A Winter's Promise Page 5

  Emma had pushed and pulled and prayed, “God, send someone to help me!” When no one came she had bawled and sobbed, “Lord, I can’t. I just can’t do it!”

  She was about to leave the cart when she remembered some words she had heard often in their little church: “I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me.”

  As she began to repeat it, she knew the cart would move. And it had. Slowly, slowly she had made her way to Rommel’s and delivered the vegetables.

  Molly shifted under her weight. Feeling calmer now, Emma began to drag hay to the cattle. She remembered how she had run to tell Ma about her triumph with the cart, but Ma hadn’t been pleased. In fact, she had scolded Emma for trying to use God’s Word like magic. And Emma hadn’t tried ever again—until now.

  Why were we given God’s Word, she argued with herself, if we aren’t supposed to use it? She thought about it all the while she fed the cattle. As she sat down gingerly to milk Cora, the thought came to her that surely, if she were facing something she had to do, but couldn’t do in her own strength, she could count on God’s strength.

  “Of course!” she said out loud. “Ma was afraid I might try to do foolish, impossible things—things I had no business doing.”

  Father, she prayed as she struggled to hold the pail, which was steadily growing heavier, St. Paul said he could do all things—all the things he had to do through Christ’s strength. Help me do that now. Thank You for reminding me of how you helped me years ago.

  As she got, up from milking Cora, faith welled up within her. All the way from the barn to the house, with the snow swirling around her and pain searing through her, Emma repeated that comforting verse.

  Before she opened the door she could hear them: Ellie squealing, the baby crying, and the boys yelling.

  “Oh, no!” She groaned at the sight of Ellie, sitting with the catalog across her knees, gleefully tearing out pages.

  Ellie’s delighted squeals abruptly turned to frustrated wails as Emma rescued the catalog.

  “Boys! Stop fighting!” she yelled at the miniature wrestlers, who were rolling dangerously close to the stove. They were still at it when she had taken off her coat and overshoes. Pain shooting up her spine and down her legs, Emma grabbed one boy in each hand, shook them, and ordered them to sit in opposite corners.

  Reluctantly they obeyed, still yelling, “He wouldn’t let me—” and “It was my turn—.”

  With a crying babe on her shoulder and Ellie clinging to her skirt, Emma, fought the desire to scream. She wanted to lay the baby back down, pry Ellie’s hands from her skirt, and run out into the night. Her legs trembled and threatened to give way. She had a sudden vision of herself, coatless, running into the storm, with the children screaming after her.

  “Lord! Help me!” she pleaded out loud. What were those words she was going to remember—the ones she had said all the way to the house? At least she could quiet the baby, and she unbuttoned her dress front.

  Heart pounding, trembling with pain, she tried to soothe Ellie. “Liebchen! Listen to Mama! Papa’s coming home tomorrow.”

  Ellie ran to the window.

  “No, no! Not now! Tomorrow! After you sleep.” After the boys assured her there would be no more fighting, she asked them to try to explain to Effie when Papa was coming home and promised them bread and syrup with their milk as soon as she put the baby down.

  She wasn’t prepared for the stab of pain when she tried to stand up, and almost lost her balance. Teeth clenched, she poured milk and spread bread with syrup.

  Fred bumped Albert’s arm, spilling most of Albert’s milk. While Emma wiped it up, Ellie laid her arm on her syrup bread and wailed because she was sticky.

  From then until they were in bed, the children balked continually whenever Emma told them to do something. She was on the verge of spanking all three of them, but held herself back lest she spank much too hard. When they were finally quiet she stood, fingers pressed against her temples, and tried to think what she had to do before she could crawl into bed.

  She carried more wood in from the lean-to, filled the stove, and closed the draft almost all the way. She braided her hair and drank another cup of milk.

  In bed, Emma let out her breath jerkily as waves of pain swept through her. Lord, please ease the pain. Help me sleep and please, oh, please, make the storm stop.

  Five

  Memories in the Night

  It seemed to Emma that she had hardly fallen to sleep when the baby cried. It was no surprise; he needed much more milk than she had supplied today. Fearful of nursing him in bed, lest she fall asleep and smother him, she pulled the rocker closer to the stove and sat there with a comforter tucked around them both.

  There was so much she should do tomorrow. She always scrubbed the pine floorboards with lye soap the day before Al came home. Not this week, she decided. She’d have all she could do to carry water, feed the children, do morning chores, and water the cattle at noon. And there was the bread to bake, and—”Oh, my goodness!” she whispered. “I forgot to set the yeast. I’ll do it as soon as I put the baby down.”

  All those long hours ahead of her. What was it Kate had said? “Take one hour at a time. Do the best you can that hour.”

  “Oh, Kate!” Emma whispered. “I’ll try. But I sure wish you were here to help me!”

  Before she shifted George to the other breast, Emma leaned over and opened the draft. The baby protested with sharp cry.

  “Oh, Liebchen, you think you have troubles,” she whispered. “I wish I were little again.”

