Dakota Dawn (7 page)

Kaaren stood in the doorway, one finger in her mouth and dragging the doll with her other hand. But she never took her gaze off the woman opening drawers and doors.

“Bread, good,” Nora nodded as she talked to herself. “Jam.” She gathered the items in her arms. “Butter.” She opened a door on the end wall that was screened to the outside. “Ah, milk. But it’s frozen.” She handed the bread to Kaaren. “You carry this.” Then she picked up the jug of milk. “Supper will be coming soon.”

She set the milk to thawing in a pan of water on the stove while she sliced bread and set it in the toaster racks she had found hanging on the back of the warming oven. Then, opening the lid on the stove, she laid the rack over the burning coals. By the time the bread was browned, Nora felt toasted as well.

With the milk that had thawed and some toast with jam, Nora and Kaaren set themselves in the rocking chair and started to eat. Nora began the game. “This is . . . ?” She pointed at the bread.

“Bread. This is bread.” Kaaren nodded and took a bite.

Nora pointed to the rich, red jam. “This is . . . ?”

“Jam.” They grinned at each other as they chewed and swallowed.

First, they named the milk, the cup, the plate; and each time, Nora repeated the sentence. When they were finished eating, they remained in the chair, rocking slowly. Nora began humming a song her mother used to sing. When she was humming, she did not have to think about Carl Detschman or to where he had so rudely disappeared. If he was out doing chores, as was most likely, he could have come in the house first and showed her where things were kept. Kaaren settled back against Nora’s chest and soon closed her eyes. Before long, the small body slumped in sleep.

Nora had almost drowsed off when the thud of boots, kicking off the snow against the steps on the porch, startled her awake. She started to get up then thought better of it. If Carl Detschman wanted any supper beyond bread and milk this night, he would just have to sing for it.

Peder demanded to be fed every two hours—all night and all the next day. By the third morning, Nora felt like she had been trampled by six teams of horses. If Carl had heard the baby crying, either night or day, he ignored it. That might be possible at night, since he was sleeping upstairs, but during the day? Granted, he was never in the house except for meals but . . .

The day before, Nora had passed the disgusted stage and now she was bordering on anger—if only she had the strength to even spark. She leaned her head against the door of the cupboard. Kneading bread took more power than she had thought—anything took more energy than she could summon.

Right now, the baby was sleeping. If she could only get Kaaren down for a nap, then she could sleep, too.

The thought of sleep nearly overwhelmed her. “But first you must finish the bread.” Lately, she had found herself talking to herself more often than not.

She and Kaaren still played the naming game, but it was not the same as having a real, live, grown-up to talk with. Mr. Carl Detschman, though, spoke only in grunts; and language between them was not a barrier—there just wasn’t any. How would she ever learn enough English this way?

She slammed the dough over on the floured surface and pressed it hard with the heel of her hand. Roll the dough in, press and turn, roll the dough in, press and turn. The rhythm continued.

At night, the temperature would fall to well below zero, so she kept both Kaaren and Peder in bed with her to keep them warm enough. During her nocturnal feeding forays, she would dream of warmer weather and how nice it would be if she could sleep straight through to spring.

She thumped the bread one last time, molded it into a round, and poked the dough with her finger. When the dough sprang back, she placed it into an earthenware bowl, covered it with a dish towel, and set the bowl on the warming oven to rise. After stirring the beans that were baking in the oven, she removed her apron and slung it over a chair.

“Come, Kaaren.” She reached over to take the little girl’s hand. “We’re going to take a nap, you and I.” She put her finger to her lips. “And we must be very quiet so Peder can sleep longer, too.”

Kaaren put her finger to her lips and silently climbed up onto the bed. She scooted over to the other side, then sat on her knees. “Sing?”

Nora shook her head. “Sleep.” She lifted the quilt and motioned to Kaaren to get under it. Kaaren flung herself back onto the pillow and lifted her feet, shoes still buttoned on, into the air.

“This is a shoe.” Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“No. Sleep, not play.”

Kaaren spoke more insistently. “This is a shoe.”

Nora put her finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Ja, this is a shoe but now we sleep.” She snuggled down and tucked the quilt around their shoulders.

Kaaren lay flat on the pillow, her eyes wide open.

Please, little one,
Nora pleaded silently,
go to sleep. I am so tired my eyes won’t stay open.
Under her breath she began to hum a song her mother used to sing.

Nora felt the warmth of the quilt steal over her. The little body next to her relaxed, along with hers. Her hum grew jerky until it faded away to nothing.

Somewhere in another world she heard a door close.

“Pa!” Kaaren flew out from under the covers and slid to the floor. “Pa!” Screaming voice, thundering feet.

