Libby Severt stepped out, closed the door, and announced clearly, “The first Thanksgiving.” There followed a brief recitation on the history of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Colony in 1621, then Libby took her place on the floor next to Miss Brandonberg. Linnea squeezed her hand and solemnly returned her attention to the cloakroom door.
Out stepped Skipp and Jeannette nervously glancing at each other for a cue, taking deep breaths, then reciting in unison: “Thanksgiving was to give thanks for a good harvest or for rain after a drought.” Each of them carried a sheaf of wheat in their arms. In procession they marched forward and laid the symbolic wheat on the floor within the circle of plates. When they were seated, Raymond hustled forward and whisked one bundle a safer distance from the stove, and at Jeannette’s crestfallen expression assured her in a loud whisper, “You did just fine, Jeannette.” Then he gave her a broad wink, which staved off her tears.
Linnea controlled the urge to chuckle, truly touched by the solemnity with which the children carried out their parts in the pageant.
Next came Frances, dressed in a brown blanket, with a chicken feather in her hair. “The Indians brought gifts of food,” she announced importantly. Behind her entered four other Indians in feathers and blankets. First came Norna.
“Corn,” she announced, bearing forth a lopsided basket of popcorn.
Then came tiny Roseanne.
“Nutth!” she blasted, so loud it raised an undertone of laughter. The sound faded as she solemnly came into the room with a dishtowel tied neatly in a bundle. Kneeling at the circle, she tried to untie it. When the knot refused to budge, she glanced with a trembling lip toward Patricia — obviously the play director — hovering near the cloakroom door. Patricia hustled over to lend a hand, and together she and Roseanne opened the towel, revealing a pile of crisp, brown walnut meats.
Roseanne settled down cross-legged, and the next Indian entered.
“Wild fruits.” Sonny’s offering was a wooden bowl full of quartered apples.
“And berries,” Bent ended. Another series of snickers arose as he came forward with two quart jars of home-canned raspberry sauce, explaining, “We couldn’t find no fresh berries.” The younger children covered their mouths and giggled.
Libby rose to her feet and recited, “The Pilgrims taught the Indians about God, and they all asked for thanks together, for the year had been bountiful and they had food enough to see them through till spring.”
To Linnea’s surprise, Allen Severt stepped from the cloakroom, looking completely out of character in one of his father’s white collars, which hung around his neck like a band around a chicken’s leg. He held a Bible and grudgingly mumbled his way through the Thanksgiving Psalm, then sat down.
Again, Libby began, “And they all sang—”
Over by the stove, Kristian interrupted, “And they all decided that they would sing the Thanksgiving song later so the rabbit wouldn’t be burned to a crisp.”
They broke into gales of laughter. Then Tony and Paul passed around piping-hot potatoes, followed by the fruit jar of butter. Kristian and Raymond served the rabbit, and there was cold milk for everyone. They had all brought cups from home, and Miss Brandonberg got the one from the water jug.
When the food was all served and the big boys seated, Linnea sat back and smiled at them all, tears flooding her eyes. She reached for the hands of those closest to her. Never in her life had she experienced a feeling like this. These wonderful children had done this all for her. Pride shone in their eyes. A lump formed in her throat.
As they all joined hands in a circle, she found room in her heart to love every one of them.
“I give thanks for each and every one of you dear, dear children. You’ve given me a Thanksgiving I shall never forget.” A tear trembled and rolled over her lashes, followed by another. She unashamedly let them fall. The children gazed at her in awe, and nobody seemed to know how to end the awkward moment.
Then, Roseanne, with her uncanny sense of timing, lightened the mood by informing “teacher” with all due seriousness, “Thkipp, he forgot the disheth for the rathberrieth, tho we can’t really eat ‘em.”
When the laughter died down, Linnea suggested, “Maybe we don’t need dishes if we finish our milk first and put our sauce in the cups.”
