When I awakened the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky. I woke up coughing, and it took me a few minutes to regain my bearings and realize what had happened. One glimpse of my garments lying in a heap on the floor, and it all came back to me.
The panic-stricken fear was gone. Julie had informed me also that wolves do not prowl around in broad daylight. I pushed back the quilt and moved my feet to leave my bed; stiffness and pain stopped me. I was instantly reminded of my bruised knees and realized that I should have properly cared for them before retiring. I slowly sat up and pulled up my petticoat to examine my wounds. The scratches were red and swollen but none appeared to be deep. A few days of healing would be all that was needed. I turned over my hands and looked at them, and found the same to be true. But I was shocked at their filthiness. Dirt-streaked and soot-smudged, I shuddered to think that I had actually gone to bed in such condition.
Crawling slowly and painfully out of bed, I limped around to open all of my windows in an effort to clear out the stubbornly clinging smoke. Then I washed myself as thoroughly as I could in cold water and dried myself on the cleanest portion of my soiled dress.
My scratches stung as I soaked the dirt out of them with the bar of soap and patted them dry. I wished that I had been sensible enough to bring some kind of ointment with me. Having none, I decided to try a small amount of cream from that jar that had been provided for my table. It did soothe the cuts some. I dressed rather stiffly and did the best I could with my hair. It was badly in need of a good washing after my dusty trip in the Ainsworths’ automobile and the smoke of the previous night.
I had barely put things in order, built my fire and put on the coffeepot when there came a knock on my door. I had just prepared myself for a trip to the woodshed to replenish my wood supply. I had burned almost all of it from the big wooden box by my kitchen stove in my efforts to keep the wolves from my door. My, it must take a lot of wood to get the folks around here through the winter—with the wolves and the constant blizzards and all, I was thinking when the knock came.
I opened the door, and there stood a young boy whom I judged to be eight or nine. He was dressed in patched denim trousers and a freshly pressed cotton shirt. His blond hair was rather unruly, but his freckled face shone from its early morning washing.
“Hello,” he said, a shy grin trying to get past his wary eyes.
“Hello,” I answered, so glad to see him that I could have hugged him. He must have read the pleasure in my face, for his grin broke forth.
“Come in,” I welcomed him with a smile of my own. “I’m Miss Thatcher.”
He stepped forward awkwardly, timidly looked around for a moment, and then decided that he’d better get down to business.
“Ma sent me over to see if I could help ya none.” His words were thick with a Scandinavian accent.
Some, my teacher’s mind corrected, but I let it pass.
“That’s very kind,” I said.
“I can carry yer vood an’ vater an’ t’ings,” the boy continued. Then he stopped and sniffed. “Smoky,” he stated simply. “Havin’ trouble vid yer fire?”
“It’ll clear soon,” I assured him, not wanting to blame the dependable old stove, but not knowing just how to bring up the matter of the wolves, either.
The aroma of the coffee made my stomach gurgle.
“Before you start on the wood and water, would you like to join me for breakfast?”
“T’ank ya, but I already haf my breakfast.”
“Then make this a lunch,” I suggested, and the boy laughed.
“Just sit down,” I pointed toward the pale green chairs. “Take your pick.”
He stepped to the nearest one and sat down. I spread four slices of bread with butter and strawberry preserves, poured milk for him and coffee for me, and joined him at the table. I bowed my head and said a short grace; his eyes showed no surprise. The bread and jam were delicious, and he seemed to enjoy them as much as I did.
“Yer lamp is still burnin’,” he said suddenly. In the light of day I had failed to notice it. The wick had burned down so that only a tiny flame showed. I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment, but without further comment the boy leaned over and blew out the struggling flame.
I wondered just how to start our conversation so that we might get to know one another. But he took care of that problem.
“I live on da farm yust over dere,” he began, pointing a finger toward the northeast. “Vasn’t fer da trees, you could see our house an’ barn real plain.”
This was good news. I had no idea that I had neighbors so near.
“Will you be one of my new pupils?”
“Ya mean, vill I go to school?”
“That’s right.”
“Me an’ my sisters, Else an’ Olga, an’ my broder, Peter.”
“That’s nice,” I said and really meant it. “And what is your name?”
“Lars—Lars Peterson. I vas named after my grandfader.”
I could tell by the way he said it that he was proud of the fact.
“And your father’s name?”
“Henry Peterson. An’ Ma is Anna.”
“And what class will you be in, Lars?”
“Don’t know yet. Never been to school, but Pa has tried to teach us some letters an’ some vords. Ma doesn’t know da English vords too good yet. Pa studied a little bit in English ven he first came over. Ma came six mont’s later vid us young-uns, an’ she didn’t haf time to study. But she knows numbers real good. Numbers ain’t much different in any country, I guess.”
I nodded and smiled, but I was thinking about the shame of a child nearing ten without ever having been in a classroom.
“I vas pretty little yet ven ve came from da old country.” Lars continued. “Olga vas not t’ree yet and da tvins yust babies.”
“How old are they now?”
“Olga is seven and a half, an’ Else an’ Peter are yust turned six.”
“And you?”
“I’m nine.”
He wiped the last crumbs from his cheeks and arose from the chair.
“I best be carryin’ dat vood,” he said, “yer almost out.” I was relieved that he made no comment on the extraordinary amount I had used. “T’ank ya fer da good break—lunch,” he finished with a grin. “I’ll git ya some fresh vater first.”
I moved to get him my water pail, pouring what still remained into the reservoir on the stove.
“Lars,” I said slowly. I had to know, yet hardly knew how to ask, “What do people around here do about the wolves?”
“Volves?” He looked surprised and confused. Then he answered confidently, “Ve don’t got no volves.”
“But last night I heard them. And if your farm is so near, you should have heard them, too.”
“Oh, dem. Dem’s coyotes.”
“Coyotes?”
“Yah, yust silly ole coyotes. Pa says dat coyotes are yella-livered. Scared of der own shadows, dey are. Von’t even take on anyt’ing bigger dan a hen or a mouse.”
“But they sounded—”
“Don’t dey make a racket!” His eyes sparkled. “I like to listen to ’em. Dey sound so close-like, an’ dey all howl togeder an—”
“Yes, they do sound close,” I put in, shivering at my recollection. “And they never attack people?”
“Naw, not coyotes. Dey’re scared silly of everyt’ing—especially people. Dey run vid der tails ’tveen der legs. I tried to sneak up on ’em a coupla times to get a good look at ’em, but soon as you git a little close, dey turn tail an’ run off, slinkin’ avay as fast as dey can go.”
I felt relieved and embarrassed as I thought of my terror during the night I had just endured. Coyotes—harmless, noisy coyotes! Humiliation flushed my cheeks.
Lars suddenly turned to me, the empty water pail still in his hand.
“Miss T’atcher, ya know vat? Ven I vas little, I vas scared of’em. I used to lay in bed vid my head under da covers, sveatin’ and cryin’.” He blushed slightly. “Den my pa told me ’bout dem bein’ sissies. Dey’d be more scared dan me if ve met up sudden. Pa says he’s gonna git a coupla good dogs, yust to keep da coyotes avay from da chickens—chickens be ’bout da only t’ings dat need fear coyotes.” He turned to go, then turned back. “Ya von’t tell, vill ya—dat I used to be scared of silly coyotes?”
“No, I won’t tell, No one will know—you can be sure,” I promised him. He left the room with relief showing in his eyes.
I won’t tell, I said to myself, about hiding under the covers, or fear, or fires, or burning lamps—anything. I’ll never tell.