Mr. Swensen: A Novel

Copyright © 2016 by Paul Krebill.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 05/20/2016

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CONTENTS

Prologue

PART ONE

In which from time to time Mr. Swensen writes the story of his earlier life

Chapter I

Chapter II

CHAPTER III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

CHAPTER XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

PART TWO

In which Mr. Swensen continues with his life

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

PART THREE

In which Mr. Swensen finds his home.

Chapter XXVIII

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

Reese Creek, Montana

The town of Reese Creek, founded by John Reese in 1864, is located about eighteen miles, as the crow flies, southeast of the place where Lewis and Clark discovered the headwaters of the Missouri River in 1805. In its heyday the town of Reese Creek boasted a church and a school as well as a general store, a blacksmith shop, and a cheese factory.

Now in what remains of Reese Creek, the Erickson house stands empty. Jeff Sumner farmed the Erickson place after Jon Erickson and his wife, Anna, died in the flu epidemic of 1918. Without adult heirs, the farm and the outbuildings were held in trust by the Security Bank of Bozeman from which the Sumners rented the farm. The only surviving family member was Karl, a five year old child for whom the bank would hold the property in trust until his twenty-first birthday.

When his parents both died of the flu epidemic, a sister of Karl Erickson’s mother, who was living in Billings, took Karl under her care. In time she and her husband legally adopted Karl. This adoption of Karl was unknown to the bank at the time, nor in the years following. Amid the chaos which the flu epidemic brought about, neighbors in the community lost track of Karl or his whereabouts.

According to bank records, when Karl reached the age of majority in 1934 he would be ready to receive the inheritance. However, confusion over Karl’s adoption and change of name resulted in the bank’s losing track of Karl for a number of years. In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Sumners continued to rent for a few more very difficult years due to extended periods of drought. An earthquake in 1925 caused significant damage to some of the buildings on the Erickson farm. Then in the winter of 1927 Both Mr. and Mrs. Summers were killed in a car accident when they slid on black ice into an oncoming vehicle. As a result, the farm fell into disuse; under the trusteeship held by the bank. Eventually the house and other buildings deteriorated into what appeared to be ghost town conditions with little or no supervision by the bank, and a declining population in the area surrounding the Erickson place.

PART ONE

In which from time to time Mr. Swensen writes the story of his earlier life

CHAPTER I

Elmhurst, Illinois–1948

Students were mounting the steps into Irion Hall on their way to the Friday morning chapel service, a daily attendance which Elmhurst College expected in those days. Most often such services were conducted by members of the faculty, many of whom were clergy. On this particular day in December, Mr. Swensen of the history department presided. John Schroeder, a student in the junior class, was the chapel organist. He was playing a Bach prelude as the students and faculty took their seats in the polished oak pews. After a hymn, and an opening prayer, and the scripture of the day, Mr. Swensen continued with a brief sermon.

"My subject today is death and immortality. I know this is an unusual consideration for people of college age and connection, but I have been aware of the fact that many of our newly enrolled students have recently been discharged from military service during the war. Some, with whom I have spoken have faced violent deaths on the battlefield and are in need of putting those harrowing experiences into perspective. Furthermore, as is true with many in my age group, I have faced untimely death more than once in my life. My own parents died in the Asian Flu epidemic in 1918 when I was only five years old. Thus, I have no memory of my natural mother and father, nor of the home in which I spent my earliest years. And then in later life I had to bid farewell to someone very close to me.

In addition to our reading of I Corinthians 15, I would like to read portions of Crossing the Bar," a poem by Alfred Tennyson.

Sunset and evening star

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning at the bar

When I put out to sea.

Twilight and evening bell!

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark.

For though from far out our bourne of time and place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face,

When I have crossed the bar.

I personally have found the metaphor of the sea, as bearing one to a far off land, to be most helpful, in contemplating death.

Mr. Swensen continued with his sermon, expanding on the idea of the passage over the sea to heaven, with Jesus Christ as the ship’s pilot. The sermon was followed with the hymn, Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me, after which the congregation filed out of the chapel and out of Irion Hall to disperse to classes for the morning. Two of the returned veterans spoke with Mr. Swensen before leaving the room. One, who had been in the Navy, said to Mr. Swensen, Your speaking of the sea as a way to comprehend death was very meaningful and helpful to me, sir. I served in the U.S.Navy on a battleship and often found myself overwhelmed by the sea itself.

You did! Thank you for sharing with me. I’m glad I could be of some help.

That night, after their supper in the Commons, Dale Schmidt and Maynard Otterberg returned to their room in the men’s dorm. Both had studies to do. Maynard asked Dale. What did you think of Swensen’s chapel this morning?

