Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  “Já, well you are late,” Helgi said, pulling a watch from his pocket. “We have started already. We beat Big Point by five runs and are thrashing Kinosota.”

  J.K. beamed as he extended his hand. “I am confident you can fit us in,” he said, patting Helgi on the back. They started towards the hall. “Give your team a rest. We can play back-to-back against the others and you will be right on schedule before afternoon coffee.”

  As the men veered off toward the ball diamond, our mothers took charge, choosing a vacant spot under a large tree overlooking the fast-moving water. In subsequent years we would know what to expect—speeches and political presentations, foot races, Icelandic and Indian wrestling matches, tug-o-war, and a dance that went on all night—but for now it was all new.

  Mostly everyone there spoke Icelandic, except for the Indians of course, who were there in numbers greater than I’d expected. They set up their picnics close along shore where they roasted deer meat and fish on spits over a communal fire. Their children ran about with naked chests, throwing fish guts up in the air, laughing with delight as the gulls circled overhead, swooping down to fight. The teenaged girls were content to lounge about giggling, while the boys chased one another, wrestled, and competed to see who could throw beach stones the farthest. They were as curious about us as we were about them.

  Helgi’s woman was easy to spot since she dressed more like we did. Her blanket was spread out in the sea of white faces—and she looked as out of place as Helgi did when he was among her people. It didn’t appear to bother her, though, which inspired Mother, who spent her day observing the Indians. For weeks afterwards she mulled over her conclusions, many of which were discussed as we worked in the garden or debated at the dinner table. Her opinions might not have been so strong had Bensi’s disagreeable wife not laid her blanket within earshot of ours.

  She was a fair-skinned, blue-eyed Icelander who thought herself better than everyone else. The first thing she did was tell Pall and Petra to stay away from the Indians. She scowled and her words sharpened every time she looked in their direction.

  “I am glad those dirty savages are keeping to themselves,” she said, pulling an apron from her bag. It was so incredibly filthy that Mother said later it should have been put directly in the fire. She also said that she and Bensi were a perfect match. Neither one would ever be forced to examine any error in their beliefs so long as the other was cheering from the same corner.

  “What I know of the Indians is what I have seen with my own eyes,” Mother said loudly. “It has been only good.”

  Gudrun added, “I would sooner have them at my table than a few Icelanders I know.”

  Steina was forced to lay her blanket next to Bensi’s wife’s and I thought it served her right. What I didn’t realize at the time is that it was Steina who talked Bensi’s wife into allowing Pall and Petra to attend our school that fall.

  “They are such bright children,” she said. “I would love the opportunity to teach them.”

  Bensi’s wife relished the praise. She turned her back to mother, lowering her voice as she prepared their lunch. “We are concerned about the school’s finances,” she said, lifting from the box a loaf of bread, a jar of milk, a knife, and a piece of meat wrapped in cheesecloth. “Pjetur does not have a good reputation in that regard. Have you been paid?”

  Steina was surprised. “Yes, of course.”

  “That is good to know,” the wife said. “If he tries to cheat you, be sure to talk to my husband. J.K. and the rest are unaware of Pjetur’s past. We do not want to make trouble for our neighbor, but . . .”

  Steina frowned over at us sitting on the blanket.

  So now I know. How many other lies did they tell about Pabbi?

  We were a large contingent of Icelanders, the immigrants that settled from Peonan Point in the north to the town of Lundi in the south. More of us were situated around the lake than people realized, overshadowed in population, of course, by those who lived in New Iceland on Lake Winnipeg. Gudrun said it was high time the politicians travelled here to solicit our support. She took off her apron, tucked in her blouse and smoothed her hair, before marching toward the outdoor platform by the hall with Mother, Bergthora and the rest of us girls in tow.

