Tender Mercies Read online

  “A po-et?”

  “Yes.”

  When the shoving, giggling, and bustling stopped, she stepped aside and motioned the children into the room. Several of the older boys’ ears turned red as they passed her. Manda smiled as if they had a secret, she and the teacher’s helper. Mary Martha wanted to tweak her nose and make her laugh.

  Manda did more scowling than laughing much of the time. And all the time she’d rather argue than agree. Far as Mary Martha was concerned, the young girl wrote the book on independence. But no one could ever fault her for being lazy or telling lies. Like her mother used to say, “The child is honest as the day is long.”

  When everyone had taken their seats again, Mary Martha included, Pastor Solberg stood and began assigning tasks. Far as she could tell, he’d left her out again. And here she thought they had come to an understanding. While she usually kept her temper under control, she could feel it starting to fire up.

  “And Miss MacCallister . . .”

  She quit simmering so she could hear the remainder of his sentence.

  “Could you please help these three children?” He pointed to three who looked so alike she’d thought they were triplets but for the difference in size.

  “Of course.” Now what does he want me to do? She beckoned the three to come sit with her and looked up at Solberg for assistance. He was answering a question from another part of the room.

  The three sat down, staring at her out of blue eyes that appeared to have looked at life and found it wanting. She now knew what that phrase meant.

  “First thing, could you please tell me your names?”

  They stared at her without moving. Finally the tallest one, a girl, said something. It was something all right, but all in Norwegian, and Mary Martha had no idea what she’d said.

  “Oh.” She sent a glance to the man in the front of the room that could have melted his shirt buttons. She should have sent Katy here instead of coming herself. But Katy still didn’t feel well and was doing her best to hide it. Tomorrow she’d stay home where she belonged and help Katy. If this self-righteous such-and-such wanted help, he could just sing for it.

  The three stared at her.

  She glared again at Pastor Solberg.

  He must have felt her consternation because he turned to her and said, “I’ll be right there.”

  Mary Martha nodded. She could handle this, of course she could. She laid a hand on her chest. “I am Miss MacCallister.” She spoke slowly and enunciated carefully. Then she pointed to each of them.

  “I am . . .” She waited for the older girl to fill in the blank.

  “Ingrid.”

  “Good.” Her smile brought a hint of life to the girl’s eyes. “Now say it all.” She waved her hand as if she were conducting an orchestra. Nodding, she started, “I am Ingrid.”

  The girl followed her and earned a pat on the hand from a teacher who could hardly sit still.

  She followed the same routine with the others.

  “Very good.” John Solberg had joined them, and she hadn’t even noticed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me they didn’t speak a word of English?”

  “I thought I’d be right over.”

  Now what could she say? A few names came to mind, none of them complimentary.

  He turned to the children and spoke in Norwegian.

  She wished she knew what he’d said.

  “I explained that we only talk English in school, that you will be giving them English lessons, and that they are to repeat what you say. I can always send Thorliff or one of the others over to help you. I’d start with some useful phrases if it were me.”

  At a call from another student, he turned back to his classroom.

  Mary Martha smiled at her three charges again, wishing she would get a smile in return. No children should be so solemn. She could hear the little ones piping their ABC’s. How much easier that would be. Her mind searched frantically for necessary phrases.

  “Pastor said I should come help you.” Thorliff appeared at her elbow.

  “Ah, good. When I say a phrase in English, you say it in Norwegian so they understand it. Then after they repeat it, I will write it on the slate.”

  “And I can write the Norwegian on another slate.”

  “You better ask them first if they can read and write Norwegian.”

  Ingrid could, but her sisters, Marta and Clara, shook their heads.

  Mary Martha’s stomach did a flip-flop. Why hadn’t she stayed in Missouri? She sent another glare in the direction of the teacher, silently threatening him with death and destruction. To her charges she sent a smile that she hoped conveyed some form of confidence.

  “All right.” Please, Lord, show me what to do, how to help these children. Please, right now. There’s no time to waste. “We’ll begin with ‘good morning.’ ” She nodded to Thorliff, who repeated both her phrase and the instructions in Norwegian. When they looked back at her after talking with Thorliff, she smiled and repeated, “Good morning.”

