Theodore watched while Linnea sketched a fruit jar and put the appropriate letters in the comer. The kitchen was quiet without the creak of Nissa’s rocker and Kristian’s page turning. The kerosene lamp hissed softly and the room was warm and cozy.
Then came K.
“K is for—”
Kiss. The word popped into Linnea’s mind, and her blue eyes seemed to crash with the brown ones across the table. The memory came back, as vibrant and unnerving as if it had just happened, and she saw in his deep, dark eyes that he was remembering it, too.
“K is for — ” he repeated quietly, his gaze unwavering.
“You think of one first this time,” she returned, hoping her face didn’t betray her thoughts. “It should sound just like the letter.”
“You’re the teacher.”
Becoming flustered by his steady regard, Linnea frantically searched for inspiration. “K is for krumkaka!” she rejoiced.
“No fair. That’s Norwegian.”
“So is aquavit, but we used it. Besides, krumkaka is one Norwegian food I love, so allow me.” She busied herself drawing the sweet Christmas delicacy she’d eaten so many times in her life, and came up with a perfect likeness of the delicate cone-shaped cookies.
Glancing at it, he praised, “Very good.” But she had the impression his mind wasn’t on krumkaka any more than hers was. In an effort to leaven their mood again, she went on to L.
“L is for all the worst ideas Norwegians ever produced. Lefse, liver loaf, and lutefisk. Pick one.”
Theodore’s eyes met hers, his face golden and attractive in the lamplight as he leaned back and laughed. “Let’s make it lutefisk.”
She drew her lower lip between her teeth, concentrating, trying to block out the electricity between Theodore and herself while she made the illustration. When the picture was done, she held it up. His head was bent low over his paper, the pencil moving.
“Theodore?”
He looked up. The tablet covered her face from the nose down. She peered at him over her depiction of a serving platter heaped high with chunks of nebulous matter emanating waving stink lines.
“L is for lutefisk,” she reiterated.
He broke out laughing — how mischievous she looked, eyeing him from behind the silly sketch. She laughed, too, happier than she’d been in a long time. Then suddenly their laughter dwindled, fell away completely, and left a room so silent they could hear the cat breathe, curled up in Nissa’s abandoned chair. They stared at each other, stirred by feelings neither could control. She laid the picture down as if it were made of spun glass, nervous under his watchful eyes casting about for something to say to end the gripping awareness they suddenly felt with each other.
She looked up. He studied her as steadily as before, his jaw resting on one hand, the index finger along his cheek. Was that how he used to look at Melinda?
“It’s late,” she noted quietly.
“Oh... yes, I suppose it is.”
He made fists, stretched them out at shoulder level, quivering and bowing backward against the chair.
“I’d best get upstairs.” But instead she remained, bewitched by the sight of his flexed muscles, the fists bunched beside his ears, his trunk twisting while the chair went back on two legs. It was a heavenly spectacle.
The stretch ended.
She dropped an elbow to the table and propped her chin on a palm. “We worked a long time. I didn’t mean to wear you out.”
He grinned lazily. “I never knew going to school would be such fun.”
“It’s not always. I can be an old witch when I want to.”
“That’s not what Kristian says.”
Her eyelids drooped with veiled curiosity. “Oh? And do you spend time talking to Kristian about me?”
“He’s my son. It’s my job to know what goes on down at school.” She picked up a pencil and began absently fanning it across the tablet, sketching arc after arc.
“Oh.”
Eyes locked with hers, Theodore set the chair rocking... backward... forward... backward...
The house, cozy, silent, wrapped them in privacy, making them seem the only two in the world. She hooked the nail of a little finger into the corner of her mouth, lifting and misshaping her lip in an unconsciously sensual fashion while studying him: white underwear beneath red plaid shirt, both opened at the throat, exposing a wisp of dark curling hair; six inches of underwear showing at the wrist beneath the rolled-up cuffs of red plaid; thumbs hooked behind brass suspender clips, black trousers hugging spread thighs that straddled the chair, the shadows of his eyelashes throwing darker shadows upon his upper lids as he watched her unflinchingly, continuing the mesmerizing rocking motion.
