Be Still the Water

by Karen Emilson

  Cakes, biscuits, pies, and every sweet imaginable was right there on display. This time Thora chose strawberry with chocolate sauce. I always ordered vanilla. We took the bowls to a small table in the corner.

  I told her everything that had happened the day before.

  “If it is the same Bjarni,” she said, turning the spoon over, licking it, “why would he lie to you?”

  “He is hiding something,” I said, adding that I planned to go back in two days to question the old man. I sensed by the way she stared at her spoon she thought it a bad idea.

  “What if you get caught?”

  I told her the house was so close I could easily sneak away during dinner.

  “It seems to me,” she began, but stopped to stare out the window, then looked back at her bowl. “All you think about is Freyja. You are risking everything for her. What if she does not want to be found and that is what Bjarni is hiding?”

  The anger rose in me and we barely spoke after that, avoiding each other for the rest of the evening. In the morning, she came late to breakfast then found an excuse to take a sandwich back to the ward. I chatted with another nurse when I saw her come into the dining room for dinner. I snuck out and ran to the little house as planned.

  This time the drapes were open. The old man was sitting in his chair. He hollered for me to come in.

  “Elskan, nice to see you again,” he said.

  I asked how he was feeling. He held up a small jar of ointment prescribed by the doctor the day before. There was another bottle of medication sitting on the end table. I slipped off his socks, gave his feet another quick massage, then wiggled his socks back on.

  “Can you walk better now?”

  “I think I can,” he said. “Thanks to you.”

  It was easy to ask about his home in Iceland. He sat back comfortably and told me a story encased in hardship, that ended with the decision to come here with his wife, daughter, son-in-law and their two boys.

  “Bjarni’s father, where was he from?” I asked.

  “Hofsós,” he said. “So many came here I am not sure there is anyone left.”

  “Where is his mother now?

  “With her new husband in Vancouver,” he said, adding that he and his wife hadn’t followed because they enjoyed the community here.

  The door opened, surprising us both.

  “Bjarni,” the old man said, sitting up straight in the chair. “You remember Ástfriður, she is the nurse I told you about.”

  I thought it curious that Bjarni’s expression did not change; it was almost as if he expected to see me there.

  “Come sit with us,” the old man called.

  “I came to check on you,” Bjarni said. “The doctor thinks you should be in the hospital.”

  “Nei,” the old man said, waving it off. “If I am going to die, I’d like to do it right here.”

  Bjarni and I both looked at the clock. Half past one.

  “I must get back to work,” I said, realizing that I was already late. Bjarni seemed anxious as well.

  “I would like to apologize for interrupting your work the other day,” I said, watching his reaction. Somehow Bjarni had mastered the ability to keep every thought and emotion from showing on his face. It was something I needed to learn.

  “I understand,” he finally said. “You mistook me for someone else.”

  “You see,” I said, turning back to the grandfather, watching Bjarni from the corner of my eye, “I have a sister, Freyja. She is somewhere in the city and I am trying to find her. That is how I met your grandson.”

  This seemed to please the old man. “He should help you.”

  A heavy silence filled the room, interrupted by the sound of a car horn in the street.

  “Our parents’ hearts are broken and I fear Amma will never be the same. Freyja was her favorite.”

  “Já.” He nodded in understanding.

  “My beau will return from the war soon and he will help me,” I said. “In the meantime, I will contact the police. Do you think that is a good idea?”

  The grandfather shrugged, while Bjarni fidgeted, glancing at the clock again.

  “I am sorry to take so much of your time,” I gushed, making my way to the door. The old man brightened when I said that I would return. I told him to keep his feet up and to take his medication as prescribed.

  As Bjarni moved to let me by, I whispered: “I was at the mill when Arni died. That must have been hard for you, to lose your only brother.” Then I smiled at him sweetly.

  The cracks in the wall he hid behind were beginning to show.

  Later that week I was assisting in obstetrics—one of the most exciting rotations in the hospital—when the head nurse tapped me on the shoulder to say that the superintendent wanted to see me in her office.

  Usually when Miss Gray looked up from her desk at me her expression was pleasant, but not this time.

  “Come in,” she said. “Please close the door.”

  I was barely in the chair and she began.

  “I will get straight to the point.” She looked me square in the eye. “Yesterday I received a complaint from a Mr. B-jar-ni Thor-dar-son that you have been harassing him.”

  She held up a letter. “He claims that you are a stranger who turned up at his office and began questioning him about God knows what. Then you went to his home, have involved his grandfather, who is ill, and now are harassing them both.”

  “That is not true,” I said.

  “He claims that you,” reading directly from the page, “are obsessed, delusional, unstable; and that you are using your vocation as a nurse to gain access to their home.”

  She looked over her glasses at me. “Please tell me these accusations are false.”

  “They are,” I said. “His grandfather invited me in. I checked his feet and it was obvious something was wrong so I recommended he see the doctor. I went back to check on him. We had coffee and a visit.”

