Dakota Dusk (10 page)

On Friday, Jude announced that he was finished with the outside work on the school and would be moving on to the barn Mr. Larson was building for Ed Jameson. They hoped to have both the house and barn usable by the time winter set in.

“I’ve asked John Johnson to walk with you.” Jude tipped his hat and turned away as usual. “He’ll be here at seven-thirty Monday morning. He’ll also walk you home in the evening.”

Rebekka fumed as she strode up the walk. He could at least have asked her instead of telling her. But now that darkness was coming earlier, she knew she’d be grateful for the escort. She could have asked one of the older children herself.
But would you have?
the voice from within asked her. No, she had to admit, she wouldn’t have.

Saturday, she saw Adolph Strand at the mercantile and the look he flashed her spelled pure hatred. Rebekka ordered her hands to stop trembling but it did no good. She left without purchasing the writing paper for which she’d come.

That night, the nightmare returned for the first time since the incident at the school. Hands grabbing for her . . . foul breath . . . the smell of liquor gagging her . . . eyes so filled with hate she felt like she’d been stabbed . . . a voice screaming. She sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding enough to jump out of her chest.

The room lay dark around her. Without the friendly moon to light it, all the shadows seemed to hover, strangling her every breath. Rebekka coughed, the sound chasing the shadows back to their corners. She drew in three deep breaths and let them out, feeling her heart slow back down and take up its normal pace again.

She lay down against the pillows and created in her mind the picture of Jesus the shepherd, carrying one of the sheep. “Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.” She repeated the name aloud until she could feel the warmth creeping back into her bones. The name faded into whispers and silence as she drifted off to sleep.

When she arrived at the schoolhouse on Monday morning, the new heating stove resided in its place of glory, all shiny black and chrome. After the frost of the last few evenings, the heat would be welcome in the mornings.

“I think we should have a celebration on Saturday night the week after this,” she announced at the close of school. “We’ll celebrate both the new school building and the end of harvest. What do you think?”

“Will it be a dance?” one of the older girls asked.

“Of course. But I’ve been thinking. What if we have a box social first to help pay for the new desks?”

As the cheers erupted, Rebekka raised her hands for quiet. “You all make sure to tell your parents, now. I’ll post a sign down at the mercantile and tell everyone I see. We’ll have a real party.”

“When will our desks be finished?” one of the younger children asked.

“Not until after they can’t work outside anymore. Maybe we’ll have them done for Christmas. I think Mr. Weinlander will be doing them.”

“I saw some desks in the Sears catalog. They was real nice.”

“Were, Elmer, were nice.”

“That’s what I said, they’s nice.”

“All right everyone, let’s have a grammar review right now.” Groans resounded back to her. “I am, past tense, now.”

“I was.” The class answered back.

“She or he?”

“Was.” One “were” was sounded from over by the window. “They?”

“Were.”

“Now do you understand, Elmer?” He nodded. “Let’s all repeat it together.” The declension echoed from all their throats. Rebekka smiled. “Class dismissed.”

At supper that night Rebekka announced her plans. “And I think we could provide some of the music for dancing. This way the same musicians won’t have to play all night and not get to dance.”

“I’d like that. We need to find another piano player, too,” Mrs. Sampson said, passing the bowl of stew around once more.

“We won’t have to worry about that. The school piano burned in the fire, remember?” Rebekka dished herself out a small helping. “And I hate to borrow the church organ. Every time we move it, it gets wheezier.”

“Organ music just doesn’t do for dancing like a piano anyway. We’ll do without. There are enough fiddles, guitars, and such,” Mrs. Knutson said, setting the bowl down in front of Jude. “Help yourself, young man. You need plenty of fueling for the work you’re doing.” She patted his arm. “I been hearing mighty good things about you.”

Jude looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Mrs. Jameson was in today to order a new winter coat since hers burned in the fire. She says the barn’s about done and you’ve started framing the house. This time she’ll finally have two more bedrooms. And for their brood, that’ll make a big difference.”

Jude nodded. “They need more room all right. They’ve been living in tents since the fire.” He helped himself to another of Mrs. Sampson’s rolls. “That Jameson has two fine sons. Not afraid of work, let me tell you.”

