Sophie's Dilemma

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘More soup?’’

  He took a few bites. ‘‘Enough. Thank you.’’ He was asleep before she reached the doorway.

  The next day he sat in the chair, and the next he walked into the dining room for dinner. While there weren’t a lot of guests eating, those who were gave him hearty applause.

  He collapsed into a chair and shook his head. Dr. Elizabeth was right to a point. She said no racing, but he should walk. Why did he feel like he’d run a mile and gotten beat upon with a club the whole way?

  Sadness sat upon Blessing like a cloud.

  Sophie caught herself staring at the wall—again. Three men dead. One minute they were working, doing the things needed to be done in the mill, and the next they were gone. No, that isn’t quite right, she reminded herself. One man took another day to die, and she could still hear his screams. How terrible must the pain have been to make a big man scream like that?

  Even though Pastor Solberg had gone around talking with the families and the others in town, she couldn’t get her mind around it. That, along with the miasma that seeped into every corner of the buildings. If someone laughed, they quit because laughter seemed out of place. Instead of making the load lighter, it cut like slivers from the piece of obsidian her father had on the shelf at home, cuts so fine one didn’t realize until the blood dripped from a finger. The fog was black too, but surely light could sneak through. Or did it only bounce off and go another way?

  No matter that spring had come to the prairie.

  Hamre had died. She understood that, but she’d not been right next to it like she was here. She mopped the tears she didn’t realize were falling—again. The screams, the horrible agony, it had taken forever for the last man to die.

  A knock at her door caught her attention. ‘‘Come in.’’ If only no one would come in, if she could hide out here, cover the window, seal off the door so the fog would have to go away.

  ‘‘Sophie?’’

  ‘‘Oh, Mor.’’ Sophie pushed herself up out of her chair and ran to throw herself into her mother’s arms. ‘‘How did you know I needed you so badly?’’

  ‘‘You could have come home.’’

  ‘‘I can’t leave the boardinghouse.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean, you can’t—’’ ‘‘The fog. I’d get lost. I can’t see, I . . .’’ Her words slipped into incoherent sobs. ‘‘And Hamre.’’ She burrowed closer. ‘‘The men.’’

  Kaaren eased her daughter to the bed and sat the two of them on the edge, murmuring mother comfort and stroking her daughter’s back. ‘‘Go ahead and cry it all out.’’ When the tears finally subsided, Kaaren fetched a cloth from behind the screen, dipped it in the basin, and after wringing it out, wiped her daughter’s face. ‘‘Now you lie back here’’— she fluffed up the pillows and stacked them—‘‘and tell me all that’s been going through your mind.’’ After getting Sophie comfortable, she sat beside her and held her hand.

  ‘‘Hamre’s gone.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  ‘‘And the men at the mill.’’

  ‘‘Um-hmm.’’

  ‘‘Mother, it’s not fair.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s not. We all think we’ll live to get old like Bridget and Henry, but that’s not always true.’’

  Silence except for sniffs held for a time.

  ‘‘Did God do this?’’

  ‘‘Some would say He did, and some would say Satan did it.’’

  ‘‘But which is right?’’

  ‘‘Do you believe God is who He says He is?’’

  ‘‘Of course. Since I was little you taught us that.’’

  ‘‘The Bible teaches us that. We read of His promises over and over. He said, ‘I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.’ ’’ ‘‘Then why did they die?’’

  ‘‘He also said that He will walk with us, will carry us when we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Death came into the world when sin did.’’

  ‘‘But God could have stopped it.’’

  ‘‘Yes, He could have. But one thing He cannot do is stop loving us.

  He promised.’’

  ‘‘Funny kind of love.’’

  ‘‘Seems that way at times. These are the hard questions of life, and we don’t know why things happen the way they do. But we can trust Him to take care of us.’’

  ‘‘I know Hamre is in heaven.’’

  ‘‘Good. Would you want him back here when heaven is our real home?’’

  Sophie shook her head slowly but with tears seeping again. ‘‘I used to miss him terribly and now sometimes I can’t even see his face.’’

