Chapter
7

Another job! Nilda was happy that she had been able to find a place with the storekeeper, Mrs. Sieverson, so quickly. It was only temporary, but it was money in her pocket. She entered the store, and the bell over the door tinkled.

“I am so glad you’ll be filling in for Matilde until she is well enough to come back to the store.” Mrs. Sieverson took Nilda’s coat and showed her where to hang it up. “I have gotten behind on unpacking and putting out the last shipment of supplies, so that is where we will start.” She led the way to the back room, where crates covered half the floor. “Some of this will go up on these shelves, then the rest out on the shelves in the store.” She handed Nilda a crowbar to pry off the tops of the crates and left.

Nilda opened the first crate and lifted out paper-wrapped bolts of fabric and packets of notions, including thread. Yarn came in another wrapped parcel, and the bottom half of the crate was canned goods. She set the fabric and yarn on a shelf and lined the cans up on a table. Setting notions in a basket, she carried them out to place on the shelves that still held enough to guide her.

Dry goods! Nilda loved just being around beautiful dry goods. She smiled. This was going to be so much nicer than that Nygaard job!

Over the next few days, as she unpacked crate after crate, Nilda struggled to fight off the curiosity bug that kept attacking her. What did Johann mean when he told her to stay out of it, whatever it was?

One morning, she pried the lid off yet another crate. The last of Mrs. Sieverson’s dry goods order. Excellent. She filled her basket with boxes of thread and took it out front to shelve the spools.

“You!” The customer at the counter pointed a long finger at Nilda. Mrs. Nygaard!

Nilda froze. Of all the people in the world—well, except Dreng—Nilda wanted to avoid this woman the most.

Mrs. Nygaard turned to Mrs. Sieverson. “You are employing a vixen. A hussy! A tramp! I insist you fire her immediately!”

“Why, Mrs. Nygaard—”

“She tried to seduce my poor Dreng. The boy knows nothing about the ways of the world, and she tried to pervert him. I insist! Out!”

Fury grabbed Nilda’s heart and mind. And then that fury came flying out of her mouth. “Mrs. Nygaard, haven’t you ever wondered why you cannot keep household help for more than a month or so? Your son makes unwelcome advances! Persistent advances! Not just to me; all of us! That is why.”

“And you are a liar as well!”

“Miss Carlson is a splendid worker,” Mrs. Sieverson barked, and she never raised her voice. “Industrious, fast to catch on, scrupulously honest, and pleasant to the customers. No, I will not fire her.”

“Then I will not come here again.”

“That is your choice, Mrs. Nygaard. Takk for coming in.”

Red-faced with anger, Mrs. Nygaard marched out.

“I am so sorry.” Nilda stepped toward Mrs. Sieverson. “You lost a customer, and it was all my fault. My terrible temper. I’m so sorry!”

Mrs. Sieverson studied her, and she did not even look upset. “I’ve heard rumors about Dreng. That woman called you a strumpet, it is no wonder you got angry. I would have as well.” She smiled. “In fact, I did. Please resume your duties and think nothing more of it. I will see you first thing in the morning, right?”

“Ja, I will be here.” Nilda’s heart sang. Mrs. Sieverson believed her! She believed her!

That boy knows nothing about the ways of the world? Hah!

It was not as dark as usual when she left work that evening. The sky was still a bit light. Could spring be near? Nilda buckled into her skis and, digging her poles in, headed for home. Being outside with the cold biting her cheeks always made her want to shout for joy. Nothing felt more like freedom and flying than slipping over a hillock and up another. Except spring flowers. That was even better.

At the farmhouse, she loosed the bindings on her skis and studied them a moment. Would she be able to take them to Amerika? Rune had written that he was learning to make skis and how he wished he had spent more time with Bestefar in his woodshop. She needed to write to him and ask if he would have extra skis made by next winter.

Unwinding her scarf as she entered the house, she could hear Mor in the kitchen talking with someone.

