“Father wouldn’t let me go,” I was quick to explain. I would not let her think I was a coward. “I wanted to come, but he said I couldn’t be seen like this, and I was—” Still bleeding, but I could not bring myself to say that aloud.
“You shouldn’t be here, though.” There was fear in her voice. “Why ever did you come back here?”
“Father said I couldn’t be home anymore. I had to work.” That was not what Gurine asked, though. She asked because of Anders.
The old woman gave me a look and lifted a lukewarm cup of coffee to her lips. “Did Paul say that because he was afraid people would think you are lazy, or because he wanted to punish you?”
“Punish me, I think.”
“And the . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows, motioned to her stomach with her hand.
“Gone.” I cradled my own cup of coffee in my lap.
“Well, that’s a good thing, then.” Gurine pursed her lips. “You should have that tooth pulled too, what’s left of it.”
“Have no money for that.” I shrugged. “It was a poor tooth anyway. He did me a favor knocking it out.”
“Hush.” She looked stern. “Don’t say such a thing. He has done you nothing but harm. You’re not still pining for him, are you?”
“No, no—I’m not.” I would rather see him buried, but I did not say that.
“That’s something, then . . . And you’re sure that it’s gone?” Another motion to her belly.
“Yes.” It did not bother me to say it. I had had many nights to teach myself how to answer that question. It was only a lump of flesh, after all—nothing to ache for. I handled flesh all the time; skinned and cut, bled and cooked. That tiny lump that slid out of me was no different from any other slick meat. No different from the pigs I cut with Gurine, the hares I skinned, or the kids’ legs I cured with salt. Just flesh—nothing special at all. It might not even have lived through birth. Children die all the time.
“You shouldn’t be here, though. I’m sure that if Paul knew for sure who it was, that he—”
“I don’t mind. I can stay on. I don’t see him much anyway, as long as I’m in here.” I looked around at the large iron cookstove with the black pans resting on top; the bucket of potatoes in the corner, skin wrinkly and tough after winter storage; the blue chairs with peeling paint; the soot-stained ceiling and timbered walls; and let out a breath of relief. “Anders never comes to the kitchen.” None of the men ever did.
“But why would you want to?” Gurine’s blue eyes peered at me.
“It wouldn’t be better anywhere else; everyone knows what happened. At least this way they’ll know I’m not ashamed.” I watched a gray kitten Gurine had let in stumble milk-drunk away from a bowl by the stove. I reached out a hand to let it sniff my fingers and felt the silken fur as it went by.
Gurine looked worried. “They might think you’re still hoping—”
“Maybe, but I can live with that.” The kitten had jumped onto the windowsill and tried to catch an orange butterfly on the other side of the glass. The cat’s childish antics made me hurt inside.
Gurine shook her head again. “You should seek service elsewhere and leave Selbu behind.”
I nodded; on this we agreed. “I hate this place.”
“Hate is a very strong word that shouldn’t be used lightly.”
“Nevertheless, I do. I am tired of always being laughed at.”
Gurine sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Where do you want to go, then?”
“Big Brynhild says it is better in America. No one cares who your parents are. I think I could do well over there. Big Brynhild calls herself Nellie now.”
“That’s a fancy name.” Behind her on the stove, water began to bubble in a pot. It was for the potatoes. We should have peeled them long ago.
“I could take another name as well.”
“You know it’s an expensive journey.”
“Big Brynhild did it. She worked for years to do it.” The kitten had all but given up on the butterfly and hit the floor with a thump. It went back to the bowl in search of more milk, its tiny tail straight in the air.
“If I were your age maybe I would go too.” A longing came into Gurine’s voice. “They say there’s plenty of land, and big cities.”
“Big Brynhild seems happy enough.” I bit my tongue to curb the unbidden jealousy that flared to life when I said my sister’s name.
“It’s a good dream.” Gurine rose and started for the stove, where the water was bubbling in the pot. I rose too and tightened the apron at the small of my back, where it still ached.
“In America,” I told Gurine, “I could marry well. I’m sure of it.”
* * *
—
She watched me, Gurine, with those blue eyes, when it was time to eat. Looked at me as I watched the men cross the yard through the window. They were working on the barn this summer while the cattle were away, tearing down walls and building new ones.
The salted herring and the cold potatoes were already on the table with stacks of flat bread; all that was missing was the porridge and the lump of butter. Anders and his father—another Anders—were the last ones to come inside, discussing something or other. The farmer’s hand rested on his son’s shoulder. Before they went in, they whipped the caps off their heads, as not to offend the Lord.
“Will you carry the porridge, Little Brynhild?” Gurine’s voice was soft, her eyes sad.
“Of course.” Gurine was too frail to carry much at all.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t mind.” I lifted the deep wooden serving tray, filled to the brim with gray, pasty porridge. It was heavy for sure, but my hands did not shake. I slipped out the door and heard Gurine behind me, following with the butter.
“Here.” She got in front of me and opened the door to the next room, where half a dozen men were seated on benches by the table, nibbling on fat fish and breaking pieces of flat bread between grimy, callused fingers. It went quiet when I came in. They all looked at me, as I thought they would. Their eyes were wary, as if I were a dog that could not be trusted and they waited for me to bare my teeth. I approached with the tray and placed it on the table. A few of their spoons dipped into the porridge as soon as I let it go.
“Thank you, Brynhild.” The farmer himself spoke. “It’s good to see you back on your feet.”
I nodded in his direction and did not look at Anders beside him. I could see his hands, though: strong and rough, marred by fading bruises. Bruises from hitting me. The men did not look at me after the farmer spoke. Their heads bent as they shuffled the food into their mouths. They thought that was it, then—that I was safe and would not bite. That I would take my lesson and learn from it, be humble and meek and know my place.
That was what they thought.
* * *
—
“It’s good to see you regaining your strength,” Mother said the next Sunday. I had gone home with my parents after church and would return to the farm in the morning. I sat outside on the stone slab that served as a step by the door, scrubbing out a black-scorched pot. Mother carried wash from the creek; the heavy weight made her wiry frame bend. “How is it down there at the farm?” She dropped her load in front of me.