Tender Mercies Page 8

  “What is it?” The snap in his voice brought forth one of her own.

  “I’m just asking you a question!”

  “So ask!” He glared.

  She glared. And clamped her hands on her hips. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing! Can’t a man do some thinking in his own house?”

  “Yes, if his wife can ask a question and get a decent answer.” She felt like stamping her foot—on his.

  He sighed and rolled his eyes. “All right. What is it?”

  He wore that look, the one that always drove her crazy. “Oh, forget it. I’ll make my own decisions, and you can just go . . . go jump in the river.”

  “Fine.” He flung himself out of his chair and out the door. The screen door slammed behind him.

  Penny sank down in the chair he’d just left. All she’d wanted was one minute of his precious time. Was that too much to ask?

  “Yoo-hoo.” Goodie Wold, formerly Peterson, called from the back door. “Penny? You ready to see the machine?”

  “Come on in. I’ll light some extra lamps.” She lifted a filled kerosene lamp down from the shelf and set it on the table. Then taking a long slender piece of cedar from the jar she kept for this purpose, she lighted it in the burning lamp and held it against the wick of the new one. When the wick caught fire, she broke off the burnt bit of cedar and laid it on the cold edge of the stove to reuse. After adjusting the wick, she set the chimney in place and smiled at her guests.

  “Where’s Hjelmer?” Olaf Wold, his receding hair giving him an even wiser look, asked as he took one of the burning lamps.

  “I’m not sure.” She felt like saying “God only knows,” a phrase her tante Agnes often used, but she refrained.

  “Is he coming to see this wonder machine?” He sent his wife a gently teasing look.

  “Now, don’t you give me that,” Goodie answered. “I could even patch your gunnysacks with this. Or you could.”

  “Let alone your pants.” Penny picked up the other lamp and gestured toward the curtain dividing the kitchen and the store.

  “And shirts. She can make you a new coat or turn one you have in no time.” Alfred Drummond joined the conversation.

  “When I think how much faster I could sew clothes for all of us, I . . . I just get goose bumps.” Goodie rubbed her arms.

  “Maybe it’s the cold weather.” Penny hated feeling like a grump, but hard words with Hjelmer always made her feel that way afterward. Why couldn’t she learn to not say things she would be sorry for later?

  They moved other things aside to set the lamps where they could see easily, and Mr. Drummond took his place on the chair Penny had provided. As he went into his spiel again, Penny listened carefully. It all sounded much too good to be true, but she had the stack of hemmed napkins to testify to the speed with which this little machine stitched.

  “Penny?”

  “In here.”

  Hjelmer made his way to the group in the corner. “What’s this?”

  Penny bit her lip enough to leave marks. “If you’d been listening,” she hissed, “you would have known.”

  “Oh, well, I . . .”

  Her look quelled his excuses.

  “Welcome. Mr. Bjorklund, I take it?” Drummond got to his feet and reached a hand across the machine. “I am Alfred Drummond, representing the greatest little machine yet invented—the Singer sewing machine, designed to make your wife’s lot easier, in regards to sewing, that is.”

  He faltered at the look on Hjelmer’s face. Arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows straight and chips of ice floating on his Fjord blue eyes, Hjelmer wore that “show me” look.

  Penny wanted to kick him in the ankle. Would nothing go right tonight?

  “My husband believes new machinery for the fieldwork is one of the most important things of our time.” Her tone was so coated in honey, the bees would stick to it.

  He sent her one of his looks.

  “Why, I know he is dying to try this out for himself.” She turned to him, her mouth smiling and her eyes daring him.

  “Good, good. Let me show you how it works first, and then you can try it.” Drummond took his seat again. “You know they have had industrial machines for the clothing factories for some time now. But this little Singer is the first one designed for the home, and you can pay for it with only pennies a month.”

  Penny divided her watching between the demonstration and Hjelmer’s face. Soon his love of machinery took over, and he leaned forward until he was eye to eye with the flashing needle.

