More Than a Dream (11 page)
Thorliff nodded. ‘‘Starting a newspaper sounds overwhelming, but in a few years Blessing will be big enough for a newspaper.’’
‘‘Have you mentioned this to your folks yet?’’
‘‘No. Perhaps right now it is just a dream, and knowing Astrid, she’ll be after me all the time to tell her when.’’
‘‘You could always stay here, you know. The way we’re growing, I need full-time help. Don’t know what I’ll do when you go back to school.’’
Thorliff cut off the memories cascading through his mind like a creek in snow melt and retrieved his hat from the rack by the door. ‘‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’’
Clapping his hat back on his head as soon as he stepped out the door, he righted the bicycle.
‘‘You go right on in,’’ Nurse Browne said when Thorliff entered the surgery at Dr. Gaskin’s house. ‘‘He’s been waiting for you and not too patiently, I may add. Once that man gets something in his head, he doesn’t let go.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘You have to listen real hard to understand him, but he has improved since the last time you were here.’’
Thorliff nodded. ‘‘He’s trying real hard.’’
‘‘He’s trying all right, trying my patience and that of Miss Haugen too. But that stubbornness is what is pulling him through, and I need to remind myself to be grateful for that.’’ She
tsk
ed with a slight frown. ‘‘Things could be so much worse.’’
With that Thorliff walked down the walnut-paneled hall to the third door on the right, one of three bedrooms where Dr. Gaskin housed patients when they needed extra care. Thorliff knocked and pushed the door open enough to peek in to see if Mr. Stromme was awake.
A grunt and a garbled phrase told him that not only was the old man awake but his mood was not one of cheer.
Thorliff stepped into the room. ‘‘I came as soon as I could.’’ He crossed the room and reached to shake the extended but shaking hand. ‘‘You’re looking better.’’
‘‘Huh!’’ Mr. Stromme’s normally cheerful face had not yet regained its balance and welcoming smile. With half a face to smile with and the other half no longer rigid but now slack, he appeared lopsided, as if a child had been sculpting and got bored with the project before finishing it.
Thorliff listened carefully, watching the man for any clues. ‘‘You are most welcome. I would have come yesterday, but Mr. Rogers sent me out on an assignment. Nurse Browne says you are improving every day. Would you like to go outside?’’
The frown and headshake said more than the words. ‘‘That’s fine. I just thought sitting in the sun might make you feel better. It always does me.’’
When Mr. Stromme pointed to a chair next to him, Thorliff sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
‘‘I . . . wa . . . t . . .’’
Thorliff nodded and waited for Henry to continue.
‘‘You . . . to . . . li . . .’’ The rest of the thought trailed into gibberish.
‘‘You want me to . . .’’ Thorliff left the sentence hanging, hoping Mr. Stromme could finish it.
A nod. And a grimace. Henry slammed his hands on his quilt-covered knees in frustration.
‘‘Easy. I’m in no hurry. Just take your time, and we’ll figure this out.’’ Thorliff leaned back in his chair. Thoughts of his story tickled the back of his mind while he tried to decipher the mixed-up sounds.
Mr. Stromme closed his eyes, took in a breath, and started again. ‘‘Lii . . . wii . . .’’ He tapped his chest with one finger.
‘‘Live?’’ Thorliff grasped at the first word that came to his mind. At the nod he continued. ‘‘Live with me—I mean you?’’
Another nod and a deep sigh of relief.
Oh, Lord, what do I do now?
‘‘But I already have a home down at the newspaper.’’
A knock on the door interrupted what the old man tried to say.
‘‘Ah good, Thorliff, you’re here. I wanted to talk with you.’’ Dr. Gaskin entered the room with a smile. ‘‘How are the two of you doing? Henry, you been telling him your idea?’’
‘‘He said he wants me to live at his house.’’
Dr. Gaskin nodded. ‘‘We know you have a job, but Henry here says he doesn’t need someone there during the day. His neighbors will help him if he needs it. He’s agreed to put a telephone in so he can ask for assistance. But he shouldn’t be alone at night, just in case. So that’s where you come in. If you will sleep there, help him if needed, that will bridge the gap. At the rate he is progressing, I don’t think this needs to be a long-term commitment, more like until school starts again. Right, Henry?’’
