The Painted Table(16)

The cost of the house, plus the remodeling, would hardly be offset by the monthly rent it might generate, but Nels’s new job has increased their income. Encouraged by Joann’s sudden buoyancy, he agrees that the purchase is feasible. Does she understand that she will have to oversee the carpenters, electricians, and plumbers? She paces here and there in the empty dining room, takes a deep breath, and assures him she will.

Back in St. Paul, even before the purchase is complete, Joann begins meticulous drawings, detailing her ideas for change. Saffee surveys her work and asks, “Will I have my own bedroom?”

“No. All the extra rooms will be apartments.”

Eager to move and begin the work, Joann decides that Saffee can miss the last two months of second grade.




The packing of their belongings is well under way when Joann receives word that Evelyn, her oldest sister, had a heart attack and has died. The news prompts Saffee to ask questions that mostly go unanswered. Other than Dorothy, who came to San Francisco when April was born, her mother never mentions siblings.

After Nels and Joann attend Evelyn’s funeral, Joann’s ebullient mood plunges. The next day, and the day after that, she sits in the armchair, immobilized, staring into the mists of memory. Partly filled boxes lay neglected in every room.

“Oh, Evelyn . . .” It is a quiet moan, barely audible. “Only fifteen and had to raise us . . . like a mother hen . . . took care of everyone when that fire came . . . except the baby.”

Saffee leans against her mother’s shoulder and thrusts her face close to Joann’s, demanding attention. “What baby, Mommy? What fire? Who are you talking about?”

Joann, far away, responds in a monotone, “Mother’s last little girl . . . and Pa gave her away.”

Saffee struggles to grasp the idea of a motherless family—and giving away a baby.

“Mommy, how little were you when”—she flutters her hands—“you know, when your mother . . .”

Joann continues her whispered thoughts. “Hospital for the . . .” Suddenly she exclaims, “No!” causing her focus to momentarily sharpen. “Seven,” she says to Saffee. “I was seven when she died. Same as you.”

“Not like me,” Saffee says quickly, “because I’m almost eight!”

Joann reenters her distant place; her hands tighten their grip.

“Mother was delicate . . . surely not cut out to live in a sod house,” she whispers. “Not meant to have nine . . . Pa insisted . . . I heard him. He only wanted boys . . .”

Saffee sinks to the floor and sits very still. Joann’s emotions surge as she continues, “Then she was gone! Left Evelyn . . . left her to do the work and put up with the boys . . .”

Nels, who has taken a week off from work for the move, comes into the room and interrupts. He reminds Joann that it is Wednesday and the moving van comes Friday morning. She seems not to hear. By Thursday, with little assistance, Nels manages to fill the boxes and make all the necessary preparations.

That afternoon a battered pickup truck stops in front of the house. Saffee doesn’t recognize the barrel-chested man in overalls and faded shirt who comes to the door. He removes his dusty cap and fingers it in a self-conscious manner. Nels shakes his hand. “Samuel! What brings you here?”

The man greets Nels, then looks beyond him to where Joann stands. “Hello, Joann. My Ev’lyn”—the big man’s face goes red—“she wanted you ta have our ol’ table, so I brung it to you.” His speech is the dialect of Minnesota Norwegians. “When I heerd”—he puts his cap back on and just as quickly removes it—“at the fooneral that you bought yerselves a place out in Miller’s Ford, I din’t want you leavin’ without it.”

Joann sucks in her breath. “Oh my,” she says. “The table?” She lowers herself onto a closed packing box.

“Me an’ the boys, we’re thinkin’ a movin’ to the cottage on the west side a the farm. It’s right on the lake, don’tcha know. Boys, dey like ta fish a lot. Without Ev’lyn, we don’t need no big place, don’t need no big table. Won’t have room. Anyways, it needs ta stay in Ev’lyn’s side of the family, don’tcha know.”

He apologizes for not bringing the chairs. His boys had been rough on them, and anyway, he adds, they were not the originals. Evelyn told him that when the table was in her childhood home, her father had made benches for it.

Joann looks pale and makes no comment.





CHAPTER TEN



THE TABLE





Saffee and April follow Samuel and their dad to the truck where they watch the unloading of the heavy, disassembled relic. In addition to two large squares for the table’s top and four sturdy legs, there are three good-sized leaves and several lengths of apron with a wide pattern of carved vines on each length. Although the finish has been rubbed away, the color of the old scarred wood is still warm, neither light nor dark. Samuel, puffing from the lifting, says he reckons the wood is birch.