Sophie's Dilemma

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘We have one in Blessing. Bridget Aarsgard—we all call her Bestemor—owns it. I’ve worked for her some.’’

  ‘‘Well, if I didn’t have my girl to help me, I’d hire you. But you can earn a lot more money at the cannery.’’

  ‘‘You said his name was Mr. Trondheim?’’

  ‘‘That’s right.’’

  Sophie drained her coffee cup. ‘‘Mange takk.’’ She pushed her chair back and rose. ‘‘You’ve been a great help.’’

  Sophie danced up the stairs. She’d finish the letter home and then go call on Mr. Trondheim. After making up the bed and dusting the windowsills and the top of the dressers, she dusted the small table Mrs. Soderstrum had given her when she mentioned needing something to write on and sat down. After finishing the first letter, she took paper, pen, and ink from her purchases and wrote.

  Dear Grace,

  Why have you not written to me? I know you all got my letter, for Mor wrote back. I could tell that she is still angry, as is Far, but you are not, are you? You know how much I love Hamre, and since I didn’t want to go to school anyway, I couldn’t let him go back to Seattle without me. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. Please forgive me.

  She nibbled on the end of the pen for a bit. How to include everything without using all the pages she had.

  This country is so different from Blessing, I cannot begin to describe it all. Hills that go straight up and so many kinds of trees. The fir trees are the biggest. Perhaps next summer you can come to visit, and I will show you Puget Sound and the mountains, snow-topped year-round they say, but so often hiding behind the rain clouds.

  Hamre’s boat has gone out to sea but not to Alaska yet. He should be back by Sunday. I miss him so. Mrs. Soderstrum, who owns the boardinghouse, was so kind to me this morning, and we talked over a second cup of coffee. I am going to seek work at the local cannery so I can keep busy when Hamre is gone to Alaska. He leaves around the middle of November. I hope to have enough earned to help him buy his own fishing boat. That is the dream of his life.

  How are things there? Please write and tell me what all is happening.

  Sophie reread her letter. She’d had to be careful not to mention feeling so blue on these gray days or being tired of the rain already.

  I know things will be better when we have a place of our own. I’ll have plenty to do then.

  If Hamre isn’t back on Sunday, I think I’ll go to church with Mrs. Soderstrum. The woman had invited her, but Hamre said he wanted to take his Sundays off to show Sophie around. Strange how easy it was to get out of the habit of church on Sunday. Another one of those things she’d better not mention. Her mother would be fit to be tied.

  I love you and miss you dreadfully.

  Your loving sister,

  Sophie Knutson Bjorklund

  She addressed the envelope and put it in her reticule. She’d buy stamps today too. Glancing out the window, she was grateful that she’d bought that umbrella. Mist and more mist.

  ‘‘Do you have anything you want me to mail, or pick up for you?’’ she asked Mrs. Soderstrum a few minutes later as she was about to leave the house.

  ‘‘Would you be so kind as to take those things in the box on the hall table?’’

  ‘‘Of course. And I’ll be walking right by the store if you need anything from there.’’

  ‘‘I just ran out of vanilla.’’ The older woman hurried back into the kitchen and returned with several coins. ‘‘That should be enough.’’

  Sophie opened her umbrella before stepping off the porch. It was a good thing she had sturdy boots and had found the grease stowed in Hamre’s dresser. She’d spent a couple of evenings greasing her boots and letting them set over the heat vent in the hall for the grease to soak in before adding another coat. No matter what she did, it brought up thoughts of home. From boot greasing to molasses cookies. Please answer quickly, Grace. I need to hear of home.

  She strode the four blocks to the cannery and found the side door just as Mrs. Soderstrum had told her. The door opened into an office area, but even so, the smell of fish permeated the air. It was not fresh fish she smelled either. She felt like putting a perfumed handkerchief to her nose, but the man at the desk was already giving her a strange look.

  ‘‘How can I help you?’’

  Ordering herself to be brave, she stepped forward. ‘‘I’ve come to see Mr. Trondheim.’’

  ‘‘And your purpose?’’