  “So you admit being there, in your uniform?”

  “Yes, but I am not delusional.”

  “Why did you go in the first place?” she asked.

  “Because I am looking for someone,” I said.

  She sat for a long while thinking while I waited with my heart in my throat.

  “You lied to me about being ill,” she said. “And you were nearly an hour late for your shift. You do realize that such conduct warrants suspension? This letter is a serious complaint and I have no choice but to report to the Board of Directors.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Let another’s wounds be your warning.

  —Njál’s Saga

  The Board convened the day before classes began.

  Five people sat behind a long table. I was told to sit on a chair in front of them. Worried that I’d be unable to express myself clearly, I had a written apology folded in my hand that was growing sweatier by the minute. When I allowed my mind to wander, all I saw was Pabbi’s disappointment.

  The chairman was a rotund, older man who spoke with a wheeze, likely from an underlying condition made worse by the extra weight he carried on his chest. The man beside him was opposite in the extreme. He looked malnourished and possibly anemic. I recognized him as the hospital administrator, the man to whom Superintendent Gray reported. Unlike everyone else at the table, he appeared quite bored by the proceedings. Superintendent Gray, along with the supervisors of each department, was healthy and robust, and not bored at all.

  How embarrassing it was to face Dr. Oli Bjornsson, the Head of Obstetrics. He was thick-boned and carried that same loose-knit frame and washed-out hair that made him instantly recognizable as one of us. Through overheard snippets of conversation, I knew that his mother was a midwife in New Iceland. I saw her accomplishments shine through his eyes when he spoke of her. He was genuinely shocked to see me.

/>   “Miss Gudmundsson,” the Chairman began, “do you understand why you have been asked to come here today?”

  I nodded.

  “Are these allegations that you have behaved in a manner unbefitting a nursing student of this hospital true?”

  I nodded again.

  “What do you say for yourself?”

  I cleared my throat as I unfolded the paper. Then I read from it, apologizing for the embarrassment I caused, promising that if allowed to stay, I would never allow anything personal or otherwise to interfere with my studies again. I was wholly committed to a lifetime of nursing and asked that they forgive my poor judgment.

  “I have been preoccupied with a personal matter,” I said.

  He waited, expecting me to elaborate. “Miss Gudmundsson?”

  I could not bear witness to my family’s pain, at least not to so many people. It rankled me that he would expect an explanation after I’d told him it was personal.

  “Nursing is my calling,” I said.

  “But why did you go to this young man’s house?” he asked.

  When I refused to answer, Doctor Bjornsson intervened.

  “Do you understand the question?” he asked me in Icelandic.

  “Yes, but I cannot tell everyone,” I replied quickly, seeing their bewilderment.

  Turning to them, Doctor Bjornsson said, “She cannot explain it in English. If the Chairman will allow it—”

  “This is highly unusual,” he grunted.

  “What harm is there in it? You said yourself that she will make a fine nurse.”

  He shrugged, waving his hand. “Go ahead. Chirp if you must.”

  I told him in Icelandic about Freyja and everything that had happened since. That I was the only one in the family who could find her, that Mother knew but Pabbi didn’t, and that he blamed himself for Freyja’s disappearance. I told him about my prayers and dreams, that all of it led to Bjarni Thordarson.

  “My kindness towards the old man was sincere,” I said. “Bjarni lied about me harassing his Afi. Why would he do that unless he was hiding something?”

  The doctor listened thoughtfully. I saw in his expression understanding; it was not our way to lay bare family troubles.

  “I will help locate your sister,” he said. “But from today forward, you must leave it to me, understand?”

  I solemnly agreed.

  “That is all. You may go now.”

  Whatever he said to the others after the door had closed behind me must have been convincing as I was allowed to continue my training, and Superintendent Gray became far more understanding.

  As promised, I began focusing on my studies, so that in two year’s time the ‘Miss’ would be dropped and I’d be Nurse Gudmundsson. Doctor Bjornsson kept his word as well. One evening he took me aside to ask for Freyja’s particulars and wrote it all on a piece of paper.

  “I’m not convinced Bjarni is involved,” he said. “I know the family and have never seen her with them. None of it makes sense.”

  I resigned myself to the possibility that the path leading to Bjarni was a dead end. Thora was relieved when I told her I had no plans to return to the little yellow house. Doctor Bjornsson suggested I check a home for wayward girls in the north end of the city.

  “I need you to come with me,” I said to Thora who hated the thought that I might ask someone else to join in the adventure. With address in hand, one Sunday after church, we took the streetcar to Main Street then transferred onto another. I so wished that I had a photograph of Freyja.

  The house resembled all the others that lined the street, mostly two-storey, and so close you couldn’t walk between them with outstretched arms. You never would guess that this particular address was filled to the rafters with homeless girls.

  The retired nurse who ran the house invited us in.

  “Doris Armstrong,” she said, introducing herself.

  I was soon impressed by how firmly she ran the place, though it must have been challenging to keep a shipload of troubled girls on an even keel.

