The Painted Table(17)

“’At’s not a tabo,” says April, regarding the various pieces of wood piled on the ground.

“When it’s all put together it is,” Saffee informs her. April squats to get a closer look.

Nels admires one of the legs. “I think maybe this here is called dovetail joinery?”

Samuel agrees, saying that the design allowed the table’s dis-assembly, which made it possible to transport it to America from Norway. He adds that, according to Evelyn, one of her father’s brothers brought it from the family homestead to North Dakota for Knute and his family.

“That was quite a trip in those days,” Nels says.

Joann has followed them outside and stands expressionless several yards away. “It was Uncle Jergen,” she says in a flat voice. The men turn to look at her. “He brought it to our pa, the oldest son. But he didn’t want it. And I don’t want it either. Our brother Rolf should have it,” she says.

Samuel runs sizable fingers through his thinning hair and repeats Evelyn’s wishes on the matter. “She had her reasons. Somethin’ ’bout it bein’ special to you, Joann. You playin’ under it or somthin’. All I know, she said it should be yers. The brothers, they ain’t married, ya know. It’s a piece fer a family.”

Joann returns to the house without responding.

Saffee joins April’s inspection. She runs her fingers over the tooled vines, tracing the intricate pattern, then turns over an apron piece and studies some lettering on the back. She strains to lift up a length of wood for Nels to examine, asking him to explain what the numbers and words mean.

“Thought you learned how to read, Saffee,” he teases. Nels gives the wood a close look and reads a date, “1865. Guess that’s when somebody made it. Here, Samuel, can you read it? The words are in Norwegian.” Samuel props his glasses atop a large bald place on his head and squints at the lettering.

“Always heard it was Ev’lyn’s grandpa who done made it, don’t know for sure,” says Samuel. “Yup. Here it says, ‘Anders Kirkeborg’—that’s Knute’s father all right—‘and Maria Kirkeborg.’” Samuel tilts the wood to catch more light. A twitch of head and shoulders shows discomfort. “Den I think it says somthin’ like, ‘God . . . is . . . glor-ious,’ or some such.” It isn’t usual for a Minnesota man to speak of God or His attributes, no matter what his personal convictions might be.

The big man suddenly slaps his thigh. “Uff-da! Almost forgot the box.” From the truck bed he pulls a wooden box somewhat less than eighteen inches long, tied with sturdy twine. Its top fits snugly between grooves. He extends it toward Nels. “Here’s some of her ol’ family stuff we had makin’ clutter. Found it in Ev’lyn’s”—he swallows with difficulty—“closet. Not much in it, just ol’ records, baptizim and marriage ’tificates, that kinda thing. Maybe you ’n’ Joann won’t mind takin’ it off my hands?”

“You betcha,” Nels says. “I’ll just put it with all the other boxes we’ve got there on the porch ’n’ let the movers take care of it tomorrow.”

After Samuel instructs Nels how to fit the table parts together for reassembly, the two men make trips into the house, placing the wood on the living room carpeting.

Joann is upstairs.

“My Ev’lyn . . .” Samuel chokes and looks embarrassed for it. “She told me there was somthin’ special ’bout this table. Guess lot a life went on ’round it when she was a girl. Then our three put their feet under it fer a good while. Well . . . it’s yerz now. Thanks for takin’ it off my hands.”

“We’ll take good care of it,” Nels promises. With solemnity, they thump each other on the back.




That evening Joann stands in the living room among the packing boxes. A strange, magnetic pull that she had all but forgotten draws her to the piled pieces of birch wood. Her eyes are fixed on the past . . .

Under the table, young Joann silently presses fists against streaming eyes, taking in great gulps of air, until she can breathe normally again. She wonders why the older siblings no longer cry. Don’t they care their mother is gone forever? Where did they put their pain? “Come on out, and don’t act like a baby, Joann,” Maxine scoffs. “You’re too old for that.” From the floor-level view, she watches Evelyn’s worn brown shoes traverse the room, ministering to the needs of the younger ones . . .

Part of Joann still longs for a place of safety. As a child, under the table she found an inconsistent safety that alternated with fearful discovery. She claps her fists together. How can a piece of furniture be so bewitching?