Pearl (19 page)

‘‘Thank you for the extra things you do for the children.’’

‘‘You are most welcome, but I think it’s time we have a used clothing and toy drive. Our own people need the things every bit as badly as the people who receive the mission barrels some of the churches collect.’’

‘‘Would you like to organize it?’’

‘‘I suppose so.’’ Pearl hesitated. Should she tell the headmistress about her application for another position? She mentally shook her head. Not when there was so little chance she would even hear from them. ‘‘Good night then.’’

She walked home, swinging a basket in either hand.

Marlene met her at the door. ‘‘Your father wants to see you in his study.’’

Oh, now what? And after such a perfect day too
.

Pearl tapped on the study door and entered when invited. At his slight smile, she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘‘Pearl, I expect you to be civil about the arrangements I have made with Mr. Longstreet. I am doing this for your own good, looking out for your best. This may be your only opportunity . . . You . . . I . . .’’ Pearl watched his eyes glance toward her neckline. ‘‘He is a fine man, a hard worker. And he needs you.’’

To mother his children
. Pearl took her courage in hand and gave it a good shaking. She straightened her already perfect posture. ‘‘Father, may I say something?’’

‘‘Only if it is ‘yes, Father.’’’

‘‘I see.’’ Pearl turned and rushed from the room. Why was he so impossible?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Minneapolis

Carpenters, brick layers, only experienced need apply.

Contact Joseph Wainwright at the Dove House in Little Missouri, Dakotah Territory.

Carl Hegland reread the ad in the
Minneapolis Tribune
for a third time. He looked down at his calloused hands.
Ja,
one would say he was experienced all right. He’d been working with hammer, saw, and level at his father’s side since he was six. But did he want to go clear out on the edge of civilization to build who knew what, since the advertisement gave no further information?

On the other hand, he was always wanting to see what lay beyond the horizon.

But if he left, who would take care of his mother, the job that had brought Carl back to the city after his father died under a collapsed wall.

He studied the half thumb he had left, the top of it needing to be scratched, itching so fierce that when he closed his eyes he would have sworn on his mother’s Bible that his thumb was whole.

He rubbed the fully healed flap over the knuckle on his pants. Two years and still tender. Still itched. Some things were indeed strange.

Who needed what to be built way out west like that? The only civilization there was around the railroad. ’Course now that the rail line was extending, more foolhardy souls would be moving west.

He glanced at the advertisement again, folded the paper closed, and tossed it in the woodbin. The
Minneapolis Tribune
always made starting the fire in the morning easy.

‘‘You ever give thought to moving west?’’ he asked his mother at supper that night.

‘‘Nei.’’
His mor set a full plate in front of him. While she spoke some English, when it was just the two of them, they both spoke Norwegian. ‘‘Why do you ask?’’

‘‘Nothing, just thinking.’’

‘‘Bread?’’

‘‘Please.’’

‘‘You always have a reason for everything.’’ She set the bread plate next to him and took her seat.

He bowed his head, said the grace he’d learned from his father, and picked up his fork. Staying here in Minneapolis, where he had a steady job and good home—and the possibility of a courtship of the Widow Wisenschraft—was much the wiser thing to do. The widow seemed to enjoy his company, and marrying someone with a solid nest egg was not a bad thing. If only his mother held the same feelings as he did. Since the two would be living together, life would be much simpler if the two women liked each other.

‘‘Hey, Hegland,’’ his boss called about a week later. ‘‘Stop by my office before you leave.’’

‘‘Ja, that I will do.’’ Carl finished cleaning the saw and putting away his tools. He lived by the adage that one treated one’s tools better than a mistress. Or, as he would say, his wife. But since he had neither, that was a moot point.

He stepped into the office and waited until his boss looked up.

‘‘You’ve been a good man here, and I want to thank you for the extra work you’ve done.’’

Carl nodded.
Been?
Had he done anything to change that?

‘‘I hate to give you this bad news, but I know a man of your caliber will have no trouble finding work elsewhere.’’ He handed an envelope across the desk. ‘‘There’s extra in there to show our appreciation.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘It ain’t my doin’, Carl. Hope you understand that.’’

‘‘Ja, guess that is the way things go at times.’’ He paused. ‘‘Was it something I—’’

‘‘No, no. Nothing to do with you or your work. Just that you was the last hired on and . . .’’

Carl raised a hand. ‘‘That is good. Mange takk for the good work.’’ He turned and left, mentally shaking his head. No job and now no prospects with the lovely widow. Until, of course, he found another position.

Strange how things happened.

When he arrived home, his mother pointed to an envelope on the chest of drawers that held the linens. ‘‘That came for you today.’’ Since her mouth puckered as if she’d sucked on a lemon, Carl had an idea she figured who the letter came from.

He washed his hands and took the envelope to sit by the windows that faced west, giving him light from the setting sun.

Dear Mr. Hegland,

I want to thank you for the good times we’ve had, but all along I wished for you to make your intentions clear.

Since that never occurred, perhaps you were and are content with the status quo. I shall never know now. I have accepted the courtship of a gentleman I met two weeks ago. I wish you every blessing in your life and do hope you find a woman sometime who will make a good wife for you.

Sincerely, Mrs. MaryLou Wisenschraft

He read the short missive again, feeling as though he’d just received the second of a right/left sucker punch to the midsection.

Supper passed, and he could tell his mother was dying to know what the letter said, but for some odd reason, he kept the day’s two-fold calamities to himself.

That night he found himself rereading the same column in the newspaper for how many times, he had no idea, and he still didn’t know what he’d read.

How could one’s life seem so well ordered and planned one day and be lower than cow flops the next?

Sunday service was dry as the sawdust he’d swept up on Friday. When the pastor asked him how things were, Carl mumbled something vaguely benign and steered away from the gathering of men. While he never had a great deal to say during the discussions, today he wanted to be spared the banalities. Instead he tried to be patient standing at his mother’s elbow, but when she frowned at him, he knew she’d heard the sighs he’d not tried overly hard to disguise.

‘‘Whatever is the matter with you?’’ she hissed as they walked toward home.

‘‘Nothing.’’

‘‘Ja, well, that is what you say, but I can tell something is wrong.’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Carl, I’ve had to lay off some of my own carpenters lately. As soon as I have some work, I’ll come find you first thing.’’

Carl nodded, shook the man’s hand, and left. So much for
‘‘If
you ever need a job, come to me,’’
which had been said more than once.

The next two shops were a repeat. No one was hiring carpenters or even unskilled laborers, not that he’d wanted that work. But when times were tough, one took what one could get.

‘‘Can you read English?’’ one man asked.

‘‘Ja, Norwegian better, but I get by.’’

‘‘I’ll let you know.’’

Ja, like when the fjords melt in January
. Carl nodded and left.

When payday rolled round again, he pulled out the worn leather pouch of his father’s and took out the amount he always gave his mother to run the household.
You should tell her,
he ordered himself.
She needs to know that things have changed.

But surely I’ll get something this week
.

That night he stopped at the saloon where many of the construction workers gathered and left an hour later realizing he was not the only one to be let go.

Not that that helped much, if at all.

His mother was still up when he got home. ‘‘You are not seeing that widow woman anymore,’’ she said in greeting.

Question or statement, it didn’t matter. He gave his mother a noncommittal shrug.

‘‘And you lost your job.’’

He raised an eyebrow.
How did you know that?

She set a piece of dried-apple cake in front of him. ‘‘I have money saved for food. You need not worry.’’

He nodded. ‘‘Tusen takk.’’ As if a thousand thanks would be enough. They would not starve and the house was paid for. Things could be worse.