Rebekka listened as the conversation flowed around her. Each night the four of them talked together more, with Jude taking part rather than sitting silently, watching them with those sorrowful eyes. While she hadn’t seen him smile yet, at least there was animation in his face. What would his laugh be like? Rich like his voice?

“. . . don’t you think?” Mrs. Sampson waved her hand in front of Rebekka’s face. “Hello, there.”

“What? Oh, I guess I was off gathering wool somewhere.” Rebekka shook her head. “What did you say?”

Mrs. Sampson grinned a knowing grin. “I asked if you thought we could have this party without any liquor being served?”

Rebekka looked up to find Jude watching her, as if aware her thoughts were of him. She swallowed. She could feel the warmth start below her neck and work its way up. One would think an old-maid schoolmarm like her would be past the blushing stage.

“I certainly hope so.” She folded her napkin and slipped it back into its ring by her plate. “In fact, I shall make sure everyone knows that that is the rule.” Now she even sounded like an old-maid schoolmarm.

“The men won’t like that much.” Jude pushed his plate back and leaned his elbows on the table. “And if you want to make money for the school, you want plenty of men there to buy dinner boxes.”

“Surely, they can do without for one party.” Rebekka leaned her elbows on the table, directly across from him. She could actually feel the steel setting into her jaw.

“Now, now.” Mrs. Sampson stood and began clearing the plates. “Anyone for spice cake? I made it this afternoon from a new recipe I got from Isabel down at the post office.”

Jude leaned back, breaking eye contact with Rebekka. “Make mine a big piece, please. My mother used to make the best spice cake.”

Rebekka felt her jaw drop. The steel melted. This was the first time he had ever mentioned family. She stood and helped Mrs. Sampson clear the table. When she looked a question at her friend, the older woman just nodded.

“Here, you can pass these around.” She handed Rebekka the dessert plates. “I’ll pour the coffee.”

But when Rebekka went to bed that night, she couldn’t get over the idea that all men thought there should be booze at every social event, and when it wasn’t served, they brought their own. She thought of an article she’d read in a newspaper. Maybe prohibition would be a good idea. The suffragettes were marching both for the end of liquor and the beginning of the women’s vote. What would happen in Willowford if the women got together and made their views known?

Friday afternoon the school received its first cleaning by all of the pupils and their teacher. They washed windows, swept and cleaned all the building debris out of the schoolyard, and cleared an area outside for dancing. Since it would be a harvest moon and if it wasn’t too cold, the dancing would be outside.

Rebekka lifted her face to the late afternoon sun. Indian summer brought its own kind of warmth—crisp nights, cottonwood and willow leaves turning autumn yellow, the few maples and elms splashed with russet and gold and all the shades in between. But the days called to her, inviting her out to enjoy the last warm slanting rays of sun, yet with a tang that sang of coming cold.

“Mith Thtenthrude.” Emily tugged on her skirts. “Look what I brung you.” She handed Rebekka three nodding Black-eyed Susans she’d found in the ditch.

“Thank you. I’ll put these in water on my desk. They’re just right for the party.” The little girl smiled, her grin stretching rounded cheeks until her entire face glowed at the compliment. Rebekka squatted down and wrapped Emily in a hug.

Jude saw the two of them, towhead to mahogany head, as he rode his horse back from the Jameson farm. The slanting sun lit the tableau with a golden light, catching him right in his heart.

He pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt, and crossed his arms on the saddle horn. But the moment disappeared as Rebekka rose to her feet and patted the little one on the shoulder. Emily ran off and the teacher looked up to see the rider on the black horse. She waved and turned back to the schoolhouse.

“All right, everyone, I think we’re finished. Would you rather leave early or hear another chapter of
Connecticut Yankee
?”

“Read to us. Read to us.”

“Everyone find a place to sit, then. I’ll get the book and be right back.” She turned and entered the schoolhouse, returning in a minute with the book. As she took her place on the top step, children clustered around her like she was a hen with too many chicks.

Jude dismounted and walked his horse into the schoolyard. He folded his legs and sat Indian fashion on the ground, just like the children who turned and welcomed him with smiles as if this were an everyday event.

