THERE WERE TIMES when Linnea remembered there was a war, but these were chiefly spawned by irritation or romanticized fantasy. Irritation when she had to do without the things she liked best such as sugar, bread, and roast beef, and romantic fantasy whenever it happened to beckon: soldiers kissing sweethearts good-bye as the train pulled from the station... those sweethearts receiving soiled, wrinkled letters filled with crowded words of undying love... nurses with red crosses on their scarves sitting at bedsides holding wounded hands...
Walking home from school that day she thought of the conflict going on in Europe. President Wilson had beseeched Americans to go “wheatless and meatless” one day each week to help keep supplies flowing to France. Glancing around at the endless miles of wheat and the large herds of cows in the distance, she thought, “How silly, when we’ll never run out!”
As always, even such a brief reflection on war was too distressing, so she put it from her head in favor of more pleasant thoughts.
The gophers and prairie dogs were hard at play, their antics delightful to watch as they scurried and chattered among the brown-eyed Susans. Stepping along at a sprightly pace, Linnea considered her new class list, which she’d found inside the teacher’s grade book. Kristian hadn’t been exaggerating when he said most of them were his cousins. Of the fourteen names on the list, eight of them were Westgaards! She couldn’t wait to ask Nissa about each of them, and hurried along, eager to get home.
But before she was halfway, she realized her new congress shoes were far less practical than they were dapper. It seemed she could feel every pebble of the gravel road through her soles, and the elevated heels only served to make her ankles wobble when she stepped on rocks.
By the time she was trudging up the driveway, her feet not only hurt but the left one had developed a blister where the tight elastic joined the leather and rubbed her ankle bone. Nissa saw her hobble up and came to the kitchen door. “The walk a little longer than you ‘spected?”
“It’s just these new shoes. They’re still rubbing in spots.”
Nissa eyed them speculatively as Linnea climbed the steps and entered the kitchen. “Purty’s fine, but sturdy’s better out here.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Linnea agreed, dropping to a kitchen chair with a sigh of relief. She lifted her ankle over her knee and winced.
Nissa stood with hands akimbo, shaking her head. “Got a blister, have ya?” Linnea looked up and nodded sheepishly. “Well, git ‘em off and I’ll take a look.”
It took some doing to get them off. They were tighter than new cowboy boots, fitting securely well above the ankle. By the time Linnea had tugged and squirmed out of them, Nissa was chortling in amusement. “Don’t know what you’d do if you had to get out of them things fast. You got others?”
Linnea’s expression turned woeful. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well, ‘pears we better get you some straight up.” She hustled off toward her bedroom and returned with a pair of heavy knit slippers of black wool and a Sears Roebuck and Company catalogue.
“Now, let’s see that there blister.”
To Linnea’s chagrin, it was while Nissa was off fetching some gauze and salve to put on the blister that the men returned to do the milking. She was sitting with her bare foot pulled high up onto her lap, tenderly exploring the fat, bubbled blister when she felt somebody watching her.
She looked up to find Theodore standing in the door, one corner of his mouth hinting at amusement. She dropped her foot so fast it became tangled in her long skirts and she heard stitches pop. Color flooded her face as she covered one foot with the other and gazed up at him defiantly.
“Came for the milk pails,” was all he said before moving into the kitchen and crossing to the pantry. Nissa arrived from her bedroom with a tin of ointment and went down on one knee before Linnea. Theodore stepped out of the pantry and asked, “What’s wrong with her?”
“She got—”
“I have a blister from my new shoes!” Linnea retorted, suddenly not caring that her face was blazing red as she glared at Theodore. “And I’ve also got a Teacher’s Certificate from the Fargo Normal School that says I’m quite capable of interpreting questions and answering them for myself, in case you’re interested!” Angrily she grabbed the ointment and gauze out of Nissa’s hands. “I can do that myself, Nissa, thank you.” With an irritated twist she took the cover off the tin, wedged her foot sole up, and disregarded her audience while applying the unguent.
Theodore and Nissa exchanged surprised glances. Then Nissa pushed herself to her feet, handed over a needle, and advised dryly, “While you’re at it, better bust that thing before you cover it up.”