The Thanksgiving feast began, and a queasy Miss Brandonberg had her first bite of rabbit. She chewed cautiously, raised her eyebrows, licked her lips, and declared in genuine amazement, “Why, it tastes just like chicken!”
And it really did!
15
THEY WERE ALL in the front parlor at Ulmer and Helen’s house, gathered around a Thanksgiving table so long the far end seemed to vanish in the distance. It was much more formal than Linnea had expected. The table was set all in white: white china on white damask linens. The only color came from a luscious ribbon of translucent jellies, relishes, and preserves that lined the length of the table and caught the sun like a strand of jewels spread upon the snow. In the center was a glorious crown of tomato aspic.
When everyone was seated, Ulmer said grace. A moment later Helen swept in, triumphantly bearing a wide silver platter of steaming lutefisk glistening with drawn butter.
Oh no, Linnea thought. The Curse of Norway!
It passed from hand to hand accompanied by oohs and ahs while Linnea frantically wondered where the turkey was. But no turkey appeared. She watched the malodorous steaming cod come closer with all the eagerness of St. Joan watching the firebuilder search for a match.
When it reached her, she passed it on to Frances as unobtrusively as possible.
Frances bellowed, “You mean you don’t want any lutefisk?”
“No thank you, Frances,” Linnea whispered.
“But you have to eat lutefisk! It’s Thanksgiving!”
Frances might as well have hired a barker. Everyone turned horrified glances on the recalcitrant Miss Brandonberg.
“I never learned to like it. Please, just... just pass it on to Norna.”
At her left, Clara — bless her heart — was snickering. Across the table Linnea saw Theodore hide his smile behind a finger. The hostess bustled in with the next Norwegian delicacy, lefse, a flat potato bread that had, in Linnea’s opinion, all the attraction of a platter of gray horsehide. Every eye in the house surreptitiously watched to see if the little missy would commit her second sin of the day. But this time she took a piece and plopped it on her plate to satisfy them. She slathered it with butter and lifted it to her lips. Looking up, she found Theodore lifting his own lefse — wrapped around a bunk of lutefisk. She bit into hers. He bit into his. She crossed her eyes and made a disgusted face. He chewed with exaggerated relish, then licked his lips ostentatiously while his eyes twinkled at her from across the table. It was their first friendly exchange since the night they’d kissed. Suddenly the lefse tasted nearly tolerable.
When the lutefisk and lefse courses were completed — ah, bliss — the turkey and dressing arrived. It was accompanied by snowy whipped potatoes, scalloped corn, peas in thick cream, and a rich apple and walnut salad in whipped cream.
Throughout the meal Linnea was conscious of Theodore’s eyes roving her way again and again, but whenever she glanced up, he looked somewhere else.
When the meal ended she helped the women with the dishes while the men sprawled out and one by one drifted off to sleep.
When the dishes were finished Linnea peeked into the front parlor. The table had been taken down. The children had disappeared. John was snoozing in a rocker, Trigg was on his back on the floor. All was quiet except for the sound of soft snoring and the women settling at the kitchen table to chat. At one end of the horsehair sofa Lars was stretched out, eyes closed, hands laced across his stomach. At the opposite end, Theodore looked like his brother’s bookend. Between them was the only available wedge of sitting space in the room, wide enough only for a small throw pillow that nobody had nabbed.
Her eyes traveled over Theodore. His suit jacket and tie were
gone, his collar and vest buttons were open, white sleeves rolled to the elbow. His tan had begun fading; the pale strip of skin at the top of his forehead contrasted less sharply with the rest of his face than it had two months ago. His lips were parted, his chin was on his chest, his fingers relaxed, scarcely holding together as they lifted and fell with his slow breathing. He looked serene, imperturbable, even a little vulnerable.
She crossed the room, picked up the square pillow, and sat down. Theodore opened his eyes, smacked his lips, and sighed gently.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Linnea said quietly. “This is the only place left to sit.”
“I wasn’t really asleep.” He closed his eyes again.
“Yes you were. I was watching you.”