Rebekka caught her breath. She hadn’t expected an adult to join her audience—especially this particular adult. She found her place and began reading. At first her tongue stumbled over the words, but, as she got into the story, she forgot Jude and read to entertain her children.

The night of the party the harvest moon climbed over the edge of the earth and into the sky, huge and golden. While the breeze carried a nip, the warmth of the earth rose to help spread fog veils in the hollows. Laughing people greeted each other as they walked, rode, or drove their wagons and buggies into the schoolyard. When the yard filled, they pulled up along the road.

Rebekka watched as it seemed the entire county turned out for the box social. The tables inside groaned under the fancy boxes, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Every woman, young and old, had prepared her box in secret, yet hoping a certain someone would buy the right one so they could enjoy the meal together.

She’d brought her box in her bag so no one would see which was hers. Wrapped in blue-and-white checked gingham with a bright red bow, it lay underneath several others. Wouldn’t it be something if Jude bought her box? She watched the door, but that certain man hadn’t come through it yet.

Lars Larson had volunteered to be the auctioneer for the evening, so when it looked like most of the people had arrived, he stepped to the door to announce the start of the bidding. Everyone crammed into the school building, and even with all the windows and the door wide open, the temperature rose like a thermometer stuck in hot water.

“All right folks, let’s start with this little beauty here.” He held up a red box with a blue ribbon, ran it past his nose, and declared, “Whoever gets this box will have some good eatin’.” He held it high. “Now, what am I bid? Remember folks, this is all for a good cause. Our children need new equipment to go with their new schoolhouse.”

The stack of decorated boxes dwindled as the basket of coins filled. Rebekka kept one eye on the table and the other on the door. When Jude finally walked in, she breathed a sigh of relief. When he bid on another box, she felt a stab of . . . She considered the feeling. It couldn’t be jealousy, could it? She shook her head.

“Something wrong?” Mrs. Sampson asked from beside her.

“Oh, no, no. I just remembered something.”

“Jude arrived.”

“I know.”

Mrs. Sampson chuckled. Her box went on the block next and Jude bid on it. The price rose all the way to a dollar before he dropped out and Ed Johnson from the mercantile claimed his dinner partner.

Mrs. Sampson fluttered her hand as she left with her partner and the box.

The three remaining boxes looked lonely on the tables that had been so full. Two looked almost the same, both had blue-and-white gingham but one sported a blue bow, the other a red.

Mr. Larson waved his hands over them and picked up Rebekka’s. “Now, what am I bid for this lovely creation? I know there are some of you out there without a supper partner. Let’s make these last boxes count.”

Rebekka kept her eyes straight ahead. She didn’t dare look back at the man in the full-sleeved white shirt and dark pants. Without his fedora, his hair gleamed deep gold in the light given off by the myriad of flickering kerosene lamps set around the room. The silver streak caught the light and . . . she refused to look again.

“I’m bid one dollar. Who’ll make it one and a quarter?” Mr. Larson continued with the singsong chant of a born auctioneer. “One—there, one and a half.”

Rebekka wanted to see who was bidding, but she daren’t even look. When she heard two dollars, she swallowed—hard.

Jude’s voice rang out, “Two and a half.”

Down in her middle, Rebekka felt a little shiver begin. Had someone told him which was her box? She looked to the back where Mrs. Sampson shook her head.

“Three dollars,” young Johnson sang out.

“Too rich for my blood.” Jude bowed to the younger bidder.

Rebekka felt her heart bounce somewhere down about her toes, but she made sure a smile showed on her face as she stepped forward.

John looked from her to the young woman standing beside her, and Rebekka could see the consternation on his face.

“Why he thought he was bidding on Elizabeth’s box.” Rebekka looked back to Jude, who shrugged and bid two-fifty on the other gingham box. As he came forward to claim his partner for the supper, he offered Elizabeth his hand. The two young people tried to look happy, but their smiles, even to those who knew them, were forced.

“Well, now,” Mr. Larson slammed his hammer down. “It appears to me we had a slight mix-up with the boxes. I thought no one was supposed to know which was which.”