A Winter's Promise (12 page)

She thought of crawling back to bed, leaving the dirty
dishes, the wet baby, the soggy clothes
by
the door, the
potatoes unpeeled, and Ellie wailing by the window. But
she kept plodding along, doing
what needed
to be done,
crying all the while. About the time she
thought she was
c
ried out, she
’
d remember Al
’
s laughter and start all over again.

What seemed like a long while later, Albert poked his
head in the door.
“
Papa wants to know if supper
’
s ready,
or should he do chores first?
”

“
Tell him to do chores first. Wait! Take some water to
the chickens.
”
She fixed warm, not hot, water for him to
carry.
“
I need water in here, too,
”
she said, giving him the empty pail as well.

While she peeled the potatoes and limp carrots,
Emma planned how she would tell Al he
’
d have to stay
home. She
’
d wait until the children were in bed.
“
One more week,
”
she
’
d say.

There was so much she should do—carry out the ash
es, shake
rugs, sweep the floor. She stared out the win
dow at the pale light from the barn window, feeling
more lonesome than ever. The ashes and the floor
could wait, she decided, and sat down with her knitting.
Ellie, having given up her window watch, played contentedly with blocks beside her.

I
’
ll tell him it just isn
’
t safe for the little ones.
My
heart
’
s
in
my throat the whole time I
’
m outside, and I
can
’
t take them all with me. What would have hap
pened if I had been hurt worse and couldn
’
t walk at all?

She thought of
other Saturday nights and how
she
’
d bustle around cooking a good supper and tidying up the
house while Al did chores. As she worked, she
’
d hum
tunes that Al would play later on his accordion. She
’
d listen so hard that through the week she could hear it
again. But tonight even the anticipation of the music didn
’
t thrill her.

We
’
ve got to get this settled.
It won
’
t be easy. I have
to say,
“
Al, I
’
ve got something important to talk about.
”
He
’
ll have to listen instead of talk, for once.

Once they got that settled, and he
’
d promised to quit
next week, they
could
talk about
other things. It would
be good to hear what was going on in the world, Some
times Al even bro
ught a newspaper home, but not
tonight. Not even a note from Ma.

It
must
be time to set the table,
she thought. She let
Ellie put on the forks
and a knife for Al and for her.
Then she made a fresh pot of coffee and added a little water to the roast. The potatoes and carrots tucked
around it were almost done. It smelled so good Emma
could hardly wait for supper.

“
Liebchen, Liebchen,
”
she crooned as she sat down in
the rocker with Ellie.
“
I know how you feel. It doesn
’
t seem like Papa is ever going to get done with chores.
”

She sang to Ellie, song after song, but her mind wasn
’
t on the words. She was thinking that she felt more lonesome now that Al was home than before.
There was so much to say and no chance to say it.

Al doesn
’
t know what it
’
s like cooped up here like
a
setting hen day after day. He doesn
’
t know what it
’
s like
to work like crazy, so I can get back in here with the little
ones. He
’
s working out there now with his mind free; he doesn
’
t have
to give a thought to what
’
s going on
here.

I don
’
t care if we don
’
t have money; I can
’
t take any
more of this trying to do a man
’
s work along with a
woman
’
s.

“
Mama! Sing!
”
Ellie demanded.

“
Bring them in! Bring them in! Bring them in from
the fields of sin,
”
Emma sang.
“
Bring the wandering ones to Jesus.
”

She
sang on, while in her mind having a conversa
tion with Jesus, telling Him if that He
’
d take care of this
situation, she might have faith in Him again.
But I can
’
t
see that You
’
ve done very much lately,
she told Him.
Then her face flushed.
I have to admit Al
got home when I didn
’
t think he would. I suppose that could have
been Your doing. I want to trust You, Lord. I need to
trust
You. I don
’
t know what I
’
m going,
to
do all those
days
after
Sunday.

Sunday was tomorrow! She saw herself bundling up
Al
’
s clothes into his turkey. He
’
d swing it, up on his
back, and off he
’
d
trudge again. Her stomach knotted.
One more
week in
^,
camp. That
’
s all!

The baby began to cry. Emma let Ellie hold the pins
while she changed him, telling her what a big, helpful girl she was.

“
Watch for Papa and the boys,
”
she urged Ellie, as she
sat down to nurse George. She had barely gotten settled
before she heard their voices, and Ellie was running to
the door.
“
Papa! Papa!
”

They
’
ll just have to wait a few minutes for supper,
Emma decided. She wasn
’
t about to put the baby down
before he was content. With a mixture of pleasure and
envy, she listened to their laughter as they stomped in.
Al set the milk on the table and went back out for water.
The boys scuffled and hollered and made Ellie cry, but
they calmed down when Al came in.

“
Wash your hands,
”
he ordered as he poured water
into the washbasin for them and rolled up his sleeves.
He turned to Emma.
“
That barn sure was a mess. Looked like you didn
’
t clean it all week.
”

She opened her mouth to explain, but shut it again.
This was certainly no time to discuss the matter, and she
wasn
’
t going to try to out
-
yell the children. Besides, she
knew she couldn
’
t explain without crying.