I don’t know. He seemed different. . .

How so?

Very serious and in a way— sad.

I think I felt that way too, almost like he was conducting a funeral for someone he knew.

The two got out their books and began studying. After a while, Dale sighed in despair and shoved away from his desk. I just don’t understand this history assignment.

Go see Swensen. They’re always telling us that we are at a small college in which the faculty are available and want to give us help when we need it.

Yeah. …

You know, all that talk about that’s why a small college is best.

It’s not too late?

Nah. Go see Mr. Swensen. His office is upstairs in Old Main.

Okay Maynard. You talked me into it.

A short while later Dale returned. He wasn’t there. Won’t be until Monday.

How do you know that?

"A sign on his door says. . . Back on Monday."

Yeah, I heard somebody else found out one time that he was gone for the weekend.

Wonder where he goes. I don’t think he has any relatives around here.

Seems like a lonely bachelor. . . a mysterious one at that, I’d say.

CHAPTER II

Darkness was coming early on that October Friday. The temperature had dipped into the twenties, when Mr. Swensen locked the door of his rooms on the third floor of Old Main and went down the side stairway to step out onto the campus. He was alone as he drew his long overcoat around him and adjusted his black fedora to shield as much of his head from the cold as possible. No one saw him walk off the campus and downtown to the Chicago Northwestern Railroad depot.

The conductor greeted him as he stepped up into the coach. Hello, Mr. Swensen. He acknowledged the greeting and took his seat alone and peered out the window watching the familiar sights go by, while the train resumed its run into the Northwestern Station in downtown Chicago where he stepped down from the coach.

He made his way to the northbound bus on Michigan Boulevard and boarded it. After a short ride he was soon descending the step onto the sidewalk to walk to Lake Shore Drive to a tall high-rise which he entered. The uniformed doorman greeted him, Hello, Mr. Swensen.

Good evening, George.

When the elevator door closed behind Mr. Swensen, the security guard walked over to the doorman. What do you know about him?

Nothing, really. I see him every Friday when he comes in like he did just now, and then he comes and goes over the weekend. But he is never here after Sunday afternoon until the next Friday.

Where is he the rest of the week? Do you know?

No, not really.

Any idea?

I think he’s a professor somewhere.

How long’s he been here?

At least as long as I’ve been working here.

A mystery man. . .but he’s not a security problem, so I guess it’s none of my business.

You’re right.

An elevator took Karl Swensen to the sixteenth floor. He took out his key as he approached Room 1619.

Upstairs in 1619, as was his custom, he did not turn on the lights, but went instead to his chair by the large window, sat down to look out over the black silver-shimmering lake on yet another Friday night. Later he would fix a simple meal for himself before retiring for the night.

On Saturday, the early morning sun and wind splashed the blue-gray waves of the lake with glowing golden laps, reflecting into his living room as Karl opened his drapes. Dressing casually for his Saturday routine he let himself out of his apartment and down the elevator to walk out of his building onto the street. The fresh air strewn with slight whiffs of the aroma of lake moisture was exhilarating.

It would be a good day with inspiration for his writing. He had selected his lake shore apartment as his get-away the ideal setting for writing the story of his earlier life. A block west and around, the corner was his favorite downtown café as he liked to call it. He was a regular. They all recognized him, yet knew little about him.

Good morning, Mr. Swensen.

Yes, good morning, Gloria.

The usual?

Of course. He replied as he took his place at the counter and reached for the morning edition of the Trib.

Soon his English muffin and orange marmalade appeared along with his poached egg and a pot of hot tea. Now his Saturday could begin in customary order.

After breakfast he paid his bill and returned to his apartment, where he would continue writing his story. It was his custom to sit at a simple writing desk before the tall window facing the lake. He wrote in longhand on lined paper in a three-ringed note book. He had no idea what form the finished account would take, or for whom it was intended. At this point he was writing to clarify his own story to seal it in his memory so that he could re-live his own happier days. And perhaps for those who come after me. If they were to be interested, he thought wistfully. And so he would continue his writing.

CHAPTER III

Mr. Swensen writes his story beginning 17 years earlier.

Chicago–November, 1931

I found a vacant seat in Hutchinson cafeteria and put my tray down, as the person beside my place finished his meal and left. The university cafeteria was always crowded during the noon break from classes. I happened to look up and spotted a familiar face as she entered. She was alone. I thought she was attractive, neatly dressed in a blue and green plaid skirt and white sweater. Her loosely curled brown hair and brown eyes gave a gentle impression. Of medium height, she carried herself somewhat cautiously. After filling her tray, she had begun looking for a seat. She noticed the vacancy next to me and