RR05 - Tender Mercies (10 page)

“How come there’s no hotel or boardinghouse in this little town?” Mr. Drummond shook his head as he spoke. “You want to grow, you got to get people to stay here. Then they’ll like it so much they’ll want to come live here.”

“Tell that to the bankers,” Penny muttered under her breath.

“Is there a place to eat?” At the shake of Penny’s head, Drummond sighed. “And I missed the last train to either Grand Forks or Grafton, didn’t I?”

“You can join us for supper. It’s only what’s left from dinner.” She wished she’d kept her mouth closed. She’d forgotten they were going to have pancakes because the noon guests cleaned up every bit of food she had. If she’d had another pie, it would have gone too. “Or rather, it’s pancakes tonight, but I can promise you they’ll be filling.”

“We can talk more about the sewing machines you want to stock here in your store?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I do?”

“You most certainly do. In fact, I’ll give free lessons to anyone who buys a machine from you in the next three months. What with Christmas coming up and all, maybe I should go talk with the men. They’d all want their wives to have an easier life, wouldn’t they?”

“Don’t count on it. Norwegians, especially those around here, could cut a dime in half and give you eleven cents change.”
Where is Hjelmer? He surely should have been back by now
. She heard the clatter of wood in the woodbox and knew her newfound cousin Ephraim was back.

“Bet those same Norwegians know a good deal when they see it.”

“They do at that. Go over and talk to Olaf, and I’ll have supper ready in half an hour. Tell him I sent you.” When he leaned over to pick up his case, she added, “You can leave that here. No one will bother it. Put it back by your machine.”

After the door bell tinkled behind him, Penny went back and looked at the sewing machine again. She laid a reverent hand on the wheel and turned it just enough to watch the needle go down and up again.
I want one, and I want every woman around here to have one. So how do we do that?

She picked up their own mail and, tapping the letters against her finger, turned the Closed sign over and pushed aside the curtain to their quarters. Laying the mail on the small table by Hjelmer’s chair, she removed her canvas store apron and put on the calico one she’d hung over a hook in the pantry. Then humming to herself, she retrieved the flour, buttermilk, and eggs she needed for supper. After slicing thick ham steaks off the hindquarter, she laid those in the pan to begin frying.

“You need anything else?” Ephraim asked from the doorway. His wet hair carefully slicked back showed that he’d already washed up.

“No thanks.” She paused. “You know where Hjelmer is?”

“Out in the blacksmith shop, drawing on something. I think he’s got an idea that he’s cogitating.”

“Oh.” No wonder he’d been so quiet.

“He was out to Haakan’s earlier to talk to his ma.”

“Uh-oh.” That could be good or bad. Shame she and Bridget hadn’t gotten the loan request made out yet. Things down on paper always looked more possible than just talk. She thought to the sewing machine sitting in her store. That fancy machine would help out like nobody’s business in setting up the boardinghouse.

“Would you go tell him supper will be ready in a few minutes?”

“Sure ’nough.”

“Mrs. Bjorklund.” Mr. Drummond knocked at the back door.

“Come on in.” She moved the frying pan to the back of the stove and lifted the round lid. After adding a couple of sticks of wood, she pulled the frying pan to the hotter part, took the square griddle down from the row of iron hooks Hjelmer had fashioned for her, and set it to heat.

“Do you mind if I show Mr. and Mrs. Wold the machine after supper? She is so excited about it, and Mr. Wold is plenty curious.”

“Why not? Maybe Hjelmer would like to see it too. He likes machinery of all sorts.”
And if he gets interested, I will carry them in the store for sure. Why am I dithering like this? Either I carry them or I don’t. It is not Hjelmer’s decision to make
. But she knew the reason. She always talked big ideas like this over with him.

“The Wolds want me to come for supper too, if you don’t mind.”

“No, go on. I’m sure Goodie has something better than pancakes cooked up.”

When Hjelmer didn’t come in, Penny sent Ephraim to find him, but it looked to Penny like Hjelmer ate supper without any idea what he put in his mouth. He passed the syrup when asked and nodded when she asked him if he wanted more pancakes. Ephraim gave up talking after a couple of attempts, but Penny persisted. She needed his opinion, not just an “um.”

“Hjelmer?”

