Spring for Susannah by Catherine Richmond Page A

guitar. “Susannah brought a copy of Fanny Crosby’s brand-new hymn. We’ll have a new song this morning.”
    â€œBut I was just learning your old song.” Ivar winked.
    Jesse passed the magazine to Ivar, who sat by Marta and interpreted. Their voices joined together in “Blessed Assurance.” In her good-sized Detroit congregation, no one noticed if Susannah sang or not. On the banks of the Sheyenne, she comprised the entire alto section.
    â€œMarta says she is thinking of the book of Ruth,” Ivar began, pausing for his wife’s words. “Like Ruth, Susannah has traveled far to marry a man she did not know. Like Ruth, may you find great joy in your new family.”
    Blinking away tears, Susannah extended her hand to Marta.
    â€œI am thinking of the first man, Adam.” Ivar opened his Bible to the beginning. “He walked and talked with God, yet he was lonely. God saw this and made Eve. Susannah, your husband walks and talks with God, but he has been lonely. So God brought you here. Genesis says, ‘A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall be one flesh.’”
    Susannah felt the heat rise to her face and looked down at her hands. She was a married woman; she shouldn’t blush.
    â€œI cannot say welcome to Paradise,” Ivar continued. “I don’t think it snowed much in the Garden of Eden. So I say welcome to Dakota. I hope you and Jesse will be as blessed as Marta and me.” He smiled at the baby sleeping in his wife’s lap.
    There was an interminable pause. Susannah stared at her clenched hands, afraid to look up. Was she expected to say something? She’d never spoken in church. Throughout years of Sunday school, her sole contribution was reading a lesson. Itinerant evangelists, with their habit of calling on the congregation for testimonies, struck fear in her heart. She always hid in the pew behind the large Goodman family, each child an advertisement for their father’s confectionery.
    â€œThank you.” Jesse nodded at the Volds. “Susannah’s folks recently passed on. She’s left her home and friends to come out here. This song, from Psalm 30, is for you, Susannah.
    â€œâ€˜Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing for me—’”
    Sunlight flickered through the cottonwood leaves, the same sun that glistened through the stained glass windows at Lafayette Avenue Church. Susannah could almost hear Miss Ferguson embellishing the final chords of the postlude with glissandos. She could see Reverend Mason bent over Mrs. Griswold’s hand, inquiring about the health of her cats. The congregation, their escape blocked, would mill helplessly around as Ellen homed in on a soloist for the next service, an assistant for the boys’ Sunday school class, someone to sit with Susannah’s mother.
    No longer . . .
    â€œâ€˜Oh Lord my God, I will give thanks unto Thee forever.’” Jesse finished the song and strummed the final chord.
    â€œYour husband half a song for everything,” Ivar said. “And a prayer.”
    They joined hands and Jesse began, “Dear God, thank You for friends, old and new.” He squeezed Susannah’s fingers. “Watch over us during this harvest season. Grant us fair weather and good health. Forgive our sins and help us grow. All these things we ask in Your name. Amen.”
    â€œDoes he do as good a job as his brother?” Ivar asked.
    â€œHe doesn’t take as long,” Susannah blurted. Jesse grinned and seemed to take no offense.
    After dinner, Marta settled her sleeping baby on a blanket and stood. With a graceful turn of her wrist, she beckoned Susannah to follow. Arm in arm they strolled the riverbank, collecting plums. Marta pointed out canes of wild raspberry bushes and vines of other fruits, next summer’s harvest.
    Marta didn’t walk, she glided. She had wide cornflower blue eyes like her