Dakota Dream (5 page)

Clara did as asked and tucked in the blanket again. “I’ll be quick.”

“No hurry, I . . . ah, see the sun through the reds and golds of the tree leaves.” She snapped her mouth shut as if afraid she’d said too much.

Clara put a clamp on her grin and hurried to finish her chore.

While the coffee time passed quickly, it wasn’t because of the inspiring conversation. Mrs. Hanson joined them and, unlike her voluble self of the earlier hours, said very little. Her bright eyes missed nothing however, and her nod clearly expressed approval.

Mrs. Norgaard sipped her coffee and, after taking two bites of cake, crumbled the sliver of pound cake into her napkin. When she leaned her head against the back of her chair and let her eyes droop closed, Clara took pity on her.

“Here, ma’am, let’s put you back to bed.” She set the cup and saucer on the tray and clasped the older woman’s delicate hands. Together, she and Mrs. Hanson helped Mrs. Norgaard back to bed.

She sighed as the covers were smoothed over her. “That did feel good. Thank you.”

“I’ll let you rest now. Dinner won’t be for another hour or so.” Mrs. Hanson paused at the doorway. “Would you like yours up here on a tray, too, or would you come down?”

Clara shrugged in consternation. “What is best?”

“We have much to go over.”

“Ja, that is right.”

A deep sigh came from the vicinity of the bed.

The two women looked at each other, over at the bed, and then, covering their mouths with their hands, tiptoed out.

“Come down as soon as you’ve settled yourself in your room.” Mrs. Hanson patted Clara’s arm. “You’ll do real well with her.”

Clara opened the door to her room and immediately crossed to the windows to open the draperies. Why did everyone like it so dark in this house? She stood at the window, gazing at the long yard fronted by the street. Two young girls walked by, swinging empty lard pails that had contained their lunch. The sun was slipping downward as if in a hurry to get to bed.

Clara turned from the window and surveyed her new home. A canopied bed piled high with lace pillows and a crocheted spread took her breath away. Never had she slept in anything so grand. A lace-skirted dressing table with a triple mirror reflected the fading sunlight, and, on the opposite wall, a tall armoire stood open to receive her few clothes. Clara sank down on the edge of the bed. All this for her?

She traced the intricate pattern in the spread with one finger. The rose-colored coverlet underneath set the design off to perfection. She glanced up to catch her reflection in the mirror. Was that really Clara Johanson she saw and not some young woman born to all this wealth and beauty? She felt like pinching herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Speaking of dreaming, girl, you need to go downstairs and learn all you can before tomorrow, when this house and that woman in there all become your responsibility.” She spoke sternly, but the girl in the mirror couldn’t resist a wink.

By the time she returned to the haven of her room, she’d followed Mrs. Hanson through the entire house, learned where all the food was stored, how to stoke the cellar furnace with coal, the location of all the cleaning supplies, and tried to memorize a list of all Mrs. Norgaard’s likes and dislikes. The recipe books were all in English, as were the books in the library. She needn’t worry about the laundry or the deep cleaning because Mrs. Hanson expected to be back in a week or two at the most.

“Just keep doing what you started,” Mrs. Hanson said as she puffed her way back up the stairs. “I’ve settled her for the night and she has a bell by her bed to call you with since the bell pull only rings downstairs. If you need anything fixed, we always ask Dag, the blacksmith, and anything else, Reverend Moen will help.” She put a finger to her bottom lip. “I can’t think of anything else—oh, the doctor is two streets over and one back. We have an account at Lars Mercantile for groceries and what else.”

Clara felt like her head was spinning. What in the world had she gotten herself into—correction—what had she been gotten into?

“I’ll be leaving right after breakfast, so you get a good night’s sleep now.” Mrs. Hanson opened the door to Clara’s room and, after lighting the lamp by the door, stepped back. “Good night, my dear, and God bless.”

“And you.” Clara staggered across the room and collapsed on her bed. No wonder people with grand big houses hired others to work for them. The thought of all the dusting to be done made her shudder. She hefted her carpetbag onto the bed and removed her few garments, hanging some in the armoire and laying others in the drawers. She placed her Bible on the stand by her bed next to the lamp and her brushes on the dressing table. By the time she changed into a flannel nightgown and brushed her hair one hundred strokes, she could feel her eyelids drooping. She sank to her knees and leaned her elbows on the spread.