“Um.” He cut his ham and put a bite in his mouth.

“The blacksmith is on fire.”

“Good, dear, that’s good.”

She watched as her words sunk in.

“Ring the fire bell!” He shoved back his chair only to see the other two at the table burying their laughter behind mouths full of pancake. Taking his chair again, he glared at Penny. “That wasn’t necessary. A simple ‘Hjelmer’ would do.” He shot Ephraim an accusing look, as if he’d encouraged Penny.

Ephraim shook his head and glanced over at the stove. “Any more of them pancakes? They’re right good.”

Penny got up and slid the griddle back on the hotter part of the stove. “In a minute.” She glanced back at her husband, who wore that distant look again. What in the world was he thinking on so hard?

When supper was over and she’d poured the final cup of coffee, she set the dishes to soaking in a pan of soapy water on the stove and went to stand in front of her husband, now sitting in his chair. The faraway look hadn’t left, even though Ephraim had. “Hjelmer, please, I really need you to listen to me.” She waited, then raised her voice and touched his arm. “Hjelmer, are you all right?” Maybe something was really wrong, and he didn’t want to tell her.

“What is it?” The snap in his voice brought forth one of her own.

“I’m just asking you a question!”

“So ask!” He glared.

She glared. And clamped her hands on her hips. “What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing! Can’t a man do some thinking in his own house?”

“Yes, if his wife can ask a question and get a decent answer.” She felt like stamping her foot—on his.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “All right. What is it?”

He wore
that
look, the one that always drove her crazy. “Oh, forget it. I’ll make my own decisions, and you can just go . . . go jump in the river.”

“Fine.” He flung himself out of his chair and out the door. The screen door slammed behind him.

Penny sank down in the chair he’d just left. All she’d wanted was one minute of his precious time. Was that too much to ask?

“Yoo-hoo.” Goodie Wold, formerly Peterson, called from the back door. “Penny? You ready to see the machine?”

“Come on in. I’ll light some extra lamps.” She lifted a filled kerosene lamp down from the shelf and set it on the table. Then taking a long slender piece of cedar from the jar she kept for this purpose, she lighted it in the burning lamp and held it against the wick of the new one. When the wick caught fire, she broke off the burnt bit of cedar and laid it on the cold edge of the stove to reuse. After adjusting the wick, she set the chimney in place and smiled at her guests.

“Where’s Hjelmer?” Olaf Wold, his receding hair giving him an even wiser look, asked as he took one of the burning lamps.

“I’m not sure.” She felt like saying “God only knows,” a phrase her tante Agnes often used, but she refrained.

“Is he coming to see this wonder machine?” He sent his wife a gently teasing look.

“Now, don’t you give me that,” Goodie answered. “I could even patch your gunnysacks with this. Or you could.”

“Let alone your pants.” Penny picked up the other lamp and gestured toward the curtain dividing the kitchen and the store.

“And shirts. She can make you a new coat or turn one you have in no time.” Alfred Drummond joined the conversation.

“When I think how much faster I could sew clothes for all of us, I . . . I just get goose bumps.” Goodie rubbed her arms.

“Maybe it’s the cold weather.” Penny hated feeling like a grump, but hard words with Hjelmer always made her feel that way afterward. Why couldn’t she learn to not say things she would be sorry for later?

They moved other things aside to set the lamps where they could see easily, and Mr. Drummond took his place on the chair Penny had provided. As he went into his spiel again, Penny listened carefully. It all sounded much too good to be true, but she had the stack of hemmed napkins to testify to the speed with which this little machine stitched.

“Penny?”

“In here.”

Hjelmer made his way to the group in the corner. “What’s this?”

Penny bit her lip enough to leave marks. “If you’d been listening,” she hissed, “you would have known.”

“Oh, well, I . . .”

Her look quelled his excuses.

“Welcome. Mr. Bjorklund, I take it?” Drummond got to his feet and reached a hand across the machine. “I am Alfred Drummond, representing the greatest little machine yet invented—the Singer sewing machine, designed to make your wife’s lot easier, in regards to sewing, that is.”

He faltered at the look on Hjelmer’s face. Arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows straight and chips of ice floating on his Fjord blue eyes, Hjelmer wore that “show me” look.

