Dakota Dusk (9 page)

Rebekka watched him go. Funny, but for a minute there he had seemed almost friendly. She finished up her work and dusted off her hands. Tomorrow the men were slated to build the desks. They’d be crude until later on in the winter, Mr. Larson had told her, when finishing work would be done. Right now he had a house and barn to frame and enclose before the snow fell since both of them had burned in the prairie fire.

Rebekka closed the door and set off for home. She could hear the hammers and saws at work behind her. The men were finishing the privies and the coal shed.

On Monday morning, she arrived at the school early, too excited to eat breakfast. When she opened the door, the fragrance of new wood greeted her and she stopped just to look around. The American flag hung from its stick in one front corner, a globe donated by the mercantile dominated the other. While the children’s desks and benches were still unpainted wood, they at least had places at which they could sit and write. Her desk appeared to be the only real piece of furniture in the room.

She left the outside door to the cloakroom open and walked softly to the front of the room. After laying her satchel on the desk, she turned to face the benches. “Please, Father,” Rebekka whispered, “bless this year and all of us who come here to learn and to teach. We ask Thy special protection on this place so that all who come here may be safe and feel wanted. Fill me with wisdom and love for all my children. I thank Thee in Jesus’ precious name. Amen.”

When she opened her eyes she thought she saw a shadow crossing the door. Had someone been there? Immediately she heard two male voices in the schoolyard—Jude’s and Mr. Larson’s. By the time Rebekka walked to the window and looked out, Mr. Larson was climbing back into his wagon to drive away.

He looked up and caught her wave. “Have a good day, Miss Stenesrude,” he called and waved again at her. “Thank you.” At his bidding the horse trotted out to the dirt road and turned left, away from town.

Rebekka checked the time on her brooch watch—seven-thirty. Still half an hour until school started. She wandered to the window overlooking the back of the school. Jude stood on a ladder, nailing the shingles onto the roof of the boys’ privy; the girls’ was already finished. Hat pushed back on his forehead, shirt sleeves rolled back to his elbows, he laid a shingle, nailed it in place, and laid down the other, all with a rhythm born of long practice.

She’d never enjoyed watching a man work before, in fact, she’d never much watched a man do anything. A child’s laughter drew her away from the window and back to her desk. The day was truly beginning . . . a whole new year was beginning.

“Miss Stenesrude, see the books I brought.” Yes, school had begun.

“That’s wonderful.” Rebekka walked across the room to stand at the door. Buggies and wagons brought children from the farms farther out; those from town walked across the bridge or ran up the lane. Two tied their horses in the shed.

“John, will you ring the bell?” She checked her watch—five minutes to eight—right on time.

The
bong-bong, bong-bong
rang out across the schoolyard, over the river, and out to town. The children cheered, their voices loud and high with delight. At eight o’clock they were lined up in two lines for the final bell. Rebekka turned and led her charges into their new schoolhouse. Elizabeth led the pledge of allegiance, another child recited a Bible verse, Rebekka led the prayer, and the day was begun.

As Rebekka assigned places at the bench/desks, she collected all the books that the children brought, carefully writing the family’s name in each book so they could be returned when finished.

She introduced three new pupils, children of the recent arrivals to the area. All the while concentrating on the children and the beginning of the day, she kept one ear on the hammering coming from outside the building.

“Now I know it will be hard to concentrate with all the noise around us, but I expect you to pay attention just like you always have.”

All the children nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, we all know we are short of supplies, so we will share books. I expect those of you in the fourth grade and above to help with the younger ones.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Giggles erupted from a smart comment from the left side of the room, and Rebekka nailed the guilty one with a stern look. “Andrew, would you like to say that so we all can hear?”

A dark-haired boy with faded overalls rose to his feet. “No, ma’am.”

“Then we’ll hear no more such outbursts?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am.” He shuffled his feet and looked up at her from under indecently long, dark eyelashes.

Rebekka shook her head and then checked her watch—ten o’clock. “There will be a twenty-minute recess. When you all come back in, I expect you to pay attention. And keep out of the way of the men working.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excused.” The horde leaped to its feet and turned to pound out the door when Rebekka raised her voice. “Order!” The pupils walked sedately to the door, but once through it, broke into shouts of laughter.

Rebekka sank down into her chair. Why did she feel like it should be time for school to be out rather than only morning recess?
It’s just the first day,
she reminded herself.
Every year’s first day is just like this—except, for the pounding and sawing going on outside.

As her usual habit, she started reading a book to the entire school the last half hour of the day. “We’re going to read one of Mark Twain’s lesser-known stories to start this year. It’s called
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
Have any of you read it?” When they all shook their heads, she opened the book and started to read.