When he spoke, his voice was no louder than the creaking of his chair. “Kristian says you’re the best teacher he’s ever had. After tonight, I can believe him.”
Something singular was happening here. She felt it in her vitals. The spark of a change in him, a change she liked immensely.
Quietly, she spoke. “Thank you, Teddy.”
His chair stopped rocking. His lips opened slightly. Her pencil stopped fanning. “Is there something wrong with my calling you that?” she inquired innocently.
“I... I don’t know.”
“Everybody else does. Would you prefer I stick to Theodore?”
He carefully lowered the chair to all fours. “Suit yourself,” he offered, not unkindly, but breaking the spell nevertheless. He reached for the papers and began shuffling them together.
Disappointment pressed heavily on Linnea’s chest. “Here, I’ll take care of those.” She took the papers from his hands.
He got to his feet and pushed his chair in, then watched her tap the sheets into a neat stack. Tempted to touch. Tempted to end the evening the way they both wanted it to end. Instead, he turned and crossed the kitchen, lifted a stove lid, and slid in a scoop of coal. He heard her cross behind him and pause at the upstairs doorway. “Well, good night, Theodore.” Her voice held the faintest tremble, and a touch of disappointment.
He clinked the lid back on the stove and swallowed thickly, wondering if he could handle turning around and looking at her and still stay level-headed. In that moment it seemed he had to prove to both of them he could. He slipped both hands into his hip pockets and faced her, wiping all but a brotherly look from his countenance.
She held the papers in one hand, pressed against her ribs, the tiny watch peeking from above them on the fullness of her breast. He knew beyond a doubt that if he took a single step toward her those papers would go scattering to the floor and her watch would be ticking against his chest.
Their eyes clung while the decision hung in the balance.
“Good night,” Theodore managed.
Her face became a curious mixture of disappointment and hope. “Should we do the second half of the alphabet tomorrow night?”
He nodded.
“And I’ll think up some good funny ones that’ll be easy for you to remember.”
He nodded again, digging his fingers into his buttocks, thinking, Git upstairs, girl, go on!
“Well... ” She waggled two fingers, but they fluttered to a stop. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
She turned and fled. Behind her, Theodore released a rush of breath, his shoulders sagged, and his eyes closed.
In the days that followed, Linnea found herself kissing things. The most curious things. Mirrors. The back of her own hand. Icy window panes.
One day little Roseanne caught her at it. Returning to school to get the lunch bucket she’d forgotten, Roseanne asked from the back of the room, “What you doin’, Mith Brandonberg?”
Linnea spun around, leaving two damp lip marks on the blackboard. “Oh, Roseanne!” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Gracious, child, you scared me half to death.”
“What were you doin’?” Roseanne persisted.
“Trying to get a thick chalk mark off, that’s all. Really, though, it isn’t
a very sanitary way. You must never lick the blackboard. Promise? It’s just so icy outside I didn’t want to go out to the pump and wet a rag to wash it off.”
“You mean you was gonna lick off the whole thing?” Roseanne screwed up her face in disgust.
Linnea tilted back, laughing. “No, not the whole thing. Now, you’d better get what you forgot and scoot. The others will be waiting for you.”
After that Linnea worked harder at controlling her impulse to drift into fantasies of Theodore. At home the lessons continued, but the mood remained light and often comical: as long as they were laughing they were safe.
She taught him to recite the alphabet by teaching him a simple song she used with her first graders, sung to the tune of “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.”
A, B, C. D, E. F, Geee...
H, I, J, K, L-M-N-O-Peee...
Q, R, S, and T, U, Wee...
Double-ewe, and X, Y, Zee...
Now I’ve learned my ABCs,
Tell me what you think of me.
“You expect me to sing that!” he balked.
“Well, of course. It’s the easiest way to learn the letters.”
