7

Triplicity

ASTA HEDSTROM

When Erlend returned to Herr Doktor Engen’s and informed us he’d purchased Alderman Adamsen’s seter, I cursed myself and whatever haze had dulled my brain earlier that afternoon.

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked aloud. How could I be so cowardly? Why hadn’t I told Gunnar and Erlend about the situation with the Fuglestads’ farm weeks ago?

Erlend thought I was referring to how I couldn’t stop myself from drinking glass after glass of Engen’s water and how I hadn’t the strength to sit upright for more than a matter of minutes before spots of color blotted my vision.

“Nils was yelling at you, wasn’t he?” Erlend’s voice had gone quiet for no good reason since Nils left with his parents hours ago. “When we came upon you beneath the portico. He looked enraged.”

“Oh, I’m accustomed to being yelled at.” Not by Nils, but that was beside the point. “What I meant was—”

I paused. Erlend’s liquid brown eyes were studying me with such excruciating sympathy, it made my throat swell shut. Now I remembered the way Nils had been hollering at me—calling me filthy and so many other names. I found myself shivering again, not over the memory of the shouting or even the accusations, but over the fact that Nils still assumed I’d continue with our marriage and that, even after everything, a voice in my brain still scolded me for failing to appease him.

Erlend touched my forearm and I choked a bit, coughing, then eventually clearing my lungs.

“You’ll be all right now,” Erlend said.

Part of me sighed with relief over Erlend acknowledging how difficult life had been for me, but another part didn’t want anyone’s pity. “All that matters right now is Gunnar.”

Getting up, I collected Gunnar’s coat and sweater, folding them and trying to only focus on what needed to be done next. If I allowed myself to think too much about it, I’d have to face how very vulnerable I remained. Yes, Erlend had pledged to take care of me, but like any young man, he could change his mind and then what would happen?

The sun had already set and Engen carried the kerosene lamp into the dining room. The man probably wanted to enjoy his supper in peace and now we needed to figure out a way to deliver Gunnar comfortably to this new home via Erlend’s new pony and cariole.

New pony and cariole.

Hell, Erlend. How much did you spend?

A knocking shook the door. With a sigh, the doctor hurried back across the parlor to answer it.

Mama.

There on the porch, her eyes were pinched, her ears red—likely from all the things that had been said that afternoon about me, my friends, and my betrothed. Former betrothed.

She remained just outside the doorframe. “Come at once, Asta.”

Gunnar’s fingers hooked around my wrist. I glanced down to where he lay, now on his side, the sack of melting snow belted to his back making tea-colored lines around his waist. We were in a different world now—a world where our allegiance was to each other and not our families.

Mama stomped forward. “Asta, now!”

Gunnar’s narcotized gaze met mine. At once, Erlend came to my side, his presence chasing away any remaining doubts.

“You will come.” Mama’s words were like steam in a kettle. “And we will meet with the Tennfjords and you will explain—”

“I already saw the Tennfjords.” I kept my eyes down—a proven strategy for diffusing her fury. “They were here when they retrieved Nils.”

“And what did you say to them?”

“Nothing.” I lifted my shoulders. “Because it’s off.”

After a moment of hard silence, she grabbed my arm. “You will come with me now.”

Erlend placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “She will not do anything of the sort.”

Outrage shook Mama’s voice. “Excuse me?”

I swallowed. If I were Erlend, I’d have the benefit of my masculinity. A stubborn boy could wound his family’s pride, enrage them, and, once sufficiently inflamed, his parents would be more than happy to let their son learn his own lesson.

For mothers and daughters things weren’t so simple. A wayward daughter needed to be castigated, all her wickedness defeated.

Boys learn. Girls must be taught.

But I wasn’t an only daughter. Mama had others and perhaps she could be convinced to let one of us go. Especially since that one had an atypical face and poorly-functioning ear.

“I’m not going with you, Mama.” My words were firm. I couldn’t recall a time I’d ever said something so brave.

“Asta—”

I pulled out of her grasp, fearing how much more of her fury I’d have to withstand. Erlend stepped between us.

“You’ll not put another hand on Asta,” he said.