Peder set up his own welcome, also at the top of his lungs. Nora lay there with her eyes closed. Maybe Peder would go back to sleep. Maybe Carl would take his lively daughter outside with him for a while. Maybe. She was too tired for any more maybes.

She pushed back the quilt and swung her feet over the side of the bed. Head in her hands, she waited for Peder to settle down again, but his demands grew louder.

“I’m coming.” She slid her feet into her carpet slippers, pulled herself to her feet, and walked over to the cradle to pick up the hungry baby. With the baby in one arm, and pushing a strand of hair back into her braids with the other hand, she entered the kitchen to find Carl pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“I’m going into Soldahl,” he said in German, slowly so she could understand. “Don’t worry about the cows if I return after dark. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“I go, Pa? Please?” Kaaren wrapped both her arms around his leg, her face raised in supplication.

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s too cold outside for a little girl like you.”

Nora stopped her bottle preparations and turned to look at him. He had spoken more words in the last two minutes than he had done in the last three days.

As he made his way to the door, Kaaren still clung to him. “Now, be a good girl. You can watch out the window.” He stood her on the chair so she could see out.

Her lower lip quivered. A tear stood like a bead at the edge of one brilliant, blue eye. “Pa-a-a.” The one word held all the woe of a little girl left behind.

Nora dug a cookie out of the jar. “Here. Your pa will be home soon.” She placed the cookie in the limp hand and caught the child in a hug. Together, they watched the driver and team trot down the lane. Peder’s cries increased in volume.

After feeding the baby, Nora punched down the risen bread dough and placed it on the cupboard where it would not rise so quickly. Then, she set the boiler onto the stove to start heating some water to wash the diapers. She could barely keep up with the baby’s clothes. Once the diapers were boiling merrily, she set the boiler to the cooler side of the stove and, taking Kaaren by the hand, headed back for the bed. This time, there would be no interruptions.

Kaaren scrubbed a fist across her eyes to rub out the last of her tears and then turned onto her side and was asleep before Nora had finished settling the quilt.

“Thank you, Heavenly Father.” Nora breathed the prayer as sleep claimed her.

By the time Carl returned from town, dusk had blued the snow. Nora was slicing bread when she heard the jingling of the harness. Was that joy she felt leaping in her midsection, just because the lord of the manor was home again? Well, maybe not leaping but more like stretching.

She shook her head at her silly thoughts. Her mother’s words echoed for her. “Of kindness there is no equal.” Calling Carl Detschman lord of the manor might not be kind, but it was true—wasn’t it? The way he gave orders and without a smile—not even for his little daughter who needed love and laughter so desperately. But perhaps he had never been a smiling person. Many Norwegians were like that, too. Handsome, yes, but smiling, no.

She pinched off a small piece of crust and put it into her mouth.
I wonder what it would take to make Lord Carl smile?
The thought lasted until Carl entered the house, bringing in cold air, a sack of supplies from the store, and—

“There’s a letter for you.” Without even looking at her, he handed her the envelope.

“Mange takk.”
Nora’s eyes devoured the handwriting—a letter from her mother. An ache in her chest made Nora press her lips together. She ignored the burning behind her eyes and tucked the beloved envelope into her apron pocket. She would save it for later, when she could read it alone. For now she must get supper on the table quickly so Carl could do his chores.

That night, after Carl had gone up to bed and the children slept, Nora poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table where the light from the kerosene lamp was the strongest. With trembling fingers, she slit the envelope open and withdrew two sheets of paper.

She was almost afraid to begin reading. What if it was bad news? She shook her head and took a sip of coffee.

Dearest Nora,

I take pen in hand to tell you how much we love you and miss you.

Nora put her head down on the table and allowed the tears to flow. The ache had grown to a roaring pain that tore at her heart and soul. How she missed those beloved faces. She could see her mother at the kitchen table, writing so carefully on the precious paper.

When she was able, Nora dried her eyes with her apron and read on. All were well. Her older brother, Einer, was courting one of the Kielguard daughters. They had all been out skiing. Father and the boys had been up in the forest cutting wood. Ice fishing had been good. How were she and Hans? Did she like North Dakota?

Nora wiped another tear from her eye. How surprised they would be when her letter arrived—shocked would be more like it. She read the letter again and sighed. Life took strange turns and twists—and when you least expected it.

Nora tried to catch a yawn but, instead, it nearly dislocated her jaw. If only she could stay awake long enough to write back. But, there was as much chance of that as a fox turning down a juicy chicken. She adjusted the stove damper, blew out the lamp, and made her way into the bedroom.