  “That is Margrét Benedictsson,” Gudrun said as we joined the crowd gathered to listen to the politician on stage. He introduced Margrét as President of the newly formed Icelandic Women’s Suffrage Society of Winnipeg and publisher of the women’s magazine. Margrét had travelled here with the editor of Lögberg. He stood off to the side, holding a large camera and notepad. He waved to the crowd, then snapped a photograph of Margrét as she spoke. She preached temperance and equality.

  “An honor to meet you,” Gudrun said afterward as she introduced herself, Bergthora and Mother.

  The rest of us were in awe that Gudrun had the courage to approach these heavyweights in the Icelandic community. Both Margrét and Logberg’s editor were revered in our home.

  Margrét asked if we’d be willing to sign her petition concerning a woman’s right to vote, which would be presented to the Manitoba Legislature.

  “Most definitely,” Gudrun said, taking the pen and paper from her, signing it then handing it to Mother who did the same then passed it down the line. “I would like to renew my subscription to your magazine as well.”

  “Who do we have here?” Margrét asked, her eyes settling on us girls.

  “I would like to sign if it is allowed,” I said. It wasn’t often that I spoke up, so Mother always smiled when I did.

  “Of course,” she said, handing me the paper. “Your future depends on it.”

  “Our Amma will want to sign, but right now she is helping our team,” Freyja said, balancing the paper on her knee as she carefully wrote her name. The editor crouched and the click of the camera caused us all to look up.

  “Our husbands will be by to sign it later,” Mother said.

  “Now can you point me to Helgi Einarsson’s wife?” she asked.

  Gudrun pointed as she cleared her throat. “That woman standing there, the beautiful one with the long, black hair.”

  Margrét’s gaze rested on the woman for a few moments. When she turned back to Gudrun, her eyes shone. “Ah, to commiserate with a woman who is even more disenfranchised than us,” she said as she strode off, “a pleasure indeed.”

  Taking Freyja’s hand, we went to watch the team play.

  “They look nervous,” Pabbi said casually as we slid in beside him. “I hope we didn’t enter the team too soon.”

  None of the boys spoke as they threw the balls back and forth. I searched for Bjorn, who stood on the periphery, shaking his hands, loosening his shoulders, staring off into the distance. Then he swung his arms in wide circles, first as if he was swimming forward, then backward.

  When the whistle blew J.K. waved the team over.

  “This is exciting.” Freyja giggled.

  And it was. Looking back, this was a historic event for us. The Siglunes ball team’s first game, a team that would compete for nearly a century after that against some of the toughest amateur hardball teams in the province. But thoughts about Bjorn and Einar kept rolling through my mind, spoiling it for me. I remember little of what happened after that, except that the nightmares changed. They came more often, and always Freyja was with me. It was always Freyja’s screams when he caught her that jolted me awake.

  So imagine how I feel now watching that game again, feeling the electricity in the air. I see Bjorn, sense his nervousness. His father is watching and wants to make him proud, determined to show everyone that he is his own man. He raises his chin and stares at home plate. He knows the only way they are going to win is if he believes he’s the best pitcher the area has ever seen.

  But Big Point scores easily in the first four innings. As happens so often in baseball, they think they have us beat.
But quickly our boys find their stride and, by the seventh inning, it is Big Point fumbling the ball, resulting in errors we turn to our advantage.

  Bjorn’s fire-power causes The Narrows pitcher—the team we will play last if we win the next game—to watch intently from the sidelines. Leifur catches an in-field fly ball. Siggi steals home. Finn chases down a runner between second and third. We all cheer wildly.

  By the bottom of the last inning J.K. is pacing the foul line, wiping sweat from his brow. We manage to hold them to only six runs, because Bjorn strikes out all their best batters.

  Finn outsmarts their pitcher by waiting until the count is full then bunts, surprising everyone, including the back-catcher who fumbles the ball then throws it into the grass by the first baseman’s feet and Finn is safe. J.K. is so pleased he wallops Finn between the shoulder blades, nearly knocking him off his feet.