Glorious Erlend.

“You intend to take responsibility for her?” It was just what she needed—a young man to steal me. She’d be free to say she did all she could to change her daughter’s mind, but virtuous mothering was no match for the persistent Fournier boy. “This is what you want?” she asked. “A half-deaf girl with a misshapen face, and not an ounce of responsibility in her bones?”

“Absolutely,” Erlend said.

The door slammed on Mama’s way out.

Beads of perspiration trickled in streams down my back even though I remained chilled to the bone. I’d show just how responsible I could be. Things needed to be done and I would do them.

“Erlend”—I turned his way—“the cast needs to know the theater’s been closed. I’ll do that. I’ll talk to them.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded. “You stay here with Gunnar.”

He took hold of my arm gratefully, and I drew him into a hug—the same sort of hug Gunnar and I gave each other so often. It startled him at first. Erlend didn’t have sisters, after all, but after a moment he settled into it, letting out a breath like this sort of comfort was just what he needed.

Leaving him, I tightened my bonnet, and made my way out of Herr Doktor Engen’s place and to the street. My gums stretched with dryness. My limbs trembled. This would be an ordeal, but Erlend’s actors were owed an explanation.

A dozen of them still dawdled beneath the gas lamps that evening—their pinafores rumpled, their knee pants dusty. They were all talking at once and I couldn’t catch a single word being said, so I jogged up to the top of the playhouse steps with the authority of one ready to make an announcement.

The curly-haired girl who played Ursula faced me. She had round cheeks and full lips and I used to spend many hours sketching her.

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Yes. Herr Fournier has closed the theater.”

“We heard Erlend and Gunnar were being indecent.” This came from a dark-haired stagehand who I remembered as once being either a terrible Rosencrantz or a tedious Guildenstern. “Down in the wardrobe and in the forest too.”

“So that’s what you have to do to get a better part!” Little Ursula huffed.

“Now listen here!” I said.

“You, Gunnar, and Erlend always got the good parts,” the Rosencrantz-Guildenstern whined.

“My mama said I was the best in the play,” Ursula continued—I couldn’t believe I used to be so enthralled with her—“I should have had a bigger role, she said.”

I sighed, throwing open the playhouse doors. “You all better get in there and grab what belongs to you. There’s no telling when Herr Fournier will be here to lock it up.”

As I turned on the electric lights and made my way through the stone foyer, Mama’s words rang in my ear. Half-deaf girl with a misshapen face. I was a half-deaf girl with a misshapen face whose refusal to welcome her one chance at matrimony caused her best friend to be injured—doubly injured—and whose cowardice kept her from delivering the news she was tasked with delivering. I caught my reflection in a gilded mirror. How tiny I looked inside Erlend’s thick, black overcoat.

Misshapen face.

Misshapen according to what? Yes, I had extra space between my eyes, which were smaller than most people’s. One blue iris, the other green. That and the white chunk of hair off to the side of my forehead were certainly unusual, but I liked the unusual and I liked my face. My unconventional face.

On the shelf by the mirror were a number of jars—Andersson’s Hair and Whisker Dye. I picked up one jar of brown dye, and one jar of light blonde. I could hide my white patch, I’d just need to pick a color.

But what if I didn’t hide it? What if I used both colors? Brown for my green side. Blonde for my blue.

I shoved the jars into my coat pockets. For now, I needed to gather the things Gunnar would need: winter clothes and comfortable bedding. Erlend had his diggings, and we’d make this work—the three of us, on our own. And I’d finally summon the courage to do what Fred asked of me. If there was still a way to save the Fuglestads’ farm, I intended to do it.

I needed to do it.

Following a cautious and very dark cariole ride, we finally arrived at the new home on Old Viking Road. There, I did my best to build a small fire in the ancient-looking hearth and took charge of Gunnar’s medications—these he received with a most vacuous expression—while Erlend went to work preparing our meals and bringing us bowl after bowl of stew made from tinned vegetables.

The new home. The glorious home.

