Sophie's Dilemma (3 page)

‘‘Is George milking tonight?’’ Astrid asked.

‘‘Far as I know. Why?’’ Ingeborg paused in her egg cleaning.

‘‘He hurt his back falling off the ladder yesterday while fixing something at Tante Kaaren’s.’’

‘‘She never mentioned it.’’ Kaaren and Ingeborg had taken time out for coffee that morning, the last opportunity for Kaaren before the students started arriving for their sessions at the school for the deaf. Some of the older boys and girls would help with chores on the farm; others would learn woodworking from George McBride, a former student who also worked on the farm and was married to Ilse. Lars taught machinery repair, and Ilse taught weaving. The deaf students attended Blessing School too, once they learned signing well enough to be able to participate in class.

‘‘Maybe no one told Tante. Grace told me at school. And I thought I would laugh myself silly when she and Sophie talked about cutting
the fringe
. . . .’’ She emphasized the words and rolled her eyes at the same time. ‘‘Now Sophie is ready to cut hair for everyone.’’ Astrid and Ingeborg shook their heads at the same time. Sophie’s antics had caused plenty of laughter through the years as well as a few tears.

‘‘She was flirting with Heinz today. The poor boy wore a red face much of the day, even though he didn’t know what she said.’’ Astrid shook her head again. ‘‘And she thinks she’s in love with Hamre, so how can she be making eyes at Heinz?’’

‘‘I’m sure she said nothing improper.’’

Astrid laughed again. ‘‘It isn’t what she said, but how. You know Sophie.’’ Astrid picked up four milk buckets, slipping the handles over her arm, and out the door she went.

Still smiling at her daughter’s comments, Ingeborg set the dirty eggs to soak in water while she buffed and dried the remainder. While her hands did the mundane chore, her mind roved off to pray for Haakan and Lars with the threshing crew, asking guidance from her Father for the cheese business as to adding more varieties, asking blessing on the new year of school and all the students, and praying for strength for herself.

The bleeding had started again this afternoon. If it got bad again, her daughter-in-law, Dr. Elizabeth Bjorklund, Thorliff ’s wife, had threatened her with surgery to remove her female parts inside. Hysterectomy, she called it. Such a strange name.
Lord, I thought we were
through with all this foolishness. I felt better again. Uffda, can’t you please
take care of it so that we don’t have to resort to cutting everything out? You
said to ask in faith, that I can say to that mountain, ‘‘Be cast into the sea,’’
and it would move. Well, I’ve never tried to move real mountains, that’s for
sure, but this seems like a mountain to me. Just as that woman in the Bible
touched your garment, Jesus, I ask for you to stop the flow of blood. It’s not
been going on for twelve years—I don’t know how she stood it—but it has
come back. So I ask for this healing, knowing that you are our great healer
and you can do this. If only you will
.

3

Mid-September

W
HOLE WEEKS and he had yet to smile at her.

Sophie listened to Grace slightly puffing out her sleep breaths.

TWO While Heinz seemed like a boy compared to her, his was the only new male face that appeared even slightly interesting—in school that is. His older brother, Abram, was another story. But he saw her as still a schoolgirl, even with her fringe. This Sunday for church she decided she’d put her hair up. Surely that would help her appear older. But then again, if the threshing crew had returned, perhaps some of the other young men would be in church.

‘‘Sophie, time to wake Grace,’’ their mother called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘‘Please call the boys too.’’ Trygve and Samuel slept in the room next to the twins, and no one could sleep harder than those two. They’d probably sleep through until dinner if no one woke them.

At least when the threshing crew got back, the girls wouldn’t have to milk the cows before school. She tapped her sister on the shoulder and threw back the covers to go shake the boys. None of the new students for the deaf school were ready for milking cows yet, most of them being younger this year, but two boys Samuel’s age from last year would be waiting at the barn to help.

After rousing her brothers, Sophie returned to her bedroom to dress. She and Grace slid into their chores clothes and then made their way downstairs. Trygve sat on a chair tying his boots. A big yawn traveled the air and made her yawn too.

‘‘Looks like it froze last night.’’ Samuel, the youngest of the family, turned from looking out the window.