  “She was never here,” Doris said; her words had a Scottish bite.

  Two girls were in the kitchen at the end of the hall wiping dishes, while a third was sitting at a massive table polishing silverware. Doris called them over, saying they were “more reliable than the others.” She asked if either had seen Freyja. Two shook their heads, but the third, a girl of about nineteen named Clara, grinned. Though it was impolite to stare, my eyes kept returning to the tender red scar that ran from just under her left ear up across to her nose.

  Everything about her begged annoyance, from the meanness in her eyes to her swagger. She stood with her hip thrust out, chin high in the air. She looked down her nose at Thora and me, huffing at our decentness, thinking less of us because of it.

  “She is at Minnie’s place,” Clara said.

  “Is Minnie your friend?” I asked.

  Clara laughed, throaty and disgusting. “Minnie ain’t got no friends. She only has girls. And lots of mans who come to visit.”

  Doris frowned, clicking her tongue in disapproval. It took a few moments before I understood the sort of house Minnie ran.

  “Yep, tiny blonde thing. Cried all the time,” she said. “It ain’t too bad though. She will be used to it by now. Some of the mans are nice.”

  Thora blanched and this delighted Clara who leaned in close to us, pointed to her scar with a bitten down fingernail. “But some of them ain’t.”

  “Where is this place?” I asked Doris.

  “Not too far from here,” she said. “I will take you.”

  Clara called out a warning as she trotted upstairs. “Minnie ain’t going to let her go, she’s an earner.”

  We climbed into a little cart that Doris hitched to a horse kept in a lean-to outside the back door. She snapped a little whip in the air and off we went down the back lane onto the street.

  As she drove, Doris explained that she and Minnie had an agreement. The girls who wanted to reform were allowed to move into the halfway house. In exchange, Doris “took care of things’ when the girls who worked for Minnie found themselves in trouble. It would be days before I fully understood what she meant. Doris spoke delicately, easing her way into the details that she knew were difficult for us to hear or comprehend.

  “It is surprising how many girls choose this life,” she said. “It is safer than living on the street. A roof over their heads, regular meals.”

  Nothing she said convinced me that Freyja would want that over coming home.

  “Young girls can be so foolish,” she added. “Think they know everything. They run away and end up with no place to go. The ones from good families sometimes find their way home. The others, well, they flee one bad situation straight into another.”

  “Someone should tell the police,” I said.

  Doris laughed. “Who do you think encouraged all the brothels to congregate in one part of the city? The mayor and police chief. All they care about is keeping them out of the respectable neighborhoods.”

  I was too dumfounded to reply.

  We followed Main Street through the hotel district, past the rail yards, then turned onto a street towards the Red River.

  The street looked even worse than I’d imagined. When I voiced surprise at seeing children out playing, Doris explained the foreigners and “DPs” had begun moving in the year before because the rent was low.

  “Now, this might be difficult,” she said, pulling the horse to a stop in front of a two-storey pink house. “Best you leave the talking to me.”

  We followed her up the front steps. She knocked as if she meant it, and a few moments later a girl our age wearing a colorful, silk dress opened the door. My revulsion did not bother her in the least as I looked away from her painted face and naked legs.

  The girl alerted Minnie then step
ped aside to allow us in. The house was luxuriously warm, filled to the brim with ornate overstuffed chairs, tables, tinkling chandeliers and Persian carpets. A wide, polished staircase wound to the second floor. A most pleasing mixture of spicy and floral scents filled the air and electric power cast a warm glow from the lamps that hung throughout the house.

  Minnie sat relaxing in the parlor, basking in the sunlight that came in through the large front window. She did not stand to greet us, but was quick to invite us to sit down. She looked like a calico cat allowed to eat whenever it wanted.

  “Doris,” she purred, “how are you this fine afternoon?”

  “I am well, and you?”

  Minnie smiled pleasantly, her cat eyes settling on Thora and me. “What brings you here today?”

  Doris hesitated, glancing up the staircase. “Do you have any . . . guests?”

  “Not right now,” Minnie said, raising one eyebrow. “I expect they are all at church. Business should pick up later. We serve a lovely Sunday dinner, as you know. Would you like to join us?”

  “No thank you,” Doris said carefully.

  Two girls lounged on the sofa opposite her with their legs up. They immediately obeyed when Minnie shooed them into the other room. They stood giggling on the other side of glass-paned doors, watching us through the little windows.

  “Doctor Bjornsson sent us,” said Doris. “These young ladies are relatives.”

  “Ahhh, how is he?” Minnie asked sweetly. “I have not needed his services in a while.”

  “He is fine.”

  “An uncle?”

  “On their Mother’s side and you know how clannish the Icelanders are,” Doris said, equally sweet. “These girls are looking for their sister. Clara believes she may be here.”

  “Clara? How is she? Still making trouble for herself?”

  Doris laughed. “Certainly a challenge to have around.”

  “Not back on the street yet?”