“Father in heaven,” she paused, waiting for the right words to come. “Thank You for this day.” She paused again. “I guess.” She shook her head, her thumbs rubbing into her eyes. “Mor says to thank You for everything and while that doesn’t seem to make much sense to me, I know Your word says that also. So thank You for Mrs. Norgaard and my new home and position in this beautiful house.” She huffed out her breath. “And thank You that we haven’t found my young man yet.” She shook her head again. “Forgive me for not being very thankful. Amen.” She started to rise and sank back down. “Amen—again.”

She blew out the lamp and climbed under the covers. Hands crossed on her chest, she stared at the canopy over her head. She thought back to the way she’d taken over in Mrs. Norgaard’s room, ordering her around like that.
Clara, I can’t believe that was you,
she told herself. Maybe God had a hand in it after all. She fell asleep with that thought in her mind.

A jangling snatched her back from the deep well of sleep.

Where was she? The jangling came again. Clara sat up in bed and threw back the covers. Mrs. Norgaard—the bell—was something wrong? She fumbled for the flint to light the candle then slid her feet into waiting slippers. Light in hand, she crossed the room and opened her door. The bell came again.

“Mrs. Norgaard, are you all right?” She knocked and opened the door almost in the same motion. Moonlight streamed in the windows, painting branch shadows on the floor.

“Please, I have to use the chamber pot. I’m afraid I might fall.”

“Yes, of course.” Clara set the candle and holder down on the table beside the bed, along with the weight of fear she’d shouldered with the bell jangle. Such a simple task and yet so important.

After she had Mrs. Norgaard tucked back in bed, Clara clasped the hand that lay on top of the coverlet. Gently she stroked the papery skin that stretched over bones so light as to be air-filled. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You might sing again. You have a lovely voice—so long since there’s been any singing in this house.” The words came slowly as if with great effort.

Clara closed her eyes and began to sing, “Beautiful Savior, King of creation, Son of God and Son of man . . .” When she finished the second verse, she picked up her candle and, leaving the door open a crack, made her way back to her own room. With both doors open, she would hear the summons more quickly.

This time when she crawled back into the bed, she, too, felt blessed by the music. She thought of all the years her Mor had sung her children to sleep just like this. Who’d have thought these songs of her childhood would play an important part in her life now?

By the time Mrs. Hanson left for her train in the morning, Clara was feeling like the train had run over her, or at least dragged her down the track. Mrs. Norgaard showed her restlessness by ringing her bell or pulling the cord every few minutes with something she either needed or wanted to tell Mrs. Hanson. The stairs were looking higher and higher with each trip.

“This is a good thing.” Mrs. Hanson nodded up the stairs just before she left the house. “Herself is at least taking an interest in life again.” She patted Clara’s cheek. “I knew the minute I saw you, you’d be just what she needed. Now remember, I’ll be back for the laundry and such. You spend as much time with Mrs. Norgaard as she allows.” Her eyes twinkled. “Rather as much as you can talk her into.”

Clara nodded. “I hope your mother will be well soon.” She waved and then leaned her back against the door after closing it. “Because I wish you were back here already.”

The bell tinkled from the second door on the right—upstairs.

“Coming.” Clara checked her appearance in the long mirror over a carved walnut table in the hall. She smoothed one side back and reset the comb that held her wavy golden hair up and off her face. After fluffing the tendrils of hair that insisted on curling over her forehead and wrinkling her nose at the image in the mirror, she trotted up the stairs.

“Ma’am.” Clara stepped to the side of the bed.

Mrs. Norgaard opened her eyes as if the effort were beyond her strength. “Is Mrs. Hanson on her way?”

“Ja and none too soon. It is a good thing we are not too far from the station.”

“Could you help me sit up against my pillows?”

“I can do better than that.” Clara crossed the room and picked up the oval-backed chair to bring it back by the bed. “Let’s get you up in this while I freshen your bed. You must have a wrapper around here somewhere.” She checked all the usual places—foot of the bed, coat tree, under the covers—and finally stepped to the carved walnut armoire and opened the doors.

The scent of lavender wafted out. Clara sniffed appreciatively and studied the garments hanging in front of her. Morning dresses, shirtwaists, bombazine skirts, all in rich fabrics and jewel colors. She reached out to stroke the sleeve of a sable fur jacket. Such luxury. Resisting the urge to lay her cheek against the sleek garment, she turned instead to the hooks on the door. Both shawl and wool robe hung there, plain hens among peacocks.

