21. Else-Maj
ELSE-MAJ
1985
Today there was a Laestadian prayer meeting in Láttevárri. The church was illuminated in a frosty golden glow and the trees were heavy with snow. Cars were parked in the schoolyard and along the road, all the way to the red Konsum store. It was cold—twenty-five below—and folks would probably have to leave the meeting periodically to go start their cars for a minute, to make sure the batteries didn’t die.
Else-Maj, in a headscarf, was hurrying toward the blue doors of the church. The cold burned her cheeks and found its way through layers of clothing, settling against her skin. Gustu had dropped her off; he would never set foot in a Laestadian meeting. She couldn’t even get him to attend regular church services.
“How can you possibly turn to God? And to do it here, of all places,” he had said, glaring out the car window at the nomad school, which was a Sámi school these days, attendance optional. “Do you want to be reminded?”
No, she didn’t. She always looked away when they passed the school, pretended it didn’t exist. It should have been leveled to the ground. She had chosen a different Sámi school for their children, even though it was farther away—it would have been impossible for her to walk into those buildings again. The thought made her shudder.
She and Gustu would never agree about God and the church. He knew why she sought it out, that she wanted the structure and security, but even that hadn’t been an easy thing to discuss.
“You don’t have to understand,” she’d said this morning. “I was raised in a Christian home and—” She cut herself off. She could hear herself, an old, broken record.
“But this isn’t just Christian, it’s flat-out crazy,” he said. “They’re totally insane, those Laestadians.”
Gustu had launched back into that morning’s discussion as he inched along in the line of cars that wound toward the church. “I don’t get what you’re up to here. I can drive you to Giron, to a sensible, normal service. The Laestadians have such twisted views, and it doesn’t take much for them to set the heads of ordinary people spinning, too.”
“We’re not driving all the way to Giron in this cold.” She pulled on her gloves. “I won’t turn into one of them, don’t you know that? I’m no Laestadian.”
“Don’t say that. Cults have drawn people in before.”
“It’s not a cult,” she said slowly, trying to keep her emotions from boiling over.
“Just hearing you say that makes me nervous.”
“And anyway, it happens to be fun to go to the meetings, you get to see so many people.” She tied her black shawl around her head and tucked in the hair at her temples.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“It’s cold.”
“I’ve got an extra hat in the back seat.”
“Out of respect.”
“Right, because they definitely deserve that.”
She knew not to reply when he got sarcastic. Surely anyone could see, through the car windows, that they were arguing. Curious eyes were everywhere. So she forced herself to smile. “Will you pick me up later?”
“If the car will start in this cold.”
She could point out that parking in the garage was always an option, but he was just waiting for her to say so, for the chance to grow sullen and tell her he had to fix the old snowmobile first. They hardly ever bickered like this, and it made her uneasy.
“They claim joiking is sinful,” he went on, shifting into first gear for the last uphill climb. “So does that make me a sinner?”
“You know the right time and place for joiking.”
“Sure seems strange that it has to be relegated to certain places.”
She unbuckled her seat belt; maybe it was best to walk the rest of the way. “I just want to hear God’s word,” she said softly.
“Do you remember how God’s word was pounded into us at school? How we were sinners who would end up in hell if we kept living the way we were.”
Gustu was three years older than she and had been one of the nice boys at school. They hardly ever talked about their school days, and she really didn’t want to be reminded of them right now. She didn’t want to think about what they’d been taught about sin, and he knew it. But he wouldn’t lay off. This belligerence was unlike him, and there had to be some other reason behind it. Typically he just fired off the occasional snide comment about the Laestadians, without fussing about Christianity in general. Today his grouchiness seemed to need an outlet. It must have been easier to argue about religion than admit what he was actually worried about, like how many reindeer they’d lost to predators this winter. It kept him awake at night.
But it was also about the two of them. On a recent sleepless night he’d reached for her, and she put him off. He wasn’t prepared for rejection. Nor was she, but it had snuck up on her—night sweats, and a revulsion that wasn’t only about him. She didn’t recognize herself. Biret had mentioned menopause, but wasn’t it too early? She was only forty-two. She had vague memories of Enná getting hot flashes early on, but had it really happened before she turned fifty?