Constructed of crudely squared logs and smelling faintly of deceased squirrel, it was different in every way from the high ceilings and ornamented walls of Erlend’s upbringing. Still, Erlend managed to make it very much his own—a set of table and chairs from Hedda Gabler, Ophelia’s bed, tapestries from Macbeth. After unloading his mare’s cart, he spent the remainder of October dressing his domicile in a manner slightly fancier than my own tastes—lots of red, gold, and brocade. This and that gilded arm he made for Gunnar reflected something inside him. Maybe not dignity, but the fullness of his heart refusing to stay hidden within the boundaries of his chest, demanding to show the world the depth of his devotion.

I knew I needed to speak to these boys about the situation with the Fuglestads’ taxes, but when would I do it? While showing Erlend how to use the rusty axe we’d found to chop wood? He’d gotten so frustrated with the difficulty of the whole procedure, he nearly began to cry. I wasn’t going to cause him more distress by telling him what Alderman Adamsen had done to Gunnar’s family.

During the evenings, when we were all cozy under the quilts together, I considered bringing it up before we all fell asleep, but nighttime was when Gunnar’s spasms were the most painful. It seemed cruel to add more turmoil to his discomfort.

Now it was the beginning of November and the days were getting shorter. After a great deal of effort, Erlend and I had managed to patch all the drafts around the windows and we fully mastered the process needed to keep the fire blazing in the old-fashioned hearth. We even found another stash of preserved goods and pantry items—likely leftovers from uninvited travelers who had made use of the seter while heading to St. Kristin’s Cove. Our good fortune was cause for relaxation, not for me bringing up woeful topics.

While the sun dipped below the tree line, I put away the medicine bottles, then looked over as Gunnar’s sleeping head fell to the side. A low groan escaped his lips. My guilt returned—an elephant-sized brick weighing down my chest. Day after day it continued to hit me: Gunnar was in pain, and it was my fault.

Erlend put a gentle palm on my arm and guided me to the sofa. It was familiar, with a rosewood frame and faded print on its yellow cushions. We used to lounge on it before rehearsal.

He leaned close to my ear and I wondered what he planned on telling me—that I needed to do a better job of hiding all this dreadful remorse? That my pouting wasn’t helping the situation any?

Finally, he spoke. “I think it’s because you’re a young lady . . .”

“Hm?”

“The guilt you’re carrying.” He lowered his voice. “Boys aren’t trained to burden ourselves with so much self-blame.”

My tears almost escaped, but I held them back.

“Nils’s cowardice is not your fault.”

Silence followed Erlend’s words. Guilt was only one part of my turmoil. The other part had to do with my own ignorance. While I’d grown up with ample practice at housekeeping, no one had taught me how to tell boys what they didn’t want to hear. On the contrary, I’d been scolded immensely anytime I caused an individual of male sex any amount of displeasure.

With kind eyes, Erlend awaited my response. Even if I had something wise to say, how could I speak with so much despair and confusion clogging my throat?

Autumn breeze rattled the seter’s windows. The sound of approaching hooves clopped upon the road outside.

I looked to Erlend. Was his mare loose?

A thump, thump, thump at the timber shocked my ducts completely dry. Who would know anyone lived here at this old, abandoned seter? And who would be knocking at this hour? Erlend and I stood. Together, we made for the door.

There on the porch, making the boards creak and sag, stood a man towering over nineteen hands tall, his chest wider than a heavy roadster.

Herr Fuglestad—Gunnar and Fred’s papa.

The man’s blue eyes gleamed pale and icy like Fred’s. His hair shone a little lighter—a kind of goldish-orange, coarse and tousled. The most notable part of him were his tattoos. They spiraled in intricate scrollwork and rosemaling floral patterns, covering nearly every part of him except for his face.

Since the groggery was the only place in town he frequented, I’d only previously seen Papa Fuglestad from afar before.

Now he stood sideways in the morning light, reeking of akevitt and stale sweat.

Erlend and I lifted our shoulders simultaneously. Yes, Papa Fuglestad was Gunnar’s father, but was he dangerous? For all we knew, he might’ve been the cause of Gunnar’s missing arm and Fred’s bruised face.

But the worry in his expression inspired me to let him in.

