Years by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

basin Theodore soaped his hands and face, rinsed, and turned around with the towel in his hands to find his sonstanding like a fencepost, gawking at the little missy who looked about thirteen years old again this morning. She even stood like a girl, her prim little shoes planted side by side. Her hair wasn’t bad though, all hoisted up into a clever female puff that made her neck look long and graceful.
    Theodore put a tight clamp on the thought and said, “The basin’s yours, Kristian,” then turned his back on the teacher again.
    “Good morning, Theodore,” she said, somehow managing to make him feel like a fool for not having said it first. He turned back to her.
    “‘Morning. I see you’re ready in time.”
    “Most certainly. Punctuality is the politeness of kings,” she offered, and turned toward the table.
    Punk-what? he thought, feeling ignorant and rightfully put in his place as he watched her take her chair.
    “Didn’t John help you this morning?” she asked, forcing him to talk to her when he didn’t want to. He plunked himself down with a surly expression on his face, at the same chair he’d taken last night.
    “John’s got his own livestock to tend to. Kristian and me milk our cows, he milks his.”
    “I thought he ate all his meals here.”
    “He’ll be along in a minute.”
    Nissa brought a platter of fresh bacon, another of toast, and five bowls containing something that looked like hot school paste. While Theodore said the prayer — again in Norwegian — Linnea stared down into her bowl and wondered what it was. It had no smell, no color, and no attraction. But when the prayer ended, she watched the others to see what she was supposed to do with the glutinous mess. They slathered theirs with pure cream and sugar, then decorated it with butter, so she followed suit and cautiously took a taste.
    It was delicious! It tasted like vanilla pudding.
    John came in shortly after the meal had begun. Though they all exchanged good mornings, Linnea’s was the only one that included a pause in her eating and the addition of a smile. He blushed immediately and fumbled to his chair without risking another glance at her.
    Like last night, the meal was accompanied by serious smacking and no conversation. Testing her theory, Linnea said, loudand clear, “This is very good.”
    Everybody tensed and stopped with their spoons halfway to their mouths. Nobody muttered a word. When their jaws started working again, she asked the table at large, “What is it?”
    They all looked at her as if she were a dolt. Theodore chortled and took another mouthful.
    “What do you mean, what is it?” Nissa retorted. “It’s romograut.”
    Linnea tipped her head to one side and peered at Nissa. “It’s what?”
    This time Theodore answered. “Romograut.” He gestured toward her bowl with his spoon. “Don’t you know what romograut is?”
    “If I did, would I have asked?”
    “No Norwegian has to ask what romograut is.”
    “Well, I’m asking. And I’m only half Norwegian — my father’s half. Since my mother was the cook, we ate a lot of Swedish foods.”
    “Swedish!” three people denounced at once. If there was a Norwegian born who didn’t think himself one step better than any Swede on earth, he wasn’t in this room.
    “It’s flour cereal,” Linnea was informed.
    They were in a hurry to get on with the day’s work, so she was spared the burping session at the end of the meal. As soon as the bowls and platter were empty, Theodore pushed his chair back and announced peremptorily, “I’ll take you to school now. Get your bird wings if you need ‘em.”
    Her temper went up like a March kite. What was it about the man that gave him such pleasure in persecuting her? Happily, this time she had an answer she was more than elated to give.
    “You won’t have to bother. I’ve asked Kristian to take me.”
    Theodore’s eyebrows lifted speculatively and his glance shifted between the two. “Kristian,