Miss Benson, as Mrs. Soder-strum explained after their first meeting, had decided that she and Hamre would make a good match. Miss Benson was furious that he’d brought a wife back with him.

  Sophie pasted a smile on her face and turned to smile sweetly. ‘‘Good morning, Miss Benson. I hope you slept well.’’ She received a glare in return.

  ‘‘Here you go, dear.’’ Mrs. Soderstrum set a plate of bacon and eggs with biscuits in front of her.

  ‘‘Mange takk.’’ Sophie poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting on the table. It felt so strange to be waited on like this, but when she’d offered to help, Mrs. Soderstrum shook her head.

  ‘‘You are a guest here,’’ she’d replied.

  Sophie buttered her biscuit and soaked up the egg yolk with it. While several of the boarders were already gone for the day, those remaining were not overly talkative in the mornings. The quiet made Sophie think of the hubbub of home: the deaf students getting ready for school; Pa and the boys coming in from the milking; Ma and Grace, along with Ilse, getting the food on the table; Pa saying grace; the bustle to get those with sufficient signing skills out the door and into the wagon with their lunch pails and books. What a difference here.

  She set her biscuit down and sipped at her coffee. First on her list for the day was to add to the letter she’d started to her family. Perhaps today would be the day she’d hear from them. Only one letter so far, and that so formal she’d wondered who wrote it. Was Grace missing her as much as she was missing her twin? She finished her breakfast and wiped her mouth with her napkin, tucking it back into the napkin ring to be used again for dinner and supper. Since the other diners were gone, she took her plate into the kitchen.

  ‘‘You didn’t need to do that.’’ Mrs. Soderstrum took the plate from Sophie and set it on the counter by the sink.

  ‘‘I know, but I wanted to. Do you have a minute?’’

  ‘‘Of course. You want to sit here at the table and I’ll bring more coffee?’’

  ‘‘That would be nice.’’ Sophie did as she’d suggested, glancing around the cheery room as she waited. Sunny yellow walls with white trim took away some of the gloom of the day. A pot of geraniums bloomed pink in the window; a purple violet bloomed in a pot on the table. The fragrance of baking bread took her home again. Was her mother baking bread today? Most likely. Did they have snow back there yet? So many questions and all with no answers.

  Mrs. Soderstrum set the coffee cups on the table, followed by a plate of molasses cookies, and took her chair. ‘‘Black, right?’’

  ‘‘Ja, thank you.’’

  ‘‘Now what is on your mind?’’

  How do I ask this without sounding ungrateful? ‘‘I know this might sound strange, but do you know of any jobs around here? I mean, I have all day with nothing to do.’’

  ‘‘About the only place hiring is the fish cannery. At least that I know of.’’

  ‘‘Do women work there?’’

  ‘‘Oh yes. Someone has to process all those fish men like your Hamre bring in. And while men do the heavy work, women work on the line, sorting, cleaning, and gutting. I worked there one season and t
ook the money I made to buy this house.’’

  ‘‘You made that much money?’’

  ‘‘Not really. I put a down payment on my house. The bank and I own it together.’’

  ‘‘Maybe I could help Hamre with buying his boat.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think you would like working there. It . . . well, it smells pretty awful. And cold, oh my.’’

  ‘‘It can’t be any colder than North Dakota. The blizzards there do their best to drive the farmers out, or bury them.’’

  ‘‘Well, you are young and strong. If Hamre wants you to do this, you just go down to the wharf and in the side door at the cannery. Ask to see Mr. Oscar Trondheim. He used to board with me before he worked his way up to manager. Tell him I sent you.’’

  ‘‘Mange takk.’’ Sophie picked up a cookie and bit into the rich flavor of ginger and molasses. ‘‘My mother baked such good molasses cookies too.’’ She ignored the comment If Hamre wants you to. Of course, how could she know he didn’t if she didn’t ask? I’ll surprise him with the extra money so he can put it in his boat fund. She smiled back at her hostess. ‘‘What happened to your husband?’’

  ‘‘The fishing boat he was on went down.’’

  Fear made Sophie’s mouth so dry she couldn’t swallow. After a mouthful of coffee washed the crumbs down, she reached over and patted Mrs. Soderstrum’s hand. ‘‘When did that happen?’’

  ‘‘Oh, long time ago—six, seven years.’’ She squinted her eyes to think. ‘‘Seven. How the years pass so swiftly when in the beginning you think a day will last forever. Sorrow does that to you.’’

  ‘‘I’m so sorry.’’

  ‘‘Ja, life changes in a blink sometimes, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Good thing God helps us go on in spite of what happens.’’

  ‘‘And you never married again?’’

  ‘‘No, and no children. The babe I was carrying came too soon. Some say the shock of losing Arnet caused it. I don’t know, but I’m grateful I have my boardinghouse. It’s like having a bigger family.’’