  Their response was less than enthusiastic, but they answered.

  She continued with “hello,” “good-bye,” “please,” and “thank you.” Some of those she had picked up from Katy. While they went back and forth, she racked her brain trying to decide where to go next. After reviewing one more time, she switched to the alphabet, printing the letters on a slate.

  By the time they were all excused for the dinner recess, she felt as if she’d been run over by a twelve-up hitch of horses pulling a loaded freight wagon. Manda and Deborah brought her dinner pail over to her.

  “You can eat with us if you like,” Manda said.

  “Teacher said we could go outside or eat inside, whichever we wanted. What would you like?” Deborah tucked her hand in Mary Martha’s.

  What would she like? She’d first like to strangle Pastor John Solberg, and then she’d like to go home and take a three-week nap, that’s what. Instead, she smiled and brushed a strand of hair back from Deborah’s cheek. “Outside would be wonderful.”

  One good thing, she thought on the drive home that afternoon, I’m learning Norwegian about as fast as they are getting the English. The other thing, Solberg had invited her back. He had thanked her for coming, and Ingrid had almost smiled. That last was what made her determined to keep going. That and Anna Helmsrude. If I sewed her a new dress, could I give it to her somehow without causing a fracas? Guess I need to talk with Ingeborg.

  That evening she and Katy finished up the dishes and took their handwork into the parlor, where Zeb sat reading the Grand Forks Herald newspaper in the lamplight. When they were settled, Mary Martha asked, “So then, what do you think I should teach them next?”

  “Go on with what you started and add names for the subjects in school. Then teach them simple things like ‘go outside,’ ‘come inside,’ ‘sit down,’ ‘stand’—you know, the commands Pastor Solberg uses all the time. ‘Open your books,’ ‘put your things away,’ and everyone’s favorite.”

  “What’s that?”

  “ ‘Class dismissed.’ ”

  “I always liked that one best.” Zeb joined the conversation.

  “Why don’t you read to us?” Katy smiled at her husband. She turned back to Mary Martha sitting beside her on the settee. “While I speak English pretty good now, I can’t read it much.”

  A snort from her husband made her flap her hand at him.

  When Mary Martha caught the look the two exchanged, she felt a lump in her throat. What would it feel like to have someone love her like Zeb so obviously loved Katy?

  Zeb began reading, and Mary Martha listened while she hemmed the dress she’d been sewing for Deborah. She’d finished the one she made for Manda before school started. He read about the new elevator being built and the Lutheran church having a harvest festival. There was a renewed push for support of the Farmer’s Alliance organization, asking all the farmers to join so that their voices could be heard before the Territorial Assembly. Walter Muir, one
of the leaders of the Farmer’s Alliance, had written an impassioned editorial, more like a diatribe, against the railroad, the elevators, and the flour-milling consortium for their efforts to gouge the farmers.

  “Those buzzards,” Zeb muttered after reading an editorial about the statehood party and their push for one state, with the capital located in Pierre.

  “So what is wrong with that?” Mary Martha knotted her thread and clipped the end. “There now, Deborah can wear that tomorrow.”

  “It would make the state too large to govern efficiently,” Zeb answered, “besides which, we in the north just think different from those in the south. They can’t grow wheat like we do here in the Red River Valley.”

  “Just so they let women have the vote,” Katy said, changing the subject.

  “Katy, that is nothing but a dream, and not a good one at that. Women don’t need to vote. That’s what their husbands are for.”

  “And what about women who don’t have husbands?” Mary Martha raised an eyebrow. “Who do they have to speak for them? Besides, it isn’t just about the vote. Women should be able to purchase land in their own name and dispose of their own property.”

  “They can do that now. Look at Ingeborg and Kaaren.”

  “Yes, but there’s also Manda and Deborah. That still isn’t settled, and you know . . .” Katy looked up from her needlework.

