A Winter's Promise

  ONE

  The Homestead in Winter

  The wind howled around the corner of the cabin, sending a shiver down Emma’s back and out to her very fingertips. She stretched to light the kerosene lamp high on the bracket, against the log wall.

  “Must be ten below,” she muttered as she pulled on her heavy woolen coat and beckoned to little Albert. He shuffled toward her, intent on fastening two clothespins together.

  “You watch baby George,” she whispered, “and don’t let Fred climb on anything, and keep Ellie out of the water pail.” She bent closer. “Take good care of them and Saturday, when Papa comes home, I’ll tell him what a big boy you are.”

  “Is Saturday after I sleep?”

  “No. This is Thursday. Two more sleeps and it’s Saturday.”

  Albert grinned. “And Papa comes home!”

  She hugged him. “That’s right! Now you watch the little ones real good, and I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Casting a furtive glance at three-year-old Fred and Ellie, seventeen months, who were wrestling like two puppies under the table, Emma tied her kopf tuch snug, picked up the lantern, and slipped out the door. Baby George, three months old, had just finished nursing. He’d sleep —unless Ellie rocked the cradle too hard.

  Emma didn’t mind doing chores while Al was away working all week in the lumber camp. The barn with its warm-animal smells was a welcome change from the dark cabin, though it, too, was dark. But it was leaving the three little one’s in five-year-old Albert’s care three times a day that knotted her stomach.

  The taunting wind tore at her coat as Emma slogged toward the barn. It wrenched the door out of her hands as soon as she unlatched it. She tugged the door shut behind her, her heart thumping, and groped for the lantern in the dusk. She lit it and hung it on a nail covered with sparkling frost crystals.

  Another time she would have taken a moment to admire the diamond crusting adorning every nail, bolt, and hinge, but not tonight. She hurried to give the noisy chickens their steaming hot water, it, would be cold in seconds and frozen before they could finish drinking it, Poor things, with their frostbitten combs, Emma thought. They’re as tired of winter as I am, and it’s only the first week of February, She grunted as she dragged a pitchfork full of hay toward the ox.

  For a moment Emma wished they were living in town again, so Al could be home every night, and she wouldn’t have to leave the little ones alone like this. But only for a moment. She hadn’t forgotten what living in town had done to Al.

  In the early days of their marriage, on their little northern Wisconsin homestead, Al had always been full of bright-eyed banter, no matter how hard he worked. After they moved to Phillips—temporarily, in hopes of saving enough money for taxes and a team of horses for the farm it was as though the day’s work spared him barely enough energy to drag himself home, dull-eyed and sullen. And month after month, the cost of necessities ate up all but a few crumbs of his wages.

  Now, as she dragged hay to the cows, Emma remembered the February day a year ago when Al had sat scribbling on a sheet of figures.

  He had thrown his stub of a pencil across the table and asked, “Emma? What say we move back home?”

  She didn’t remember what she had answered, she’d been so taken by surprise, but they had talked way past their usual bedtime and decided that, if they were going to move back, they should do it in the spring. All that next day, pictures had flashed through her mind’s eye. She could see the little ones hunting across the slope of the field toward the cedar swamp, the curve of the river below the house, blue-green cabbage leaves with raindrops dancing on, them, dew-covered grass sparkling in the morning sun.

  That day she had admitted to herself how much she despised the clatter of heavy boots on the board sidewalk close to the front window, the dust that rolled up from the alley and settled on her, nice, clean wash each time a buggy went by, the constant scolding of the gravel—voiced woman to the east and the whining of the one to the west. And worst of all, the constant, fear that one of the little ones would get out of the fenced-in yard and into the busy street.

  The more she thought about the homestead, the more she wanted to go back. Were the forget-me-nots still there under the south window and the Wind Lake, roses still alive? In town there was little she could do to help Al, except care for the house and children and tend a tiny garden in summer. On the farm she could do much more.

  She would miss going to church, of course. She’d miss being with people who loved the Lord, and she’d certainly miss the singing, but most of all she’d miss having the pastor’s words to think about during the week. But Al said he planned to get the neighbours together and see about finding a pastor to come—maybe only once a month at first. She’d keep praying, and one day they’d have their own little church.

  0h, and it would be good to be near her father and mother and Winnie and Walter and Dick—and the Gebers. Mrs. Geber had helped deliver Albert and Fred, but Ellie had been born in town. The doctor who had delivered her had been in a hurry, because he had another woman in labor on the other end of town. He’d been impatient to say the least. It would be good to have Mrs. Geber’s help with the next one. Emma had been ready to start packing immediately until she happened to glance across the street and see the Riley children cavorting in the snow. “What Will I do without Mrs. Riley?” she had said right out loud.

  When Fred fell downstairs and cut his chin, when Al got a sliver under his thumbnail, when Ellie, cried so hard she turned blue, and goodness knows how many other times, Emma had called for Kate Riley. Each time, Kate’s light-hearted wisdom had set Emma’s world straight again. And it wasn’t just in times of crisis. Emma couldn’t count the times the two women had run across that street to share some comical or touching incident as well.