Mr. Stromme nodded, relief showing in his eyes.
Thorliff rubbed his chin with one finger. ‘‘I would need to talk this over with Mr. Rogers, since he hired me especially to be there at night. But there have been no instances of trouble again, and perhaps he’ll agree. I don’t have to keep the furnace going right now.’’
‘‘Y-you . . . w-wan . . . to . . . h. . . ?’’ He clenched his teeth and slapped his knee twice.
‘‘Take it easy, Henry. The harder you fight it, the more difficulties you will have. Relax and let the words come.’’
Mr. Stromme gave a slight nod and sighed. He tried again. ‘‘He . . . p.’’
‘‘Yes, I want to help you if I can.’’ Thorliff reached over and took the old man’s good hand. ‘‘I’ll let you know as soon as I talk with Mr. Rogers.’’
‘‘Tan . . . k . . . y-you.’’
‘‘You are most welcome, but I haven’t done anything yet.’’ He left the room and slipped out the back door so he wouldn’t have to go through the waiting room again. How much help would Mr. Stromme really need? Getting undressed and to bed? Help dressing in the morning? Meals? No, Dr. Gaskin said others would take care of that.
But I have to write in the evenings. Just when I think
things are settling down so I can get more done, something like this
happens
.
Guilt gnawed at his heart like a dog on a shank bone. Here, he should be grateful for a chance to help someone out, and he was grumbling instead. Not that the decision was his to make.
He climbed on the bike and pedaled back to the newspaper office. Best to get this over with immediately.
But if you don’t do it, who will?
His inner voice could be such a nagger at times.
When he explained the predicament to Phillip, the newspaperman crossed his arms over the back of his head and leaned back in his chair, making it shriek like a child in pain.
‘‘The only problem I see is getting ahold of you if we have a story you need to cover.’’
‘‘Dr. Gaskin said a telephone would be put in.’’ Thorliff leaned a hip on the edge of the desk.
‘‘Do you want to do this?’’
‘‘Not particularly, but if this could help him get back on his feet, I’m willing to help.’’
‘‘You could write there, but you’d need to find out what else you would be doing.’’ The chair shrieked again. ‘‘How about you try it, and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll look to another way to solve his problems?’’
‘‘Thank you. I’m not even sure when this would start.’’
The bell tinkled over the door, drawing their attention.
A woman entered and, after closing her ruffled parasol, minced her way over to the high counter that divided the office from the reception area. She flashed a brilliant smile at each of them, her upswept eyelashes beating against high, rounded cheeks. Everything about her appeared rounded but for a waist so tiny Thorliff could hardly keep his eyes on her heart-shaped face.
‘‘I’m looking for Mr. Thorliff Bjorklund.’’ Her voice purred like a kitten being stroked.
‘‘I am Thorliff.’’ Clearing his throat took two swallows.
‘‘Ah, but I expected someone more . . . ah . . .’’
‘‘Older?’’ Phillip’s smile dimmed in comparison to the brilliance of hers.
‘‘To be frank, yes. Are you indeed the author of
The Switchmen
?’’
Thorliff paused to settle himself. ‘‘Yes.’’
Can’t you think of anything
more witty or bright than yes? Repartee is needed here
.
She extended her hand, palm down, wrist limp, as if used to being bowed over. Or kissed. The thought of which sent Thorliff’s heart into overdrive.
Pure thoughts, pure thoughts,
he mentally screamed at himself.
‘‘I am Mrs. Karlotta Kingsley, of the Kingsleys of Chicago.’’
Thorliff wanted to look to Phillip for some kind of assistance, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the beauty mark on the outside corner of her right eye, thus keeping his gaze from her cupid’s bow upper lip and other portions of roundness. He could feel the heat blazing up his neck.
‘‘We have just moved to Northfield, and I am suitably impressed with the culture here, especially the quality of the newspaper for running such a delightful saga.’’
‘‘Ah, thank you. I’d like you to meet my employer, Mr. Phillip Rogers, publisher and editor.’’ Thorliff stammered only slightly, much to his relief.
