Copyright © 2006, Richard Satterlie
Published by Whiskey Creek Press LLC

Reviews For PHOENIX by Richard Satterlie

"This riveting fast-moving tale is skillfully crafted. Very rarely does a story keep me awake at night--this one accomplished this feat, as I was curious to know how it would all end. This novel definitely deserves a sequel."_Norm Goldman, Editor, Bookpleasures

Eden Prairie, Minnesota
Wednesday, June 7, 1876

Sievert was out of tomorrows, with no time left to delay his confrontation. The decision to turn away from the sure thing came easy—he sought a greater prize. But how could he justify it to his father?

His lips moved, forming words and sentences, but the sounds were directed inward. Seventeen was old enough to decide his own future. Most of the boys his age had dropped out of school as soon as they could control a team of horses. Now, they were all working their own farms, their futures set. The land provided a good living here. A sure thing.

His father couldn’t have it both ways—insist that his sons finish school and then expect them to give up the thrill of discovery to follow his path on the farm. Maybe it was good enough for his brothers, but not for him. But how could he say that to his father?

Sievert quickened his gait, and with the rush, the hitch in his left leg yanked his mind back to the sensations that rivaled his fear of the upcoming confrontation. The limp, the dulled perception in his left arm and his left side. They had driven him for all these years to prove that he could outwork his brothers. His right hand jerked upward to his temple where the rough braids of the crescent scar felt hot. His fingers slid backwards and ringed the slight depression in his skull. He had no recollection of the event that produced the injury, except that he was five years old. Only his father’s words resonated in his memories of that time, from a conversation not meant for his ears. “The boy will never be right. Never do a man’s work.”

Sievert picked up the pace and let his left leg drag the dirt with each stride. It was so easy to forget his millstone, as long as he took his time. But any ramp of activity and it shrieked like a two-year-old told no. Today, he didn’t care. He’d proved himself before. He could do it again. He’d ignore the dullness in his left side. Fortunately, it didn’t extend to his mind.

Sneaking off the college applications had been easy enough, but the incoming mail was impossible to intercept. Doing something that daring, without prior discussion, went against everything his father stood for as patriarch of this New World family.

Sievert turned up the double-rutted road that led to the farmhouse and a sense of family responsibility enveloped him. He always felt that more was expected of him than of his two older brothers, and not just because of his success in school. But why? Probably because he had been conceived in Norway and born in America, and the ether of expectation associated with everything American highlighted, even enhanced, his potential.

His mind snagged on the word. Potential. He had heard it all too often, always in some form of chastisement, or occasionally in an overheard parental boast. To him, it was a dirty word. A parent’s dream and a child’s nightmare. And it double-crossed him—his reach for the future rapidly exceeded his parents’ arm-lengths of understanding and control.

Sievert’s stride remained quick as he entered the house and clumped into the parlor, his father’s second stop after washing off the evidence of the hard work that supported the family. His timing was perfect—as he lowered himself onto the settee opposite his father’s smoking chair, he heard the door to the washroom slam, followed by the rhythmic metallic squeaking of the pump handle as it drew cold water up from the earth into the wash basin letting him know his father would soon join him.

He tensed when he heard his father’s footsteps come down the hall and make the right turn that led into the parlor. No question of which version of his father was about to enter. Not the relaxed, content version who worked the fields, and who would chuckle at a burp, or tell a joke, even a dirty one. It was the home version who demanded obedience and formality from his three sons. The one who expected manners and proper behavior from the supper bell until the rooster’s crow.

Lars Olafson paused in the doorway before walking in. His backlit frame filled the opening, temporarily squeezing the light in the room down by about a quarter.

“Ah, Sievert. How was school today? And your job? I hope Mr. Wilkins didn’t work you hard.”

Sievert arched his back upright, put both feet flat on the floor, and slid forward a little so his back came away from the cushioned fabric. “My day was fine, Father. How was yours?”

“Usual. This land is a pleasure to work. I’ve never seen such wonderful dirt. I just wish your grandfather could see it. Minnesota has to be the closest to heaven we’ll see while we’re still breathing.”

Lars dug his pipe deep into the tobacco canister and tamped the bowl with his index finger. He stopped before striking the match and lowered his eyebrows into either a stern or an inquisitive look. Sievert couldn’t tell which.

“Don’t you have chores?”

“Yes, Father, but we have to talk. It’s about my plans after I finish school.”

Lars struck the match and puffed his pipe to life as he walked to his favorite chair. Uncharacteristically, he remained standing. “I was wondering when you’d get to that. You know how I feel about college. You have all you need here.”

Sievert flinched. “How did you find out?”

“Your teacher came by last week. He says you should go to college. Your potential is very big. I tell him nothing they teach in college puts food on the tables of the people of this great country.”

Sievert was surprised to hear that Mr. Frederick had short-circuited his plan, but not as surprised as he was by his father’s calm reaction. And why was he still standing? To Sievert, his father’s actions were as predictable as the length of a day. His right hand gripped the armrest. “I think I can really be somebody if I go.”

