Sophie's Dilemma Page 3

  ‘‘Miss Knutson, would you please stand and read your essay?’’ Pastor Solberg stared right at her.

  Her forehead, under her fashionable fringe, blazed hot like it might sizzle the hair. ‘‘I-I’m sorry, sir, but I have no essay. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.’’ If only the earth would open up and swallow her. She might not like school, but she liked being embarrassed even less.

  ‘‘I see.’’ He stared at her over the top of his glasses. ‘‘Is there something you’d rather write about?’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘No, sir.’’ She heard a titter from behind her. The heat bathed her cheeks also. Better not say what she was thinking or she’d be in deeper trouble.

  ‘‘You have until the end of class today or as late as you would like to stay to get something down on that paper.’’While the tone was mild, she knew he meant every word.

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’

  He moved on to one of the others. Rebecca stood and read her essay supporting the unions. Then Trygve read his, opposing them.

  Sophie listened carefully and then began writing, using some of their ideas but wisely putting them in her own words. She felt a slight nudge on her shoulder and slid her hand back along the seat. Grace placed a bit of paper in her hand. While Pastor Solberg was questioning one of the others, she read four words, Remember Thorliff ’s newspaper article to give her more clues.

  I hate school. I hate politics, I hate essays. She remembered her mother’s admonitions against hating anything and revised her thoughts. I intensely dislike school, politics, and essays. If only she could have written about that. But she wrote away while the others read theirs and Pastor Solberg moved on to one of the other grades. With Miss Isabelle Rumly, a new teacher who had come from Grand Forks to teach in Blessing, instructing the lower grades in the new addition to the schoolhouse, Pastor Solberg could concentrate on those from the seventh grade up through the twelfth.

  She reread her piece and nodded her satisfaction. As her mother said so often, ‘‘All you have to do, Sophie, is concentrate.’’ She’d not have to stay after school after all.

  Pastor Solberg nodded when she showed it to him. ‘‘You can read it tomorrow, then.’’

  A half an hour later she was grinding her teeth at Latin translation. As if she would ever need to understand Latin. If she could learn French, the language of culture and love, she would excel in that, she was sure. And she would actually use it when she went to France. France . . . Paris . . . her mind floated off on another daydream.

  Pastor Solberg’s voice made her jump. ‘‘You’re finished with your translation?’’ he asked, standing right over her. France disappeared in a puff.

  ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ She handed him her paper.

  He read it standing right beside her. Watching his face, she was sure he was going to give her a failing grade and then her mother would have plenty to say. But he marked a few things, nodded, and handed it back. ‘‘You see, you can do even Latin when you buckle down and work at it.’’

  I know that. It’s just that Latin is so boring. ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’ And you let your mind wander off to Seattle and Hamre and France. Her inside voice scolded better than her mother did.

  The creak of the door opening at the back of the room made her look over her shoulder. A tall, broad-shouldered man who looked vaguely familiar stepped inside holding a seaman’s cap in his hands. Was it—could it be—Hamre?

  Pastor Solberg blinked, and a smile broke across his face. ‘‘Hamre Bjorklund, it is you.’’ The pastor strode down the aisle, hand outstretched.

  ‘‘God dag. Ja, it is me.’’

  Sophie swallowed and swallowed again. This was the person who’d been writing to her? She’d still thought of him as the gangly young man who left, who rarely looked anyone in the eye, and only dreamed of going fishing. She put her hand to her chest; her heart had picked up speed like a sled going down hill. This was Hamre!

  ‘‘Come in, come in. Let me introduce you.’’ Pastor Solberg led him forward to the front of the classroom. ‘‘Everyone, this is Hamre Bjork-lund, who emigrated from Norway to here and then headed west when he was twenty-one to go fishing in Seattle. Is that what you do now?’’

  ‘‘Ja, on a cod boat.’’

  Even his voice had changed, deepened. Sophie wished she had a fan for her hot cheeks. Maybe someone would open a door.

  ‘‘Could you please tell our class what life is like out there?’’

  ‘‘Ah, well . . .’’