By now she’d grown accustomed to his tilting the chair back on two legs and could read his every mood. This one was stubborn. His crossed arms were lashed around his chest. His brow puckered obstinately.
“Not on your life.”
“You know what I do to my students when they cross me?”
“I’m thirty-four years old, for cryin’ out loud!”
She smirked. “Never too old to learn.”
The look he gave her could have singed hair at thirty feet.
She got him to sing it once, but never again, because Kristian made the mistake of snickering. But she suspected Theodore practiced it when he was alone in the tack room or working around the place, for once she came upon him in the kitchen, regluing the sole on one of Kristian’s boots and whistling “Twinkle Twinkle” softly between his teeth.
She stood behind him, smiling, listening.
When he heard her humming along softly with him, the whistling stopped. He turned around to find her with her hands clasped behind her back, picking up where he’d left off. In a very soft, very teasing voice she sang, “Now I’ve learned my ABCs, tell me what you think of me.”
He scowled and pointed the toe of Kristian’s boot at her nose. “What I think is that you’d better watch yourself, missy, or—”
“Tut! Tut!” She pointed back at him warningly.
He backtracked. “I think you’d better watch yourself, Linnea, or you’re going to lose your only thirty-four-year-old first grader!”
The lessons progressed rapidly. Theodore was a very fast learner. He grasped concepts quickly. Having marvelous recall, he scarcely had to be told things twice. Possessed of a desire to learn, he worked hard. Blessed with natural curiosity, he asked innumerable questions and recorded their answers carefully in his brain.
In no time at all he had memorized all the single consonants, so they moved on to combinations such as ch and sh, and began working with vowel sounds. Then came the first simple words, and once taught, they were rarely forgotten. Within two weeks he was writing and deciphering simple sentences. The first was, The cat is mine. Then, The book is red. And, The man was tall.
She taught him his name. Thus came the first personal sentence: Theodore is tall.
The night he wrote it, she said apologetically, “I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo the lessons for a while.” At his look of consternation, she hurried on. “It’s the school Christmas program. I have so much to do to prepare for it.”
“Oh... well... that’s all right.” But she sensed his disappointment.
“We’ll pick up again right after New Year’s.”
His head snapped up, his face blank. “New Year’s? But that’s three weeks.”
“I’m going home for the holidays.”
His lips slowly formed a silent oh while he nodded. But the nod echoed his disappointment at the news. He ran a hand down the back of his head and studied his lap. “Well, I’ve been thirty-four years learning to read, what’s a few more weeks?”
But it wasn’t the lessons he was thinking of, it was Christmas without her. Odd, how lonely it suddenly sounded.
“I can bring a reader and speller home for you to keep during Christmas vacation, and Kristian can teach you some new words. Then when I get back, you can surprise me.”
“Sure,” he said, but his voice was curiously lackluster.
She got up and began clearing the table. He did the same. When she’d pushed her chair under the table, she stood with her hands resting on its back. Her voice came quietly. “Teddy?”
“Hmm?” He looked up distractedly.
“I’ll need a favor.”
“I’m not paying you for the lessons. I owe you more than one favor.”
“A ride into town to catch the train.”
The picture of her leaving on the train seemed to drain all the joy out of Christmas.
“When you planning to leave?”
“The Saturday before Christmas.”
“Saturday... well... ” All was quiet for some time, then Theodore remarked, “You never said you were going home for Christmas.”
“I assumed you knew.”
“You don’t talk about your family much. You miss them?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Christmas’ll be here at our house this year.”
“Yes, I know.” She gave a wisp of a smile. “I found out the night of the heart stew, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.”
He looked at his feet. She looked at the way he hooked his thumbs into his side pockets, his fingers tapping restlessly against his hips. It was bedtime. The same thing seemed to happen every night at bedtime. After a pleasant two hours of lighthearted study, the minute they got to their feet their talk grew stilted, then fell away entirely. She searched for a way to tell him she’d miss him, too, over the holidays.