  When Drummond held up the seam of two pieces of muslin and tried to pull them apart to show the strength of the stitching, Hjelmer reached for the sample before Goodie got her hand out. He turned it both ways, tugged on the sides, and shook his head.

  “Amazing.” He studied it some more.

  An “ahem” from Goodie made him start and, with an apologetic shrug, hand it over. He turned his attention back to Drummond. “Can it sew canvas for the binders? Tarps, leather?”

  Drummond paused. “Well, it all depends on the strength of the needle.” He turned a screw and removed the needle. “You buy these separately. I always carry extras.”

  “So if something happens to the machine, where do we get parts?”

  Penny picked up on the “we.” She and Goodie exchanged glances, neither of them looking to Olaf. They didn’t need to.

  His “mm” and “uh-huh” already indicated his approval.

  “Can you show me the innards of the thing?” Hjelmer asked, his fingers tracing the shell of the machine as if he could divine what went on inside the casing.

  “Certainly, sir.” Drummond took out a leather packet with several sizes of screwdrivers, a brush, and a polishing cloth. “I teach new owners how to clean and oil their machines so that they will last. Just like keeping up farm machinery, this little beauty needs care.”

  “Where would we order parts from?” he asked again.

  “The Singer Company in Boston. They can put them on the next train, far as that goes.” He looked to the two men. “While I have a woman starting a store in Fargo that will stock machines, materials, and notions, I would be right happy to have someone do the same in this area, especially if ’n that could include a repair service. Not that these little beauties need much repair, but, you know, just in case.”

  Hjelmer scratched his chin. He glanced at Olaf, who wore the same deep-thinking expression.

  Penny’s fingers itched. She wanted to try out the machine so badly, yet she hated to disturb the moment.

  She stroked the stack of napkins, thinking of all the hours she’d spent hemming napkins, dish towels, sheets, pillowcases, curtains—all that besides clothes. Goodie moved to her side and picked up one of the squares, leaning closer to the lamp and turning the napkin around.

  “Take a heap a learnin’, I’m thinking.”

  Drummond shook his head. “Not at all. Once you get proficient at using the machine, I can even show you how to blind hem.”

  “Like skirt hems and such?” Goodie turned her head, giving him an “are you sure about this” look. Her right eyebrow cocked while her fingers kept up an exploration of the hemmed napkin all on their own.

  “Most surely.” Drummond sat back down, creased a narrow fold in another piece of muslin, then folded a wider hem. “Just like you do, right?” The women nodded. “Okay, then you fold again, this time the body of the garment so you have this line to stitch on.” He indicated the edge of the first fold. He set the material in place, lowered the presser foot. “Now you take four stitches.” He turned the wheel manually rather than pumping the pedal with his feet. “Then give a little twist with your wrist, catch the body with one stitch, and return to the four on the edge.” He did several more to show the pattern, lifted the presser foot, and snipped the threads.

  Penny cringed at the amount of thread he wasted.

  He smoothed the right side of the sample, and sure enough, all one saw was the one thread
, and so even that it looked almost like a decoration.

  “Well, I never.” The awe in Goodie’s tone echoed in Penny’s mind.

  “May I try it?” Penny had to clear her throat to keep from whispering.

  “Of course, dear lady.” Drummond got up and indicated his chair. “You just set yourself down there and give it a try. Then it will be your turn.” He included Goodie with a smile.

  He gave Penny instructions on how to work the treadle. “You can use one or both feet.” Then he handed her a piece of material. “Now, with this handle back here, you lower that presser foot, then set your needle, and begin rocking the treadle with your feet.” He turned the handwheel for her.

  With a couple of tentative toe pressings, she got the rhythm, and the needle flew across the fabric, leaving a line of stitches in its wake.

  “Well, I never.” Goodie breathed from over Penny’s shoulder. “Ya done it.”

  “It takes some practice to sew curves and angles and such, but I will teach you all of that. You’ll be sewing up a storm before you know it.” He patted the machine as though it were a favorite dog or horse—or wife.