Penny wanted to kick him in the ankle. Would nothing go right tonight?

“My husband believes new machinery for the fieldwork is one of the most important things of our time.” Her tone was so coated in honey, the bees would stick to it.

He sent her one of
his
looks.

“Why, I know he is dying to try this out for himself.” She turned to him, her mouth smiling and her eyes daring him.

“Good, good. Let me show you how it works first, and then you can try it.” Drummond took his seat again. “You know they have had industrial machines for the clothing factories for some time now. But this little Singer is the first one designed for the home, and you can pay for it with only pennies a month.”

Penny divided her watching between the demonstration and Hjelmer’s face. Soon his love of machinery took over, and he leaned forward until he was eye to eye with the flashing needle.

When Drummond held up the seam of two pieces of muslin and tried to pull them apart to show the strength of the stitching, Hjelmer reached for the sample before Goodie got her hand out. He turned it both ways, tugged on the sides, and shook his head.

“Amazing.” He studied it some more.

An “ahem” from Goodie made him start and, with an apologetic shrug, hand it over. He turned his attention back to Drummond. “Can it sew canvas for the binders? Tarps, leather?”

Drummond paused. “Well, it all depends on the strength of the needle.” He turned a screw and removed the needle. “You buy these separately. I always carry extras.”

“So if something happens to the machine, where do we get parts?”

Penny picked up on the “we.” She and Goodie exchanged glances, neither of them looking to Olaf. They didn’t need to.

His “mm” and “uh-huh” already indicated his approval.

“Can you show me the innards of the thing?” Hjelmer asked, his fingers tracing the shell of the machine as if he could divine what went on inside the casing.

“Certainly, sir.” Drummond took out a leather packet with several sizes of screwdrivers, a brush, and a polishing cloth. “I teach new owners how to clean and oil their machines so that they will last. Just like keeping up farm machinery, this little beauty needs care.”

“Where would we order parts from?” he asked again.

“The Singer Company in Boston. They can put them on the next train, far as that goes.” He looked to the two men. “While I have a woman starting a store in Fargo that will stock machines, materials, and notions, I would be right happy to have someone do the same in this area, especially if ’n that could include a repair service. Not that these little beauties need much repair, but, you know, just in case.”

Hjelmer scratched his chin. He glanced at Olaf, who wore the same deep-thinking expression.

Penny’s fingers itched. She wanted to try out the machine so badly, yet she hated to disturb the moment.

She stroked the stack of napkins, thinking of all the hours she’d spent hemming napkins, dish towels, sheets, pillowcases, curtains—all that besides clothes. Goodie moved to her side and picked up one of the squares, leaning closer to the lamp and turning the napkin around.

“Take a heap a learnin’, I’m thinking.”

Drummond shook his head. “Not at all. Once you get proficient at using the machine, I can even show you how to blind hem.”

“Like skirt hems and such?” Goodie turned her head, giving him an “are you sure about this” look. Her right eyebrow cocked while her fingers kept up an exploration of the hemmed napkin all on their own.

“Most surely.” Drummond sat back down, creased a narrow fold in another piece of muslin, then folded a wider hem. “Just like you do, right?” The women nodded. “Okay, then you fold again, this time the body of the garment so you have this line to stitch on.” He indicated the edge of the first fold. He set the material in place, lowered the presser foot. “Now you take four stitches.” He turned the wheel manually rather than pumping the pedal with his feet. “Then give a little twist with your wrist, catch the body with one stitch, and return to the four on the edge.” He did several more to show the pattern, lifted the presser foot, and snipped the threads.

Penny cringed at the amount of thread he wasted.

He smoothed the right side of the sample, and sure enough, all one saw was the one thread, and so even that it looked almost like a decoration.

“Well, I never.” The awe in Goodie’s tone echoed in Penny’s mind.

“May I try it?” Penny had to clear her throat to keep from whispering.

“Of course, dear lady.” Drummond got up and indicated his chair. “You just set yourself down there and give it a try. Then it will be your turn.” He included Goodie with a smile.

He gave Penny instructions on how to work the treadle. “You can use one or both feet.” Then he handed her a piece of material. “Now, with this handle back here, you lower that presser foot, then set your needle, and begin rocking the treadle with your feet.” He turned the handwheel for her.