Phillip stood and bowed over the hand now extended to him. ‘‘Charmed, I’m sure. Now, how can we be of service?’’
‘‘We are moving into the Wilson house, and I would like to receive your paper. I also heard that you are publishing
The
Switchmen
in book form?’’
‘‘Yes, we are in the process now.’’
‘‘Ah, delightful.’’ She turned her attention back to Thorliff. ‘‘I was hoping that I could invite the author to tea so we could discuss how he got started. Perhaps you would give me a few hints, as I dream of becoming a writer myself.’’
Thorliff’s throat felt like the victim of a North Dakota dust storm.
‘‘Of course Mr. Bjorklund would be most delighted to have tea with you. You may leave a message here as to the day and time. We do our best to make new folks feel welcome in our
delightful
town.’’
Thorliff sent Phillip a pleading glance before smiling back at the woman before him. Why did he feel like a sacrificial lamb or what he assumed a sacrificial lamb might feel like?
‘‘I would indeed be delighted.’’
Not that I have any advice to
offer, but . . .
She extended her hand again, the softness of it covering slender bones. Thorliff mimicked his employer with a slight bow.
‘‘Thank you, gentlemen, and Mr. Bjorklund’’—she tapped his upper arm with the tip of her closed fan—‘‘I look forward to our time together.’’ With another incandescent smile, she turned and minced her way out the door, her dark hair trailing from under the brim of her pert hat.
‘‘Well, her prow sure came through that door before the rest of the ship.’’ Phillip fanned his face with a paper from his desk. ‘‘Whew.’’
Thorliff choked on what he was going to say and hoped the heat he could feel flaming his entire body could be attributed to the coughing jag. Inhaling, he could still sense her perfume hanging in the air, despite the smell of printing ink.
Had a twister just blown through the room or what?
And what
about my pledge to purity of heart? Father God, I want to see you
.
Late June
‘‘Telephone,’’ Annabelle said, coming into the study. ‘‘It is long distance.’’
Elizabeth looked up from the letter she was writing. ‘‘For me?’’
Who would be calling me?
she thought as she laid down her pen. She followed her mother out the door and gave her a questioning look.
Annabelle shook her head and continued on to the kitchen, leaving Elizabeth alone in the hall with her call. She picked up the dangling earpiece and spoke into the trumpet-shaped mouthpiece. ‘‘This is Elizabeth.’’
‘‘Good. I decided to take advantage of this newfangled instrument and save myself the time of writing a letter.’’
‘‘Dr. Morganstein! Oh, how wonderful it is to hear your voice.’’
‘‘Ah, you recognize me in spite of all this fuzzy noise on the line. How are you, my dear?’’
‘‘Restless. It’s already been a week since graduation, and I’ve received no word yet from the medical school in Minneapolis. I’ve been accepted at the Woman’s Medical College of Pennsylvania, as I wrote to you.’’
‘‘What’s wrong with that school? It has a fine reputation.’’
‘‘But not as good as Johns Hopkins or Harvard, and they have both turned me down. As you said last summer, at the men’s schools I would receive better and more complete training, even at the college in Minneapolis, which is so much nearer to home.’’
‘‘Time is running out.’’
‘‘I am well aware of that. Father thinks I should send a letter of acceptance to Pennsylvania, and then I can cancel if I am accepted elsewhere.’’
‘‘Sound advice. A bird in the hand, as the old saw goes.’’
‘‘It seems like a settling for, if you ask me.’’ Elizabeth knew she sounded more than a mite cantankerous, so she tried to change the tenor of her voice. ‘‘How are things at your hospital?’’
‘‘In dire need of more hands, which is why I resorted to the telephone. Can you possibly come work with us again this summer? I know your parents are dreading your leaving and want to spend every possible moment with you, but, Elizabeth, I need you—desperately. And you know you will receive training far beyond what even your first year in medical school will give you.’’
Elizabeth closed her eyes, remembering the heat and humidity of Chicago in the summer. It had taken her weeks to catch up on her sleep, and yet never had she felt more alive and useful. If she’d had any doubts as to her calling, her time at the Alfred Morganstein Hospital for Women dispelled them like dew under a hot summer sun.