The Endearment

  She listened for the first sizzle of the kettle while she put their house in order. She hurried to hang the curtains at the windows on arching willow withes. Next she laid a matching gingham cloth upon the table, then their dishes, knives, mugs. She used precious minutes to pick the wildflowers, running all the way out to the edge of the field where they grew. These she placed in the center of the table in a thick pottery milk pitcher: clusters of Karl's beloved Minnesota. There were the late-blooming lavender asters, brown-eyed susans, lacy white northern bedstraw, feathery goldenrod, rich purple loosestrife, brilliant pink blazing star and lastly . . . most importantly . . . she interspersed the bouquet with fragrant stalks of yellow sweet clover. Standing back, she took a moment to assess her handiwork, wondering what Karl would say when he walked in and saw it.

  But time was fleet-footed; the water was warmed now. She bathed, using the fragrant camomile soap for the first time. Then she hurried to don the new dress. Her stubborn hair thwarted her fingers, its willful curls resisting her efforts to bend it to her will. But she persisted with trembling fingers.

  When at last both she and the cabin were in order, she gave herself one last look in their tiny mirror. Peeping into it critically, she closed her eyes, feeling the blood raddle her cheeks. She put the mirror down. She pressed both hands upon her stomach, fighting for calm, for reassurance that what she was doing was the right thing. Again doubt assailed her. Suppose Karl was not wooed by her efforts? How could she ever face him again? Suddenly, she thought about James entering the cabin and seeing the evidence of her attempted seduction, and knew she couldn't face him while he took in the curtains, the table, her dress.

  When she heard them returning, she hid behind the curtain in the corner. She sat down on the trunk and pulled her feet up off the floor so they wouldn't know she was back there. Agonized, she hugged her knees to her chest, waiting with closed eyes to hear what was said when they first walked in.

  James was speaking as they entered. “ . . . because it gets dark earlier these nights, so I'll be sure to start back—” She didn't need to see him to know that James came up short at the sight of that table. The silence spoke volumes before James said in an awed tone, “Gosh, Karl, look at that!”

  Not a word came from Karl. She imagined him, stopped in the doorway, holding his dirty clothes, maybe with a hand on the edge of the new door.

  “Flowers, Karl,” James said almost reverently, while Anna's heart threatened to choke her. “And the curtains. She hung the curtains.”

  Still not a word from Karl.

  “I thought she was kind of silly to spend all that time on curtains, but they sure look good, don't they?”

  “Ya. They sure look good,” Karl said at last.

  Anna leaned her head against the wall in her little corner, breathing as shallowly as possible so they wouldn't suspect she was there.

  “I wonder where she is,” James said.

  “I . . . I guess she is around somewhere.”

  “I . . . I guess she is. Well, I better get my hair combed before I leave.”

  “Ya, you do that. I will get Belle and Bill harnessed for you.”

  “You don't need to, Karl. I can do it myself.”

  “It is all right, boy. I have nothing else to do until Anna gets back from wherever she is.”

  “Okay, I sure appreciate it.”

  An eternity passed while James whistled softly through his teeth, going up the ladder, coming back down. When Anna thought she couldn't stand it a minute longer, she heard his footsteps echo across the floor toward the door, then disappear. From outside came their voices again.

  “Thanks, Karl.”

  “Ya, it was nothing. You have harnessed them plenty times for me. It was nothing.”

  “Well, this might be, too, but here goes.”

  They laughed together, then Anna heard Karl say, “Just remember what I said.” She smiled to herself.

  “Now you say hello to Olaf and everybody for Anna and me.”

  “I will. And don't worry, I'll take good care of Belle and Bill.”

  “That is one thing I do not worry about. Not any more.”

  “See you later then, Karl.”

  “Ya. Have a good time.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  Now is the time, thought Anna. Now, while Karl is still outside, I should go out and maybe be waiting by the stove when he comes in. But she couldn't make her limbs move. I've wrinkled my skirt by sitting here hugging my knees too tight, she thought wildly. I should have an apron like Katrene's. Oh, why didn't I think of making an apron?

  She waited too long and heard Karl's heels on the floor. A few steps, then he paused. Was he studying the table? Is he wondering where I am? Will he think me stupidly childish when he discovers I have been hiding behind the curtain all this time? She pressed her hands to her cheeks again, but her palms seemed as hot as her face. She swung her feet to the floor and pulled the curtain open. In the pit of her stomach things were jumping and twitching like there were live frogs in there.

  He was standing with his hands in his pockets, studying the table. The movement of the blanket as it was drawn aside caught his eye, and he looked up. Slowly, he withdrew his hands. Slowly, he lowered them to his sides.

  Anna paused, holding onto the blanket.

  The right thing to say eluded both of them, especially Karl.

  Upon what should he make comment? Her table, set beguilingly with that crisp flowered cloth and the fresh blossoms she had gathered and placed in the homespun way his own mother used to do? Or should he mention the curtains she'd hung at the windows; they charmed him when at first he'd been so disappointed she was wasting the pink gingham on such things? Or the dress she had stitched as a surprise for him—simple, long-sleeved, full-skirted, matching those crisp, pink curtains? Or maybe her hair, her lovely, curling, Irish, whiskey-hair drawn severely into braids and wound into a coronet at the top of her head.