“I wish a person could be in two places at once.”
He forced a laugh, but its melancholy note made her heart trip faster. So many times she thought he was about to voice his feelings for her, but he always backed off. Linnea’s own feelings were running stronger by the day, yet she was helpless to force him to make the first move. And until he did, she could only wait and wish.
“You seem very sad all of a sudden. Is something wrong?” she asked, hoping he’d offer her the consolation of admitting he’d miss her.
But he only drew in a quick sigh and answered, “I’m tired tonight, that’s all. We worked a little later than usual.”
She studied his downcast face, wondering what it was that kept him from displaying his feelings. Was it shyness? Didn’t he like her as much as she thought? Or was it that damnable difference in their ages? Whatever the reason, he was caught in its clutches. It seemed she might wait fruitlessly if something wasn’t done to prod him.
She reached out and touched his forearm. His chin lifted and his eyes took on a dark, probing intensity. Beneath the sleeve of his underwear the muscles tensed. A pulse raced in her throat as she declared simply, “I’ll miss you, Theodore.”
His lips parted, but no words came out.
Her fingers tightened. “Say it,” she requested softly. “Why are you afraid?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Oh, no,” she breathed, lifting her eyes to his hair, his brow, returning to his familiar, stubborn, confused brown eyes. “Never. Not of this.”
“And if I say it, then what?”
“I don’t know. I only know I’m not afraid like you are.” She watched him hover, considering the options, the probable outcomes.
“You teach children arithmetic. Maybe you should try doing a little yourself. Like subtracting eighteen from thirty-four.” His hand closed over her wrist and placed it at her side. “I want you to stop looking at me that way, you hear? Cause if you don’t, these lessons are gonna sto
p permanently. Now go up to bed, Linnea.” Her troubled eyes clung to his. Her heart clamored at the sound of her name falling softly from his lips.
“Theodore, I—”
“Just go,” he interrupted with throaty urgency. “Please.”
“But you—”
“Go!” he barked, thrusting her away, pointing to the stairway. Even before she obeyed, tears stung her eyes. She wanted to run not from him, but to him. But if she was miserable, she had one consolation.
So was he.
16
AS WINTER NEARED her solstice, the weather grew bitterly cold. Linnea’s morning treks to school seemed to grow longer and longer and start earlier and earlier. Trudging down the road in the murky, predawn hours, with her breath hanging frozen in the cold-white light of the setting moon and the snow cracking beneath her feet like breaking bones, it seemed the fields had never worn their coats of gold, nor the cottonwoods their capes of green.
At school, the morning chores were the worst part of her day. The wind whipped around the coal shed, lifting the ground snow into a swirling funnel. Inside, the little lean-to was dark and icy, the sound of the coal chilling as it rattled into the tin hod from her shovel. The schoolroom itself was cheerless. The stove lids rang eerily as she removed them to lay the fire. Shivering and hunching before the crackling kindling, it seemed the room would never warm.
If there was fresh or drifted snow, she had to shovel the steps and the path to the outhouses. Then she shuddered over the worst chore of all: getting the day’s water in. Even through thick wool mittens the pump handle numbed her fingers, and sometimes, while transferring the water to the crock, she got her fingers wet. One morning she froze her little finger, and it hurt for the rest of the week. After that, it seemed more vulnerable to the cold than the rest of her body.
It was on a particularly bitter morning while pumping water that she had the idea about the soup: if the boys could cook rabbits, why couldn’t the girls cook soup?
When she presented them with the idea, it caught on immediately, not only with the girls, but with the boys, too. So Fridays became soup days. They agreed to work by fours, two older ones and two younger ones, taking turns getting recipes from their mothers, bringing ingredients from home — beef bones, potatoes, rutabagas, carrots. In the process of the soup-making the children learned planning, cooperation, and execution. Linnea often smiled as she watched the younger ones plying a paring knife for the first time under the tutelage of an older student. And for their efforts they were given a grade. But the biggest bonus was the soup itself.