“That you, Nilda?”

“Ja.” She hung up her things and followed her nose to the coffeepot on the stove. Once her cup was full, she joined her mor and Ivar at the table. “Something sure smells good.”

“A leg of mutton, Ivar’s pay for helping cut up the fir tree that blew down at the Stettlers’.”

“Good pay.”

“Ja. Ivar didn’t plan on getting paid. So how was work?”

Even as she told Mor and Ivar about the confrontation with Mrs. Nygaard, she wondered—would this help or hinder whatever it was that Johann had in mind? She wished he had told her more.

She ended, “And Mrs. Sieverson wants me tomorrow too. Every day puts more in the ticket fund for Ivar.” She sipped her coffee. “I don’t think Far would have allowed me to go without Ivar. In a way, Dreng illustrates why.”

Mor nodded. “I am going to miss you dreadfully. And two of you leaving at once.”

Ivar laid a hand on hers. “You will get to come to Amerika, Mor. We will all see to that, and somehow you will see Ingeborg again.”

“We were so close, Ingeborg and I, until that big feud that my far enforced. All those years we couldn’t even talk to each other. Mor never got over it.”

“I don’t think you did either, not really,” Nilda said.

Mor heaved a sigh and stood up. “That rug will never get done at this rate. How long until you are supposed to leave?”

“May twentieth. Right after Syttende Mai. I would like to take my skis along.”

“You already have two trunks going and the loom, besides your clothes. I want to send Signe a yellow rosebush start too, and some more seeds. She has always loved our yellow roses. They will climb up anything. Perhaps she will have a porch on her new house that needs a yellow rosebush blooming in front of it.”

Every time Nilda saw Johann, she wanted to ask him if anything was happening to teach Dreng a lesson, but some kind of wisdom helped her keep her questions to herself. One afternoon, she nearly pointed her skis to his house rather than straight home. Disgust dug into her skin like a sliver. She should have come up with an idea by herself. At least something might have happened that way.

Sometime later, Nilda was at work, setting the storeroom in order, when she heard the tinkling bell announcing a customer. When she didn’t hear Mrs. Sieverson welcoming the person, she started for the front of the store.

“You won’t believe this, Mrs. Sieverson.” Mrs. Grosbach, one of the gossipers from church, had a voice that could carry across the valley.

Nilda told herself to go back to work but instead waited.

“Whatever has you in such a state?”

“Well, I can hardly believe this myself, but . . .” She dropped her voice.

Go back to work, Nilda instructed herself. Now! Still she waited. Nilda Carlson, you do not like that woman anyway, what do you care about her tittle-tattle ways?

Something kept her stuck to her spot. When she heard the name Dreng Nygaard, she leaned closer to the curtain-shrouded doorway. Hearing voices was different from understanding what they were saying.

“He was beaten up pretty badly, and when his far found out . . .”

Nilda fought to think of an excuse to go closer to them, but nothing came to mind. At least the men had inflicted some kind of punishment.

“And . . .”

And what? Never had Nilda’s ears worked harder to decipher muttered words.

“What’s the word? Oh I remember, banished. Mr. Nygaard is sending his son to Amerika to work for his uncle.”

“When?”

“Immediately. His mor is going to be heartbroken.”

“She’s the one who spoiled him. You say no one knows who the girls were?”

“Pretty hush-hush altogether. The Nygaards would not want this kind of information out.”

“How did you come by it?”

“I will never tell. Do you have any envelopes and writing paper?”

“I do, back here. Do you need ink for your pen too?”

“Why yes, I believe I do. And do you have any fresh eggs? Our hens are not laying yet.”

Nilda shook her head and returned to her cleaning. So Dreng was receiving recompense for his vile actions after all. Banished. God help the young women in Amerika.

A couple of days later, she picked up the mail at the post office. A letter for Mor and one for . . . her? No one ever wrote to her.

She slid a fingernail under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

On it in block letters, she read, I will get you for this! DN