  Karl searched his mind for the proper word. But, much like the first time he had ever laid eyes on her there was only one word he could say. It came out, as it had so often, questioning, wondering, telling, a response to all he saw before him, a question about all he saw before him. All he had, all he was, all he hoped to be was wrapped up in that single word: “Onnuh?”

  She swallowed but her eyes stayed wide and unsure. She dropped the curtain, then clutched her hands behind her back.

  “How was your swim, Karl?” she asked.

  Unbelievably, he didn't answer.

  “Was the water cold?” she tried again nervously.

  Thankfully, he spoke, at last. “Not too cold.” His cheeks and forehead were shiny clean, lean and tanned. His hair was freshly combed. The late afternoon sunlight came slanting in one of their precious glass windows, reflecting off his clean skin and hair, turning it even more golden. From clear across the room she thought she could smell his freshness.

  “I see James got off all right.”

  “Ya. He is gone.”

  Her hands hurt. She suddenly realized her hands hurt. With a conscious effort she loosed them and brought them out of hiding. “Well . . .” she said, flipping them palms up in a nervous, little gesture.

  Karl swallowed. “You have been busy while the boy and I were at the pond.”

  “A little,” she said stupidly.

  “More than a little, I think.”

  “Well, it's our first meal and all.”

  “Ya.”

  Silence again.

  “So, did you and James get things talked over?”

  “Ya. I don't know what good I did him, though. I am not so good at courting myself.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets again.

  Anna felt as if her tongue were paralyzed.

  They stood there with only the sound of the fire snapping in the new wood stove, until finally Karl added, “He seemed to be a little less nervous by the time he left. The talk must have done him good.”

  “I thought it would.”

&n
bsp; “Ya.”

  Anna searched frantically for something to say. “Well, he sure didn't seem to mind missing supper with us.”

  “No, he didn't.”

  “Thank heavens for Nedda.” Once she said it, she could have pinched her tongue!

  “Well . . .” Karl said, much like she had a moment ago.

  “Are you hungry, Karl?” she asked.

  Hunger was the farthest thing from his mind, but he answered, “Ya, I am always hungry.”

  “I have supper started, but I need to do some last-minute things.”

  “There is no hurry.”

  “We could have some tea, though, while we wait.”

  “That would be good.”

  “Rose hip?” She saw Karl's Adam's apple lunge as he swallowed.

  “Ya. Rose hip is fine.”

  “Well, sit down and I'll make it.” She flapped one clumsy hand toward the ostentatious table and finally forced her feet to carry her to the stove.

  Karl pulled out his chair, but stood next to it, watching as she reached for the container from the makeshift shelf on the wall next to the stove. “I wanted to have that dresser done for the kitchen by the time we moved in.” he said.

  “Oh, it doesn't matter. There's plenty of time to get it made when the weather turns cold and there's not much else to do. I think I'd enjoy the smell of the wood while you're working in the house.”

  “I have a tree picked out for it.”

  “Oh? What kind?”

  “I decided on knotty pine. The knots look like jewels when they are polished up. Unless you would rather have oak or maple, Anna. I could use oak or maple.”

  He watched the sway of her skirts as she took the kettle and filled the pot with steaming water. She whirled around then, saying, “Oh, no, Karl, pine will be fine.” But she whirled too fast and had to slap quickly at the lid of the teapot to keep it from flying off. He flinched as if to catch it if it came his way.

  “Sit down, Karl, and I'll try not to scald you with the tea.”

  He thought about pulling her chair out for her, but she didn't go over to it. She stood beside his, waiting for him to roost. When he did, she bent to pour his tea, and he caught the distinct drift of camomile about her.

  While she poured his tea, she apologized, “I'm sorry it's not comfrey. I know you like comfrey best. But I have a feeling you wouldn't have asked for it anyway, just because we don't have much left.”

  “It doesn't matter that the comfrey died. We can find more of it wild in the woods and transplant it in the spring.”

  “But you told me comfrey is your favorite.”

  “I like rose hip just as much.”

  She poured her own tea, then sat down opposite him. “The first drink you taught me to make,” she said, raising her mug. “Here is to rose hips,” she toasted, waiting with her mug aloft.

  He followed her lead and clicked his mug against hers, remembering the first night. He'd made her rose hip tea to calm her down before bedtime. “Here is to rose hips,” he seconded.

  They lifted the cups to their lips, looking first at each other, then sharply away, over the rims of their mugs.

  “When did you get all this done?” he asked, scanning the cabin.

  She shrugged her shoulders, limp yet from the hurrying.

  “The flowers are . . . I like the flowers in the milk pitcher that way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And the cloth on the table, too.”

  “Thank you,” she repeated.

  “And the curtains. You match the curtains, Anna,” he said with a smile.

  She too smiled. Funny, how they thought alike.

  “I am a little camouflaged at that. You might have to search to find me.”

  “I do not think so, Anna,” he said. “The gingham does not look the same on the windows and on the table as it does on you.”

  Damn my hands! she thought as one of them went up to brush down her collar like a simpering school girl.

