The Children's Blizzard(79)

It was what had brought her so much trouble, earlier, with Gunner Pedersen.

“I am not going to marry anyone,” Raina retorted, concentrating on the worms crawling out of the freshly turned earth, nudging a particularly fat one along with the toe of her boot. “In fact, I’m going to college. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I was hoping you would go to college, too. The money that is mine should be half yours. That is fair to me, and I asked those in charge if I could help with your education, and they said yes. I think you could get a scholarship, and the money could go to your room and board and maybe you could even send some back home.”

“I—a—scholarship? College?” He looked so bewildered, so overwhelmed, Raina realized this was an idea he’d never even formed before; he’d never dreamed this. No boy his age, in his situation, in this place, dreamed such a thing. Tor dropped the reins of the ox, but the animal didn’t move; Tor did, however. He began to walk up and down the furrows, making a mess of them, rubbing his forehead, and Raina wanted to tell him to stop, he was ruining his work. But she kept silent, allowing him to work out this monumental puzzle she’d just placed before him.

    As she watched, she thought again how different the fate was of a boy versus a girl, a man versus a woman. There was a time—fleeting, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings—when women did have a choice, she realized. She’d never thought that before, but now she knew, there was that one moment, after school was over. The choice then—to become a teacher for a couple of years before marrying, or to stay at home—wasn’t much of one, at that. But it was still a choice, a chance—a young woman could travel beyond her own farm, boarding out, meeting new people.

But on the prairie, most young men—these sons of immigrants—didn’t have even that meager opportunity. The land waited, it was always waiting, for the next pair of strong hands, unbent back, sturdy legs and heart. It was only the odd ones—what little Gerda had said of her beau, Tiny, those like him—who got away from it at all. The land made boys become men too soon, turned young men old before their time, so it always needed more men.

Maybe it was different in the city—after all, she knew someone now from Omaha, and he wasn’t a farmer; the notion of Gavin Woodson plowing a furrow made her want to double up with laughter. But while the geographic distance between city and homestead wasn’t all that great, the landscape of possibility was impossible to breach.

“I don’t know—college?” Tor stopped before her, scratching his head, his face red with excitement. “What did Mama say about it?”

“She said it was your decision.”

“I don’t know if it is. I’m not the only one that would be affected. There’s been too much—Papa, Fredrik—and there are the little ones. I can’t think—what would happen to them if I wasn’t here?”

    “I can’t answer that, Tor, and I can’t tell you not to think of them, that wouldn’t be right. But I also can’t tell you not to think of yourself.”

Raina allowed his big hands, not yet as rough as they would be in even a few months of this work, to grasp hers tightly; then he released them and sat down on the plow. He watched the ox standing so complacently. He looked up at the sky, squinting; he reached down and picked up the muddy earth he’d plowed. Then he looked back at his house, and Raina followed his gaze. Mrs. Halvorsan was standing in the kitchen window, gazing out at the two of them, but the glare on the window obscured whatever expression was on her face.

There was no sound other than the rustle of the wind, the constant music of the prairie, kicking up dust and rustling grass and causing clothes to flap on the line. But Raina could have sworn she heard gears turning in Tor’s head. New, stiff gears, creaking in protest.

Finally Tor rose; he wiped his hands on his dungarees, and stood halfway between the plow and Raina. He looked back at the farmhouse.

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I know it’s ungrateful of me, but I can’t. I can’t leave them, I can’t leave the farm now that it’s proved up, actually making a yield. It’s still such a thin line, between good and bad here—success and failure, I mean. If there was more of a cushion, if Mama had the means to hire some hands, maybe. But even then, I think I would be torn, all the time—my head in school but my heart here. If I stay home, I’ll be here, my whole self. I won’t be missing anything. Do you see?” He looked so desperate for her understanding, maybe her absolution, that Raina could not let him know how disappointed she was. Unsurprised, but disappointed nonetheless. She wanted her time in the schoolhouse to have meant something to someone—like one of those preachy stories of how a teacher inspired a student to go on to greatness. But Tor’s decision shouldn’t be about her in any way, and she had to give him the gift of not letting him see her disappointment.

    “Of course I understand, Tor. But I couldn’t have lived with myself if I didn’t give you the chance.”

“Then it is good, between us?” Once more he reached for her hands.

“Yes, Tor, it is good between us.” She smiled up at him and felt her heart twist a little. She would go off, come back sometimes to her own home to visit. But she couldn’t see herself coming back here to this community—the Pedersens, the Halvorsans, the schoolhouse. And that was a shame, because here was a decent person whom she would always miss, even when she filled her life with other things, other people. Other goodness.