The boys scrambled up on the bench behind the table
and began drumming with their spoons until Al yelled,
“
Hey! Enough of that!
”
They stopped drumming, but kept pushing and shoving each other.

Al ignored them, took his watch out of his vest pock
et, and set the clock hands at half past six.
“
Still can
’
t figure
out how you could forget to wind the clock, Emma,
”
he called to her.

“
Eat! Eat!
”
Ellie yelled, banging her plate.
Al frowned at her, and she stopped her
banging.

He looked, questioningly at Emma
. Want me t
o dish
up?
”

“
You can take the roast out. I have to thicken the gra
vy.
”
Stiff-lipped, Emma finished the supper and set it on
the table. She dished up food for the children and cut
their meat. Then she filled her own plate and was
about
to take a bite when Al held out his empty coffee cup.

“
He could pour his own coffee once,
”
she grumbled
to herself as she got up to get the coffeepot. Pain shot up
her spine.

Al was so engrossed
in telling the boys about what
they ate in camp he didn
’
t even notice her grim expres
sion.

“
. . .
and we always have pie for dessert—sometimes cake, too.
”

Fred listened, round-eyed.
“
We gonna have pie, Mama?
”

“
No, we
’
re not having pie. You can have some jelly on your
Kuchen.

“
Ah, Mama, we
never
have pie,
”
Albert complained.

The roast that had smelled so delicious stuck in Emma
’
s throat. She felt like throwing down her fork
and running, but where, she didn
’
t know.
Never
enough. No matter how hard I work and how hard I struggle, there
’
s always more I should have done. I
didn
’
t have supper on the table when they were ready to
eat. Did
n
’
t clean the barn. Didn
’
t have
pie for dessert.
One more, and she
’
d tumble in a heap like Ellie
’
s
blocks.

She managed to eat a little and to answer Al when he
talked to her, but she was glad when supper was over.

Emma was swishing the bar of soap in the dish
water when she heard Al
’
s yell.
“
Where in thunder
is my razor?
”

Hastily she dried her hands and scurried to the bedroom. When she handed it to him, he scowled.
“
What
’
s it doing in the bedroom?
”

She cleared her throat and gripped the back of a chair to keep her hand from trembling. Albert and Fred stopped running and glued their eyes on her.

“
I
—
I
came in from watering the stock this noon, and—Fred had it. He was up on a chair by the corner shelf.
”
She took a quick breath.
“
And he had it—open—in his hand
.
”
She shivered.
“
Albert was trying to pull it away from him.
”

Emma wanted to go on, to spill out her anguish
and say,
“
See! That
’
s why you have to stay home,
”
but the words wouldn
’
t come. She watched Al put
the razor up on the shelf, stoop down and, with smooth motions of his long arms, grasp each boy by
a shoulder. He shook Albert, his eyes boring into
the small boy
’
s teary ones.
“
Did your mama tell you to watch Fred—not to let him climb on anything?
”

Albert nodded, his chin trembling.

Then Al shook Fred.
“
Did your mama tell you not to
climb on anything while she
’
s outside?
”

Fred
’
s face crumpled, and he twisted away.

Al shook him again.
“
Look at me! Did she?
”

Fred met his father
’
s eyes briefly, nodded, and began
to cry.

Al dropped Albert
’
s shoulder and grasped both of Fred
’
s. The little boy looked up at Al, tears streaming down his face.

Al frowned.
“
Don
’
t you
ever
climb on anything when
your mama
’
s out doing chores. Understand?
”

Fred nodded. As soon as Al released him, he ran like
a shot to the bedroom.

Before Albert could run off, too, Al grabbed his arm
and said,
“
You will watch the little ones better when Mama is outside.
”

Albert nodded and disappeared.

Al glanced at Emma.
“
You spank
‘
em?
”

“
I sure did!
”
She took a step toward Al, so she
w
ouldn
’
t have to talk so loud, bu
t then she stopped. He
had turned to the washstand and was whistling as he be
gan mixing his shaving soap.

Tears sprang to her eyes as s
he went back to her dish
washing.
Just like that and it
’
s
all over! And he can
whistle yet! He can hike out of here, free as a bird.
Doesn
’
t he see I can
’
t be two places at once?

Emma was still prowling around in the dark corners
of her thoughts when Al got out his accordion. The little
ones went wild before he played the first note.

Oh! It was good to hear music! She washed the oilcloth on the table absentmindedly, watching the chil
dren
’
s shadows leap high on the walls. She poured the dishwater into the slop pail and hung up the dish pan. Then she dried her ha
nds and picked up little Georgie
.
He sat, wide-eyed, on her lap, and she settled back to en
joy the melody.

If only there were some way to keep the music, so she
c
ould
hear it again
anytime
she
wanted to. Emma
closed
her eyes and let the music wash over her, relieving her,
at least for a time, from the load she carried.

