The Brushstroke Legacy (13 page)

Eloise wrinkled her little turned-up nose. “I’m stinky.”

“Not for long. You wear that pinafore—it will be cooler,” Nilda answered, grateful that she’d sewn the back seam up on several pinafores so Eloise could wear them as dresses. Nilda dipped still warm water out of the reservoir and looked for soap, a washcloth, and towel. A hard bar of lye soap lay in a dish by the dry sink, but the only towel she could find was for dishes.
Does no one take a bath here?

She took a dishtowel and the soap back to their room, along with the basin. Eloise had her shoes and socks off and was struggling with the buttons on her dress.

“Help?”

“Did I hear a please?”

“Please help me?”

Nilda set the basin on a stool and sat on the side rail of the rope-strung bed. When she laid a hand on the faded quilt, she heard a crackling. Pulling back the quilt, she found a sheet over a ticking filled with dried grass. She’d not had bedding like this since she was a little girl. She closed her eyes against the memory of feather beds, clean and fragrant linens with feather pillows.
Most likely I’ll be too tired by night to care how comfortable the bed is, anyway.

Quickly she stripped off Eloise’s clothing and used half the towel to wash her, the other to wipe her dry. After digging in their trunk, she pulled out clean underwear and socks, shook out the pinafore, and dressed her again.

“Now you sit on the bed and put your stockings and shoes on. This floor is too rough to go barefoot, you’ll get a sliver.”

“I get sliver.” Eloise held up one of her stockings and pulled it over the end of her foot.

Nilda removed her travel dress and used the wet end of the towel to wash her arms and neck, patting the cooling water on her face. Immediately she felt renewed, but she dressed quickly in case Mr. Peterson should return to the house. Tying her apron back in place over the calico work dress, she unwound her bun and smoothed the sides and top of her hair back before twisting the bun around her fingers and tucking the end underneath. She pinned it snugly and took in a deep breath.

“Ready?”

Eloise held out her shoes to be buttoned.

Back in the kitchen, Nilda opened tins that held flour, sugar, salt, and coffee beans. Dried beans appeared to be a staple. Thick cream floated on the milk in a flat bowl hiding under another cloth. Eggs filled a basket with dried grass in the bottom. So they would have baked grouse and…she opened another tin. Rice or beans. On the bottom shelf she found several cans of green beans and one of peaches. If this was indeed the extent of the larder, cooking would be a real challenge. She found a quart jar of honey with comb still in it and molasses in another jar. She stuck her finger in a short tin and made a face at the soda she tasted. Salt and pepper shakers sat on the warming shelf of the stove, along with a can of leftover bacon grease.

No bread, no fresh vegetables. What could she bake for supper? Biscuits—she had the ingredients for that. There was no jam or jelly, but she did have honey. She sorted through the pans, shuddering at the dirt on the shelves, on the windows, caked on the floor. Would there be time to scrub the floor first?

After deciding that the table needed scrubbing before she could work on it, she filled the basin again and set to her tasks, taking care
of the counters and the chairs after cleaning the table. Water dripping on the floor created mud. She should have swept first. But where was the broom? Such filth. Never had she dreamed the house would be so primitive.

“Ma? I need go potty.”

Nilda sighed. “All right.”

The breeze lifted strands of hair that had slipped loose from her bun and kissed away the perspiration that dotted her broad forehead. A crow called from high in one of the trees by the river, answered by another. A butterfly sipped at a yellow flower, then fluttered to another.

Eloise stared at the butterfly, her mouth round as her eyes. “Pretty, Ma.”

“Ja, beautiful.” She stopped to look around and saw other yellow flowers, some white blossoms closer to the ground, and bits of blue sky attached to light green stalks. Flowers grew here, an abundance of blossoms.
Thank you, Lord.
God alone knew how much she needed bits of beauty, patches of color. Who would know what they were called? Perhaps she could buy some flower seeds to plant in the garden? Joseph said he’d dig a garden if she desired. Oh, how she desired.

Thank goodness for rubber gloves.

Ragni tossed another bucket of dirty water out onto the straggling rosebush. She’d read that back in olden times, women watered their flowers and gardens with wash water, scrub water, any water that had been used. Even tooth-brushing water. Nothing was wasted. Hauling water from the river made one extremely conscious of its value.
Just ask Erika, who does most of the hauling.

Ragni stared from the clean-cupboards side of the kitchen to the yet-to-be-cleaned side. Then she studied the stove. Visions of the queen of stoves reigning in Paul’s kitchen floated through her mind.
Was there any chance that this poor rusty relic could be restored to its former glory and usefulness?