  His voice used to be raspy, but now . . . She turned and caught Rebecca’s eye. The two swapped wide-eyed secret smiles that said the same thing. This Hamre was indeed easy on the eyes and his voice deep music to the ears. She felt Grace’s foot nudge the back of her leg. She didn’t dare turn fully around. But oh, how she wanted to. Do you need me to sign? Her fingers flew. Grace shook her head.

  ‘‘We fish in dories off the main boat, pulling in cod mostly. We row the dories and catch the fish in nets. The fish is then salted down in the hold. Sometimes we fish in the Puget Sound, which is a huge bay, and in the winter go out to sea and north to Alaska.’’

  Seattle, Alaska, faraway places, and Hamre was having adventures.

  She heard herself sigh again.

  ‘‘Where do you live?’’

  ‘‘Just north of Seattle, near the docks in Ballard. There are many fishermen there.’’

  ‘‘Do you mind if the class asks you some questions?’’ Pastor Solberg asked.

  ‘‘Not at all.’’ He pointed to the first hand to go up.

  ‘‘Do you sail the boats? I mean, do you use sails or engines?’’ Trygve asked.

  ‘‘Some boats use one, some the other. I’ve shipped on both. But sails are used mostly.’’ He pointed to another hand.

  ‘‘Do you own the boat?’’

  ‘‘That is what I want.’’ His answer brought a couple of chuckles.

  He caught Sophie’s gaze and looked away. She now knew what was meant by swooning, as she’d read in some books. Her head felt as if it might float right off her shoulders.

  ‘‘How many fish do you catch at a time?’’

  ‘‘Sometimes the net brings in so many that the water slops over the gunwales.’’

  Hamre stared right into her eyes, setting her fingers to tingling and making it difficult to swallow. ‘‘Fishing is big business in Seattle.’’

  ‘‘Do you want to buy your own boat?’’

  ‘‘Ja, I do. Someday.’’

  Did you come back for me? Questions chased one another through her mind like kids out at recess. Where are you staying? Will you come for supper? When will you kiss me? The racing questions skidded to a stop. She ducked her head so he couldn’t see the heat creeping up her neck. She remembered his letters. He’d written that he wanted to own a fishing boat or perhaps a whole fleet of them someday. And he was saving all he could to do that. He’d written of riding out a storm with waves crashing over the bow and the sail being ripped off. One letter told of meeting some other distant Bjorklund relatives. Adventure, travel, excitement. Hamre was a ‘‘same soul’’ with her.

  She brought herself back to the classroom as Pastor Solberg was thanking him for speaking to the students. ‘‘Where will you be staying?’’

  ‘‘At the boardinghouse.’’ He was looking directly at Sophie again; she could feel it clear to her toes. ‘‘I heard my soddy washed away in the flood.’’

  ‘‘Welcome home, son. We’ll enjoy visiting with you.’’ Pastor Bjork-lund glanced at his pocket watch and spoke to the students. ‘‘You all know your assignments for tomorrow. I’ll excuse you a few minutes early today.’’

  Sophie forced herself to leave the building with Grace and Rebecca, even though every ounce of her soul wanted to run to the front of the room. Heinz smiled at her as he passed, but her earlier scheme to flirt with him meant nothing. Was Hamre behind her?Would he catch up?

  A warm hand touched her elbow, sending tingles like appl
e cider bubbles up her arm and across her entire body. Hamre’s voice, deep and husky, said, ‘‘We will talk, ja?’’

  ‘‘Ja.’’ She caught herself. ‘‘Yes. Would you like to ride home with us in the wagon?’’

  ‘‘I thought perhaps we could walk.’’

  ‘‘Oh. Oh, of course.’’ She was sure her heart just flew out of her chest and went dancing in the sunlight.

  4

  HAMRE IS HOME.

  Ingeborg rejoiced at the news. ‘‘He can stay in Andrew’s room.’’

  ‘‘He said he was staying at the boardinghouse.’’ Astrid looked up from setting the table. ‘‘He certainly looks different from how I remember. You should have seen him up there in front of the room, talking and answering questions. He didn’t used to say ten words—in a day.’’

  Ingeborg chuckled. ‘‘I know. I was never sure if he was so terribly shy or just never had anything to say. But he was a hard worker.’’