  “I was beginning to think I would have to make another trip to town for gingham if I did not want to see you in britches all winter.”

  “You did mean it for dresses, then?”

  “I guess I was a little disappointed to see you using it all for curtains.”

  “Not quite all.”

  He lifted his cup toward her as a fencer might touch the tip of his sword to his fencing master. She lifted the tea pot to refill.

  “The dress is lovely, Anna.” The tea jiggled a bit on its way to his cup.

  “It is?” she asked, as if she'd only now discovered it.

  “Much better than the britches.”

  She couldn't help badgering him some more. “I kind of got used to those britches, though.”

  “I kind of did, too.”

  “Don't tease me, Karl,” she said.

  “Was I teasing?” he asked.

  “I don't know. I think so.”

  “And you do not want me to tease you any more?”

  Oh yes, her heart cried, like you used to do. But she had to say, “Not tonight,” hoping he would read the rest in her eyes.

  He nodded silently.

  “I have some things to do. You sit here and enjoy your tea while I get things . . .” But her words trailed off. She got up self-consciously, knowing he would be watching everything she did. She took down the new japanned frying pan and placed it on the stove. She took up the bowl and the whisk and began breaking eggs, cracking them against the edge of the crock.

  “Where did you get the eggs?” he asked.

  “From Katrene, the other day when we went over there to fetch Erik to help with the bear. But I was saving them for tonight.”

  Again he fell silent, watching her as she whisked the eggs, then added them to the other dry things she had gotten ready in another bowl beforehand. She added milk, feeling his eyes on her back. When the batter was ready, she almost forgot and poured it into the pan without grease. But at the last minute she remembered, put a blob in the pan and sneaked a peek behind her to find Karl, indeed, watching her every move. The batter went sizzling into the pan, and she suddenly stamped her foot, remembering the jar of lingonberry jam still hidden in the root cellar.

  “Oh! I forgot something. I'll be right back!” She ran at a most unladylike clip out the door, around the corner, and struggled with the ground-level door of the cellar. Down the steps she went, her skirts hindering her, worrying all the way how long it took Swedish pancakes to fry. The jar of jam was there, and she hurried back with it, dropped the cellar door in place and flew into the house to be greeted by the smell of scorching batter. She forgot to take up a pot holder, so the handle of the frying pan burned her hand when she reached to slide it to a cooler part of the stove.

  Karl watched all this happening, not knowing if he should get up and flip the pancake over or let her do this her own way. It took every effort to stay where he was and let the pancake burn.

  But when the japanned pan sang out in the quiet house, it echoed into too deep a silence. Anna's chin dropped down onto her chest, and from behind he saw the tender curls in the nape of her neck fighting to be free of the braids. Karl saw her pull up a forearm and swipe it across her eyes, realizing she was crying.

  He got up from his chair and picked up the pot holders, took the frying pan and flipped the pancakes out the door. He came back and set the pan down on the stove, then stood behind Anna and placed both of his hands on her upper arms, squeezing lightly.

  “I make a mess of everything I do,” she wailed pitifully.

  “No, Anna,” he said encouragingly. “You have not made a mess of the curtains or the table or your dress, have you?”

  “But look at this. Katrene showed me just how to do it, and I did everything like she said, but still, for me it's a disaster.”

  “You worry too much, Anna. You try too hard, and things upset you. Is there more batter you can fry?”

  She nodded her head, dismally trying not to sniffle.

 
“Then put more on and start again.”

  “What for? They'll just be another disaster. Nothing I do ever turns out right.”

  He hated seeing her so defeated. If he could not get her to succeed at this attempt, which was so vital for both of them, he was afraid the beautiful beginning she had created would lead to nothing but defeat. He had to get her to smile a bit and try again. So, even though she had said she did not want to be teased tonight, he had to tease anyway.

  “Perhaps the first ones were not such a disaster as you think. Nanna ate them this time.”

  She turned to look out the door, and sure enough! There stood Nanna, her happy face turned their way while she ground her teeth against the last of the burned pancakes. Anna gave a sorry little snuffle of laughter, wiped her eyes with the back of her wrists and resolutely picked up the batter and began pouring cakes again while Karl took his chair at the table.

  This batch turned out perfectly, but Karl didn't know it until she brought the plate to him.

  “I would like to wait until yours are done, then we will both eat together,” he said.

  “But these are all hot.”

  “Use the warming oven of your new stove to keep them that way while you cook yours.”

  “All right, Karl, if you say so.”

  Her failure to produce perfection immediately lost some of its sting as she placed the lovely cakes into the oven, then poured more. While she did this, she heard Karl get up and light tallow dips flanking the pitcher of flowers. She turned with the two plates again. The sun had gone away; the candles were welcome now as dusk settled.

  “There now . . . see?” he said sensibly when she was seated across from him again, “these are beautiful pancakes you have made.”

  “Oh, Karl, you don't have to say that. The biggest dolt in the world can make pancakes.”

  “You are not the biggest dolt in the world, Anna,” he said, so painfully sorry he'd called her dumb the day of their fight, realizing how those stinging words must have added to her sense of inadequacy.