She checked the water heating on the propane camp stove. Only warm. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, she sat down on the stoop facing the road and listened to the breeze dancing with the cottonwood leaves. The sunlight reflecting shards of gold off new green leaves shimmered to the music of the morning. Never had she taken the time to watch and listen to the sunrise, to the earth stretching and
yawning in the glory of the new day. Sunset had been more her favorite time, since she’d never considered herself a morning person.

She inhaled the fragrance of coffee from her cup, paid attention to the flavor bursting on her tongue, and closed her eyes when a dart of sunlight blessed her face through the branches of the grandfather cottonwood trees that grew between her and the red dirt road.

Now, why did I think grandfather instead of grandmother?
She toyed with the thought. Was it the rugged bark so deeply grooved that it resembled canyons and crests? Or the towering height, or the fact that it would take three adults to clasp hands around the trunks? The hanging gate looked even more pitiful between two such towers to God’s providence.

What to fix first—and second?

While she was daydreaming, she thought back to the supper at Paul’s house the night before.
What a beautiful home. What a nice man… Ignore that
, she ordered herself.
Most men start out nice and then look what happens. They usually hang around for a while and then get restless and leave. Or as in Daren’s case
—
Don’t go there, you don’t want to ruin this lovely morning with thoughts of the former jerks in your life. Just accept that you either haven’t met the right man for you or there isn’t such a creature running around. You have a career, a home, friends, and family. What more do you need?

She tossed her coffee dregs on a daisy blooming beside the steps.
I need stronger faith, a heavy dose of joy, and my life back on track. That’s what I need. And my dad back.
She closed her eyes at the pain that sliced through her. Fighting to breathe around it, she blew out a sigh. Tears seemed closer to the surface since she’d had the crying jag on the
banks of the river.
Ragni Marie Clauson, you are not a crybaby! So quit acting like one. Get to work. That solves all kinds of quandaries.

She sighed again and pushed herself to her feet. Checking the temperature of the water, she poured some into the scrub bucket and added heavy-duty cleanser. Armed with scouring pads, a scrub brush, a wire brush she’d bought specifically for the stove, and rags, she returned to the house.
Start with the oven or the top of the stove or the warming shelf? And here I was supposed to have a vacation where I would make life decisions, not cleaning decisions.

“Start with the hardest part first, while you have the most energy.”
Words she’d heard so often from her practical father.
But if I can clean that oven, I’ll have such a sense of accomplishment.
She dipped her soap pad in the water and attacked the rust on the top of the range. After banishing a patch of rust, she used the steel brush to scrub the entire exterior of the stove, removing layers of grime from all but the chrome. That she attacked with new soap pads.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Erika stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Ragni turned to smile at her niece. “Good morning. Singing birds woke me. Beats an alarm clock any day.” She’d slept in the tent, but Erika insisted on staying in the car again. “Did you sleep well?”

“I guess.” Erika tilted her head from side to side to stretch out her neck. “You did say we’d go to the motel tonight, right?” She scrubbed her fingers through her hair. “Gross.” She wiped her hands on her shorts. “When can you take me over to play with Sparky?”

Ragni’s eyebrows tickled her bangs. “You ever heard of walking? That’s what feet are for.” She almost laughed at the stretched-eyes
look on Erika’s face. “Shame we didn’t bring my old bike. That would have been good transportation for you.”

“Sure, why don’t I take the bus?” The bite in her voice made Ragni swallow her laugh.

“You’ve heard that before, I’d guess?” Ragni dug in the box of supplies they’d purchased in Dickinson to find the can of blacking for the stove.

“Is the coffee still hot?”

“No, but you can put it back on the burner. I’d dump out the grounds first if I were you. I already ate.” She pried the lid off the can and used a rag to apply blacking to the dull but clean cast iron.

“Cereal again?”

“Yes, I like Cheerios with bananas. There’s more.”

“Should have bought some food bars.”

“Look in the box. I brought some along.”

“They’re gone.”

“Oh.”
Big mouse got them, I suppose.
But teasing Erika right now would only lead to foot stomping and sour looks.
Have to admit, the kid is good at both.
“And I need another bucket of water.”

“Do you mind if I use the privy first?” The sarcasm turned the tone to a whine.

“If you must,” Ragni swallowed an equally tart retort, along with a grin.

“Fine!” Erika banged out the door, muttering all the way.