Her voice floated over the enraptured children and out the windows to the ears of the man working on a window frame. Jude paused in his measuring. He’d read the story way back when he was in school, but no one with such a musical voice had ever read to him. Schools, they were a’changin’, that was for sure.

That night at the supper table, Mrs. Sampson and Mrs. Knutson kept asking questions until Rebekka related her entire day. The only thing she failed to mention was her awareness of a certain carpenter working outside the building.

When she fell into bed that night, she didn’t even have to roll over before being sound asleep.

“Was there a rainstorm during the night?” she asked at the breakfast table in the morning.

“Thunder, lightning, the works. You mean you slept right through it all?” Mrs. Sampson set the bowls of oatmeal before each of her boarders.

“I guess so. I’m not sure I even remember crawling into bed.” When she glanced for a second time at the empty chair across from her, Mrs. Sampson chimed in.

“Mr. Weinlander ate at six. Said he needed to get a head start on the day, what with so much to do and all. That man, he’s a real hard worker, he is.”

“Oh,” Rebekka said as she sprinkled brown sugar on her cereal and then poured milk over the top. She hadn’t really wanted to know where he was, had she?

By Thursday things were settling into a pattern at school. Everyone seemed to ignore the nailing outside and was reading, writing, and working their arithmetic on the no-longer-brand-new blackboard.

After the last child ran out the door that day, she swept the room, washed the blackboard, and settled at her desk to correct some essays she’d assigned during the day. She chuckled as she read one child’s highlight of her summer. She’d fallen in a patch of poison ivy on a picnic and spent days soaking in oatmeal baths. “Now I know what poison ivy looks like,” she wrote at the end. “And it’s not pretty.”

Rebekka turned to the next paper and checked the pile of those remaining. She had six or seven papers to go when she heard someone walking up the three stairs to the cloakroom. She raised her head, ready to answer any question one of the workmen would have.

The man paused in the door. Shivers started at her toes and shuddered their way to the top of her head. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been out cold, knocked unconscious by the pitcher she had slammed against his head.

“Thought I’d find you here about now.” Adolph’s voice wore the sneer she’d heard hissed through the night of months before.

“Will you please leave?” Glacier frost couldn’t have been colder.

“Now, don’t act thata way. You know we got unfinished business, you and me.” He swaggered down the center row, between the benches.

“If you don’t leave, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” He placed his hands flat on the desktop and leaned toward her.

It was all Rebekka could do to keep from gagging. He’d borrowed his swagger from a bottle down at the saloon, just like that night he attacked her.

“Get out!” She hissed from between clenched teeth. When he leaned closer, she raised her voice, putting all the authority she’d ever learned into the words. “Get out! Don’t you ever come near me again!”

Her command ended on a shriek as his hand snaked out and grabbed her by the neck to pull her into a kiss.

Rebekka screamed again and flailed at him with her fists. Suddenly, there was nothing there to hit. Adolph, with Jude’s strong hands at neck and seat, was tap-dancing back down the aisle, and then Jude flung him out the door.

Rebekka could hear the thud when he hit the ground.

“And if you ever come near her again, this is only a taste of what you’ll get, you hear?” Jude was yelling.

“I’ll get you!” Adolph said as he clambered aboard his horse and rode away.

Jude turned and strode back into the schoolroom. Rebekka met him halfway down the aisle, her eyes wild and tears streaking down her cheeks. When he opened his arms, she threw herself into them. Her braid tumbled down her back and sobs shook her frame.

“Easy now, easy.” Jude held her close, murmuring words of comfort, in spite of the hard line of his jaw. By all the saints, he’d felt like killing the young fool. “Did he hurt you?”

Rebekka shook her head and burrowed closer to his shoulder. “I got . . .
hiccup
. . . away last time, too.”

“Last time?” Now Jude was sure he’d go after the fool.

When Rebekka finally quit sobbing and calmed down, Jude felt reluctant to let her go. When she pulled back and dug in her sleeve cuff for a handkerchief, he stepped back. “Are you all right now?”

“I . . . I think so.” She blew her nose and mopped her eyes.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Do you mean physically or emotionally?”

“Either.”

“Or my pride?”

“That, too.”

Rebekka took in a deep breath and let it out. “All three.”

“That brute!”

“No, no. He just pulled my hair and jerked my neck. He didn’t really injure me physically. But why should any man think he can treat a woman that way and get away with it?”

“Did you tell the sheriff last time?”

Rebekka gave him the same look she gave a pupil who’d repeatedly made a dumb statement. Then she studied the knuckle on her right thumb. “I couldn’t tell anyone he’d attacked me. He said he’d tell them I en—” she choked on the words, “I enticed him. That I was asking for it. And even if no one believed him, my name would be dragged through the mud and no respecting school system would hire me.”

