What to do, now that the journey was over?
There was no possibility that Anette would go to college, that was the one thing for sure. But what else could she do? Raina didn’t want this responsibility, but there was no one else Anette could turn to.
Anette had kept in touch with Mr. Woodson over the years, and the Johnsons, of course, still welcomed Anette in their home during school holidays. They had Anette’s welfare in mind, but they didn’t know her as Raina did—they had never met the Anette from before. Raina was the only one who understood how ill at ease Anette was in the city, how withdrawn she sometimes was. How, when she entered a room, she always seemed to be holding her breath, looking for something. Or someone.
The only time Raina saw Anette truly happy was when she brought her out to the farm to visit Mama and Papa. There on the prairie, her hair streaming down her back, the shy, awkward city mouse became a country hawk, flying over the earth, miraculously never breaking an ankle in gopher holes or stepping in cow patties. Raina, as much as she would always feel at home on the farm, found herself, with each passing year, less at ease in the country, less used to the different rhythms, the obstacles—like those cursed cow patties!—she’d never known as obstacles when she was a child. She could navigate her way easily across a crowded city street, deftly stepping over manure left by horse-drawn carriages. But on the farm, visiting, she’d once stepped into a pail of milk, which made Papa laugh until tears streamed down his face.
City girl, he’d called her with affection—and regret.
The homestead was looking good; they’d added another barn, there were more milk cows, more chickens, an entire coop of them, neat little rows of laying hens. With the money from the Heroine Fund, she had been able to hire two hands to help with the work, now that Papa was starting to show his age. No longer could he tie a fence without suffering from it the next day, barely able to flex his fingers in his arthritic hands. He had a difficult time ceding work to anyone, but Mama, with her gentler, coaxing ways, was able to get him to once in a while.
Mama, too, was showing stiffness in her hands and snow in her hair. Sadness in her eyes, when she didn’t think Raina was looking. Sadness over the empty chair, empty room. Sadness over Gerda.
Raina shook her head and concentrated on the problem at hand, on how she was going to broach the subject with Anette about her future. She supposed the girl could stay in Omaha with the Johnsons; that seemed a possibility. With a high school education she could surely work in a post office or maybe even answer telephones for a company. Maybe she could even work in a store like this one, a neat, bright little dry goods store that catered to women, particularly to university students with limited funds but unlimited appetite for fashion. It was a cheerful, pretty store with enormous feathered hats in the window, dresses on dummies, rolls and rolls of satin and silk and cotton and braided ribbons, so pretty and gay in all the colors of the rainbow. Raina glanced over at Anette, who was looking at some ribbons, and tried to picture her working in a dainty place like this.
Anette had grown tall, she had matured with a full bosom—fuller than Raina’s own—and wide hips. Despite her sophisticated dress, her fashionable bonnet and gloves—covering up the wooden hand—she looked out of place here. She was no beauty, but she had grown out of much of her ugliness. The pockmarks had faded and were less pronounced; her eyebrows weren’t so heavy, her hair had darkened to a honey brown. She had full lips and high cheekbones that enhanced her clear blue eyes. But it would have been a stretch to call her pretty according to the current fashion of delicate bones and tiny waists and pale faces. Anette’s cheeks were always stubbornly ruddy, even though it had been years since she’d worked outdoors with any regularity.
Raina stopped by the fabric counter and fingered a very pretty tartan plaid; it would do for a good winter dress. She was searching for a pattern when she heard her name spoken by a hesitant, masculine, voice.
“Miss Olsen? Raina?”
“Yes?” She turned, expecting it to be a former or current pupil of hers, for she took tutoring jobs fairly often. Despite the money still available to her from the Heroine Fund, she could not stop herself from squirreling away more for the future. It was in her thrifty blood.