Hildemara wished she had been born with Elizabeth Kenney’s long red curls and green eyes. Maybe then Mama would be proud of her. Maybe then Mama would speak to her in that loving voice she used with Rikka; look at her with that soft, doting smile. Instead, Mama often looked at her with a frown. She would let out her breath with impatience. She would wave her hand at Hildemara and say, “Go play somewhere else, Hildemara.” She would say, “Don’t be hanging on to my apron strings all the time!” Mama never said, “Look how sweet Hildemara Rose is… look how pretty and sweet…”
Maybe Mama didn’t like looking at her straight, mousy brown hair and hazel eyes, though Mama had the same. Sometimes, Hildemara wished Mama would hide her disappointment and make excuses for her the way she did the others. Maybe Mama regretted having wasted the name Rose on her. She wasn’t poised, pretty, or popular the way she imagined Mama’s friend Rosie Gilgan had been. She didn’t have Papa’s fine singing voice or Mama’s intellect. She made a “joyful noise to the Lord,” Papa said, and she had to study hard and long to get things into her head.
Whenever Hildie stayed inside the tent-house and offered to help, Mama became impatient. “If I need help, I’ll ask for it. Now go on out there! Find something to do! There’s a whole world outside the door. Stop hiding in here.”
She wasn’t hiding. “I want to help, Mama.”
“It’s no help having you underfoot all day! Go! Fly, Hildemara. For heaven’s sake, fly!”
Hildemara didn’t know what she meant. She wasn’t a bird. What had she done wrong? Maybe Mama never loved her. If Mama loved plump, pink-white babies, then having a scrawny, sickly one would have been a great disappointment. Hildemara tried to gain weight, but no matter how much she ate, she still had skinny legs and bony knees and collarbones that protruded. Clotilde, on the other hand, grew plump and pink and added inches. “Clotilde’s going to be taller than Hildemara in another year,” Papa said one evening, and Hildie felt even worse.
Sometimes Hildie felt her mother looking at her. When she looked back, Mama would get that troubled expression again. Hildemara wanted to ask what she’d done wrong, what she could do to make Mama smile and laugh the way she did every day with baby Rikka. Sometimes when Mama did smile at her, it didn’t seem to come from pride or pleasure, but sadness, as if Hildemara just couldn’t help disappointing her.
Like today.
“Why are you so quiet, Hildemara?”
She looked at Mama nursing the baby. Had her mother ever held her that tenderly? “I was just thinking about school. When does it start?”
“Not until mid-September. So you can stop worrying. You’ve got a little more time to play and enjoy your summer.”
Hildemara started praying for Mrs. Ransom. She taught kindergarten and first grade, so Hildie had only one more year to suffer before she moved up.
At the end of the harvest, Papa collected his share of the crop money. It wasn’t as much as he had hoped, but some other farmers fared worse. Some others fared better, too, Mama said. She’d been to town. She’d talked to people. Papa told her Mrs. Miller said there were extenuating circumstances. Grim-faced, Mama sent the children to bed early. Bernie and Clotilde, having played all day, went to sleep right away, but Hildemara lay awake, troubled and listening.
Papa sighed. “We’ll do better next year.”
“Not here, we won’t. Mrs. Miller told me this morning she expects me to cook and clean for her. Just to make things even, she said. She thinks I should be thankful for the place she’s given us.” Mama gave a hard laugh. “She can do her own cooking and cleaning. Or hire someone else to do it.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“When you do, tell her to find someone else to sharecrop her place. They should know they won’t get a share of anything.”
“We’ve got no place else to go.”
“We’ll start asking around. Look what you’ve done with this place, Niclas. And think how much you learned!”
“I didn’t earn any money.”
“Because Mrs. Miller isn’t any different than Robert Madson. You’re a hard worker, Niclas. I’ve watched how you manage a work crew. The men respect you. You listen to people. You take advice, from men, at least. And with all your engineer training, you’ve been able to fix Mrs. Miller’s farm equipment and get that well pump going. We’ll find a place of our own.”
“And how do I pay for it?”
“We pay for it with the money I made from the sale of the boardinghouse.”
Papa didn’t speak.
“Don’t look at me like that. I told you why I wasn’t willing to give it to you sooner. Madson took advantage of you. So has Mrs. Miller.” She gave a soft laugh. “Well, I’ve decided if anyone is going to take advantage of my husband, it’s going to be me.”
Hildemara lay in the dark, watching and listening, holding her breath until Papa spoke quietly.
“I could lose everything you saved.”
“Not if you listen to me. I’ve talked to a lot of people around town. I’ve spent time at the library. I’ve read the back newspapers. I had to be sure this is where we belong. God may talk to you, Niclas, but He hasn’t said anything to me. If I had my choice, you’d be an engineer again. We’d be living in Sacramento or San Francisco. I’d own a hotel with a restaurant! But you hated working for the railroad. If you went back to it, you’d eventually hate me, too.”
“Never.”
“My father took his misery out on everyone around him.”
“Maybe it’s just a dream.”
Mama’s voice softened. “I’ve had bigger dreams than you. And I haven’t given up on them yet. Why should you?” Her voice grew firmer. “But you’d better decide what you want right now. I can start packing tonight. We can go back to Sacramento. You can work for the railroad.”
Bernie stirred. “Are they fighting again?”
“Shhhh…” Hildemara chewed her fingernails.
“I’m not going back to work for the railroad, Marta. Not now. Not ever.”
“All right. Then while you finish out the contract here, we start looking around for land with a house. By this time next year, we can start working for ourselves.” When Papa didn’t answer, Mama raised her voice. “Can we do any worse than we are right now, living here? How many times have the children been sick during the cold months? And in the summer, we bake like bread in an oven. No matter how much I sweep, I can’t keep the place clean! And the flies! I’m lucky I didn’t die of infection when Rikka came.”
Papa walked away into the night.
Mama let out her breath harshly and sat in the green-willow chair Papa had made for her. Hands folded in her lap, she waited. Hildemara fell asleep and awakened to hear them talking again, more quietly this time.
“We’ll do as you suggest, Marta. I pray to God you won’t hate me if I lose all your money.”
“We won’t lose it. We’ll stand together and fight for it. We’ll do whatever we have to do to make a go of it.” She gave a faint laugh. “Think of it, Niclas. With a permanent address, I’ll be able to get a library card.”
Papa pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He dug his fingers into her hair and held her head back as he looked down at her. “Don’t let that fire go out, Marta. The world would be too cold for me to bear.” Leaning down, he said something in a low, husky voice. When he stepped away, he held out his hand. Mama hesitated, turning her head slightly as though listening for Rikka. Then she slipped her hand into Papa’s, and they headed out into the night.