“Here, now.” She carried the robe to the bed and smiled down at her charge. “Once you are sitting up, I could brush your hair for you. That was always a treat for me, when my older sister would brush my hair.”

Mrs. Norgaard nodded and eased over to the side of the bed. Clara helped her sit upright and snuggled the robe around the thin shoulders. Once situated in the chair, the woman sat up straight, obeying the dictates of a lifetime.

Clara picked up the hairbrush from the dressing table and, after removing the cap and pins, began drawing it through the limp strands. She smiled when she heard a sigh of appreciation. “That does feel good, doesn’t it?” She continued the long, even strokes. “Perhaps tomorrow I could wash it for you. Mrs. Hanson said you were about due for a bath. Think how wonderful soaking in the tub would feel.” She leaned forward to peek around the woman’s shoulder. Mrs. Norgaard’s eyes were closed but a slight smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.

Clara felt like she’d just been given a gift.
In for a penny; in for a pound,
she thought, quoting one of her mother’s often-used maxims. “I know you’ve had a great sorrow in your life. Tell me about your husband, Mr. Norgaard. What was he like? How did you meet?”

Clara waited. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut?
God, please keep me from saying or doing the wrong things. I so want to help.

“He was such a handsome young man, my Einer. I lived in Minneapolis with my parents and this young man came to work at the bank there. My father owned a store and he frequently sent me to the bank for him since I helped him with the accounts and behind the counter when he needed me.”

Clara kept up the soothing motions. “So you met him at the bank?”

“No, I saw him at the bank. But we weren’t introduced until church one Sunday.” She chuckled softly. “Back then one didn’t have the freedom of young folks now. We had to be properly introduced by an outside party. I think he bribed the pastor to introduce us.” Only the risp of the brush and gentle breathing disturbed the silence.

“Such a smile he had.” She shook her head. “And he was trying to be so proper, to impress my mother and father, you know. They stayed right on either side of me.” She tipped her head back so Clara could reach the brow more easily. “Penny novels talked of love at first sight, but I thought they were making that up—until Einer spoke to me.” Silence fell again.

Clara peeked around to catch the sight of fat tears rolling down her charge’s sunken cheeks. She fashioned the gray strands into a bun and pinned it high on the back of Mrs. Norgaard’s head. Then, after placing the brush on the dressing table, she knelt in front of the older woman and covered the trembling thin hands with the warmth of her own.

The tears flowed unchecked. Mrs. Norgaard sat upright, as if her back touching the chair were a mortal sin. Her body remained perfectly still, except for the quivering hands and the coursing tears.

Clara felt like her heart was being torn from her chest. Tears burned at the back of her throat and behind her eyes.
Lord God, have mercy on her. Bring healing for her grief.
She reached into her pocket for a clean handkerchief and gently wiped the tears away.

The clock on the tall dresser struck the hour, eleven chimes. Clara found herself counting them, as if at the end there might be some incident of great import. The last bong faded away.

“I believe I’d like to return to my bed now.” Mrs. Norgaard pushed herself upright using the arms of the chair, placed her hand on Clara’s arm, and crossed to the bed. Once under the covers, she patted the sides of her hair. “Thank you, child. You were right; that did indeed feel good.”

After Clara left the room she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Norgaard meant the hair brushing felt good or maybe the talking and the tears? She hummed the refrain of “Onward Christian Soldiers” all the way down the stairs and into the spotless kitchen. Soon, the whistling teakettle accompanied her.

“What we need in this house is some music,” she told the pink geranium hanging in the kitchen window. A black-capped chickadee landed on the tray attached outside the window where Mrs. Hanson left crumbs for the birds. “That’s it.” Clara spun in place. “A bird to sing. One of those golden canaries like my aunt had. I wonder where you would find one clear out here on the prairie?”

She thought about it as she sliced the bread to toast for dinner. Mrs. Hanson had made a pot of chicken soup before she left, and now it was warming on the monstrous iron stove.

“I’ll just have to ask Ingeborg when I can go see her. Nora said Ingeborg knows everything and everyone in Soldahl.” She cocked her head at the flower in the window. “I think you better learn to talk or, better yet, sing, because if someone comes they will think I am surely losing my mind.” The geranium wisely kept silent.

The peal of the doorbell brought Clara rushing downstairs again; she had just taken Mrs. Norgaard her dinner. By the time she reached the door, the thing clanged again.