  “Come on, Stefan, you can do it,” Freyja hollers through cupped hands.

  Stefan is too focused to hear a thing as he digs his toes into the ground. Holding the bat high, he hits a grounder past the short stop on his second swing. Two of our weakest batters manage to get on base. We are all crazed by then, cheering and clapping.

  Olafur’s confidence makes him the perfect lead-off batter. He saunters to the plate, looks directly at the pitcher then points at the bush. The center-fielder backs up.

  “Make him pitch to you,” J.K. hollers, clapping his hands.

  Olafur watches the first two pitches go by then swings on the third, pulling the bat so the ball blasts over the third baseman’s head. Finn scores on Olafur’s double while Stefan holds up on third base. Two Thorsteinsson brothers pop out, but the last hits a single. With two out and the bases loaded, it’s Leifur’s turn to bat.

  J.K. calls a quick time-out. He jogs across from first base to where Asi is coaching third. Asi nods, then hurries over to Leifur who looks relieved as he hands Asi the bat.

  “What are they doing?” Freyja asks.

  We find out later this is called a pinch hit.

  J.K. claps loudly as he stands on the sidelines at third base, leaning forward, ready to wave Stefan home.

  Asi digs in and what happens next teaches our team a lasting lesson. Our rally has the Big Point pitcher so rattled that he throws two wild pitches, putting them down in the count. Now, what the Big Point coach should have done was call a time out the moment Asi readied himself at home plate. He should have gone to the mound to talk with the pitcher, calm him down, use up their full three minutes to take a bit of wind out of our sails. But he didn’t.

  Asi hits a line drive and Stefan scores to win the game.

  J.K. was known to say, “It isn’t so much that I want to win, it’s that I hate to lose.”

  That day our team learned how to ruthlessly expose another team’s weakness and capitalize on it. J.K.’s optimism and competitive spirit set the tone and our team’s cocksure attitude always drove the competition wild. We won more games by coming from behind than any other team.

  Years later, when the men gathered to reminisce, someone would say: “The sweat stains on J.K.’s shirt went all the way down to his waist.”

  “And his hair,” someone else would add, “stood straight up on his head.”

  Then they would all laugh.

  “It was the top of the ninth, one out, and we were down by three. The bases were loaded and Stefan comes up to bat—pops out. You should have seen J.K.”

  “Then on the first pitch, Olafur hits a home run. J.K. pounded him so hard it left a bruise.”

  “Bruise Olafur?” another would say, and the whole room would erupt again.

  “Then, to top it off, Olafur broke the bat so we had to borrow one from The Narrows team so we could finish the game!”

  Oh, those were wonderful times.

  We did not win the tournament that day, though in the telling of it you’d assume we had. Arrogance became our greatest asset. That determination to succeed brought our little community together in a way that nothing else ever would.

  In the weeks that followed we waited patiently for our copy of Lögberg to arrive by mail. We gathered around Pabbi as he read the article out loud to us. When he was finished he laid the paper open on the table and we scanned the photographs for familiar faces. There we were, heads bent, all watching Freyja, whose hair blew wildly in the wind, the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration. Margrét’s expression told all who saw the photograph that she’d accomplished what she came to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Better to die with honor than live with shame.

  —The Saga of Jómsvíkings

  I fell asleep again. I hate when that happens, especially mid-sentence. Alas, it cannot be helped. Decades of working the night shift winds a person’s clock around. I’m too damn old to try and turn it back now.

  “Is there a ball tournament this weekend?” I ask.

  “There always is,” Solrun says, studying her crossword.

  “Take me,” I say.

  Now she looks up. “Pardon me?”

  “I want to go. It’s only a few blocks.” That I remember. Never missed the Lundi Fair ball tournament in all the years I’ve lived here. Not about to start now. “What time does Siglunes play?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Phone your husband. He’ll know.”

  Thora jumps up from her lawn chair. “I think it’s a splendid idea—let’s go.”