  ‘‘He always wanted to go back to the sea. He didn’t like it here very much.’’ Astrid glanced up at the whistle from outside. ‘‘Trygve’s on the way to the barn. I sure will be glad when the men come back and we don’t have to milk all the time.’’

  ‘‘In Norway the women do all the milking.’’

  ‘‘I know. You’ve said that, and they go up with the cattle to the mountain camps in the summer and make cheese. Did you do that?’’

  ‘‘A couple of times, but then I worked for a family in town until I married Roald and came to this country. At least I had learned to make good cheese.’’

  Astrid took a piece of cheese from the cutting board. ‘‘Very good cheese.’’ Out the door she went, heading for the barn. She’d already gathered the eggs and fed her chickens. Since she’d caught the renegade hen there had been no more eaten eggs with sticky yolks all over, and the hen had sure tasted good with her mother’s dumplings.

  She had just picked up the pails from the springhouse and started toward the barn when Barney charged from behind it and ran down the lane, barking as if his life depended on chasing away whatever he heard. Shading her eyes, Astrid shrieked, ‘‘The men are coming! The men are coming!’’ She dropped her buckets and ran back to the house. ‘‘Mor, they’re home. Pa’s home.’’

  Ingeborg flew out the door and picked up the iron bar to clang the triangle. She beat it from side to side, laughing all the time, tears streaming down her face. Haakan was home! She and Astrid grabbed hands and trotted down the lane to meet them. How could six weeks seem more like six months, or years even? He’s home again. Thank you, Lord, he’s home again. You know how I’ve missed him. Thank you for keeping them safe. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Letters just weren’t the same as seeing his dear face and finding refuge in the strength of his circling arms. She waved the dish towel she’d forgotten to put down.

  Either Haakan or Lars pulled the whistle on the steam engine, the blast scaring up a flock of blackbirds feeding on the dried seed heads along the lane. The caravan drew closer, the steam engine leading and pulling the thresher, followed by the small house on wheels for the cook and her crew, and finally three wagons pulled by four-up teams.

  Haakan waved his hat from up in the engine cab as the mighty behemoth clanked along at one speed. While Lars constantly modified the machinery, this one still had three settings—start, go, and stop.

  ‘‘Uff da. Will we have enough for supper?’’

  ‘‘Most of the others will go on home without waiting to be fed. You know that,’’ Astrid said.

  Together they watched as the remainder of the crew drew near, Toby Valders driving one wagon and his brother, Gerald, driving one of the others. The two older Geddick sons, Joseph and Elmer, brought the third, and Mrs. Geddick and her daughter drove the cook shack. Haakan’s letters said she served plenty of good food, keeping up the Bjorklund good name of caring well for their crew.

  The steel monster complained to a stop, and Haakan reached down to help his wife up the ladder. Astrid scrambled up behind. Five people crowded the cab, but with Ingeborg tucked under one of Haakan’s arms and Astrid the other, they all fit. Lars put the machine in gear and steered it forward.

  ‘‘So all is well?’’ Haakan shouted above the roar and clank.

  ‘‘Hamre is home to visit,’’ Astrid shouted back.

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘Sophie walked home from school with him. She’s all moony, and so are the other girls. He looks lots different than he used to.’’ She glanced up to her pa. ‘‘He’s almost as handsome as you.’’

  Haakan tugged on her braid. ‘‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’’He leaned his cheek on her head and didn’t let go of either her or his wife.

  ‘‘She’s right, you know.’’ Ingeborg stood on tiptoe to speak right into his ear. ‘‘I was beginning to think you were never coming home.’’

  ‘‘Missed me?’’

  ‘‘More than you know.’’

  ‘‘Ah, I know.’’ He pulled her closer to his side, if that was possible.

  ‘‘You want off here?’’ Lars indicated the end of the Bjorklund lane.

  ‘‘You need me for anything tonight?’’ Haakan asked.

  ‘‘No. I’m just going to park, shut her down, and send everyone on home. The Geddicks can take one of the wagons and drop the Valderses off.’’

  ‘‘Sounds good.’’ When the machine stopped, Haakan swung down first so he could help his wife and daughter. ‘‘See you in the morning.’’ He waved to those following to bring the wagons and cook shack into the yard.

