Read Online In Sheep's Clothing by Rett MacPherson - Free Book Online
Authors: Rett MacPherson
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name Bloomquist. I found Karl and flipped to the page that he was listed for. âThis canât be right.â
âWhat?â Aunt Sissy asked.
âWell, there are no Bloomquists on this page.â
âWhat do you mean?â Roberta asked.
I scanned the heads of households and none of them had the last name Bloomquist. Then it occurred to me. This was 1860; what if the fire had already occurred? Then the Bloomquists wouldnât have had any place to live. They would be staying with somebody else. I scanned each household and found: Bloomquist, Karl. Age 43. White. Male. Born in Sweden. Occupation was laborer. Meaning that he was most likely a farmer but as a guest in somebody elseâs home. A laborer.
âHere he is,â I said.
âWho is he living with?â Roberta asked.
âWhat do you mean?â Aunt Sissy asked.
âIf heâs in the index, but heâs not a head of household, that means heâs staying with another family.â
âWell, who is it?â Roberta asked.
âJohann Hagglund.â Most likely, at one time, the last name would have had the two little dots over the a, but a few years on the frontier and you just got the spelling that the census taker felt like giving you.
âBy himself? Whereâs his family?â
âHis son, Sven, is the only one listed with him,â I said. I couldnât believe it. We were that close to finding out who the author of the book was and then, boom, it was gone. The disappointment was indescribable. All three of us sighed.
âWell, fiddlesticks,â Roberta declared.
I just looked at her. Only my grandmother says fiddlesticks.
âNow what?â Aunt Sissy said.
âNow I check the church records. We know they were here.â
âYes, but if she wasnât baptized or married or didnât die during that time, sheâs not going to be listed,â Roberta said.
I didnât say anything. Aunt Sissy knew what I was thinking. There was a reason that the Bloomquists were not in their home. Most likely it was the fire. And if the fire was truth, not just a myth, then the possibility of the Swedish girl meeting her demise in the cellar could be the truth, too. The fact that neither she nor her mother was listed with the father and the brother just made that possibility all that more likely.
Roberta realized what we were thinking. âWait. Now wait, I know what youâre thinking. But couldnât she be living with somebody else? Maybe the Hagglund family didnât have room for everybody, so they had to split up.â
I checked the index for more Bloomquists, but there were none.
âNot unless she and the mother changed their last names or moved out of the state.â
âWell, spit fire,â Aunt Sissy said.
I was going to have to teach these people how to curse.
âCome on. I think the church records are our best bet.â
Seven
It was nearly noon before we made it over to the church. My stomach rumbled as if it hadnât been fed in days. But I suppose thatâs what happens when you eat breakfast before the sun comes up. I said nothing and just hoped that Aunt Sissy would hear my stomach growling and suggest lunch. It was a crisp day and I could smell the oxygen heavy in the air. The sun was golden yellow, everything was in early bloom, and it was on days like this that you thought, it canât get much better than this.
The Olin Lutheran Church was a white clapboard building, oblong, with a steeple. A newer part of the building sat off to the left-hand sideâthe office, I presumed. The cemetery began about two hundred yards from the back of the church, and there was a large field off to the right with picnic benches and lots of trees. A cluster of birch trees sat almost perfectly in the center of the field. Funny, at that moment I thought that I could have sat there beneath those trees all day.
I grudgingly went inside the office part of the
âWhat?â Aunt Sissy asked.
âWell, there are no Bloomquists on this page.â
âWhat do you mean?â Roberta asked.
I scanned the heads of households and none of them had the last name Bloomquist. Then it occurred to me. This was 1860; what if the fire had already occurred? Then the Bloomquists wouldnât have had any place to live. They would be staying with somebody else. I scanned each household and found: Bloomquist, Karl. Age 43. White. Male. Born in Sweden. Occupation was laborer. Meaning that he was most likely a farmer but as a guest in somebody elseâs home. A laborer.
âHere he is,â I said.
âWho is he living with?â Roberta asked.
âWhat do you mean?â Aunt Sissy asked.
âIf heâs in the index, but heâs not a head of household, that means heâs staying with another family.â
âWell, who is it?â Roberta asked.
âJohann Hagglund.â Most likely, at one time, the last name would have had the two little dots over the a, but a few years on the frontier and you just got the spelling that the census taker felt like giving you.
âBy himself? Whereâs his family?â
âHis son, Sven, is the only one listed with him,â I said. I couldnât believe it. We were that close to finding out who the author of the book was and then, boom, it was gone. The disappointment was indescribable. All three of us sighed.
âWell, fiddlesticks,â Roberta declared.
I just looked at her. Only my grandmother says fiddlesticks.
âNow what?â Aunt Sissy said.
âNow I check the church records. We know they were here.â
âYes, but if she wasnât baptized or married or didnât die during that time, sheâs not going to be listed,â Roberta said.
I didnât say anything. Aunt Sissy knew what I was thinking. There was a reason that the Bloomquists were not in their home. Most likely it was the fire. And if the fire was truth, not just a myth, then the possibility of the Swedish girl meeting her demise in the cellar could be the truth, too. The fact that neither she nor her mother was listed with the father and the brother just made that possibility all that more likely.
Roberta realized what we were thinking. âWait. Now wait, I know what youâre thinking. But couldnât she be living with somebody else? Maybe the Hagglund family didnât have room for everybody, so they had to split up.â
I checked the index for more Bloomquists, but there were none.
âNot unless she and the mother changed their last names or moved out of the state.â
âWell, spit fire,â Aunt Sissy said.
I was going to have to teach these people how to curse.
âCome on. I think the church records are our best bet.â
Seven
It was nearly noon before we made it over to the church. My stomach rumbled as if it hadnât been fed in days. But I suppose thatâs what happens when you eat breakfast before the sun comes up. I said nothing and just hoped that Aunt Sissy would hear my stomach growling and suggest lunch. It was a crisp day and I could smell the oxygen heavy in the air. The sun was golden yellow, everything was in early bloom, and it was on days like this that you thought, it canât get much better than this.
The Olin Lutheran Church was a white clapboard building, oblong, with a steeple. A newer part of the building sat off to the left-hand sideâthe office, I presumed. The cemetery began about two hundred yards from the back of the church, and there was a large field off to the right with picnic benches and lots of trees. A cluster of birch trees sat almost perfectly in the center of the field. Funny, at that moment I thought that I could have sat there beneath those trees all day.
I grudgingly went inside the office part of the
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