  ‘‘Mrs. Soderstrum said to ask him about a job.’’

  ‘‘You want to work here?’’ His inflection on the word you made her square her shoulders.

  ‘‘Yes. May I talk with him?’’

  ‘‘It won’t do any good. We’re not hiring right now. Come back in two weeks.’’

  ‘‘Oh. Shouldn’t I leave my name or something?’’

  ‘‘Have you ever worked in a fish cannery before?’’

  ‘‘No, but I grew up on a farm in North Dakota, and I know how to work.’’

  He cocked an eye at her, clearly doubting her words.

  ‘‘Sorry, miss, but we don’t have any cows to milk here.’’ One of the men behind him chuckled.

  Her eyes narrowed, but she kept a formal smile in place. ‘‘It is Mrs. and I would like to talk with Mr. Trondheim.’’

  ‘‘Look, he’s not here right now. And he would say the same thing. If you would like to write your name and address on this piece of paper, I will give it to him.’’ He pushed a piece of paper forward.

  She took the pencil and wrote down what he asked for. ‘‘I will come back in two weeks, then.’’

  ‘‘Let me give you a hint, miss’’—he looked at her signature and cleared his throat—‘‘Mrs. Bjorklund. Women who work here dress in warm work clothes, not—’’ His glance caught her new fur hat, her fitted black wool coat, and the edge of her wool skirt that peeked from below.

  ‘‘I see. Thank you.’’ She turned and let herself out the door before collapsing against the wall under an overhang. Was that what looking for a job was like? Why, he’d been barely polite. She stared down at her clothing. Of course she had on a nice coat. It was her only coat. She’d left her chores coat at home in Blessing. And she’d worn her new fur hat. She touched the soft fur with a gentle finger.

  Perhaps she’d better ask Mrs. Soderstrum what women wore to work at the cannery. She’d been hoping for a glimpse of the work line to give her an idea what the work would be like. Putting up her umbrella, she stepped back into what had progressed from mist to a heavy drizzle, with drops big enough to splash into the puddles. She could hear it plunking on her umbrella as she walked to the post office to buy stamps and mail her letter. She picked up vanilla at the grocery and went into the dry goods store with determination. Then, knitting needles and yarn in her bag, she headed back to the boardinghouse to begin knitting a scarf for Hamre to take with him on the fishing boat. She didn’t have time to do socks and gloves, but a scarf would both keep him warmer and remind him how much his wife loved him.

  The thought of being alone for those months stabbed like one of her needles might. What if she were to go home for four months and come back just before the boat returned? She mulled that over on the walk back, ignoring the moisture that was weighing down her skirt hem.

  What would Hamre say if she suggested that?

  What would he say about her getting a job at the cannery?

  What if she just waited until he left and didn’t bother to tell him? The thought made her shake her head. One rule her mother and father always lived by was to talk over everything. Secrets were the weasel that dug into the hen house and killed the chickens when you were sleeping.

  When Hamre walked in the door two days later, he found her knitting in the parlor of the boardinghouse. She threw down her needles and flew across the room to greet him.

  ‘‘What a picture to come home to.’’ He tucked her underneath his arm, and together they climbed the stairs to their room.

  ‘‘Oh, Ham
re, I have missed you so.’’ She took his wool coat and hung it on a chair back near the furnace vent in the hall to dry. ‘‘How was the trip?’’

  ‘‘Very good. We already unloaded at the dock, and I had more fish to my name than any of the others.’’

  ‘‘That’s because you are the best.’’

  ‘‘Every time I think of going in early, I remind myself that each fish brings me closer to getting my boat.’’

  Should I mention getting a job?

  He turned his boots over and set them on the register to dry inside, then padded back into their room, closing the door behind him. ‘‘Thoughts of you here waiting for me made me work all the harder so I wouldn’t be tempted to try and swim home to you.’’

  ‘‘Hamre, you couldn’t swim that far.’’ She caught the teasing glint in his eye and smiled in return.

  ‘‘I know, but that boat went so slow.’’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap as he sat down and nibbled on her neck and earlobe. ‘‘My wife.’’