Linnea accepted the needle, raising her eyes no farther than Nissa’s hand before tending to the unpalatable task. Nissa looked at her son and found him watching Linnea with an amused crook at the corner of his mouth. When he glanced up, his eyes met Nissa’s and he shook his head — hopeless case, his expression said — then left the house with the milk pails swinging at his sides.
When he was gone, Linnea’s heel hit the floor with an exasperated klunk and she glared at the door. “That man can make me so angry!” Suddenly realizing she was speaking to Theodore’s mother, she mellowed slightly. “I’m sorry, Nissa, I probably shouldn’t have said that, but he’s... he’s so exasperating sometimes! I could just... just... ”
“You ain’t hurtin’ my feelings. Speak your piece.”
“He makes me feel like I’m still in pinafores!” She threw her arms wide in annoyance. “Ever since he picked me up at the station and stood there almost laughing at my hat and shoes. I could see he thought I was little more than a child dressed up in grown-up clothing. Well, I’m not!”
“Course you’re not. This here’s just a misfortune, that’s all. Why, anybody can get a blister. Don’t pay no attention to Teddy. Remember what I told you about bullheaded Norwegians and how you got to treat ‘em? Well, you just done it. Teddy needs that.”
“But why is he so... so cross all the time?”
“It goes a long way back. Got nothin’ to do with you at all. It’s just his way. Now you best get that padding on and let me go get some sandwiches made for them two. When they come in they don’t want to waste no time.”
While Nissa made sandwiches, Linnea told her all about Superintendent Dahl’s visit, then read the list of names from her red book while Nissa filled her in on each one.
The first name on the list was Kristian Westgaard, age sixteen.
“Kristian I already know,” Linnea said. “How about the next one — Raymond Westgaard, sixteen?”
“He’s my oldest son Ulmer’s boy. Him and Kristian’ve always been close. You’ll meet Ulmer and his wife Helen and all the rest at church tomorrow. They live the next township road over.”
Linnea read the next two names. “Patricia and Paul Lommen, age fifteen.”
“Them’s the Lommen twins. They live just the other side of Ulmer’s place. Sharp as whips, them two. Always fierce competition between ‘em, which is natural, being twins and all. Patricia won the country spelling bee last year.”
Linnea noted it beside the name before reading on. “Anton Westgaard, age fourteen.”
“That’s little Tony. He belongs to Ulmer and Helen, too. He’s shy like his uncle John, but got a heart the size of all outdoors. Tony had rheumatic fever when he was younger, and it left him a little weak, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders nevertheless.”
Linnea noted his nickname, and a reminder about his health.
“Allen Severt, fifteen.”
“Allen’s the son of our local minister. Look out for that one. He’s a troublemaker.”
Linnea glanced up, frowning. “Troublemaker?”
“I sometimes think he knows he can get by with it because there’s only one person gets more respect around here than the schoolteacher, and that’s the minister. If the teachers we had in years past had taken him to task like they should’ve, and
told Reverend Severt some of the monkey business Allen’s been up to, he might not be such a handful.”
“What sort of monkey business?”
“Oh, pushing the younger ones around, teasing the girls in ways that aren’t always funny — nothing that could ever be called serious. When it comes to the serious stuff, he’s crafty enough to cover his tracks so nothing can be pinned on him. But you watch him. He’s mouthy and bold. Never cared for him much myself, but you form your own opinion when you meet him.”
Promising to do just that, Linnea went on to the next name. “Libby Severt, age eleven.”
“That’s Allen’s sister. She pretty much gets ignored, cause Allen sees to it he gets all the attention in that family. She seems to be a nice enough child.”
“Frances Westgaard, age ten.”
“She’s Ulmer and Helen’s again. She’s got a special place in my heart. Guess it’s because she’s slower than the rest. But you never saw a more willing or loving child in your life. You wait till Christmas time. She’ll be the first to give you a present, and it’ll have plenty of thought behind it.”
Linnea smiled, and sketched a flower behind the name. “Norna Westgaard, age ten.”
