I gave them both a good, long stare. “And how long do you expect to live? You might just die on her around the next bend.”
Gunnar opened his mouth again. “We are both healthy and sound in mind, Mrs. Gunness. No need to worry about that. There is also the question of her uncle, Gust, and what he would say if we let her leave—”
“What would he be complaining about? That you were foolish to let the girl go back home to a clean house and a caring family?”
“Gust has some strong opinions.” Of course he did. Brothers always did. Brothers always came meddling. “He said that he would take her.” The cards finally landed on the table. “He would see to it that she got her inheritance too.”
“What inheritance?” I could not help but show my disdain. “Peter was no wealthy man. All he had was mine. It’s my land and my farm, my livestock—”
“He is aware there was an insurance policy—two, in fact.”
“Of which the girl will have all, I assure you—”
“Assurances don’t mean much, Mrs. Gunness, not when there are no ties of blood. With Gust she would be with her true family.” Gunnar still spoke for the both of them while Peter chewed his tobacco.
“Well, I don’t care about that. Peter was my husband and so she is my daughter. I’m taking her home and that’s the end of it.” I was so angered by their insolence that my voice shook when I spoke.
The men before me looked away; the set of their jaws told me they were angry too.
“He won’t stand for it.” Peter spat tobacco on the floor. “Gust will not stand for this!”
I shrugged. “Let him try to take her. She is mine by right of law.”
Gunnar gave me a dark stare. “There were questions after Peter died—”
“People always talk.”
“Gust doesn’t think she’s safe with you—”
“Not safe with me, the mother who feeds and clothes her? Who can give her everything she needs, and then some . . .”
“Money isn’t all, Mrs. Gunness,” Peter said. His gaze was on the cup he cradled in his wizened hands.
“I assure you, hungry children beg to differ!”
There was nothing those old men could do to stop me, though. They would never manhandle a woman and a child, and even if they did, I was both younger and stronger. In the end, we simply walked out the door, Swanhild and I. The girl cried beside me in the buggy when we left that filthy farm behind. Not even caramels could cheer her.
“It will be better when we get home,” I told her. “You’ll see Jennie, Myrtle, and Lucy again, and go back to school—”
“My papa is dead!”
“Yes, he is; now dry your tears. Many children lose their papas. Nothing to do for it but straighten up and move on.”
“I want to go back to my uncles,” the girl howled.
“Well, you will never go back to them, so there’s that. Now, dry your tears and be a good girl—have another caramel. I’m your mama and will look after you.”
I have never been as exhausted by a journey as when I transported that little girl from Janesville to La Porte. When she did not cry she sulked, and she looked at me as if I were the devil himself. They had clearly been telling her stories, Peter’s uncles.
I thought it was all settled then, when I had the girl back under my roof. Gust Gunness sent me letters, of course. He threatened me even—but what could he do? I was Peter’s legal wife and as such the best choice as his daughter’s guardian. I did not care that Gust threatened to go to the sheriff—the whole inquest had come to nothing. There were no witnesses, after all, and I suppose the lawmen in La Porte had better things to do than bothering a poor widow.
Swanhild settled back in, and after a few days she seemed much her old self: a not-too-bright but happy enough child who joined her sisters in play. I had bought the children a brown Shetland pony and a small cart to console them after Peter’s death, and Swanhild was just as much in love with the little animal as the others. She often took turns in the stable feeding and caring for it. She even came crawling into my bed with the rest when it was time to calm down at night. It was a good bed, of brass tubes and knots, heaped with mattresses, quilts, and pillows. Above it hung a cross and some scripture I had embroidered onto cloth myself. It was spacious too, now that Peter was gone, though small bodies often occupied the vacant spot all through the night. Lucy, in particular, was quick to fill it, wanting to be close to her mama.
On the first night Swanhild came to join us, lingering a little on the edge of the bed before crawling up close to Myrtle’s back, I told them about my childhood in Selbu. Myrtle always asked me about it. Selbu seemed such a strange land to her, a fairy-tale kingdom across the sea. I found it endearing and indulged her, although my childhood years had been anything but pleasant. It was different, though, to see it through my children’s eyes; what had been sorry for me could become a gilded story for them. They knew nothing of hunger and strife; all they ever knew was butter and sweets—and I would not have it any other way.
“They used to call me Twist-twig-Paula,” I told them, lying beneath a crocheted spread with a child in each arm. The girls all giggled around me.
“Why is that?” asked Lucy in her sweet, light voice.
“Because I was always out picking twigs for fuel. We used to twist them around each other like this.” I freed my hands to demonstrate in the air. “And they called me Paula because my father’s name was Paul.”
“Why did you have to burn twigs?” Jennie asked.
“Because my father was too lazy to chop logs,” I told her candidly.
“Was it the other children who called you that? In school?” Swanhild asked.
“It sure was.” I chuckled at the memory. “Especially some boys called me that, and it was not to be nice.” Everybody knew that my father loved his drink and did not properly care for his family. Everybody knew that we owned nothing more than the mended clothes we lived and slept in.
“What did you do?” Jennie asked breathlessly. She knew me too well to think I would just stand idly by.
“Oh, I packed some river stones into snowballs and threw them at their heads. I had very good aim in those days.” That revenge had been long in planning, devised while I lay next to Olina in the loft at St?rsetgjerdet, envisioning their pain and suffering at my hands.
“What happened?” Myrtle squirmed beside me; her dark curls tickled my nose.
“They bled some,” I said, content. “One of them nearly lost an eye.”
“Did they stop calling you Twist-twig-Paula?” Jennie had wound her arms around Lucy, who was already sleeping by then, her pink lips slightly parted.
“No . . . I guess that name had come to stay . . . but after that, they always called out from a distance. It’s important to strike back in life,” I told them. “No one else will do it for you—besides me, of course. I would strike back at anyone who harmed you.”
“Were all the children in Selbu mean?” Swanhild wanted to know.
“Well, yes, but that’s why I came here to America.”