  Remembering, Emma leaned on the pitchfork a moment. What she would give to hear Kate Riley’s laugh right now, and to see that warm glow of approval in her eyes. She could picture Kate as she looked when Emma told her they were moving back to the homestead, the light from the kitchen window catching the coils of her red hair.

  “Sure ‘n’ I’ll be’ missin you, girl. But ‘tis back with the trees ‘n’ the river you should be,” she had said, all the while, tucking stray locks of Emma’s hair, into her pug as though Emma were one, of her daughters. Emma had wanted to bury her head in Kate’s shoulder and sob but, seeing three pairs of little eyes needing assurance, she had mustered a smile instead and filled the: teapot.

  “What’s the matter with me!” Emma scolded herself. “Here I stand daydreaming while the little ones are alone!” She hurried back for another load of hay.

  But again, as she dragged more hay to the cows, her mind slipped back. It was just such times as these winter days that Al had warned her about that night over the blue, checked oilcloth. They simply had to have some money, so he would have to work in the lumber camp in winter. It would mean he’d be gone all week, every week and she would have to do the milking and take care of the livestock.

  Emma had felt so brave then, when she assured Al she could do it. Why hadn’t she thought about the loneliness or the cold or the hazards of leaving four little children in the house on their own?

  They moved back in May. That first day back on the farm had been one of the happiest days of their lives. In spite of being weary from the all-day trip, Emma had explored all around the house and barn, carrying little Ellie while the boys trailed behind her like ducklings. While Al and Grandpa Verleger unloaded the wagon, she had found the forget-me-nots under tall weeds and the Wind Lake roses with their tiny green sprouts. She could hardly wait till morning to tear out the dry weeds that choked them:

  That night, lying on their straw mattress list
ening to the river—their river—she and Al had agreed that it was the pleasantest sound in the world. Emma never wanted to leave their homestead again, no matter how hard things became.

  She had planted a big flower garden while Al planted potatoes, oats, corn, and rutabagas. Then he had worked at home, cutting wood and clearing land, until after Christmas so Emma could regain her strength after George was born in late November.

  Emma served Molly a forkful of hay. “Eat good, mama, cow. Grow a big, strong calf,” she urged as she went on remembering.

  She thought of the first time she had seen their house. The walls were up, but the roof wasn’t on. Emma had stood by the south window opening and squealed,

  “Oh! I can see right down on the river!”

  Al had come up behind her and gathered her in his arms. “You like that?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Remember once when we were walking along the creek at your folks place, you said you loved the sound of running water and you’d like to have a house by a river where you could hear the water—and see it, too?”

  She turned and nuzzled her face into his, neck. “And you remembered!”

  Emma dragged more hay, recalling the many ways Al had found to delight her. It was almost a woman-like quality, but it made him more of a man, not less, in her eyes. Maybe, she mused, he could risk being thoughtful and tender because he had no doubts about his own manhood. He was respected by the other men not only for his physical strength and intelligence, but for his honesty and loyalty as well. And he’d certainly had no trouble attracting girls—especially Millie Luft, that hussy!

  Silly goose! Why ever are you thinking about that now!

  Emma finished feeding the cows and rested her head against patient Molly’s flank while she stripped her. A few more days and Molly, waiting for her calf, would be dry like Bessie. Good thing Cora was still milking, cross old thing though she was. No wonder Grandpa Verleger had insisted they have her. Even this morning, when he had come by to see how Emma and the children were, he had insisted that Cora was a good cow. Emma knew better than to disagree with him. Besides, she was grateful for the milk.

  Before she started to milk Cora, she scratched a peep hole in the window frost so she could see the house.

  Every time she came to the barn she had the same argument with herself. Should she run back halfway through her chores and see how the children, were doing, or quickly finish her work so she could go back and stay in with them?

  Emma sighed and hurried over to Cora with stool and pail. Before she had even set the stool in place, Cora’s hind leg shot out and kicked her on the thigh. Emma reeled backwards, and the pail and stool—and Emma—clattered to the floor. She gasped as the pain raced up her spine.

  “Dumm esel” she wailed. “Just because I’m in a hurry!” She tried to get up, but her legs wouldn’t move. She rolled toward a post and pulled herself upon her knees. Her head was spinning, and she shook so violently it was, hard to hold onto the post. She grunted and strained, but her legs refused to move. “Father! Help me!” she sobbed. The thought came, This is like, when you hit your elbow or knee—your “crazy” bone. Just wait.

  She sagged down a moment into a pain-filled world, thinking about the little ones waiting for her in the house.

  “Try again!” she ordered her body.

  Slowly…shakily…she stood.

  “O Lord, thank You!” she whispered. “Help me milk the cow. Please help me.”