Gustu was an attractive man, there was no denying it. It’s not as if she hadn’t noticed that other women sometimes acted a little goofy around him. He was out in the wilderness year-round, but he took good care of himself. He didn’t have half-moons of grime under his fingernails, and he brushed his teeth even if he was only going to the store. They rarely fought, but if they did he always wanted to end things like they used to, with reconciliation in bed. This only made her silent and angry. He couldn’t handle the silence, and these days he spent some nights on the sofa. He said he didn’t want to wake her up with all his tossing and turning. It would be better, she thought, when he set off with the reindeer for a few months. Once she had a chance to miss him, her body would stop betraying her.
“I’ll get out here, you can turn around and head home.”
He stopped the car for her, but when she waved goodbye he was looking elsewhere. He’d known she was a Christian when they got together as teenagers, and when they were brand-new lovebirds, it hadn’t been an issue. He had listened when she said there was comfort in placing your fate in Jesus’s hands. She hadn’t mentioned the part where that also meant not everything was her fault. It was a selfish thought, one she was ashamed of, but it was the truth. She wanted to be free of blame; it was burdensome to do the right thing all the time, even though it was exactly what she strove for.
“If you accept the word of God, it’s easier to accept the parts of life that are hard to understand,” she had told Gustu.
She knew her faith wasn’t the real problem right now. If Gustu let her be, let her go to church, it would be fine. She’d never tried to force her beliefs onto him. Or the children, either, although she had taught them to pray and forbidden them from cursing. No need to summon the devil without reason, she’d snap whenever they slipped up. But she wasn’t like the Laestadians; she didn’t forbid card games, music, TV, or other childhood favorites; no, she simply gave them a solid Christian foundation. When they were really little, she would kneel alongside them next to their beds, folding her hands in prayer. She missed those days. Neither of her kids would call themselves Christian, and she supposed that was a failure. But if fate was cruel to them in the future, she was sure what she had given them would bring them comfort.
Yes, it was just as well she had climbed out of the car and walked the last stretch; their bickering could have escalated. Else-Maj coughed as the cold crept into her lungs. Not a glance at the old nomad school as she forced her way inside through the crowds and to an empty seat in the next-to-last row.
Princess Eugenia Memorial Church had been built in the thirties and renovated a decade ago, and it still drew big crowds to Laestadian meetings, even if they weren’t as well-attended as they had been when she was a child. But today the pale green pews near the front were already full. She had purposefully chosen a spot in the back; if there was a lot of shouting and carrying on, she wanted to be able to get out. It stuck with her, that discomfort when adults screamed and cried. As a child she had curled up on a pew in terror more than once, and Enná had noticed and stopped bringing her. And yet, here she was. But it was different these days, calmer. She hoped.
Long braids dangled over the backs of the pews ahead of her and young girls whispered together. Lots of people in other rows wore the local Karesuando gákti.
The preachers rustled papers and readied the microphones. The sermon would first be delivered in Swedish, then repeated in Finnish. One of them glared sternly out at the pews, and his eyes landed on Else-Maj, who gazed down and spun her engagement ring on her finger. They were so quick to notice who didn’t belong, or who was an uncertain newcomer. They didn’t like the curious ones, like her and even Enná once upon a time, those who didn’t belong to the congregation but showed up now and then. They were believers, but not the right kind. She gazed out the long, narrow window with its rounded top edge, then forgot herself and glanced in the direction of the nomad school. She jumped as though the sight burned her eyes.
A woman in a gákti sat beside Else-Maj, who squeezed further in, then discreetly turned around to see if every last spot was taken. She didn’t recognize many people. There must have been some from both Kiruna and Pajala here, and probably Finland, too. She faced forward and a shiver ran through her. Something wasn’t right; something forced her to look back over her shoulder.
In the last row, in the very corner, wearing a black headscarf. She noticed something familiar about those movements. Glasses being pushed up. A toss of the head. Her face was more gaunt and her posture more stooped, her neck held like a vulture’s. But sure enough.
And as if by magic, all oxygen left the church. The warmth of the crowd became unbearable, and heat flashed into her chest and face. She had to get out.