  ‘‘My husband.’’ She melted closer against his chest, her head tipping back of its own volition. She’d never dreamed hugging and kissing could be so intoxicating.

  He kissed along her jawline, and his lips finally found hers. Their sighs mingled as they fell back onto the bed.

  Sometime later, snuggled against his solid chest, she reminded herself that she needed to talk about her job idea, just before she drifted off to sleep.

  She was sure everyone knew what they’d been doing when they joined the others for supper. Her cheeks flamed at her own thoughts. If they had their own house, she would have made a good meal for him and they could have had the evening all to themselves. She let herself drift into daydreams while the conversation flowed around her. Once she caught a wink from Mrs. Soderstrum that had her burying her face in her napkin.

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Hamre leaned close to whisper, his hand on her knee under the table.

  She nodded. No wonder married women didn’t talk about things like this in front of the unmarried. This thought made her sit bolt upright, wishing for a fan, needing it as if this were mid-July in Blessing rather than October in Seattle.

  Later, back in their room, Hamre cupped his hands along her jaw. ‘‘Now, are you going to tell me what was going through that pretty head of yours during supper?’’

  She shook her head, wanting to laugh, wanting to tell him, but oh, how could she even say such things?

  ‘‘Come on. I’m your husband. You can tell me anything.’’ He kissed her cheek. ‘‘You are blushing.’’

  ‘‘Am not.’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, you are. Those must have been some thoughts.’’

  She glanced at the bed and then looked back into his eyes, those Bjorklund blue eyes she could drown in.

  ‘‘Me too. I thought we’d never get away from the table.’’ His kiss deepened.

  The next morning after breakfast, Hamre helped Sophie into her coat to go walking.

  ‘‘You have a new hat?’’

  ‘‘Ja, do you like it?’’

  ‘‘How much was it?’’

  That surely was not the reaction she was looking for. She told him, taking a step back at the darkening of his eyes.

  ‘‘I thought we were agreed. We are buying only the necessities so we can save for my boat.’’ He spoke slowly and carefully, as if she were not only hard of hearing but hard of understanding.

  Your boat. Never our boat. Am I not part of this? ‘‘I didn’t rob the bank or anything.’’ She glanced at the blanket on the chair.

  ‘‘You bought that too?’’ The tone of his voice kicked at her shins.

  She nodded. ‘‘I’ve been so cold here. The damp bites my bones.’’ Where had that loving, gentle man, the one she’d delighted in, gone? ‘‘I-I’m sorry. I . . .’’

  He towered over her. ‘‘Did you take the money from my pouch?’’

  Sophie backed up. ‘‘J-ja. You said that was our money.’’

  ‘‘Our money to save, not to spend. I paid for our room and board. The rest is for the boat.’’

  ‘‘So I am to have nothing?’’ If only she could quit stammering. She tried to damp down the flare of anger singeing her middle. Why was he acting so . . . so . . . ? She couldn’t think of a good word.

  ‘‘No.’’ He paused, obviously thinking, his forehead ridging from the effort. ‘‘But you must ask.’’

  She thought to the tin in the cupboard at home where her mother always stored her egg and butter money when they’d had any to sell. While she’d doled the pennies and nickels out with great care, she’d had money of her own. ‘‘And if I ask?’’ Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘‘How can I ask when you are never here?’’ She kept her foot from stamping and her hand from picking up something to throw. At home when she was angry, her mother always found something for her to do. Or Grace teased her out of a snit, as Mor called it. Mor, how do I make him see? She stared at his face, her fists rammed onto her hips.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned slightly backward. She could see a line in his jaw. Stubborn man. Not that I’m not stubborn too. I know I am. I’ve been told so often enough. How can I do what he says when . . . What do I say? ‘‘So then, if I need money I must go out and earn my own?’’ Where had that tone come from? Surely the rest of the boarders could hear them.

  ‘‘No, that is not what I said. You sound like a child. This isn’t Blessing, where you can always have your own way.’’

  ‘‘I’m not a child!’’ Sophie felt the tears burning the backs of her eyelids and nose. ‘‘My own way! You have no idea . . .’’ I will not cry.