Sophie handed Grace a shawl and threw another one over her own shoulders. ‘‘Let’s go. Andrew will have all the cows in and fed. You know how snappy he gets if we are late.’’

‘‘Bring a couple pails of milk back. If there is extra cream in the springhouse, we need to churn today.’’ Kaaren leaned over to check the oven. Whatever she had baking smelled heavenly as they all trudged out the door. ‘‘Breakfast will be ready when you return.’’

‘‘You’re late,’’ Andrew announced as soon as they came through the barn door.

Sophie poked Grace and mouthed, ‘‘I told you so.’’

Since Andrew was in charge of the home farms while the crew was off threshing, he took his responsibilities very seriously, no longer the easygoing youth he had once been. They all took a bucket and a three-legged stool and started down the aisles, each of them having favorite cows to milk. A newly freshened first-time cow still needed the kickers, so Grace, who was more sensitive to the cows, chose her. Murmuring her own off-key tune to the cow, she stroked its neck before sitting down to wash the udder and set the bucket between her legs. The song of the pails commenced as the milkers all fell into the rhythm of squeeze and pull, releasing the milk to froth in the buckets. As one finished, they poured the milk into a can with a metal strainer set on top and moved on to the next cow.

‘‘You kids go on and get ready for school,’’ Andrew said when they were down to the last couple of cows. ‘‘George and I will finish.’’

‘‘You’ll feed the calves too?’’ Samuel asked. Feeding the calves had become his job when Trygve took over the market hogs. The sows now lived in Andrew’s newly built barn, and the dry cows and heifers grazed the pasture around there.

‘‘For today. Saturday you can work with the deaf boy from Fargo. He seemed to really like the young animals and has lived some on a farm.’’

‘‘Good. You want me to bring another team out to plow?’’ Trygve had tried to talk his parents into letting him drop out of school to work on the farm, but they were adamant that he finish, just as Andrew had.

‘‘Ja, you can get in a couple of hours. The girls will take your place milking.’’

Sophie gave him a half glare. ‘‘Thank you, Sir Andrew.’’ Milking was one of those chores she would never miss when she went on her travels. Nor working in the cheese house, where the odor of sour milk bonded to one’s hair and hands no matter how clean they kept the floors and equipment. She picked up the last bucket of milk, and she and Grace stopped by the springhouse to get a can of cream to take home with them. They walked across the field carrying the can between them.
Should have brought the wagon
, she thought as their burden grew heavier with each stride.

Halfway home Samuel and Trygve took the can and the buckets.

‘‘Thank you, kind sirs.’’

Her brothers looked at her as though she were daft.

‘‘Tell Mor I’m going to hitch the wagon before I come in,’’ Trygve said when they reached the house.

Samuel took the can they’d set on the porch and carried it into the kitchen, which was abuzz with activity as the deaf students made their way to the long table that sat eighteen in the dining room.

‘‘You’d better hurry,’’ Kaaren urged when they’d washed and sat down with the students. ‘‘Let’s pray. I Jesu navn . . .’’

The Norwegian table blessing flowed from the lips of the family as easily as one in English would have. Grace signed the words in English for the students who shared the dormitory-style rooms on the second floor of the school section of the house. Expecting them to learn Norwegian was beyond the possibilities.

Kaaren had baked cinnamon rolls for breakfast to accompany the oatmeal that had been cooking all night on the back of the stove. They poured cream and molasses over the cereal, a much more simple meal than they would have when feeding the men too.

As usual, Sophie was the last one out the door, kissing her mother’s cheek as she picked up her lunch pail. ‘‘I didn’t get that wool carded yet, but I will tonight.’’

‘‘Yes, you will. I need it to teach my first class on spinning. I’ll have two of the students help you after supper.’’

Sophie sighed and flew out the door, knowing if she didn’t get to the wagon when Trygve was ready to leave, she would walk the mile to school. It had happened before.

Once Sophie was in the wagon, Grace, with a patient look, handed her sister the book she needed to take back to the library. Her smile acknowledged her twin’s shrug of apology.

‘‘You are so good to me. Pastor Solberg said if I forgot it today, I would have to walk home to get it.’’

‘‘I know.’’