  It’s a bit of an ordeal getting me ready but, as I learned during nurse training, a person can achieve anything if she focuses. The hardest part is sliding on my pants. But once that is done, it is, as they say, smooth sailing.

  “If we hurry, we’ll make the start of the game,” Thora says, glancing at her watch. She trundles me over the threshold at the front door.

  “Well let’s get moving,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Want to run?”

  “You’re the one doing the pu—“ but before I finish, she takes off across the parking lot.

  I’m surprised by how well she makes the turn onto the sidewalk.

  “Not bad for an old woman,” I holler, exhilarated. There hasn’t been much speed in my life of late, so this takes my breath away. A car passes, arms stuck out the windows to wave. A celebratory honk as we wave back. I can hear Solrun’s hysterics as she, with her limp, tries to keep up.

  “That was fun,” Thora pants as she slows to a brisk walk.

  It sure was. We ran everywhere as girls and I miss it.

  We turn onto the fairgrounds. The red and white jerseys are warming up. We are there in time for the first pitch. Solrun wheels my chair to the edge of the grandstand. Spectators shuffle over so Solrun and Thora can sit on the bottom row beside me. Everyone who passes says hello.

  Just like the old days.

  “Make him pitch to you,” the coach hollers.

  Printed on the back of each jersey is a surname—a few unfamiliar recruits, but most are the great-grandsons of our early team.

  “Fetch me some pie,” I say. “Saskatoon. Tell them to put a scoop of vanilla on top.”

  Solrun jaunts to the hall kitchen returning with three pieces, one for each of us.

  Now this is real food. It used to be that fresh food was served at the hospital, but now most of it comes from a box or bag. The worst is margarine.

  “I would like some butter,” I say, looking up at the sun. I’ve never thought about it before, but the sun and butter are the same hue.

  “Now?” Solrun asks.

  “Later,” I say.

  “They only allow low fat foods in the hospital,” she warns.

  “Then sneak it in. Your purse is big enough.”

  A loud crack of the bat. Everyone cheers. Halldorson has hit a double. I like him. He reminds me of Olafur.

  “They say it is unhe
althy,” Solrun says over the noise.

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “The experts.”

  “I promise I won’t tell them.”

  She laughs. We’ve had this discussion before. Everyone knows the brain needs fat to function properly. That I can still string words into a sentence after all those years eating hospital food is an accomplishment.

  A Siglunes boy steals second. I always like it when they steal. I can only eat three bites of the pie so I give the rest to the teenager sitting on the grandstand behind me. He looks surprised but takes it.

  “Why hasn’t Lars come to visit?” I ask, clapping as the team scores a run. It isn’t much of a clap, just two crooked old hands sluggishly grasping air.

  “He will be here soon,” Thora says.

  Lars. The youngest in the family, named after our brother who was born on the train but died that first winter in Lundi. That Mother and Pabbi gave their last-born son the same name as their deceased child mortified our English friends. They didn’t say it, but we knew they thought it bad luck.

  I remember what Freyja said the day he was born: “Lars came back down from heaven to be with us again. It is Lars, the same one.”

  So I looked to Amma for advice. She didn’t say anything right away, but observed the baby for two weeks, then one day whispered: “Now Lars has a strong heart. You will see. It is stronger than most.”

  * * *

  “Signy will come around,” Mother said to Pabbi as they dug potatoes in the garden.

  It was early September and already Mother Nature was up to her usual tricks, warm weather one day, cool the next. Today the air carried the scent of a storm brewing in the distance.

  “It has already been a week and she hasn’t spoken one word to me,” Pabbi said. He stood his full weight on the shovel, digging deep before lifting then turning over a solid clump of dirt. He bent over to sift with his hands, tossing the potatoes that surfaced onto the row. They would be left to dry then put into bags. By the look of the first few plants, we’d have enough to last well into spring.