The preachers began, one in Swedish and one in Finnish. It wasn’t long before they were speaking of sin. Heads bowed. Else-Maj was forced to place a hand on the arm of the woman beside her, the one who had just squished her way in.
“Excuse me, but—”
She was already half standing, and the woman tucked her knees in, whispering something about how lucky it was that they were both so small. The carpet down the center aisle muffled her unsteady steps and at the doorway she forced her way past those who hadn’t found seats.
The door was heavy, but a man helped out with his shoulder. She held on to the black railing, the frost rasping under her leather glove. She yanked down the zipper of her coat and fanned her burning chest, gasping to get air back into her lungs. Couldn’t let anyone see this breakdown. She walked along the stone wall and turned left without thinking. And then, there she was, standing in the schoolyard she’d promised herself never to step foot in again. Yellow light fell across the snow from the old dormitory windows. Nimble feet darted back and forth in rooms where so much fear and sorrow had collected. Setting the table for coffee. Setting tables where Sara had once lain, pale and delirious with fever. Else-Maj’s stomach turned and she swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. She whirled around and staggered down the road toward the Konsum; her body’s reaction had surprised her. The snow crunched under her boots and her feet sucked up the chill. She took off her scarf and stuffed it into her pocket. She zipped her coat again, because people would start to wonder if she walked around half-clothed in this cold.
To think that the witch dared return to the village! Else-Maj wanted to run the way she had as a child, fastest of them all. She could run all the way home—fifteen kilometers was nothing for her. But she could hardly breathe, in this frozen air, and who ran in a skirt? People would talk.
Maybe Else-Maj had been mistaken. Surely she would not dare to come back here. There was no way she lived in the village; news like that would spread like fire through dry grass. Rumors had circulated that she’d become a Christian, but to come here, to a meeting, was so shameless that it made Else-Maj mutter to herself, “Is it really my God who forgave her?”
She found herself simply standing in front of the red store, the one that boasted about being the northernmost Konsum in Sweden. Inside she could call home to ask for a ride, but first she needed to start acting normal again. She cleared her throat and took three deep breaths, found her way to a friendly smile.
The cold trailed her into the store and she closed the door fast. One step straight ahead and you reached the boxes of oranges, three steps and you were by the candy. Astrid was at the register as usual; she said something about the cold snap but Else-Maj didn’t mince words. “Could I borrow the phone?”
It rang, but no one answered. He must be in the garage, replacing parts on the snowmobile. But what about the kids, why didn’t Ella pick up? She must be at home. Else-Maj called again and let it ring dozens of times.
“I’m not getting an answer,” she said to Astrid. “I guess I’ll have to try again in a bit.”
It felt awkward, pacing around the store without buying anything. She could walk home. Surely someone would pick her up along the way, but then she would have to explain why she was walking. No one walked between the villages in the dead of winter.
Some customers entered, and Else-Maj was forced to chat about the weather and the big meeting at the church. When they left, she returned to Astrid’s tiny office nook next to the cash register and spun the rotary dial. This time Gustu picked up. He recited their phone number when he did, as always: 310 45. It was that, or a hello.
“You have to come pick me up,” she whispered. “I’m at the store.” She cut off his question with a firm “Come right now.”
Astrid was curious, it was plain to see. They were the same age. Astrid had attended the village school. She was as round now as she had been then, with smooth cheeks that made her look younger. “Were you at the meeting?”
“No.” Else-Maj’s hand was already on the door handle.
“No need to wait outside.”
But she couldn’t wait inside. Astrid was a gossip, everyone knew that. When the silence became unbearable, words just popped out to fill the void; you would blurt whatever you weren’t supposed to say or Astrid would nonchalantly pry. She had no filter and collected details of the villagers’ lives like they were pieces of candy she could pass out to the next customer. “Do you know what I heard…?” No, she wasn’t about to give Astrid a story.
“I’m not all that cold.”
She ought to smile; she was acting too strange. Astrid would surely muster up some doubt about her odd behavior. She would become a piece of candy after all. Especially if the rumor of Rita Olsson’s visit to the church happened to crack the air like the thawing ice and echo across the village before the meeting was even over.