  “My turn?”

  Penny hated to get up. She wanted to learn more immediately. She liked the song the treadle made and the whir of the needle. The speed amazed her. Every woman needs one of these. She couldn’t get the idea out of her mind.

  Goodie stood up a few minutes later with the same look of delight and awe. If this was the way Hjelmer felt when he first saw the binders, no wonder he nearly went loco.

  “How soon can you have us one?” Olaf asked, cupping his elbows in the opposite palm. He rocked back on his heels, then dug in his pocket for his pipe.

  Hjelmer looked up from studying the gears to Penny’s face. “Make that two, and you better send an extra so there’s one to sell. I know Haakan will want one for Ingeborg.”

  Penny smiled at her husband, but it did no good, he’d gone back to studying the gears.

  Later, after Mr. Drummond left with the Wolds for his bed in the sack house, Penny turned out the one lamp and set the other beside Hjelmer’s chair. He looked up from the mail he was slitting open with a letter opener he had made.

  “Here, this one’s for you.” He handed an opened envelope to Penny.

  She studied the handwriting and the postmark. Iowa. Who would be writing to her from Iowa?

  Chapter 9

  “What happened?” Mary Martha rushed through the bedroom door.

  “Ma-a.” Deborah flung herself in her new mother’s arms.

  “Gently, little one. There’s no need to cry.” Katy patted the little girl’s back. “Here, let me sit up.”

  “No, you just lie there and tell me what happened.” Mary Martha sank down on the edge of the bed by Katy’s knees. Blue and purple shadows beneath Katy’s eyes looked like bruises on her pale face. How much weight has she lost? She looks like a ghost. Why haven’t I been more observant?

  Deborah lifted her tear-stained face. “You ain’t gonna die, are ya?”

  Katy smoothed the sandy wisps of hair back from her daughter’s face. “Why, whatever made you think that?”

  “ ’Cause you look like my real ma did.” Deborah dashed the tears away with the backs of her hands. “She was sick something awful.”

  “Well, I’m not ‘sick something awful.’ I just didn’t feel well and thought I better lie down so I would feel good when you got home from school. Why don’t you go get me a drink of water? Ask Manda to fetch a fresh bucket from the well. Cold well water would taste so good right now.”

  “I will.” Deborah pushed away and darted from the room.

  “What really happened?”

  “I . . . I found blood. Mary Martha, I don’t want to lose this baby.” She clutched her sister-in-law’s hand.

  “Now, lots of women have bleeding before the baby comes. You just take it easy for a couple of days, and it’ll be gone. You’ll see. My ma takes care of lots of women. She’s the midwife for our parish, and I’ve heard of all kinds of different things. You can always send for Ingeborg or Metiz, too, you know.” Please, God, let this be all there is. Oh, I wish my mother were here.

  Katy shook her head. “No, no need to bother them. You already made me feel better.” She started to roll to her side to get up, but Mary Martha laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “You are to take it easy for a couple of days, remember?”

  “Surely that don’t mean lying around like this. I got supper to make. Zeb will be home soon, and . . .”

  “It won’t be the first time my brother has eaten my cooking, and it surely won’t be the last. How about you go over Deborah’s letters and numbers with her while I see about the supper? And if I can get Manda in here, she needs review on her times tables.”

  “She’ll be down working with the horses.”

  “I know. That girl would live at the barn if ’n we let her.” Katy lay back with a sigh. “I hate feeling like this. There’s so much to get done before the winter comes. I thought to begin banking the house today.”

  “Ah ’spect my brother can do some of those things, you know? And if he brings up a wagonload of straw and manure, Manda and I can pitch it up against the house.”

  “You ever made soap before?”

  “Many times. And dipped candles too. During the war we didn’t have kerosene or oil, so we melted down some old beeswax and had the purtiest candles you ever saw. I was just a little girl, but I could dip candles just fine. We had a mold one time, but when some scalawag Yankee soldiers raided our place, they stole anything they could. We had to make do or die after that.”