“Norna belongs to my son Lars and his wife Evie. She’s the oldest of five, and she’s forever mothering the younger ones. Farther down your list there you’ll find Skipp and Roseanne. They’re Norna’s younger sister and brother.”
Nissa became thoughtful for a moment before going on as if answering some silent question. “Least I think Roseanne is starting school this year. They’re good kids, all of ‘em. Lars and Evie brought ‘em up right, just like all my kids brought their own up right.”
Linnea smiled at the grandmotherly bias, lowering her face so Nissa couldn’t see. The next name on her list was Skipp’s, and she bracketed his name with those of his siblings while noting that besides Skipp there were two other eight-year-olds on her list — third grade would be her biggest. “Bent Under and Jeannette Knutson.”
“Bent belongs to my daughter Clara. She’s my baby. Married to a fine fellow named Trigg Under and they got two little ones. Expectin’ their third in February.” A faraway look came into Nissa’s eyes, and her hands fell idle for a moment. “Lord, where does the time go? Seems like just yesterday Clara was going off to school herself.” She sighed. “Ah, well. Who’s next?”
“Jeannette Knutson.”
“She’s Oscar and Hilda’s — you know? The chairman of the school board?”
“Oh, of course. And I have two seven-year-olds. Roseanne and Sonny Westgaard.”
“Cousins. Roseanne I already told you belongs to Evie, and Sonny is Ulmer’s. He’s named after his pa, but he’s always gone by ‘Sonny.’“
Linnea’s notes were growing confused, just as she was. Her face showed it.
Nissa laughed, set a plate of sandwiches on the table, and returned to the stove, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ll keep ‘em straight once you meet ‘em all. You’ll be callin’ ‘em by their first names in no time, and know which family they come from. Everybody knows everybody else around here, and you will, too.”
“So many of them are your grandchildren,” Linnea said with a touch of awe in her voice.
“Thirteen. Be fourteen when Clara has her next one. I always wondered how many more I’d have if John had got married and if Melinda hadn’t... ”
But just then the men clumped in and Nissa’s mouth clapped shut. She threw a wary look across the room at Theodore, then abruptly hustled into the pantry to put away a butcher knife.
Who is Melinda, Linnea wondered. Theodore’s wife? Kristian’s mother?
If Melinda hadn’t what?
Linnea covertly studied the father and son as they entered. She tried to picture Theodore with a wife. What would she have been like? Blond, which would account for Kristian’s bright hair. And pretty, she decided, noting, too, the young man’s attractive features. Was Kristian’s shapely mouth and full lower lip inherited from his mother? More than likely so, for Theodore’s mouth was shaped differently — wide, crisply defined, but not as bowed. Hard to imagine it ever smiling, for she’d never seen it do so.
From her seat at the table she watched him cross to the water pail, watched his head tilt back as he drank from the dipper. Suddenly he turned and caught Linnea studying him. Their eyes met as he slowly replaced the dipper in the pail, then even more slowly back-handed his lower lip. And something odd happened in her chest. A brief catch, a tightening that caused her to drop her gaze to the list of names in the open book on the kitchen table.
“Came for the sandwiches,” he said to no one in particular. Momentarily he appeared beside her, picked up the stack of fat sandwiches, and handed two to Kristian. “Let’s go.”
“See you at supper,” Kristian offered from the door, and she looked up to return his smile.
“Yes, see you at supper.”
But Theodore bid no word of farewell, only followed his son out while Linnea wondered what it was that had just struck her. Embarrassment, she supposed, for somehow the man possessed the power to rattle her nearly every time the two of them were within speaking distance.
Nissa returned, set the coffeepot to the hottest part of the stove, and shifted a look to the doorway through which Theodore had just exited.
Linnea drew a deep breath for courage before asking, “Who is Melinda?”
“You want to order them shoes or not?” Nissa nodded toward the catalogue on the table.
“In a minute... ” Linnea paused before repeating, quietly, “Who is Melinda?”
“She was Teddy’s wife, but he don’t like to talk about her.”
“Why?”