Al played one German tune after another while the
children danced and pranced and squealed at their gro
tesque shadows. When he finally closed the accordion
with a flourish, the boys pleaded,
“
One more! Please,
Papa! One more.
”

He began to fasten the strap, but when Ellie toddled
over with one pink finger in the air, mimicking the
boys, he relented. When they begged again, he said
sternly,
“
To bed now! Lots to do tomorrow.
”

“
Aw . . .
“
they groaned, but they began to pull off their
socks.

Emma sighed.
“
If only they
’
d mind me like that,
”
she
said to herself.
“
Most of the time it
’
s
as though they don
’
t even hear me.
”

When the children were in bed, Al pulled a chair
close to the stove, propped his wool-stockinged feet up
on the edge of the wood box and tilted the chair back He
clasped his hands across his chest and grinned at Emma.

Emma picked up her knitting and tried to sort out just the right words. Now was her chance.

But before she could utter a word, Al was saying,
“
Oh,
Emma, Emma! If only you could have been with me on
that sleigh this afternoon. The snow didn
’
t bother that team one bit—they plowed right through.
‘
Course that
little sleigh with a few supplies and the two of us wasn
’
t
anything, compared to a load of logs.
”

He pulled his feet down, and the chair rocked forward
with a thud. With his elbow on his knee and chin in
hand, he talked on, more to himself than to Emma.
“
A
man could really get ahead with a team. Wouldn
’
t need
dynamite for most of the stumps back of the barn.
They
’
re rotted pretty good now. A team like that could
pull them out like baby teeth.
”
He nodded, staring past
Emma.
“
One more winter in camp, I figure.
”

He put his feet up on the wood box again
and clasped
his
hands behind his head. Emma sensed a story, coming
on. Usually she welcomed Al
’
s stories; he could make
he
r feel like she was right there when it happened. But tonight, with words piled up inside her ready to tumble
out,
she hoped he
’
d tell it fast.

He cleared his throat and said,
“
I figure it
’
s about time
the Germans got to know the Swedes and the Norwe
gians better. It
’
s time we found out why they do things
the, way they do.
”

“
Not me,
”
Emma replied.
“
If they leave me alone, I
’
ll
leave them alone.
‘
Live and let live,
’
like Ma used to
say. There
’
s room enough for all
of us to live the way we
’
re used to living.
”

“
Now, Emma, we
’
re all Americans now. We gotta live together.
”

“
Were you going to tell me something that happened
at camp?
”
she asked,
eager to get the story told.

“
Oh, yeah. There
’
s this old Swede. His name is John,
but everyone calls him Old Peterson.
”

“
I know. You
’
ve talked about him before.
”

“
Well, one night Old Peterson told me how three of the families happened to come and settle here. They
came over from Sweden about twenty years ago to live
in Albany, New York. Then a real estate man talked
them into going to work on farms near Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

“
Well, life wasn
’
t much better there than it had been
in Sweden, so they kept looking for something better.
One day they heard about the new railroad that would
run all the way from Menasha—that
’
s on Lake Winnebago—
”

“
For goodness
’
sake, Al, I know that,
”
Emma said im
patiently.
“
I was born in Oshkosh, you know.
”

If Al was aware of her impatience, he ignored it.
“
Well, they heard it would go all the way to Ashland on
Lake Superior. They knew that there would be home
stead land opening up all along the rail line and figured
they
’
d scout
around and
see
if they could find good land
.
But they couldn
’
t get away from the farm work until August when the hay was in and before the oats were ripe enough to harvest.

“
They took the train to Wausau
—
just John and his
friends, Gust and Ole, not their whole families. In Wau
sau they found there was a tote road to some lumber
camps north of Jenny. It went right through the place
where some German
families were already homestead
ing along the Spirit River. They hiked to Jenny and stayed overnight there. They went to the store to buy
some grub, enough for
a couple of days, and met anoth
er Swede in the store.
”

Al got up to put wood in the stove, and Emma knit
ted furiously, waiting for him to get on with the story.
“
Well, that fella told
‘
em they
’
d be foolish to buy
food, when they could e
at at the lumber camps free, so
they just bought a loaf of bread and a ring of bologna to
eat till they got to the first camp. He
—
the other Swede—
said he had worked for a man by the name of Isaac
Stone. He told
‘
em about hay meadows about half a mile
from Stone
’
s camp. Good homestead land, they figured.
”

“
So did they find the meadows?
”
Emma asked, hop
ing to move the story along a bit faster.

“
Hold on! Things didn
’
t go quite that easy. This other
Swede told
‘
em to head north of town up along the Wis
consin River to Grandfather Falls and to cross there and
keep going on that tote road to McCrossin
’
s camp. He
said there was an Irish cook there that never turned any
one away without a good meal, and at Stone
’
s camp
there was a cook, Mrs. Johnson, who baked the best pies
a man ever ate. Their mouths were about watering already.