  “Where was your pa?”

  “Off to war. He come home without an arm, leaving both it and his will to live on some battlefield.” Mary Martha shook her head. “He never was the same loving papa again. Near to broke my mother’s heart, but she’s a strong one. Kept right on caring for the farm and anyone who needed help until Papa finally got some better again. Zeb’s been doing the work of a full-grown man ever since he was eight or ten.”

  Katy propped herself on one elbow when Deborah returned carrying a cup full of water. She tried to drink, but instead the water dribbled down her chin, making the little girl giggle.

  “This is silly.” Katy handed the cup back and pulled herself upright, crossing her legs under the covers. After drinking, she cocked her head, listening to the thunk of wood dropping into the box and the clattering of stove lids.

  “That’s Manda.” Deborah snuggled herself against Katy’s side. “She said for you to stay in bed, and she would make supper.”

  “What about her chores?”

  “She done them.”

  “Did them.” Mary Martha couldn’t resist correcting the little one’s grammar.

  “That’s what I said.” Deborah used both hands to brush from her eyes the wisps of hair that had come loose from her braids.

  The two women exchanged smiles as Mary Martha got to her feet. “You say your numbers and letters now for your ma, and I’ll go help in the kitchen. Tell her what all went on today at school too.” She patted Deborah’s head gently and headed for the door, pausing before going through it. “You need anything else?”

  “Just permission to get up,” Katy said.

  “Since that’s not likely to happen, lie back and enjoy the rest.”

  “She’s going to die, ain’t she?” Manda slammed the last lid back in place.

  Mary Martha shook her head. “You and Deborah. Why, no. Sometimes mamas just need a little extra help in the early months.”

  “My ma was just like this, and she died.”

  Mary Martha wanted to wrap her arms around Manda and hold her close, but the rigid shoulders and squared jaw told her that wouldn’t be appreciated, nor even tolerated. She sighed. “Let’s just pray for her and make her take it easy around here, and she’ll be fine.”

  “God don’t much care one way or t’other.” Manda filled a kettle with water and set it on the hot pa
rt of the stove.

  “Why, yes, He most certainly does. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “We prayed, but Ma died anyway, and I prayed lots when Pa didn’t come home, and it never did any good at all. So why spend all that time prayin’ when you could be doing something instead?”

  “I pray while I’m doing.”

  “You don’t close your eyes and fold your hands like the preacher says?” Manda looked at Mary Martha as if a heretic had wandered in.

  “Sometimes, but not always. The Bible says to pray unceasingly, but if you kept your hands folded and eyes closed all the time, your family would starve to death. I think God means us to live our lives like He would have us and keep on talking with Him, just like you and I are talking now.” She could tell by the look on Manda’s face that she had a long way to go to get any convincing done. “You just think about it. If Jesus is right in our hearts, He knows our thoughts.”

  “Durn.”

  Mary Martha couldn’t resist. She laughed and grabbed Manda’s arm, pulling her into a hug. “Ah, child, He loves you so much, and so do I.”

  Manda relaxed into the embrace for a moment before pulling away. “I got to get to peeling some spuds.”

  Letting her go, Mary Martha caught a sheen in Manda’s eyes. She’s really frightened. Dear God, what all did these two lambs go through before Zeb found them? While her brother had given her snips and bits of his two years on the run, they’d never sat down and talked about how he ended up with a ready-made family. One of his comments stuck in her mind. “Mother wouldn’t let me do anything else but bring them along.” She knew for a fact her mother had been living in Missouri on the homeplace, for that’s where she’d been too.

  And here the girls were facing again the fear of losing a mother. God, please take care of Katy, for the sake of these two girls, if not for Zeb and the rest of us. Mary Martha took the knife from Manda. “I’ll do this. You go on and work with the horses, like you usually do. I thought to fry up some steaks cut off that pork shoulder. What do you think?”