Nissa took off her glasses, held them by the nosepiece, and dampened them with her breath. She lifted the skirt of her apron and paid great attention to their careful polishing while answering. “B’cause she run off and left him with a one-year-old baby and we never seen her in these parts again.”
It took an effort for Linnea to withhold her gasp. “W... with a one-year-old baby?”
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
“You mean Kristian?”
“Don’t see any other babies o’ Teddy’s ‘round here, do you?”
“You mean she... she just... deserted them?” Something twisted inside Linnea, a twinge of pity, a compulsion to know more.
Nissa sat down, riffled the thick pages with one thumb, searching. The catalogue fell open. She licked a finger and with two flicks found the correct page. “These ones here... ” She stretched her neck to peer at the row of black-and-white drawings through the polished lenses. “These ladies’ storm boots. Good sensible lace-up ones. These’d be good for you.” She tapped the page with a forefinger. The finger had skin the texture of jerky and wouldn’t quite straighten anymore. Gently, Linnea covered Nissa’s old hand. When she spoke, she spoke softly. “I’d like to know about Melinda.”
Nissa looked up. The oval lenses magnified her faded brown eyes and accentuated the wrinkles in the lids. She studied Linnea silently, considering. From outside came the call of a crow and the disappearing sound of horses’ hooves. She glanced toward the farmyard where father and son could no longer be seen, then withdrew her hand from Linnea’s to push the catalogue back with two thumbs. “All right. You want to know, I’ll tell you. Much as I know about it. You mind if I get a cup of coffee first?”
Was it Linnea’s imagination, or did Nissa appear weary for the first time ever? She braced her knees and pushed herself to her feet, found a cup, and filled it. But when she returned to the table, it wasn’t weariness alone that weighted her shoulders. There was in her eyes the unmistakable look of sadness.
“It was the summer of 1900. My man, my Hjalmar, he thought Theodore Roosevelt was just about the greatest person that ever walked this earth. All the people around here loved Old Four Eyes, you know, liked to think of him as their native son, ever since he ranched down at Medora those couple o’ years. Add
to that the fact that he’d just been down to Cuba with his Rough Riders and rode up San Juan Hill, and he was nothing short of a national hero. But there was nobody admired him like my Hjalmar.
“Then that summer Roosevelt decides to run for vice-president with McKinley, and Hjalmar heard they was coming through Williston on a campaign train. Never forget that day he comes poundin’ in the house bellerin’ ‘missus’ — that’s what he used to call me when he was excited — ’missus,’ he bellered, ‘get your gear packed, we’re goin’ to Williston to see Roosevelt!’
“Why, land, I couldn’t believe it. I said ‘Hjalmar, what’re you talking about? You been samplin Helgeson’s new batch of barley beer again?’ Used to be this fellow named Helgeson, lived over in the next section and brewed homemade beer the two of them was always claimin’ needed testin’...” A light of remembrance softened Nissa’s eyes, and the ghost of a smile tipped up her lips. Abruptly she cleared her throat, took a gulp of coffee, and drew herself back to the main point of the story.
“So Hjalmar, he says no boy that was named after Teddy Roosevelt should miss the chance to see his namesake in the flesh when he was gonna be no more’n sixty miles away, and so we was all three going to Williston to meet that train.”
Nissa made a gavel of her fist and brought it down lightly atop the open catalogue. “Well, say, that’s just what we did. Rode on down to Williston, the three of us, and took a room in the Manitou Hotel and got all gussied up in our Sunday clothes and went to the depot to watch that train come in.” She waggled her head slowly. “It was somethin’ to see, I’ll tell you.” She pressed her fist to her heart. “There was this big brass band playin’ all them marching songs and school children waving American flags, and then the train come in, all decked out with bunting... and there he was, Mr. Roosevelt himself, standin’ on the last car with his hands in the air and his cheeks as red as the stripes on them flags and that band boomin’ out patriotic songs. I remember lookin’ up at my Hjalmar and seein’ the smile on his face — he had a moustache just like Roosevelt’s— and he had his arm around our Teddy’s shoulder and was pointing at the great man and shoutin’ somethin’ in Teddy’s ear.”