  She wiggled into a more comfortable position, letting her thoughts take her back in time. She could see the streets in Oshkosh from her early childhood. She recalled how strange the board sidewalks of Ogema seemed that day she and Mama and the other children arrived by train, leaving Oshkosh behind.

  Poor, Papa! He had met them at the train and tried to lift her down, but she wouldn’t let him because she didn’t know him with a beard! He’d been gone a year, working in the Northern Wisconsin pine forests so far from his family. He must have been so lonely, she realized now.

  The board sidewalks were soon left behind as they walked through what seemed to be endless woods. Ten long miles they had hiked, taking two days to do it. She’d never forget seeing that little log cabin by the creek for the first time. It was like living in a storybook.

  How many times she had walked that ten miles since—including the day of her wedding, when she walked with her right hand in Al’s, her left hand fingering the smooth poplin of her silvery-gray wedding dress.

  Ma would have frowned and scolded, had she seen Emma fingering her dress like that. “You look like a baby doing that—like you’re still dragging your baby quilt around. You used to feel its edge till you were three. Then when you let go that quilt, you’d be sittin’ there fingering your skirt every time I looked at you.”

  It was an odd habit. Emma wasn’t usually aware she was doing it till Ma scolded or her brothers teased. That thought took her back to the night of the square dance. She was sitting, watching the dancers and feeling the calico material of her skirt slide through her fingers, when nine-year-old Dick ran past and yelled, “Want your blanket, baby?”

  Probably no one else had heard him, but her face flamed. I never should have told Al I’d come. I can’t dance.

  The last time she’d tried, she had made so many wrong turns that Walter and Dick said she looked like a cow trying to find the right stall. This night she felt like all eyes were on her, though she hadn’t made quite as many blunders. When she twisted her ankle, she was secretly glad and pretended it hurt more than it really did so she could limp to a seat.

  But then she had to sit and watch Millie Luft flashing her big, brown eyes at Al as she swooped and twirled, never making one wrong move. Hattie, her best friend, had sat with her a little while but then off she went, whirling as gracefully as Millie, while Emma sat with the old ladies.

  Surely Al would sit out one dance
and talk with her. She waited and smiled at those around her, and even clapped her hands. But Al just kept on dancing.

  When Emma felt like she had been sitting there for hours, Ma came up. “You’re riding home with us.”

  Emma looked pleadingly at Al, and Ma said, “Dick, go tell Al Verleger that Emma’s going home.”

  Al didn’t even wave when she hobbled to the door.

  Ma had tried to console her when they got home. “He’ll come by tomorrow, you’ll see.” But he hadn’t. In fact, it was almost September before she saw him again.

  Emma could see that scene in her mind just as plain as if it had been yesterday. There was Al, coming up the lane, his hair blowing in the wind, his coattail standing straight out behind him. Her first impulse had been to have Ma tell him he could just go see Millie Luft, but she found herself at the door, hoping he couldn’t hear how hard her heart was pounding.

  When she opened the door, he took her hand and pulled her right out on the stoop. His words tumbled out. “Emma, I wanted to come see you the day after the dance, but I had to help Pa. New families came from Germany, and I’ve been working and working ....

  She squeezed his hand. “You’re here now. Want to sit down?”

  “Soon as I get a drink,” he said, taking the tin cup off the wire hook on the pump. He held the cup in his left hand and pumped with his right—something Emma couldn’t do because her arms weren’t long enough to reach.

  When he sat down, he took her hand again. She, didn’t want to pull it away, although the thought flitted through her mind that she really ought to. She soaked up his enthusiastic words about the land he had filed a claim on and about the new settlers coming in. It was wonderful to hear what was going on outside her own household. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her what had been happening in her life, because nothing had. The only new things she ever saw were what baby Anne learned.

  Al stayed for supper that night, but it seemed to Emma that he paid little attention to her. At dusk he said he had to leave and asked Emma to walk to the main road with him. He didn’t even hold her hand, she remembered, until they reached the road. Then he gave her hand a quick squeeze and said, “You’re gonna be at the box social next week, aren’t you?” and he was gone. She walked back to the house that night in a welter of emotions—miffed because he had talked with the family all evening, disappointed because he hadn’t offered to take her to the social, and yet thrilled that he had come to see her and was, perhaps, looking forward to seeing her again.

  So long ago. ... Emma held baby George up to her shoulder, kissed the top of his head, and smiled, remembering how excited she had been preparing her lunch and decorating that box for the social. Ma had helped her cover the box with some material leftover from her new skirt. It had looked real pretty when they were done. Ma found some blue yarn that just matched, and Emma tied the box with it and made a bow on the top.

  She’d had to wear her old skirt that night, or everyone would know which box was hers. When the bidding started on her box, she could hardly breathe. Big, old, red-faced Gus kept bidding, but so did Al. He hadn’t even placed a bid on another box. How did he know it was hers? Or did he?