“Uff da,”
she muttered. “I’m coming.” She reached to open the door. A man, face showing florid around a mustache more salt than pepper, all topped by a mashed down fedora, touted a black bag that gave away his identity without a word. “Doctor?”

“Yes, I’m Dr. Harmon.” He took off his hat as he stepped across the threshold. “Mrs. Norgaard asleep?”

“No, I just took her dinner up to her.” Clara moved back to give the portly man room to enter the hall. “May I take your coat?” She shut the door and, after helping him remove his black wool coat, hung it on the brass tree next to the hall table.

“Good, then I can talk with you first.” He walked into the parlor like he’d been here many times before.

“Ah, would you like some coffee?” At his nod, she added, “And have you eaten? I could bring you some chicken soup.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Instead of sitting in the parlor, he followed her into the kitchen. “Why don’t I join you in here? Make it easier for all.” Just then the bell pull sounded. “Ah, herself is callin’ you. She wants to know who’s here, no doubt. You run up and I’ll just pour myself a cup of coffee and make myself to home.” He suited his actions to his words and pulled out a chair at the round oak table in the corner.

Clara darted a look over her shoulder to make sure he was all right and climbed the stairs. She made a point of not counting how many times she’d been up and down them already today.

“You’ve hardly touched your soup,” Clara said before her patient could respond. “And here it was nice and hot. Mayhap I should bring you another bowl.”

Mrs. Norgaard shook her head. “No, I had a bit. Now, who is it that came? I thought I heard Dr. Harmon’s voice.”

“That’s right. He’s going to eat downstairs first, then he’ll be up. Or—” Eyes narrowed, Clara studied her patient. “Or, he can eat up here with you.” She spun out the door. “I’ll be right back” She descended the stairs in a swirl of skirts and indecision. Should she take charge here or not? Would the company make Mrs. Norgaard eat better, maybe smile? Let’s see, they could move that table from over by the window and put it up against the bed. Then chairs for her and the doctor.

She smacked one fist into the palm of the other hand. She would turn this into a party yet.

Doc Harmon beamed at her, all the while nodding his head while she shared her plan. Together they set two trays with soup in a rose-sprigged tureen, coffee in a silver server, and buttered toast nestled by a pot of jam. Clara included a plate of sour cream sugar cookies for dessert. Like two conspirators in a crime, they set out.

“Good day, Mrs. Norgaard. We’ve come to share our dinner with you.” He set his tray on the dressing table and crossed the room to bring the round table to the bed. “Now, would you rather have a chair or dangle your feet over the edge of the bed. Clara says you’ve already been up for a while this morning.”

Mrs. Norgaard could hardly get a squeak in edgewise.

Just as they had the furniture all rearranged and Mrs. Norgaard moved to her chair, the doorbell pealed again. Clara dashed down the stairs and pulled up at the door, feeling like she was flying apart.

“Reverend Moen.” She stepped back and motioned him inside.

“Good day, Clara. How is Mrs. Norgaard today?”

“Would you like to come up and join us for coffee? Or soup? Dr. Harmon and I were just about to eat.”

“Coffee, yeh, soup,
nei takk
,” he said as he hung up his coat. “You go on up. I’ll get another cup.” Clara dashed off to the kitchen. Talk about having a party.

When she got upstairs, Dr. Harmon had settled his patient in her chair, pulled up two more, and dished up the soup. Clara finished pouring the coffee and asked Reverend Moen to say grace. As the familiar words flowed forth, Clara could feel herself back home in Norway with her family gathered around the dinner table.

At the “Amen,” she looked up to see Mrs. Norgaard reach up with a tentative hand to smooth her already sleek hair.

I’m glad I did her hair this morning,
Clara thought.
No woman likes to have company when she feels a sight.

It was quickly obvious that the two men were good friends who liked to give each other a bad time. And as Clara suspected, her patient forgot her lack of hunger and downed both soup and toast.

By the end of the meal, Clara knew all the latest news of Soldahl. A young boy had fallen out of a tree at recess over at the school and sprained his wrist. His mother threatened to break his arm if he didn’t stay out of trees. Doc had agreed with her.

“That young whippersnapper is an accident waiting to happen, not waiting as the case may be.” The doctor snorted after telling his story. “He can get into more mischief.”

“Isn’t he the one who put a mouse in the new teacher’s desk drawer?” Reverend Moen asked.

The doctor nodded. “And the frog in the water pail.”

Clara squeezed her lips together. It sounded like they were describing her younger brother. Mor had been afraid Lars wouldn’t make it to manhood.