He grinned with one corner of his mouth, chuckled, and closed his eyes. “Oh you were, huh?”
She hugged the pillow and slouched down, resting her head on the sofa back. “You haven’t been saying much to me lately.”
“You haven’t been saying much to me either.”
“I know.”
She rested her chin on the pillow and studied his shiny Sunday boots, crossed at the ankle, then his bare arm, where brown skin met white cotton, the sun-bleached hair beginning to come in darker.
He opened his eyes slightly and watched her without moving another muscle. “You still mad?”
“What’s there to be mad about?”
Desultorily, he rolled his head toward her. “Don’t know. You tell me.”
She felt her cheeks warming and lowered her voice to a murmur. “I’m not mad at you.”
A full thirty seconds passed while their gazes held and the sound of the men’s soft snuffling continued through the peaceful room. At last he said, in a voice so low it was barely audible, “Good.” Then he settled his head squarely again and went on. “I hear you had quite a feast at school yesterday.”
“And you’re gloating, no doubt.”
He feigned an injured expression and they grinned at each other. “Gloating. Me?”
“About the rabbit.”
“Would I gloat?” But he arched one eyebrow, inquiring, “How was it?”
“I bow to your peculiar tastes. Delicious.”
He chuckled. “But you couldn’t quite bring yourself to bow to our peculiar tastes today, could you?”
“Nothing against Helen’s cooking, but there wasn’t any way I could bring myself to eat that... that Norwegian atrocity.”
Theodore laughed so unexpectedly his heels came up off the floor. Beside them, Lars shifted. Across the room John’s snoring halted, he snuffled, rubbed his nose, and slept on. Theodore grinned at Linnea with pure enjoyment.
“You know, I might learn to like you yet, even though you don’t eat lutefisk.”
“Only a Norwegian would come up with a ridiculous standard like that. I suppose if I suddenly discovered I loved that rotten-smelling stuff, I’d pass muster, huh?” He took his sweet time deliberating until finally she advised wryly, “Don’t strain yourself, Theodore. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for your committing any ethnic sins.”
He inquired, good-naturedly, “What’s that mean, then — ethnic?”
“Ethnic... ” She gestured searchingly. “You know — peculiar to your nationality.”
“I didn’t know sins came in Norwegian. I thought they was all the same in any country.”
“Were all the same.”
“Well, I see you’re back to correcting me. That must mean you got over whatever had you all dandered.”
“I was not dandered. I told you—”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” He wriggled into a more comfortable position with an air of disinterest that made her want to knock him off the edge of the sofa. How was a girl supposed to get his attention?
“Theodore, you know what I wish you’d do?” He didn’t even bother to grunt. “Go soak your head in the lutefisk barrel!” She hugged the pillow, crossed her ankles, and slammed her eyes closed. If he was grinning at her, let him grin, the damn fool! She’d lay there till she turned into a fossil before she’d let him see how his teasing riled her!
Several minutes passed. Her eyelids started twitching. Theodore sighed, wriggled down more comfortably, and let his arm touch Linnea’s. Her eyes flew open. Sure enough, he was grinning at her.
“I was thinking about your offer to teach me to read. When can we start lessons?”
She jerked her arm away and huffed, “I’m not interested.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Pay me! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I can afford it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh. What did you mean?”
“Friendship cannot be bought, Theodore.”
He considered a moment, then told her, “You look about twelve years old when you stick out your bottom lip like that.”
She sucked it in, sat up, produced her most syrupy smile, and pointed. “The lutefisk barrel is that way.” She was half off the sofa when he grabbed her arm and hauled her back with a bounce. To her utter amazement, all his teasing disappeared.
“I want to learn to read. Will you teach me, Linnea?”
When he said her name that way she’d have done anything he asked. He had beautiful eyes, and when they rested on hers without teasing she wanted more than anything in the world for them to see her as a woman instead of a girl.
“Will you promise never to call me little missy again?”
Before speaking, he released her arm. “I promise.”