“What do you mean, be somebody?” Lars’ baritone voice slipped up a few notes along with his volume. “Am I somebody, or no? Nothing is more honorable than working the land. Nothing more noble. You want to be somebody, you do something with your hands. No one does the world good sitting in some room thinking all day. How does that make a living?”

Sievert held his posture erect and felt a tickle between his shoulder blades. He pulled his shoulders back, but it was too late. The shirt stuck to his skin in a narrow band along the midline of his back. There was no retreat now. He needed to break a trail over uncharted territory, and the underbrush was formidable.

“I could be a teacher. Or a scientist. They’re helping agriculture by developing new fertilizers, and new varieties of wheat and corn.”

Lars finally sat down and puffed on his pipe, but it had gone out. His frown deepened. “The best way scientists can help is pull a plow through the dirt with us. This country grows so fast, we need more acres in crops. You want to make a good living? Land is cheap, and money for farming is good. Nothing you do in college keeps a family like working the land.”

Before he could respond, Sievert was distracted by a movement coming from the window to his right. Two heads peeked in, then ducked. Sievert knew his brothers were listening in, to glimpse his disappointment, to better savor the content of the conversation they were stealing.

Lars got up and walked toward the window and two sets of foot strikes hurried away from the house toward the barn.

Sievert’s words seeped through his partly clenched teeth. “I’ve worked hard in school to have the opportunity to go to college. I don’t want to let it slip away. I’m old enough to do it, with or without your approval.”

The silence that followed made him regret the last sentence, not for what he said, but for how he said it. But he didn’t let his feelings show. He kept direct eye contact with his father, who, if shocked by his words, didn’t show it.

Lars struck another match and brought it to his pipe bowl under his cupped hand. The smoke that first puffed and then billowed from the pipe gradually dissolved the tension as it feathered around Lars in slow animated swirls.

An old joke about pipe smokers invaded Sievert’s thoughts: A pipe gives an intelligent man time to think, and a stupid man something to put in his mouth. His mind snapped back to attention—his father wasn’t stupid.

“Tell me, Sievert. College costs money. How do you pay for it?” Lars sat back down and crossed his legs.

The conversation wasn’t going the way he had played it out in his mind. But he had no choice now—he had to proceed. “I’ve saved almost all the money I’ve made working for Mr. Wilkins, and I could get another bookkeeping job near the college.” He softened his tone. “I hope you will agree to help with the tuition and living expenses.”

“So, you tell me you’ll do this against my wishes and expect me to pay for it?” Lars jabbed the pipe stem toward Sievert. “That says you’re not ready to go into the world alone.” He held the pipe like he was aiming a pistol. “I forbid it.”

Sievert took a deep breath, but let it out slowly. Once his father planted his heels, debate was useless. But he didn’t come this far to acquiesce. Now, there was only one way to go. “I’m sorry, Father, but if I get accepted, I’m going, whether you like it or not. It’s something I have to do.” He braced himself for his father’s reaction.

Lars blew another cloud of soothing smoke and settled farther into the high-backed chair. Both the chair and the smoke seemed to surround him.

After one more puff of tranquility, Lars reached over to the drawer in the adjacent end table and withdrew two envelopes. The sealing flaps were tattered, as if opened in haste. “I hoped I could talk you out of this foolishness without hurting you.” Lars jutted the envelopes toward Sievert.

Sievert had trouble swallowing when he looked at the return addresses—Harvard College and Princeton College. He reached into the first one, from Harvard, and unfolded the single page. After a few minutes, he let the paper slip from his hands and fall to the floor. He did the same with the letter from Princeton. “When did you get these?”

“One came four days ago, the other one, day before yesterday.”

“They were addressed to me. Why did you open them?”

Lars’ face went red and Sievert immediately recognized the blush as an early caution sign.

“Do I need to tell you this is my house?” Lars leaned forward in his chair and again pointed with his pipe. “What goes on here is always my business.” He returned the pipe to his mouth, and with another puff, leaned back into the chair.

Sievert’s face burned and a churning irritation ascended from his belly. “It’s not foolishness. And I have more applications out.” He reiterated, “If I get accepted, I’m going, no matter what you say. This is my life. I’ll do it by myself if I have to.”

“And if I forbid it?”

“I’ll go anyway.”

Lars pulled the pipe from his mouth, the stress he felt obvious in the telltale whiteness around his mouth and the rigid set of his jaw.

Sievert shifted forward. The thrust of his father’s chin was all too familiar. It meant the conversation was over, his position was set as firmly as when he yanked the brake on their hay wagon.

Lars lowered the pipe to his knee and with the downward swirl of smoke, his expression drained to sadness. “If you go, you’re not part of this family. Is it worth that much to you?”

Sievert bolted to his feet and held his father with a cold stare while he stomped toward the door. The hiss of his “yes” hung in the air, as buoyant as tobacco smoke, long after he left the parlor.

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