  ‘‘That’s part of the healing God is giving you. You won’t forget him. The good memories stay around forever, but now you go on with your life, asking God every day to show you the way.’’

  ‘‘I don’t do that very well.’’ Sophie stared up into the love in her mother’s face.

  ‘‘You can learn to.’’

  ‘‘You do it.’’

  ‘‘I know. I’ve been learning a long time. When Carl and our two little girls died that winter, all I wanted was to die too. But God and Ingeborg wouldn’t let me. And if I had died, I would never have had you and Grace. Look what we would have missed.’’ Again the silence, only this time it felt lighter, like sun beginning to burn the fog away and peeping through the gray shreds.

  ‘‘What if my baby dies?’’

  ‘‘We’ll do everything we can to see that that doesn’t happen. You are good and strong, and we will all be praying for the baby to be born easily and healthy.’’

  ‘‘I think God listens to you more than to me.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you need to learn to listen to Him.’’

  Sophie thought about what her mother said. Her eyes felt as if sand had been thrown in them. She sighed, one of many. ‘‘Life is hard, huh?’’

  ‘‘Yes, at times.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Wiste is getting better.’’ She almost called him Garth but restrained herself.

  ‘‘As are the other men.’’

  ‘‘I should get up and go help with dinner.’’

  ‘‘In a while. You lie here and rest, and I’ll go make us some tea.’’

  Sophie heard the door click behind her mother. ‘‘Lord, thank you for my mor.’’

  She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, she heard the clink of cups and saucers on the tea tray and smelled tea and cinnamon. When she opened her eyes, her mother handed her a warm washcloth.

  ‘‘This will help your eyes; the tea will help your throat.’’

  ‘‘Mor?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  Kaaren smiled and waited.

  ‘‘For all the sadness I caused you.’’

  ‘‘You are forgiven.’’ She hugged her daughter again, the two clinging together. ‘‘Remember, that is over and done with now. Did you ask Jesus to forgive you?’’

  ‘‘A long time ago.’’

  ‘‘Then He did, and I do.’’

  ‘‘And Pa?’’

  ‘‘You need to ask him.’’

  ‘‘I will.’’

  Sophie pushed herself up against the pillows and took the cup her mother poured for her. ‘‘You are so good to me, Mor. How I love you.’’

  ‘‘And I love you always, no matter what.’’

  ‘‘Like God?’’

  ‘‘As close as I possibly can.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure you should go help yet?’’ Sophie asked as she set Garth’s breakfast in front of him three days later.

  ‘‘I have to.’’ While still hoarse and prone to coughing, Garth could at least talk in a normal tone. ‘‘I’ve been lying around long enough.’’

  ‘‘Would you like more of the honey syrup Dr. Elizabeth brought over?’’

  ‘‘I’ll take the bottle with me. Thank you.’’ He looked up and studied her face. ‘‘You look lovely, Sophie.’’ His voice softened on her name
.

  Sophie met him smile for smile yet thought, How can he say that when I’m getting broader by the day and I have circles under my eyes so I look like a raccoon? ‘‘I think your eyes must have been affected by the fire.’’ But his words warmed a band around her heart that seemed to be widening by the day.

  ‘‘Have you eaten yet?’’

  ‘‘No, but I need to finish caring for the guests. I’ll bring my coffee over later if I can.’’

  ‘‘Tonight I’ll see you at supper.’’

  ‘‘If I can.’’ Why did the thought that she might be too busy to have their usual visit bring the fog back? Don’t be silly, she admonished herself. Sitting with him is not that important in the overall scheme of things. Even after telling herself the same thing three times, she turned to another table without her usual smile. What was happening to her? A thought flitted through her mind. Perhaps it was the baby. She’d heard that women who were in the family way often had the vapors. Whatever that was.

  When Garth didn’t show up for dinner the next day, she thought of going to look for him but convinced herself that would not be a good idea. He would come when he was ready. But when he didn’t have an office anymore, where could he be? Did he go somewhere else to eat? Should she save food or put things away?

  That afternoon she walked into the kitchen to find Mrs. Sam sitting on a chair, her head resting back against the wood.