Please, Peder. Sleep longer.
This had become her consistent prayer and plea, and tonight was no exception. She knelt at the edge of her bed and tried to pray, but even in so cramped a position, she nearly nodded off. Nora was asleep as soon as she pulled up the quilt around herself.

For the next week, Peder continued his demand for being fed every two hours and sometimes he screamed instead of sleeping between feedings. Nothing Nora did made him content. While he was not sick, he was not content, either.

“Hush, hush, my little one,” Nora crooned one night in the wee hours when she would have much preferred sleep. She had tried singing to and walking the colicky baby, rubbing his back and then trying the rocker for a time. But she had been so tired that night she had even fallen asleep in the rocker with him and woke up in the morning, cold and stiff, when Carl came down the stairs to head for milking.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” she whispered as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

He glanced her way but without looking into her face. With a barely perceptible nod, he turned back to the stove, added coal from the bucket, and opened the damper to bring up more heat.

She watched as he made his way out the door, looking like he carried a ten-ton load of coal on his shoulders.
“Uff da,”
she shook her head. “What will become of him?” Even she, who did not know him, could see that the light in his eyes had gone out.

Nora stiffly stood with Peder in her arms and carried him to the bedroom. Together, they went to bed and—Peder started to whimper.

By the end of the next week, Nora could concentrate only on putting one foot in front of the other. Feed the baby, prepare a meal, wash the diapers, feed the baby—when would she be able to add sleep to the routine? At the same time, Kaaren grew fussy, her temper popping out in unexpected places.

Carl had just come in the house for dinner when his daughter tripped over the edge of the rug and banged her knee.
“Uff da,”
she said with a scowl.

“Speak in English,” Carl ordered over his shoulder. He turned from the sink with dripping hands. “We speak English here.”

“Nora doesn’t.” The little girl stomped her foot.

Nora hid a grin in baby Peder’s blanket. She had understood what was said that time.

“Nora?” asked Carl.

“Ja.” She turned to Carl with a look that dared him to say more. Carl changed his mind. “We’ll talk later,” he spoke in German, slowly.

That will be a change,
Nora thought as she filled the soup bowls at the stove. When she leaned over to help Kaaren with her bread, she heard the little girl muttering very, very softly.

“Uff da, uff da, uff da.”
Her bottom lip stuck out and her eyebrows met each other in a line that Nora knew meant trouble.

“Nora, can I speak with you in the parlor?” Carl spoke slowly and nodded to the closed room.

With his back poker-straight and his hands clenched, Carl led the way into the freezing room. “Now.” He stepped around her and closed the door. “Kaaren must speak English. No Norwegian.”

Nora crossed her arms across her chest. She could feel her jaw tightening. She straightened her tired back and suddenly she did not feel quite so weary. “Ja!”

“You must learn to speak English.”

“Ja!” Nora shook a finger in his face as all her mother’s preaching against the evils of her daughter’s temper flew right up the chimney with the smoke.

“Ja! You tell me to speak English! How I would love to; if only I could! Who is there to teach me? A three-year-old who is just learning to talk?” Nora tried to slow her words down so he could understand her, but it was like stopping a freight train. “I thought you would teach me—ja, you do not even talk. You don’t talk to me. You don’t talk to Kaaren. Maybe you talk to your cows!” With that, she spun around, yanked open the door to the kitchen, stomped through, and slammed it shut in his face.

The resounding crash woke Peder, who began to wail. Kaaren stared at her, eyes wide and chin quivering.

“Uff da!”
Nora picked up the baby and carried him off for a change of britches. She heard Carl leave, gently closing the door behind him.

She sank down onto the bed, the fury draining away as quickly as it came. What had she done?

Silence hung in the air that night at supper and Nora could feel Carl watching her. Now she knew what a mouse stalked by a cat felt like.

Every morning Nora promised herself she would write to her family. At the end of each weary day, though, the letter still lived only in her mind.

One night, it seemed like she and her unhappy burden paced all night. Finally, she collapsed into the rocking chair. When she awoke, a quilt swaddled her from neck to toe.
Carl. He did this,
she thought. Warmth beyond that of the quilt seeped clear to her fingertips.

But her head ached, her nose dripped, and her eyes felt like they were glued shut. When she put Peder down in the cradle so she could begin the mush for breakfast, she started coughing.

The next morning, both Peder and Kaaren had runny noses and whiny voices. Nora coughed, Kaaren coughed, Peder coughed—and wailed.

By the next morning the baby’s throat was so scratchy he could hardly cry. Nora had the kettle steaming on the stove. But, when she leaned her head over it and tried to inhale deeply, her coughing cut her off. If only she had some of her mother’s special cold mixture.