“All right. It’s a bargain.”
She stuck out her hand and he shook it — one sure, powerful pump.
“Bargain.”
She smiled.
“Miss Brandonberg,” he added.
“Theodore!” she scolded petulantly.
“Well, you’re my teacher now. Got to call you like your kids call you.”
“I meant I wanted you to keep calling me Linnea.”
“We’ll see about that,” was all he’d promise.
They began their lessons the following night. As soon as the supper dishes were done, Nissa settled down with her mending in a rocker by the stove. Kristian took a book to the kitchen table where he was joined by his father and Linnea.
Linnea was accustomed to facing a class full of fresh-scrubbed childish faces. It felt odd having to teach the ABCs to a full-grown man whose jaw showed the day’s growth of whiskers, whose enormous hands dwarfed a pencil, and whose brawny chest and arms filled out a red plaid flannel shirt the way fifty pounds of grain fills a seed bag. On the other hand, she didn’t have to put up with the attention lapses and fidgeting inherent with younger children. She couldn’t have asked for a more eager or attentive student.
“We’ll start with the alphabet, but I’ll try to make it interesting by giving you something to spur your memory on each letter.” Having left all her books at school, Linnea took out a large tablet. After a minute’s thought she filled the first sheet with a sketch of a half-filled bottle, giving it a tall, narrow neck. In the upper right corner she formed a capital and small A.
She turned the tablet to face Theodore, “A... is for aquavit.” Her eyes met his over the thick pad. A slow smile spread over his face, a soundless chuckle formed in his chest.
“A is for aquavit,” he repeated obediently.
“Very good. Now don’t forget it.” She tore off a sheet of paper and formed two perfect A’S. “Here, you make each letter as you learn it. Make a row of them.”
He bent over the paper and began following orders while she explained. “A has several different sounds. A is for aquavit, and apple, and ace. Each word starts with an A, but as you can hear, they all have different sounds. A is for arm, and for always, and for automobile. Now you name me one.”
“Autumn.”
“Exactly. Now one that starts with a sound like apple.”
“Alfalfa.”
“Right again.”
“Now one with a
sound like ace.”
“Eight.”
Linnea threw up her hands and let them flop to the table. “You should be right, and the dictionary should be wrong, but the first thing you have to learn about the English language is that its rules seem to have been made only to be broken. Eight starts with E, but we’ll get to that later. For now, just remember what A looks like, both capital and small.”
While Theodore worked on his small A’S, Linnea sketched a string of link sausages, forming them into a capital B.
“B is for blood sausage,” she announced, flashing the picture at him.
“Blood sausage?” he repeated, surprised again by her quick wit. She turned up her nose in distaste. “B is for bad, blukky, buckets of blood sausage!”
“B... blukky?” He laughed. Her sense of humor made the lesson anything but dull.
Across the table, Kristian listened and watched the proceedings with a grin, wishing it had been this much fun when he’d been in first grade.
Next Linnea ordered, “Name me a word that starts with B.”
Theodore’s answer was immediate. “Bird wings.”
She feigned an injured expression, then scolded, “B is also for brat, so watch yourself, Theodore.”
Nissa peered over the top of her glasses at the sound of her son’s laughter, wondering when she’d last heard it. She glanced at Linnea, grinned appreciatively, and returned to her knitting. As the evening advanced, they laughed often. Nissa listened with one ear, yawning now and then.
c was supposed to be for Clippa, but Theodore declared that the horse Linnea drew looked more like a moose, so they changed c to coal. They progressed through the alphabet, searching for familiar items with which to associate the letters. D was for dipper. E was for eggs. F was for fence. G was for grain. H was for hymnal.
I was a little tougher. While they puzzled over it, Kristian began nodding heavily over his book. I became ice house as Nissa set aside her knitting, lumbered to her feet, and said, “Kristian, come along before you slip off your hand and break your chin.” The two of them toddled off to bed as Linnea and Theodore agreed on jar for J.