  Al got it for seventy-five cents, one of the highest bids of the evening. He led Emma to a quiet comer of the hall where the girls hung their coats. She took out the napkins and arranged the sandwiches on them. She’d take out the molasses cake later.

  “I was wondering how I’d ever know your box, but then I saw your material. You wore that skirt the night I had supper at your house. Emma, I didn’t know you were so clever!”

  Emma felt her face burn. “I never thought of that, Al, honest! I never thought you’d remember my skirt material.”

  He gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “Now I can walk you home. I wanted to bring you this evening, but that’s not exactly fair at a box social. I might have had to see another girl home, if I’d ended up with her supper!” What a dummy I was! I was wishing Al would kiss me that night, but still I was scared. Maybe he knew I was scared, and that’s why he just hugged me and said it was nice to be with me.

  She smiled into the darkness, thinking how Al’s huge frame would fill the doorway tomorrow evening. The little ones would cling to his legs, and he’d wink at her over their clamor. She’d pretend to be busy, but she’d be waiting until the children’s excitement had subsided. Then he’d come and wrap her in his long arms. She wouldn’t even mind the odor of greasy camp cooking that clung to his, woolen shirt, or his week’s growth of whiskers. She’d just cling, unaware for a moment of the children, and let all her tension seep into his strong body.

  But maybe this time she’d better not cling. How could she possibly—Oh, dear! A week was so long for a man. Would he be angry? Surely he’d realize what she had been through these days. Maybe he’d praise her for struggling so hard.

  She imagined Al helping her to bed, insisting that he take over completely so she could rest. He’d shake his head and say, “I don’t know how you did it!”

  The fire snapped, and the baby started. Emma carefully laid him in his cradle and then got busy setting the yeast and filling the stove. Back in bed, the pain didn’t seem so bad when she thought how wonderful it would be just to lie there and rest and rest and rest when Al got home.

  The fire snapped. “Ah ... good!” she whispered and snuggled deeper into the covers, blissfully free of pain for the moment. Now, if the baby would sleep a long while....

  A gust of wind shook the windowpanes and howled around the corner of the house, and the baby began to cry in earnest. Once more Emma hauled herself out of bed, pulled on her robe, lined the rocker with a comforter from her bed, and put wood in the stove.

  “I wonder what time it is,” she said to herself when she was settled with the baby. No matter. The clock would strike soon and she’d know. Emma dozed, till her head fell on her shoulder and woke her.

  Now and then the fire snapped and the wind whistled down the chimney. Otherwise all was quiet. Strangely quiet. Suddenly she was alert. Something wasn’t right.

  She yawned. “I’m half asleep, that’s all,” she told herself. But after she had tucked the baby back in the cradle, she realized what was missing. The clock! It wasn’t ticking! It hadn’t struck once during the whole time she was up with the baby.

  Emma lit a match. In the flame’s flare she saw the hands standing at five after twelve. Never in all her married life had she forgotten to wind the clock before she went to bed. How could she have forgotten tonight? Well, there was nothing for it now but to wait until Al was home with his pocket watch and could reset it.

  The cold wind, determined to creep into the cabin, found a thousand cracks and crevices. Emma shivered and tucked quilts around the children cuddled in the little bed. When the weather got warm, they would sleep upstairs in the little room Al had lined with boards last summer.

  An eerie sound rose above the wind, and Emma tensed. It sounded like wolves. A chill raced up her spine and down her arms. She hadn’t heard wolves since they came back from Phillips.

  With the comforter wrapped around her, she peered out into the darkness, remembering a winter night when Albert was a baby. Al was away then, too, and those horrible creatures had edged closer and closer to the cabin. Clara Geber was with her that night; she had often stayed over then. If only Clara were with her now.

  Emma held her breath and listened again. Nothing but the wind now. Still, she waited by the window. The other time, the wolves had been attracted by their little dog. Poor, little fellow. He had huddled against the door, whining and barking as the drooling, snarling beasts closed in on him, but she hadn’t dared open the door to let him in.

  She had set lamps in the windows, because she remembered Al saying that wolves would never attack a person with a light. Then she had carried Albert, up the ladder to the cold loft and tried to keep him from crying until the wolves slunk back to the woods, leaving the little dog trembling pitifully bet unharmed.

  It mu
st have been my imagination, Emma assured herself and hobbled back to bed. How long, before daylight? she wondered, scolding herself over and over for forgetting to wind the clock. How could she have been so careless? Now she would have only daylight to go by. She wouldn’t even know when to put the roast in the oven.

  Eventually she slept, waking only when the baby cried again. Objects in the room were faintly taking shape. Must be after six, she estimated.

  There was no water for the chickens, she realized when she was ready to do chores. She’d fill their water dish with snow until she could carry some. Snow pelted Emma’s face when she opened the door of the lean-to. Whether it was new snow falling from the sky or just snow being blown about by the raging wind, she didn’t know.

  She started to ask God to stop the storm, but then stopped. What’s the sense of praying, she thought. My prayers don’t get answered anyway. But if Al doesn’t get home—