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Mrs. Sam only sat down to peel potatoes or snap beans, neither of which would be what she’d been doing.

  ‘‘Jes needed to catch my breath.’’

  Sophie studied the woman before her. ‘‘Where is Lily Mae?’’

  ‘‘She gone to the store.’’

  ‘‘And Lemuel?’’

  ‘‘He helpin’ his pa for an hour or two.’’

  Lemuel often helped Mr. Sam at the blacksmith/machinery shop in the afternoon if not needed at the boardinghouse.

  ‘‘I think you should go see Dr. Elizabeth.’’

  ‘‘Now why for would I do dat?’’

  ‘‘You don’t look good.’’

  ‘‘I be better in jes a minute.’’

  The tinkle of the doorbell caught Sophie’s attention. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’ While she hurried to see if she was needed at the front desk, she wondered how to get Mrs. Sam to do as she was asked.

  A man stood at the counter surveying the room as if measuring or appraising it.

  ‘‘May I help you?’’ If he were to be measured by his well-fitted suit of black herringbone and the white of his shirt, the man had plenty of money. Tall like the Bjorklunds but with a more slender build, an inside man from the look of him. A dark mustache was clipped in a fine line above a rather narrow upper lip. His long-fingered hands had never shoveled manure and probably not even snow.

  ‘‘Why, yes, Mrs. Aarsgard?’’ His clipped voice said he was from the East.

  ‘‘No, she passed away several weeks ago.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry to hear that. Could I speak to the owner please?’’ He looked right through her as if she were invisible.

  ‘‘Yes.’’ She stepped behind the desk and studied him while he in turn studied the staircase. Proper was a word for him but not friendly.

  When he turned back, a frown dug lines between his caterpillar eyebrows.

  ‘‘Would you fetch her please?’’ He was used to speaking to servants.

  ‘‘Fetch who?’’

  ‘‘The owner. I would like to speak with the owner of this establishment.’’ He spoke slowly, as if she might not understand him. ‘‘As I asked before.’’

  Sophie picked up the letter opener and squeezed it. Hard. Of all the—She cut that thought off, remembering Bridget’s ‘‘You always catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’’ As if she wanted any flies. But her mother’s training in manners came through.

  ‘‘Could I have your name please?’’

  ‘‘Walter Cumberland.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Cumberland, I am Mrs. Bjorklund, and I own this establishment. Now what can I do for you?’’

  While he stifled the look of surprise before it covered his entire face, she read it in his eyes first. It was worth the good manners.

  ‘‘I beg your pardon. From all I’ve heard, I assumed that . . . I mean, I was sure the owner was an older woman.’’

  ‘‘It used to be, until she died.’’ Sophie let him chew on that, not having any spare sympathy to offer him at the moment. ‘‘She was my grandmother.’’ That wasn’t really an exaggeration. After all Bridget believed she was grandmother to all the people of Blessing, both by blood and by adoption.

  ‘‘I-I’m sorry, er, pardon me.’’

  Sophie let him stutter a moment before she smiled. ‘‘That’s all right.’’ Sophie knew how to clip words too. ‘‘Let’s start again. How may I help you?’’ Having the upper hand felt exhilaratingly wonderful. ‘‘Would you like a room?’’ For a week or a month?

  ‘‘No, not today, thank you. I . . . ah, could we sit somewhere and discuss a business proposition?’’

  Sophie’s eyebrow arched.

  ‘‘No, no. Excuse me. I am . . . I . . .’’

  ‘‘Please come into the dining room and have a seat. I’ll bring in some coffee, and we can talk.’’ She showed him the way through the arched doorway.

  ‘‘Thank you.’’ He removed his coat and scarf and hung them over the back of another chair. As nice as it was outside, his coat must have felt too heavy, but that was none of her concern. What did he want? Walter Cumberland. She knew she’d never seen his name on any of the papers she’d looked through. Who was he and what possible business could he have with her if he didn’t want a room?

  ‘‘I’ll bring in de coffee.’’ Mrs. Sam already had a tray set with two cups and a plate of raisin cookies.