  Zeb held up a hand. “How about if I just read this, and we not get into a war over it?” He folded the paper and set it on the round table near his chair. “Better yet, I’m going to check on the stock and go to bed before you two tear me limb from limb.” He flexed his arm as if they’d been tugging on it.

  “Coward,” Mary Martha said, just loud enough for him to hear.

  “I do not understand why men are so stubborn,” Katy said after he left the room. “Letting us vote doesn’t mean they can’t vote.”

  “They’re just afraid that women might get smarter than they are.” Mary Martha’s grin held a hint of devilry. “Leastways, that’s what I think.” She waited for Katy’s scandalized look to change to a chuckle. “You sure you wouldn’t rather go work with those poor children tomorrow and let me stay here? After all, you speak Norwegian and English both, and you know them all, besides.”

  Katy shook her head. “I’d rather work with Zeb and the horses any day. Who would want to be cooped up in that soddy hour after hour?”

  “I thought of that too. Wonder what we can do to make it brighter?”

  “I’ll ask at the next quilting bee. Somebody there will have an idea.”

  The next morning Mary Martha arrived at the schoolhouse armed with a list of things she wanted her three charges to learn. By the end of the day, she’d elicited smiles from the two younger girls. Ingrid was another matter.

  “Marta said that Ingrid said she was too old for school anyway,” Manda informed her when school was over. She had the horse all harnessed and the wagon hitched up by the time Mary Martha had put her things away and said good-bye to Pastor Solberg. “Can I drive?” Manda asked.

  “Yes,” Mary Martha said and swung up, using the wheel for a step, then settled on the wooden seat. “How come?” she asked, referring to what Ingrid had said.

  “She thinks Norwegian is just fine.” Manda slapped the reins. “Giddyup horse. We got plenty to do at home.”

  “She’s only thirteen.”

  “Same as me. I’d rather be home too.” She sent a pleading glance sideways.

  Mary Martha shook her head. “Don’t look to me. Ask your mother—er, Katy.” She caught herself. While Deborah called Katy Ma, Manda still didn’t. “Besides, it isn’t how old you are but how much you know.”

  “Horsefeathers.”

  “Manda, Ma don’t like cussin’.” Deborah leaned across Mary Martha’s lap to glare at her sister.

  Katy wasn’t in the kitchen when Deborah and Mary Martha entered. She wasn’t in the parlor either.

  “Ma?” Deborah called.

  “In here.” A weak voice came from the bedroom.

  Mary Martha felt a hand clutch her heart. Something was wrong for sure. She knew she shouldn’t have gone to help at the school.

  Chapter 8

  “You got any idea where I can spend the night?” Mr. Drummond asked.

  Penny thought a moment. “Olaf Wold, who runs the sack house, lets people put down a pallet there if there’s room. His building might be kinda full right now though, with harvest just finished. If he says no, then you can try Pastor Solberg in the soddy by the church.”

  “How come there’s no hotel or boardinghouse in this little town?” Mr. Drummond shook his head as he spoke. “You want to grow, you got to get people to stay here. Then they’ll like it so much they’ll want to come live here.”

  “Tell that to the bankers,” Penny muttered under her breath.

  “Is there a place to eat?” At the shake of Penny’s head, Drummond sighed. “And I missed the last train to either Grand Forks or Grafton, didn’t I?”

  “You can join us for supper. It’s only what’s left from dinner.” She wished she’d kept her mouth closed. She’d forgotten they were going to have pancakes because the noon guests cleaned up every bit of food she had. If she’d had another pie, it would have gone too. “Or rather, it’s pancakes tonight, but I can promise you they’ll be filling.”

  “We can talk more about the sewing machines you want to stock here in your store?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I do?”

  “You most certainly do. In fact, I’ll give free lessons to anyone who buys a machine from you in the next three months. What with Christmas coming up and all, maybe I should go talk with the men. They’d all want their wives to have an easier life, wouldn’t they?”

  “Don’t count on it. Norwegians, especially those around here, could cut a dime in half and give you eleven cents change.” Where is Hjelmer? He surely should have been back by now. She heard the clatter of wood in the woodbox and knew her newfound cousin Ephraim was back.