“Well, good morning to you too.” Ragni said to herself, mimicking Erika’s voice. “And what do you have planned for today? If I get some more scrubbing done on the shelves, could you please take me over to see Sparky?”
As if that kid would even think of asking please.
Ragni felt her jaw tighten. Immediately her stomach clenched as if in sympathy.

How much more peaceful
—
no, do not even go there. I agreed to her coming with me. Ha, as if I had any choice about bringing her along or coming here in the first place.
The discussion lobbed back and forth, an interior tennis game, and the score had nothing to do with love.

She could hear Erika banging around in the trunk of the car. When a certain teenager got into a snit, she let the whole world know about it.

With the slightest provocation, Ragni and Susan had acted much the same way, although if their parents were around, they’d been quiet about it.

“It was your turn, and you know it,” Susan hissed when Ragni dodged away before she got pinched.

“Prove it. I did the dishes twice for you, and you never did mine. You always make me do your chores and never live up to your promises to pay me back,” Ragni hissed. If they were heard arguing, they’d both pay the price.

“Ragni Clauson, I hate you.”

“And I hate you more.” Chin to chin, nose to nose, fists clenched on their hips, they stared each other down.

“What’s going on up there?” Their mother’s voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs.

“Nothing.” Their unison voices sounded sweet as June strawberries.

Ragni often wore purple bruises from where she’d been pinched, but she got even. Most of the time.

And now, surely she could think ahead of this grumpy young woman. After all, who was the adult here?

She stepped back and nodded at the newly blackened surface of the stove. She should have waited and blackened the whole thing at once, but she had to see if all the elbow grease was worth the effort. It was. After she poured the last of the hot water into the scrub bucket, she grabbed the pail and headed for the car. Sure enough, Erika sat in the front seat, earphones in place, bobbing in time to the music that leaked out only enough for Ragni to know it wasn’t the kind of music the girl should be listening to—at least not to Ragni’s way of thinking. Opening the car door, she clamped one hand on her hip and held out the bucket with the other.

Erika glared at her, stripped off the earphones, slammed her iPod down on her pack, and hurled herself from the car. But when she tried to grab the handle of the bucket, Ragni held on.

“Just wanted to remind you that you catch more flies with honey than with gritchey. Think about that.” She released the bucket handle and watched Erika stomp off toward the river.

“I’m sorry,” Erika said when she returned and set the bucket on the stoop.

Ragni kept from clutching her chest and feigning a swoon only with the greatest effort. Instead she smiled and answered, “You’re forgiven.”
Where did that come from? “That’s okay” would have been fine.

“After I brush my teeth, you want me to start on those up there?” Erika motioned to the set of upper cabinets that framed the east-facing window.

“Yes, please. You are far more agile than me.”

“Why do you think she hid her paintings like that?”

“That’s been buggin’ you too, eh?” Ragni left off polishing the chrome along the warming shelf and stared up at the cupboards. “All I can think is that they were a secret.”

“But why? She was a good painter.”

“I don’t know, but I hope we can find out.” Ragni studied the warming shelf. “Do you know where the notebook is with our shopping list?”

“In the car. Why, what do we need now?”

“There’s a kind of paint you can buy for appliances. Thought I’d take this warming door along and see if I can match it. The rust has eaten through the enameled finish in a couple of places.”

Erika shook her head. “Why are you putting all that time into the stove? I mean, it will heat fine if we just start a fire in it.”

“I don’t know, I guess I… It just seems such a shame to let everything go to wrack and ruin. Like this house. It deserves a second chance.”

Erika tipped her head forward and looked out from under her eyebrows. “Because it’s an antique?”

“No, because I saw her standing here stirring a pot of something.” Ragni hadn’t meant to mention what some might call visions.

“Oh, great, I’m here with my psycho aunt…”

“I saw her out weeding her flowers too. The first day we were here.”

“…who sees ghosts.” Erika shook her head as she went out the door.

Ragni watched her leave. What a difference between the girl who got up this morning and the one who just left. Of course she wants
something, but then who doesn’t?
And I don’t see ghosts. I have a creative mind, that’s all.

But how do you know what she looked like?
The one photograph her family had of Ragnilda and her husband was typical of the day. Sepia-toned, rigid and sober, the portrait hung on her mother’s wall. Ragni had dreamed of making a copy of it and colorizing it either with the computer or her own paints. If she ever got back to painting, that is.
You could at least draw.
The voice spoke clearly, so clearly she turned around to see if Erika had come in without her hearing her.