  Breathing hard, Emma righted the stool, retrieved the pail, and edged cautiously around Cora. “You old cow, you!” she sobbed. “I didn’t even touch you!” She sat down with a groan and tried to hold the pail between her knees. It slipped to the floor.

  “‘I’ve got to do it!” she told herself. “Albert can’t milk, and he’s too little to go for help in this cold.” Clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she prayed,

  “Please, God, send Grandpa Verleger or one of the Gebers—somebody!”

  She wedged the pail between her knees again and squeezed hard. The pressure made her gasp with pain, but she managed to hold on. At first her hands refused to obey her, but she took a deep breath, tried again, and heard the streams of milk hit the bottom of the pail.

  There seemed to be no end to Cora’s milk tonight. As the pail grew heavier, Emma’s pain increased until her tears ran again. But Emma gritted her teeth and kept milking. When Cora was finally dry, Emma sidled away, keeping a wary eye on those hind legs.

  Usually she carried the lantern in one, hand and the pail of milk in the other. Tonight, she decided, it would be all she could do to carry the milk. She blew out the lantern, left it in the barn, and set the pail out the door ahead of her.

  The wind fought for the door again, but Emma got behin it, leaned all her weight against it, and slammed the bar in place. As she did so she realized that she had left her mittens in the barn. But the lights of the cabin beckoned, and she chose to endure cold hands rather than fight the wind again. She staggered a few steps, lost her balance, and fell. She couldn’t see how much milk she had spilled, but the pail still felt quite heavy.

  Emma got to her feet, took a few more painful steps, and fell again when her legs went weak under her. “Why didn’t I go back for mittens?” she wailed as she tried to pull her hands up into her sleeves to protect them.

  Once more she struggled to her feet. By now the milk was nearly gone. There would be more in the morning—if she could get back to the barn—but the little ones needed milk tonight. She couldn’t risk spilling more. There was only one way. Emma set the pail ahead of her and inched her way toward it.

  Her coat kept getting in the way and, when it pulled open, ice cut her knees. With every movement, pain shot up her back and down her legs, but she kept crawling. Over and over she set the pail ahead of her, and laboriously made her way to it. She thought of the countless times she had hurried back and forth on this path on strong legs, never thinking about the distance from house to barn.

  She looked up at the dim light, still so distant, then turned her head away from the wind and crawled like a mechanical, grunting thing. She couldn’t feel the pail handle anymore, but somehow she managed to keep setting it ahead, setting it ahead.

  Again she gauged the distance to the light. It didn’t seem that she had moved at all. I’ll just rest a moment, she told herself, and laid her head on her arm. Just like a great big warm featherbed, she thought. She would rest awhile and then crawl some more.

  The children! What’s the matter with me? she scolded herself. I’ve got to keep on going. No resting now!

  Summoning every last bit of energy, she set the pail ahead of her and crawled. Again. Again. “Lord, help me!” she called into the howling wind. She didn’t dare look to see how far she had to go. Move! she ordered her body. Move! She knew she’d stay on the path; snow banks bordered it on either side.

  The light was close now. Dark wall dead ahead. Set the pail down. Once more. Once more.

  Emma pulled herself to her feet at the door of the lean-to with a sob of relief and stumbled in the door, blinking, panting, looking for the children.

  She heard them before she saw them. As soon as they felt the rush of cold air, they dashed toward her. Thankful that their squeals drowned out her groans, she reeled against the wall. When she got her balance, she plunged her hands into cool water.

  “If I can just get the little ones to bed,” she whispered.

  “I know there are other things to do, but I can’t think—”

  The stove! Got to keep the fire burning.

  She wrapped her stiff hands in the roller towl a moment and then clumsily picked up a stick of wood. “Albert!” she called. “Lift the stove lid for me.”

  He lifted it cautiously, but still she warned, “Careful now! Don’t drop the poker.” When she had loaded in several sticks of wood, she said, “Good boy! Put it back on.”

  Albert frowned up at her. “Mama? You hurt?”

  She n
odded. “I fell. Hurt my back. You’ll have to help me get the little ones to bed.”

  His lip trembled.

  “There! There! Don’t cry! I’ll be fine in the morning,” she whispered. “You help me now!”

  She sat down to take off her overshoes and cried out in agony.

  Only Albert, heard her.

  “Got to be careful how I sit down,” she explained, managing a smile. “Go get cups … and bread ... and the syrup.

  Off he went, glancing back apprehensively over his shoulder.

  She felt her stockings sticking to her knees and saw that spots of blood had soaked through her dress. She was thankful that the light was too dim for the children to notice.

  With trembling hands Emma poured the milk into cups as the children clamored around her. There was half a cup for each and a little for herself. She took a swallow, but her stomach threatened to revolt. Maybe later she could drink it.

  While the children munched their bread and syrup she put more wood in the stove. She could grasp the poker now, but the pain in her hands as the circulation returned overshadowed the pain in her thigh and tailbone.