Jude tried to think of an answer to refute her statements but he couldn’t. She was right.

“It’s the liquor that does it. It’s always the liquor.” Rebekka shook her head. When she realized her hair was hanging down her back, she reached up to coil it again.

Jude stepped back farther and tightened his jaw. If she only knew. How many times had he teased a woman? How many times had he taken kisses rather than asking? How many times had he been drunk and had no idea the next day of what he’d done?

“I need to finish up outside. Will you wait and let me walk you home? That way we know he won’t bother you again.”

Rebekka fought a battle with herself, but it never showed on her face. Yes, she wanted to walk home with him. No, she didn’t want to come to depend on a man, especially this man who would one of these days be going on down the road. No, she didn’t want Adolph to attack her again. Yes, she’d . . .

“I’ll be here correcting papers whenever you are ready.”

She had to force herself to concentrate on the essays. Whenever she thought of the close call, she started to shake all over. She’d never felt so vulnerable in her own school before. The more she thought about it, the more furious she became. Anger at Adolph, at the liquor, at the men who serve liquor, at those who drink it, smoldered deep within her.

The walk home with Jude passed in silence, both of them caught up in anger at the same situation but from different angles. Jude plotted ways to take care of the young Mr. Strand. Rebekka dreamed of destroying the saloon.

“I’ll be ready to leave when you are in the morning.” Jude laid a hand on her arm to stop her at the gate to the boardinghouse yard. He continued before she could quit sputtering. “I know you hate having to accept my help but, please, think of the children. If you let me walk you over and back, you’ll always be there for them.”

“But I . . . I have to go early to start the stove once the cold weather hits.”

“I could do that.”

“And shovel the steps off and—”

“Some of those things you could ask the older boys to do.”

“I do, but they come from so far and have to get home to do their chores. Mr. Weinlander—”

“Jude. I think after what we’ve been through, you could call me by my given name.”

“Jude, then. I really can’t ask this of you.”

“You aren’t. I’m offering.” He leaned over to unlatch the gate. “And Miss Stenesrude—”

“Rebekka.”

He said her name, as if tasting it on his tongue. “Rebekka, at least try it my way for the next week or so. If Mr. Larson needs me on another job, we’ll discuss this. All right?”

Rebekka nodded. “All right. And thank you. I—”

“That’s enough. You go on in, I have to wash up.”

Rebekka stepped through the gate he held open and walked on up the back steps and into the kitchen.

“Child, what happened to you?” Mrs. Sampson dropped her long-handled spoon and crossed the room to stand in front of Rebekka. Gently, she grasped Rebekka’s chin and turned it to the right. “You have bruise marks on your neck. And your hair is down. What happened?”

Rebekka sank down into a chair at the table and poured her story into the widow’s sympathetic ear. “I thought Jude was going to kill him there for a minute, but he threw him out the door instead. Thank God he was there or . . . or—” Rebekka closed her eyes against the horror of it.

Mrs. Sampson set a cup of coffee in front of the younger woman. “Here.” She dumped two spoonfuls of sugar in it and stirred. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

That evening they all gathered in the sitting room as if in unspoken agreement that no one wanted to be alone. Rebekka sat down at the piano and lifted the keyboard cover. She ran her fingers lightly across the keys, letting the notes seep in to relax the fear and anger from the afternoon. As she drifted into a Chopin sonata, she could feel the tension drain out of her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she let her mind float, feeling the beauty of each measure. Her hands continued to work their magic as she flowed into “Beautiful Savior” and then to “Sweet Hour of Prayer.”

Jude watched her from the wing chair in the corner. Lamplight glowed in the auburn highlights of her hair, now slicked back into its tight restriction. Her lashes lay like dark veils on the high rise of her cheeks. The music drew them together, wrapping them in a magic net. But she didn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to tell her. What would it be like to have a woman like her in his life? He took the idea out and toyed with it, all the while watching the straight back of the woman on the piano stool, swaying in time with the music. But he put it away. He didn’t deserve a woman like Rebekka. He didn’t deserve any happiness at all. He had killed it long before.

“Why don’t you go get your harmonica?” Mrs. Sampson leaned across the intricately carved table between their chairs and whispered so as not to disturb the player. “Mrs. Knutson will get her fiddle and I’ll get my banjo. Let’s see how we all sound together.”

The three left the room at the same time.

Rebekka opened her eyes, finally aware of the near-trance she’d been in. Music did that for her. “Hey, did I play so badly you have to leave?”

“You know better than that.” Mrs. Sampson turned at the newel post on the landing. “We’re just going to join you. No sense you having all the playing fun.”

The two women tuned their strings to the piano while Jude practiced a few trills on the mouth organ. Rebekka spun the stool around, a wide smile replacing the former somberness. “So, what’ll we start with?”