How Grace knew and did so many things when she couldn’t hear, Sophie now took for granted. Some of the time she forgot to turn so Grace could read her lips and would get a tap on the shoulder in reproof. Like the chemise, Grace would often pick up something Sophie had left unfinished for a long time and quilt, knit, or sew it herself and then leave it on their bed for Sophie to find. Guilt used to assail her, but now it barely nibbled, or she could ignore it more easily. She was never sure which, nor did she spend much time dwelling on it. Instead, she gave Grace’s hand a squeeze while bestowing her best smile of gratitude.

The day dragged by like all school days. Sophie received a reprimanding look from Pastor Solberg for doodling flowers and trees on her tablet rather than writing the essay he’d assigned. She sighed and flipped the page, but words failed to come to mind. What did she care about the forming of unions to supposedly help the workers? Now, if he’d let her write about Teddy Roosevelt and his adventures in the West, that would have been another matter. He was hero material for sure, even if he did wear those funny glasses. Clara Barton and the American Red Cross or Susan B. Anthony and the suffragettes—now those were things that truly interested her.

Or Hamre. Why had she not heard from him for so long? Two letters she’d sent with no reply. Perhaps he had found someone to love out there on the West Coast. But his earlier letters had sounded like more than something just written from distant cousin to distant cousin. Had she been reading more into them than what he’d really meant? There were lots of Norwegians out there; he’d told her that, but surely he wouldn’t settle for a dull Norwegian girl. Hamre needed someone with fire in her soul, and Sophie knew just the Norwegian girl with that.

‘‘Miss Knutson, would you please stand and read your essay?’’ Pastor Solberg stared right at her.

Her forehead, under her fashionable fringe, blazed hot like it might sizzle the hair. ‘‘I-I’m sorry, sir, but I have no essay. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.’’ If only the earth would open up and swallow her. She might not like school, but she liked being embarrassed even less.

‘‘I see.’’ He stared at her over the top of his glasses. ‘‘Is there something you’d rather write about?’’

She shook her head. ‘‘No, sir.’’ She heard a titter from behind her. The heat bathed her cheeks also. Better not say what she was thinking or she’d be in deeper trouble.

‘‘You have until the end of class today or as late as you would like to stay to get something down on that paper.’’While the tone was mild, she knew he meant every word.

‘‘Yes, sir.’’

He moved on to one of the others. Rebecca stood and read her essay supporting the unions. Then Trygve read his, opposing them.

Sophie listened carefully and then began writing, using some of their ideas but wisely putting them in her own words. She felt a slight nudge on her shoulder and slid her hand back along the seat. Grace placed a bit of paper in her hand. While Pastor Solberg was questioning one of the others, she read four words,
Remember Thorliff ’s newspaper
article
to give her more clues.

I hate school. I hate politics, I hate essays
. She remembered her mother’s admonitions against hating anything and revised her thoughts.
I intensely dislike school, politics, and essays
. If only she could have written about that. But she wrote away while the others read theirs and Pastor Solberg moved on to one of the other grades. With Miss Isabelle Rumly, a new teacher who had come from Grand Forks to teach in Blessing, instructing the lower grades in the new addition to the schoolhouse, Pastor Solberg could concentrate on those from the seventh grade up through the twelfth.

She reread her piece and nodded her satisfaction. As her mother said so often,
‘‘All you have to do, Sophie, is concentrate.’’
She’d not have to stay after school after all.

Pastor Solberg nodded when she showed it to him. ‘‘You can read it tomorrow, then.’’

A half an hour later she was grinding her teeth at Latin translation. As if she would ever need to understand Latin. If she could learn French, the language of culture and love, she would excel in that, she was sure. And she would actually use it when she went to France. France . . . Paris . . . her mind floated off on another daydream.

Pastor Solberg’s voice made her jump. ‘‘You’re finished with your translation?’’ he asked, standing right over her. France disappeared in a puff.

‘‘Yes, sir.’’ She handed him her paper.

He read it standing right beside her. Watching his face, she was sure he was going to give her a failing grade and then her mother would have plenty to say. But he marked a few things, nodded, and handed it back. ‘‘You see, you can do even Latin when you buckle down and work at it.’’

I know that. It’s just that Latin is so boring
. ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’
And
you let your mind wander off to Seattle and Hamre and France
. Her inside voice scolded better than her mother did.