  “Bet those same Norwegians know a good deal when they see it.”

  “They do at that. Go over and talk to Olaf, and I’ll have supper ready in half an hour. Tell him I sent you.” When he leaned over to pick up his case, she added, “You can leave that here. No one will bother it. Put it back by your machine.”

  After the door bell tinkled behind him, Penny went back and looked at the sewing machine again. She laid a reverent hand on the wheel and turned it just enough to watch the needle go down and up again. I want one, and I want every woman around here to have one. So how do we do that?

  She picked up their own mail and, tapping the letters against her finger, turned the Closed sign over and pushed aside the curtain to their quarters. Laying the mail on the small table by Hjelmer’s chair, she removed her canvas store apron and put on the calico one she’d hung over a hook in the pantry. Then humming to herself, she retrieved the flour, buttermilk, and eggs she needed for supper. After slicing thick ham steaks off the hindquarter, she laid those in the pan to begin frying.

  “You need anything else?” Ephraim asked from the doorway. His wet hair carefully slicked back showed that he’d already washed up.

  “No thanks.” She paused. “You know where Hjelmer is?”

  “Out in the blacksmith shop, drawing on something. I think he’s got an idea that he’s cogitating.”

  “Oh.” No wonder he’d been so quiet.

  “He was out to Haakan’s earlier to talk to his ma.”

  “Uh-oh.” That could be good or bad. Shame she and Bridget hadn’t gotten the loan request made out yet. Things down on paper always looked more possible than just talk. She thought to the sewing machine sitting in her store. That fancy machine would help out like nobody’s business in setting up the boardinghouse.

  “Would you go tell him supper will be ready in a few minutes?”

  “Sure ’nough.”

  “Mrs. Bjorklund.” Mr. Drummond knocked at the back door.

 
“Come on in.” She moved the frying pan to the back of the stove and lifted the round lid. After adding a couple of sticks of wood, she pulled the frying pan to the hotter part, took the square griddle down from the row of iron hooks Hjelmer had fashioned for her, and set it to heat.

  “Do you mind if I show Mr. and Mrs. Wold the machine after supper? She is so excited about it, and Mr. Wold is plenty curious.”

  “Why not? Maybe Hjelmer would like to see it too. He likes machinery of all sorts.” And if he gets interested, I will carry them in the store for sure. Why am I dithering like this? Either I carry them or I don’t. It is not Hjelmer’s decision to make. But she knew the reason. She always talked big ideas like this over with him.

  “The Wolds want me to come for supper too, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, go on. I’m sure Goodie has something better than pancakes cooked up.”

  When Hjelmer didn’t come in, Penny sent Ephraim to find him, but it looked to Penny like Hjelmer ate supper without any idea what he put in his mouth. He passed the syrup when asked and nodded when she asked him if he wanted more pancakes. Ephraim gave up talking after a couple of attempts, but Penny persisted. She needed his opinion, not just an “um.”

  “Hjelmer?”

  “Um.” He cut his ham and put a bite in his mouth.

  “The blacksmith is on fire.”

  “Good, dear, that’s good.”

  She watched as her words sunk in.

  “Ring the fire bell!” He shoved back his chair only to see the other two at the table burying their laughter behind mouths full of pancake. Taking his chair again, he glared at Penny. “That wasn’t necessary. A simple ‘Hjelmer’ would do.” He shot Ephraim an accusing look, as if he’d encouraged Penny.

  Ephraim shook his head and glanced over at the stove. “Any more of them pancakes? They’re right good.”

  Penny got up and slid the griddle back on the hotter part of the stove. “In a minute.” She glanced back at her husband, who wore that distant look again. What in the world was he thinking on so hard?

  When supper was over and she’d poured the final cup of coffee, she set the dishes to soaking in a pan of soapy water on the stove and went to stand in front of her husband, now sitting in his chair. The faraway look hadn’t left, even though Ephraim had. “Hjelmer, please, I really need you to listen to me.” She waited, then raised her voice and touched his arm. “Hjelmer, are you all right?” Maybe something was really wrong, and he didn’t want to tell her.