“I’m Asta,” I said. “Gunnar’s friend.”

He took my hand with a grip that felt like cold perspiration and sandpaper, then pivoted to the left. “And you must be Erlend.” Erlend stood formally with his hands at his sides. “Folks in town’ve been sayin’ a lot about you.”

Oh no.

At once, Papa Fuglestad was upon him, wrapping him up in a bear hug. “Unfortunate it took me two weeks to find out where you all disappeared to. And dreadful business with that wretched Tennfjord boy, but look at this”—he parted from Erlend, gesturing broadly at the elegant furnishings—“a nice little domicile . . .”

Did Papa Fuglestad have any inkling this property once belonged to Adamsen and the money that could’ve gone to saving his own home went into the pockets of the man who hated him? Did he understand the nature of Erlend and Gunnar’s pairing?

“You got Gunnar healed up after the first accident and you’ll get him healed up after the second.”

I glanced down at Gunnar. His mouth was a straight line, his brows heavy and filled with despair. Perhaps Papa Fuglestad had come to inform Gunnar about losing the farm. I hoped he’d mention it soon so we could get it all over with.

Gunnar’s papa pulled Erlend into another hug. “There was a little boy who had the same injury . . .” Papa Fuglestad’s words seemed directed at Erlend, but the old man’s eyes were distant and unfocused. “Gunnar’s uncle got ’im fixed up again.”

My heart pounded. “Really?”

He released Erlend. “I’ll have to write to ’im. See if he can come visit and help.”

Gunnar kept his eyes low, his mouth tight. Obviously displeased.

“If you children need anythin’, I’m . . .” Papa Fuglestad pointed. “I’m up the road, you know.”

So Gunnar’s papa wasn’t going to say anything about the farm? The old man studied his son’s silence once more. Gunnar did not meet his gaze. When Papa Fuglestad finally lumbered back out onto the porch, I realized I’d have to finally break the awful news myself—once and for all.

Erlend, however, interrupted my preparation with his excitement. “Did you hear, Fuglestad? You have an uncle who—”

“An uncle.” Gunnar interrupted, his voice like rusty nails. “My uncles are dead.”

“But your papa said—”

“My papa slurred. Didn’t you see? Drunk as a boiled owl.”

The hope seemed to drain out of Erlend like mud from a bog. “So you don’t have an uncle who can help?”

“Just the ones in the ground. Not much help they’d be. Fuglestads are a people with very short life spans.”

“Not you,” Erlend said. “You’ll live a long time.”

Gunnar shook his head, his eyes staying on Erlend. “I told you. These things happen in threes. This was the second. How much worse will the third be?”

Erlend lowered himself beside Gunnar’s shins. “There won’t be a third, Fuglestad. Everything will work out and we’re going to make a life together.”

Gunnar continued shaking his head, now rubbing his brow as though exhausted we couldn’t see the reality of the situation. “There was a reason you felt compelled to talk about Sullen Johansen that evening . . . the night before this all happened. It was a warning. An omen that none of this would be allowed to work out.”

Sullen Johansen? What did that debaucher of married ladies possibly have to do with the two kindest boys I’d ever known?

Gunnar turned my way. “I really should’ve insisted on that lead pipe. Right to the skull, so you could stop wasting anything more on my blasted pills.”

“Gunnar . . .”

“Well, how would you be if you were in my situation?”

I sighed. “You’re entitled to your darkness and your sarcasm.” That sort of thing was Gunnar’s nature, after all. “And we’ll accept any shocking morbidity you wish to heave our way.”

“Thank you,” he said, and I was grateful he didn’t ask for that lead pipe again.

Now the guilt came back—this time, the size of a steamship. Maybe Erlend was right and I wouldn’t carry all this self-blame if I’d been raised a young gentleman. But still, the thoughts remained: if I’d been a good girl and married Nils, he’d have had no reason to go after the one I truly favored.

Studying my melancholy, Erlend put his arm around me. My guilt was an ocean liner. So much time had passed already. I needed to tell them what Papa Fuglestad hadn’t.

“Let’s feed your pony,” I said, and gestured for Erlend to join me outside.