  ‘‘You want a ride?’’ Toby asked when he pulled even with them in his wagon.

  ‘‘Nope. We’ll walk. Leave the wagons by the machine shed and unharness the horses. Then you two ride home with the Geddicks.’’

  ‘‘I need to hurry for the milking,’’ Astrid said and swung herself up on the tailgate of Toby’s wagon since he was in the lead. She waved at her ma and pa and swung her legs in the dust kicked up by the trotting horses.

  ‘‘What’s for supper?’’ Haakan asked.

  ‘‘Baked rabbit, potatoes, creamed carrots with turnips, fresh bread, and I baked an apple pie. Shall we invite the Geddicks? I can stretch it some.’’ Ingeborg leaned into the shoulder of the man walking beside her. How she had missed his shoulder to press against.

  ‘‘No. The missus has supper ready in the wagon for the crew. They can eat before they head on home. I hate to be selfish, but eating in the peace of my family sounds mighty close to heaven for me. It seems I’ve been gone months rather than weeks.’’

  ‘‘Ja, it does.’’

  ‘‘Any applications for running the flour mill?’’

  ‘‘Several. Hjelmer has them all. He and Penny came to dinner after church last Sunday, along with Thorliff and Elizabeth. That little Inga, wait until you see her. She’s running now, up on her tippy-toes. She’s quicksilver. If you want to hug her, you have to snatch her up and do it quick.’’

  ‘‘And Ellie?’’

  ‘‘Growing rounder all the time.’’

  ‘‘I’ll go tie things up and then wash for supper.’’ Haakan left her with a hand squeeze, heading for the barn with his fedora pushed toward the back of his head. His whistle floated back over his shoulder.

  His hair is getting darker so the silver shows more. Ingeborg watched him walk. Was he limping slightly? For sure the lines in his face had deepened over the weeks, or had that been going on and she’d just not noticed? He worked so hard taking care of everything and everyone else. He was surely ready for some wifely care. ‘‘Thank you, Father,’’ she whispered to the freshening breeze, ‘‘for bringing him home safely and with good success.’’ She knew from his infrequent letters that the harvest had been good, both for the farmers and for the threshers.

  An hour later Haakan and Astrid came through the door, laughing at something. Ingeborg watched them through a sheen of happy tears.

  She knew he would tease her for being weepy, but th
e joy that welled up insisted on overflowing as liquid happiness. Thank you, Father, ran through her mind again, weaving in and among all the other thoughts of gratitude residing there.

  ‘‘Mor, Hamre came and helped with the milking. I told him he probably forgot how, but he just shook his head and took a bucket and a stool and sat down like he’d been milking just this morning.’’

  ‘‘I’ve never heard as much laughter in that barn unless we were having a party. Well, it was a party welcoming us all home.’’ Haakan surveyed the cheery kitchen. ‘‘You made new curtains.’’

  Ingeborg nodded as she glanced at the red-and-white gingham fabric that now covered the windowpanes. ‘‘The kitchen needed cheering up, and Penny ran a sale on her cottons.’’ She pulled the roasting pan from the oven, inhaling the rich aromas that announced the meal, and enjoyed the laughter as Astrid teased her father about something.

  Haakan hung his hat on the peg by the door and rubbed his hands together, callouses scratching against each other, then smoothed his hair back with both palms. ‘‘Coming home is always the best part of any trip, or any day, for that matter.’’

  His words couldn’t have pleased her more. Ingeborg set a dish of pickles on the table. Only three places. How their family had shrunk. Or rather, how it had grown. Ellie and Andrew were living at their own house, Thorliff and Elizabeth with little Inga at theirs. And Hamre had come back. She wondered if he would stay.

  ‘‘Let’s have grace,’’ Haakan said as they settled into their places.

  Ingeborg waited for him to start with I Jesu navn, but instead he spoke in English. ‘‘Father God, I come with a heart full of thanks for bringing us home safely without any accidents, for providing for us beyond our needs, for my home where live those I love most dearly. Thank you for taking care of things here, for the privilege of being able to trust you with all the bounty you have poured upon us. Bless this food and the dear hands that prepared it. In Jesus’ precious name, amen.’’