The Painted Table(3)

Nels couldn’t dance well if his life depended on it, and his grammar is atrocious. She can understand the reason for his grammar, he having been raised in a Norwegian-speaking home, but she cannot excuse it. Joann, like all of Clara’s daughters, speaks good English, without the accent Knute passed on to his boys.

When Joann was obligated to exchange school for the dirty linens of fishermen, a sympathetic teacher occasionally brought her books of poetry. From then on, Joann steeped herself in rhyme. So it is not unusual that as she looks at the wedding photo she says, “Oh, Nels, ‘How do I love you? Let me count the ways.’”

She’s loved Nels from the beginning for his unreserved devotion to her, his sunny disposition, and his talk of getting ahead in life in spite of humble beginnings and lack of education. He was a good man, so there seemed no reason to delay marriage. She insisted on moving up the wedding date, unable to bear the thought that he might slip away. If only she had known . . . Thank goodness, since those first regrettable days Nels has continuously showered her with the affection she had hoped for, and twelve months into the marriage, their baby was born.

Saffee whimpers and looks for something else to gum. Spying the cotton teddy bear Joann made for her, she toddles across the room.

At the desk, another romantic melody scatters its stardust while Joann studies a second photograph. It is a portrait of Nels, displaying his engaging smile and prominent teeth. She had insisted he have the picture taken last summer to capture what he really looks like. With a sigh, she puts the wedding photo into a drawer. She’s tired of seeing that veil askew.

She hears Nels on the stairway. Smoothing her carefully curled hair, she hurries to the door, eager for him to embrace her tightly, as he always does. She is surprised when his hug is perfunctory. He tosses his white cap and sinks into the secondhand sofa, ignoring his daughter’s uplifted arms.

“It came,” he says simply, waving an envelope in her direction.

“Oh, Nels.” She switches off the radio and rushes to sit beside him.

“It says report for duty at Fort Snelling. Monday.”

“Monday! So soon?”

Joann opens the letter addressed to Nelson Kvaale. She reads one word: “Greetings,” and looks at him pleadingly.

“I was hoping . . . I was hoping you’d be deferred awhile longer . . . because . . . because of the baby . . . I don’t want you to go, Nels.”

“You know I hafta go, Joann . . . it’s the right thing to do. But I’ve decided something.”

He tells her that the draft board at Fort Snelling is only taking men for the army now. He’s decided he wants navy and he will tell that to the board. Too many American boys are dying in foxholes over in Europe, he says. He’ll take his chances in the Pacific.

The baby plops onto the floor at his feet and tugs at his shoelaces. He reaches down. “Come up here, Sapphire, up to Daddy.” He lifts her onto his lap and she snuggles against him, wiping a wet chin on his shirt. Nels puts his lean, sinewy arms around his little family and holds them close. Joann begins to weep.

“Now, Muzzy.” For some reason he’d given her this nickname after Saffee was born.

“Don’t cry. It won’t do no good.” She is numb.

Saffee squirms, wiggles off Nels’s lap, and slides down to the floor. Noticing her, and seeking diversion from news she cannot yet absorb, Joann bemoans her recent frustrations with the fussy baby, especially when the coal delivery frightened her.

Nels interrupts. “The coal came?” Not expecting it this early, he had pushed the bin away from the chute when he swept the basement. The floor must be covered with coal. Tomorrow he’ll need to rise early and shovel it up before the building owner discovers it. He sighs.

“It’s a few minutes to news time,” he says. She gets up and switches on the radio again. Ever since the war started he’s never missed the five o’clock broadcast.

“That’s Glenn Miller,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “Makes me think of the night we met.” She sits down at his side, puts her head on his shoulder as they listen and remember.

“New Year’s Eve, the Friendship Club,” he says, stroking her arm. “As soon as I saw you, you were mine. Even if those other fellas were thick as flies ’round you. You sure had a way of attractin’ ’em. But I knew you’d end up with me.”

Holding his hand, Joann feels a rush of gratitude that he completely forgave her for causing suspicion in those early days. Now she is sorry she brought up the past at all. He continues the reminiscence, telling her she had looked pretty good in “that there” red sweater.