Ole finally sat down by the table and let Mother fetch him coffee. “He should be treated the same, he who did that.” His voice was quivering, with anger perhaps.
“Wouldn’t do much good.” Mother sounded weary and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.
Peder was still measuring me. “Marit went to Rødde farm. Perhaps you could go there too.”
“Is it far enough away?” Ole’s cup shook when he brought it to his lips. “Won’t they know?”
“Probably, but she wouldn’t see him all the time.” My brother’s lips curled with distaste.
“They say I asked for it, don’t they?” I could not help but say it aloud. Neither of my brothers answered, which was a good enough answer for me.
Peder sighed and stretched out his legs. “You should have been more careful. It never pays off taunting those who have more to their name.”
“I should have gone to the priest. He would have set things right.”
Peder shook his head. “Hansteen would rather believe a farmer’s son than you.”
“I would have had the child to prove it.”
Mother sighed; Peder shifted. “Stories like that never end well. They would say you were hungry for gold.”
“They already do, I reckon.” I looked to my brother for an answer.
Another shrug. “Sure they do. It was a stupid and reckless thing you did.”
“I didn’t get with child on purpose.”
“That doesn’t matter if they think you did.”
I clutched the letters in my hands so hard the ink was starting to smear. “Are they laughing?”
A pause. “Yes.” Peder’s gaze dropped away. “They’re laughing.”
They all bent their heads then: Olina over her sewing, Mother over the knitting, and my brothers over their cups. All bent their heads in shame but me. Mother sighed and bit her lip. Ole fidgeted. I ripped open the bejeweled envelope in my lap and tried to catch a whiff of that other place as I pulled the paper out. Nellie’s scribbles filled two pages. Dear Mother and Father . . . it began. You will be happy to hear that we are settling in nicely in our new apartment here in Chicago . . .
“What is she saying?” Mother asked. She never learned to read well.
I skimmed the letter. “She is doing fine. She complains about the weather . . . She says the streets are filled with people, but nobody really knows one another.” She wrote it as if it were a thing to mourn, not to envy.
“You must read it out to me tonight.” Mother’s shoulders slumped with relief. She always worried that there would bad news: sickness, fire, or death. “We must write her back too. I won’t see her again in my lifetime, I reckon.” She folded her hands in her lap and sighed. “But at least we have those letters.”
“Maybe we all ought to go to America.” Peder’s gaze narrowed. “We can own land there, not break our backs plowing someone else’s dirt.”
“There’s not a single acre left unclaimed around these parts.” Ole nodded. “We’ll be tenants till we die.”
“It’s crowded over there as well.” Mother lifted her head. “It is dusty and vile: horses rotting in the streets, houses burning down around people’s heads . . . you’ve heard what your sister writes.”
“That’s in the cities, Mother. It is different in the country. Black soil as far as the eye can see.” Ole’s voice had turned wistful.
Mother gave him a look. “Who have you been talking to?” She picked up her knitting from her lap; the needles clicked softly as her fingers worked the yarn into neat rows.
Ole did not speak more of it. He knew Mother did not like talk about America. She was foolish like that. Shortsighted. I looked down at the pages in my hand and a lump formed in my throat, making it hard to breathe. I hated my sister for having escaped, leaving me behind to rot.
That night, after writing down Mother’s words, useless sentences about the goat, crops, and her terrible gout, I added some extra words to the letter: Little Brynhild is not doing so well. She has problems finding her place in the valley. She was attacked for no reason, bleeding badly from the stomach. It seems they have it in for her. Perhaps the best thing would be if she could join you in America. If your husband has any amount to spare that could help pay her fare, I am sure she could be a great help to you in the house. I signed the letter, Your Mother and Father.
3.
Nellie
Chicago, 1877
Ifolded the letter and pushed it back into the envelope. The stiff paper had turned soft, as I had already read it many times, once aloud to my husband, John. I lifted the little piece of home to my nose to see if I could catch a whiff of pine, wood smoke, and soft, damp moss. Størsetgjerdet felt so very far away; it seemed like a lifetime since I last crossed the threshold and entered, beheld the cramped quarters, the soot-stained walls and the rough-hewn chairs, the rickety spinning wheel in the corner. I had no use for such a tool in Chicago; I bought my yarn in skeins ready for the knitting needles. The scent of wet moss was replaced by that of burning coal and horse sweat, boiling food from a dozen kitchens. The sound of chirping birds no longer greeted me in the mornings; instead, I heard the racket of wagon wheels on the bricked street, children crying and mothers scolding, men scrambling down the stairs of our tenement building ready to go to work. I did not regret the change, but sometimes I longed for the quiet. It is in your blood, I suppose, if you grow up as I did, high up, yet still far below, stern faces of mountains flecked with snow.
You will always long for peace.
I could barely see my family’s faces anymore; they remained blurred in my mind no matter how hard I tried. I could see their bodies, though: Mother with her bony hands in her lap, always working on something. Father with his unkempt beard sitting before the fire, and Little Brynhild, still twelve in my memory, with square shoulders and hooded eyes, fists always clenched at her sides, as if preparing for an oncoming fight.
My heart ached for her as I put the envelope away in the empty tea box where I kept my letters from my family. The box had a picture of a ship on the side, which I thought was appropriate, since there was such a long sea journey between us. The ship on the box had sails, though, while I had traveled on a steamer, and the scent of tea leaves lingered and erased whatever smell there was of woodland. It was a pretty box, the prettiest one that I owned, and so it felt right to use it to keep such treasured words—even if not all of them were pleasant but made me fret and worry.
“I know only too well how she feels,” I told John when he rose to have his breakfast. “That sense that there is nothing for you but struggle and toil.” I poured his coffee and placed a bowl of porridge before him on the well-scrubbed table. My two-year-old son, Rudolph, sat perched on his father’s knee, clumsily spooning breakfast into his little mouth. His feet were restless, kicking out in the air and landing on John’s shins. I should have scolded him for that, but just that morning I did not have it in me. “What will become of her now?” I asked my husband. “You know what it’s like once people are set against you, even if for no good reason. Once they have their eyes on you, it’s hard to escape wagging tongues.”