The Painted Table(84)

Saffee curls up on the love seat with a cup of tea and the handwritten, translated article about her great-grandparents, Anders and Maria Kirkeborg. It is a compilation of interviews with their children and various acquaintances from their Valders Valley community. She skims the words, hoping to find a reference to Anders’s woodworking skill and maybe even a mention of her table.

She reads at length about their being a hardworking couple whose days were filled with the arduous tasks of farming and raising children. In addition, Anders and Maria “were known as ‘the hands and feet of Jesus,’ as they attended to the needy. The salvation of every soul in the valley was the passion of their lives.” Saffee is so warmed by numerous such glowing accounts, she forgets her tea.

“Anders was a master craftsman . . .” Ah, here’s what she is looking for. She reads about her great-grandfather’s ability to make his own farm implements, sleds, carriages, and . . . fine furniture. He used “neither nails nor glue, but fitted one piece into another so snugly they stuck fast. He frequently ornamented his work with traditional decorative designs. No one else in the valley carved with his skill.”

Saffee marvels. One piece of this man’s artistry stands in their garage. She reads quotes from a daughter: “Mother and Father led prayers after each evening meal. All the family feared God’s name. We and the hired help and their families gathered at the table . . .” Around the Norway table! “. . . and that was the best time of the day. Everyone was welcomed and loved. We sat crowded on long benches, parents holding children. We sang psalms, followed by Father’s Bible reading and prayer. Thus we carried on our heritage . . .” Saffee thinks about how in contrast this is to what happened later.

Other pages record that the oldest of the family’s seven children was Knute, who emigrated to America. Anders wrote in his testament that the family table, “the wedding table he had made for Maria,” would pass to Knute. “Jergen, the second son, took the table to his brother when he too went to America in 1910.”

Wedding table! The inscription that Leif translated today now makes a little more sense. Saffee pulls out the tablet paper. How does it begin? “Your wife shall be like a fruitful vine . . .” She blushes.

Smiling, she cannot sit still, but jumps up and spontaneously twirls. Originally, the atmosphere around the Norway table was one of happiness and hospitality. No longer will it suggest darkness to her, but a symbol of flourishing life.

“Jack!” Waving the pages, she hurries to his study. “The table, our table, it was made as a gift of love, a wedding gift!” She holds the pages against her chest, grinning. “This article, along with all my work, of course, has lifted all the heaviness I’ve experienced over it.”

He gives her a loving hug and his pleased look says, “Didn’t I tell you?”

The next day, as she heads to the garage, Saffee catches her smiling reflection in the hall mirror. Funny thing, smiles. They seem to be standard adornment on some faces—lately they often appear on hers too. She lifts the garage door and pulls on yet another new pair of rubber gloves. She thinks about the portrait of her great-grandparents on the front page of the biography.

The text revealed that there was a special joy in Anders and Maria Kirkeborg’s Norwegian home. Their sober faces probably reflected the hard times they lived in, when smiles indicated foolishness. But nowadays, smiles are commonplace. She is filled with gratitude that her new way of seeing things, thinking about things, is not only an internal exercise, but shows on her face. Also, she is grateful for Jack. Sometimes so much so that her smile muscles ache.

She looks out at the birches across the street. All summer she has fancied them to be kin to her table. Their limbs, changing into yellow garb, sway in the light wind, sweeping wispy clouds from the morning sky.

Today she will coax away another layer of paint.





CHAPTER FIFTY



THE STROKE





Machines gurgle, beep, and whirr. Tubes regulate fluids.

Saffee watches Nels gently massage her mother’s motionless arm. Nels called her four days ago from the hospital, the day Joann had a stroke. She could tell by his voice that he wanted her to come. Needed her with him. She felt guilty that she hadn’t seen either of them since the wedding. She hurried to the hospital, through a cold October rain, filled with anxiety, hating that she was nervous to see her mother—in any condition.

The doctor called the stroke massive. It remained to be seen, he said, if she will ever speak again, or move.

Today, as she lies there, Joann looks much older than fifty. Her hair, once strikingly dark, is ribboned with gray. Her face is sallow, her eyes closed. Does she hear them? A place in Saffee’s heart, long fiercely guarded, is broken into unexpectedly. “I’m so sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.” The words come forth with sobs. Nels puts his arms around her. She tells him she’ll be back the next day.