“You know ‘Turkey in the Straw?’” Mrs. Sampson strummed an opening chord then looked at Jude. When he nodded, she strummed again and away they went. The lively music had all their feet tapping. They played on with each of them calling out tunes.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Sampson said, laying her banjo down. “I haven’t played for so long, my fingers are near to bleeding.”

“Me, too.” Mrs. Knutson agreed as she blew on the end of her fingers on her left hand. “These strings are murder. We’ll just have to do this more often.” She laid her fiddle back into its case. “I haven’t had so much fun since . . . since I don’t know when.”

Rebekka closed the keyboard cover. “You would have thought we’ve been playing together forever. There won’t be a shortage of musicians for the dances this winter.”

“How about a cup of coffee? And there’s still some of that pie left, Jude, in case you’re interested.”

Jude stuck his mouth organ into his shirt pocket. “Never could turn down a piece of pie.” He stood and stretched his hands above his head. “Lead me to it.”

When Rebekka said her prayers that night, she had an extra thank you for the music played in the sitting room. What had started out as a way to let go of the anger from the afternoon turned into a party. “Father, that was such fun. And I think Jude even smiled a time or two. Shame I had my back to them. I’d like to see him laugh sometime. Thank You he was there to . . . to . . .” The anger swelled up unbidden, tasting bitter on her tongue, and she couldn’t say the words. She rested her forehead on her clasped hands on the edge of the bed. The hard floor beneath the rug made her knees ache.

“What can I do about Adolph, so he doesn’t attack anyone else?” The remembered smell of liquor on his breath made her gag. She waited for more words to come, but she saw only black. “Please help me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.” She shivered in the breeze lifting the curtains at her window. The bite to it made her think of frost and fall.

She pushed herself to her feet and slipped beneath the covers. This night she was grateful for the quilt to pull over the sheet and blanket.

In the morning, Jude was already gone by the time Rebekka had finished dressing and had entered the kitchen for breakfast.

“He said to wait for him; he’d be back to walk you over.” Mrs. Sampson turned the bacon with a long fork. “How many eggs you want this morning? I thought to make you a fried egg sandwich for your dinner.”

“Two, I guess,” Rebekka answered as she pulled out her chair. “And that sounds fine.” She sat down and placed her napkin on her lap. “But he doesn’t need to do that. I’ll be just fine.”

“Don’t think it’ll do you any good to argue. Seems like when he makes up his mind about something, he don’t let nothing get in his way.” Mrs. Sampson set Rebekka’s plate in front of her along with two pieces of toasted bread. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “That was some fine playing last night, if I do say so myself.”

“You can say that again.” Rebekka spread ruby-red choke-cherry jelly on her bread. “Do you think—” She didn’t have time to finish her question as the sound of male feet on the back porch cut her off.

“You about ready?” Jude took off his hat as he entered the room.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Rebekka said after swallowing the food in her mouth.

“I know. Finish your breakfast. I’m due for a cup of coffee anyway.” He crossed to the cupboard and took out a cup, filled it, and sat down at the table. “Any of that pie left?”

“You know you finished the last piece last night. Will molasses cookies do?”

“Ja, sure.” He leaned back in his chair.

Was it just her imagination or had he winked at Mrs. Sampson? Rebekka finished her eggs and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I’ll be right back down.”

The walk to the school passed without conversation. Every time Rebekka tried to think of something to say, she thought it sounded silly. Since when did she have trouble thinking of topics to talk about?

“Thank you,” she said as she started up the steps.

“Don’t leave until I’m ready this afternoon.”

Rebekka sucked in a breath, ready to lambaste him for giving her an order, but he was already off around the corner of the building before she could come up with the appropriate words.

The walk home passed without words also. He tipped his hat at the gate and turned back to the school. “Tell Mrs. Sampson I’ll be here at six.”

Tell her yourself
was what Rebekka wanted to say. Instead, she blustered into the kitchen and did as he asked. Guilt at taking up his work time kept her quiet.

But he doesn’t have to do that,
she argued with herself, her heels tapping out her ire on the stairs to her room.
But you did feel safer, didn’t you?
The other side of her argument won.

By the end of the week, Jude and Rebekka had progressed to discussing the day’s events on their way home from school. He asked her how the children were doing and, by the time she told him, they were already at the boardinghouse’s gate.

“You read real well,” he said as he tipped his hat and then strode back to the school.

Rebekka watched him go. Now what had he meant by that? She thought to the open schoolhouse windows. He must have been listening to the story she read at the end of the day. She felt the heat begin at her collar and creep upward. What an unusual man.

On Monday, James Olson returned to school and by Wednesday the other three older boys joined the row in the back of the room. Harvest had finished early due to the extra long hot weather.