  No matter how hardheaded you are. ‘‘I’m your wife, and I’m trying to talk some sense into that hard head of yours.’’

  Hamre turned away and grabbed his coat from the peg. He slapped his hat on his head and jerked the door open.

  ‘‘Where are you going?’’

  ‘‘Out.’’ The door snicked softly behind him.

  14

  HOW WONDERFUL that they were finally having a party for the whole town of Blessing. From what Ingeborg could tell over the last weeks, they needed one.

  ‘‘Mor, where do you want us to set this?’’ Astrid held the punch bowl and Grace the pitchers, ready to fill the bowl.

  ‘‘There on the end of the table. We’ll put the coffee at the other end.’’ And if anyone messes with the punch, I am personally going to rip them limb from limb. That had happened at the party at the barn raising for the Geddicks. Who would do such a thing when the children drank the punch too? That had been a real discussion at the last quilting bee. When someone had mentioned Toby, Hildegunn had flown into a rage that ended with her storming out the door. Ingeborg could still hear Hildegunn shouting that everyone blamed Toby for everything that went wrong. And she was right. Toby was being unjustly accused, all for his attitude and actions that as far as Ingeborg could tell had changed dramatically since The Big Fight, as people referred to the fight between Andrew and Toby.

  Lord, why can’t people forgive and forget, as the Scripture says? A thought flitted through her mind. Have I forgiven Hildegunn for her attacks on Andrew? Ingeborg sighed. She thought she had, but . . . Lord, if there is some residual left, please weed it out. I don’t want any strangling vines and roots of bitterness growing in me. Nor in those I love.

  ‘‘Mor.’’

  She could tell from the tone that she’d been off woolgathering again. ‘‘Yes, Astrid, what is it?’’

  ‘‘Tante Penny is calling for you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, sorry.’’ Ingeborg headed out the barn door and back to the house. She glanced up at the sky as she walked. They might be forced to move the whole dance back into the barn if the gathering clouds decided to dump their load of moisture sooner rather than later. ‘‘Lord, please hold it off. I wish the Geddicks had offered their barn. The schoolhouse has gotten too small for a dance with all the people we have here now. If we hadn’t
had such a nice long Indian summer, we wouldn’t have planned this for outside.’’

  Her knee grabbed as she tried to take the first step up to the porch. She gritted her teeth and stopped to catch her breath. It seemed that since those bleeding episodes had started, she was getting aches and pains all over the place: knees, fingers, right hip. Surely that was only part of getting older, but she hated mentioning it to anyone. She’d been praying for God to heal her, and if she complained about the pain, then she wasn’t praising God for the healing. After all, He’d said He would heal all our diseases and infirmities.

  She moved her leg again. Ah, that was better.

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Penny peered through the screen door.

  ‘‘Ja. Just a bit of a grab.’’ If Bridget could keep going as she had up into her seventies, surely she should be able to get past the fifties mark.

  ‘‘A grab where?’’

  So much for distraction. ‘‘It was nothing. What did you need?’’

  ‘‘Just that we should have someone guarding the punch.’’

  ‘‘I’ve asked Thorliff to do that.’’

  ‘‘Good. I didn’t want to say anything out in public.’’

  ‘‘I know. Perhaps we need to ask Pastor Solberg to mention the evils of alcohol in one of his sermons.’’

  ‘‘You’d do that?’’ Surprise rounded Penny’s mouth.

  Ingeborg shrugged and tipped her head slightly to the side. ‘‘I’ve thought of it more than once.’’ The two exchanged smiles.

  ‘‘Has Kaaren heard any more from Sophie in the last week or so? Now that the post office isn’t in my store, I get to feeling like I don’t know what’s going on anymore.’’

  ‘‘Just yesterday. They are still living in a boardinghouse. It looks like she will stay there when he goes out with the fishing boat.’’

  ‘‘Won’t he go out for months? Why doesn’t she just come home while he is gone?’’

  ‘‘I think our Sophie might be just a tiny bit afraid of her welcome back home.’’