The Painted Table(76)

She has never spoken to this student, other than to answer his brief questions, but by his name, and more so his accent, she is fairly certain he is Norwegian.

“Mr. Bergstrom?” she says as he reaches the desk. “I was wondering, I mean, are you, I mean, do you ever . . .” She takes a deep breath and begins again. “I have something I need translated. You are Norwegian, aren’t you?”

Leif Bergstrom looks a little surprised and says, “Yah. I am from Norvay.”

Saffee removes the folder from the bag and hands it to him across the desk. “Is it possible that you, or do you know someone, who could translate this for me? It’s six pages. I think it’s a biography of my great-grandparents, and I’d love to know more about them.”

The student looks at the article and politely tells her that he is way too busy to help. He’s preparing his dissertation for his PhD, he says, but perhaps his wife, Ingrid, would be interested. How much would she pay?

They agree on twenty-five dollars and he looks pleased. Leif Bergstrom leaves the library with the old folder tucked into his Scandinavian-looking knapsack. She had not had the presence of mind to get his phone number.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR



NEWLY WED





Saffee returns home from the library in the early afternoon. She finds Jack studying baseball stats, his lanky body draped over the end of the love seat. She drops her purse, leans over, and pecks him on the forehead.

“Hi,” she says, tousling his thick brown curls.

“Hi, sweetie.” His eyes only momentarily leave the sports page.

She’s eager to tell him about perhaps finding a translator for the biography, but he looks preoccupied. “I’m starved,” she says. “Have you had lunch?” Three steps take her into their tiny kitchen, and from the clutter she knows the answer. Her hands go to her hips.

“You wouldn’t make a very good Indian,” she says under her breath.

“Mmm?”

“Jack, do you know you leave a trail anyone could follow?” Her head does an upward twitch.

“Yeah, it was an amazing graze,” he quips, without looking up.

Mess had never been tolerated in Saffee’s upbringing and was certainly no joking matter. Its appearance catches her off guard. “I bet I can tell you everything you’ve done while I was gone.”

Not inquiring if he wants to hear, she begins a litany. “For starters, you ate some of the leftover meatloaf.” She claps down the cap on the ketchup bottle, shrouds the remaining inches of meat with plastic wrap, and spirits them both into the refrigerator, shutting the door with enough vigor to rattle the jars inside.

“Aha! It was a meatloaf sandwich,” she says, shoving slices of bread back into their bag. Gathering momentum, Saffee addresses the saltshaker as she thrusts it into the cupboard. “Just in case the pepper misses you,” she says with animation.

Clunk. She throws a Pepsi can into the wastebasket. Hard. Soft drinks were only allowed for the most special of occasions in her home. She probably had only three or four in her entire childhood. And those certainly did not contain caffeine. Saffee darts a glance at oblivious Jack, who must be focused on something of great importance. Is he even listening?

“You sat here at the table,” she continues, a little louder, jerking one of the stainless steel chairs into place and snatching up a hand towel that dangles from its red plastic seat.

She picks up a postcard from the table. It’s from April, the first one in months.

Hey, you two Love Birds! I called Daddy and he told me you got married. Congratulations! So sorry I couldn’t be there. Hope you understand I’m pretty busy looking for my own Romeo—I sure dig these Italians!

Love and Kiss, Kiss!

April


Saffee’s eyes do a big-sister roll. She drops the card and continues her mission.

“Ah! A crossword puzzle while you ate,” she chortles, picking up the completed work, a ballpoint pen, and a smeary plate.

“I am impressed you do crosswords with a pen,” she huffs. “I’ll give you credit for that.” She carries the plate to the sink where a bar of soap has slid off the counter, leaving a sudsy path before plopping into a puddle of water.

“Jack washed his hands. Give him another point. Only three cupboard doors open?” Slam. Slam. Slam.

With this, Jack turns his head and gives her a long, quizzical look.

She waits, daring him to respond.

Finally, he says, matter-of-factly, “I live here,” and returns to his reading.

Saffee is muzzled. She pours herself a glass of milk, picks up a box of graham crackers, and goes out the back door. She sits on the top step to munch and mull. This isn’t the first time she’s been huffy about Jack’s disregard for keeping their small house tidy. Weren’t husbands, as well as wives, responsible to keep things neat?