  ‘‘Cream and sugar too, please.’’ Sophie stepped closer to Mrs. Sam, knowing full well she’d had a view of the man. ‘‘Have you ever seen him before?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘I wonder what he wants.’’

  ‘‘Ask him.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. I plan to.’’ Why did she feel as though she were preparing for a battle? What a strange thought.

  He stood when she arrived at the table.

  At least he has good manners. Perhaps his manner at first was— Another thought interrupted. His attitude changed when he found out I am the owner, not just someone who works here. All the while her mind was whirling, she was allowing him to seat her and then take a chair himself.

  Mrs. Sam poured the coffee and offered cream and sugar, which he declined with barely a shake of the head.

  Sophie let him take a swallow of his coffee before asking, ‘‘Now, how may I help you?’’ While she smiled, she knew there was not a lot of warmth to it—deliberately.

  He set his cup down, glanced at the cookies, and turned to look her fully in the face, his smile precise. His gaze dropped to her lips, then raised again to her eyes.

  Please, she thought, I learned that little trick in school. I could make any boy blush with it. Tsk, tsk. If they were playing cat and mouse, he thought he was the cat, but she knew she was.

  He wanted something.

  ‘‘Mrs. Bjorklund, let me be frank with you. I work for a company that is contemplating moving west and we heard about the boardinghouse here—’’ ‘‘Pardon me, but what is the name of your company?’’

  ‘‘We either build or purchase properties as hotels in smaller towns along the railroad, towns that appear to be growing and in need of our services.’’ He sat back in his chair and brought the coffee cup to his mouth, watching her over the rim.

  Sophie copied his actions, only leaning forward instead. ‘‘What did you say the name of your company was?’’

  ‘‘Cumberland and Associates.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ So was he the Cumberland or was it his father? ‘‘What exactly do you mean?’’

  ‘‘I mean th
at we might possibly be interested in purchasing this property.’’

  ‘‘Oh really?’’ She kept the leap of interest locked inside and off her face. The few times she’d played poker with the boys, unbeknownst to her mother, she’d won. Someone said she took after Hjelmer, who’d been quite a successful gambler when he was younger, or so the stories went.

  Dear Lord, give me wisdom please, and I need it right now. She started to say something, and then stopped.

  He glanced around the dining room. ‘‘Of course, we would have a lot of work to do on this place.’’

  Sophie felt herself bristling. He’d have to go far to find a place more inviting and with a better reputation. At the moment she was grateful she’d lived in the boardinghouse in Ballard, for she had something to compare it to.

  ‘‘How many rooms do you have?’’

  ‘‘Twenty-four.’’

  ‘‘Could you possibly give me a tour of your premises?’’

  Sophie thought a moment. ‘‘I can show you around, but since many of the rooms are occupied, I can only show you one or two.’’

  ‘‘You mean that all your rooms are occupied?’’

  ‘‘Usually.’’ Easy, Sophie, don’t go stretching things or giving him more information than he needs. But what if he, or rather they, bought the boardinghouse, and she could use some of the money to take a trip somewhere, anywhere? Perhaps she could move to Minneapolis or Chicago or visit St. Louis and the world’s fair there. Possibilities chased each other through her mind while all the while she kept a pleasant expression in place and passed him the plate of cookies.

  ‘‘Would you care for more coffee?’’

  ‘‘No thank you. I would appreciate it if you would show me around, and then if I could stay for dinner?’’

  ‘‘Of course. The charge is fifty cents for a single meal.’’ Sophie, her inner voice chided, be polite and invite him to eat here without charge. But then she quickly answered herself, Not on your tintype. He wants to buy; he can pay.

  ‘‘You know, if you would prefer, I could see myself around, in light of . . . of . . .’’ He glanced to her waistline.

  Of all the nerve! Sophie clamped her teeth. Proper gentlemen did not refer to one’s state like that. Not that proper women allowed their approaching motherhood to show as she did. But she had a business to run, and withdrawing to her parlor was not possible. Her mother had run her school right up until Samuel was born. Her full white aprons had helped disguise her state. Perhaps she needed to don more protective clothing.