I find a rusty spade and dig a hole to bury him, box and all, beside the creek. I mark the spot with a flat stone. This is likely the kind of gruesome prank that scared off the other teachers. Harm on a small scale. Unless you count burning down the teacher’s cottage. I may be out of my element, but I’m not easily chased away. Otherwise I’d never have lasted as long at Ravenscroft.
Today is lovely, and beyond my cabin is an expanse of sky. I grab my walking stick and continue on the path that now pulls away from the creek and leads to the summit. I gasp my way to the top, and my reward is wave after wave of mountains that fall away from all sides of a stunning view. Scraps of clouds float in the hollows and blend with woodsmoke. The world looks simple and deceptive from here when I know life is anything but simple, despite its elementary components. A dismissal, an index card, and a letter are all that’s needed to chart a new course and end a former life.
I leave the top of the mountain, stop at the cabin for my emptied backpack and satchel, swallow two aspirins with tea gone cold, retrace yesterday’s steps, and pass the trailer where only crows sit and watch. The forest holds none of yesterday’s slithering fears. This daily walk will come to strengthen and fortify me. Today, I whistle easily.
? ? ?
How many students will come Monday is unknown. The last teacher reported seven showed up on the first day, and then numbers declined. There are no truant officers rounding up dissenters. I make a pact with myself: I will teach what I can to whom I can, and not lament the rest.
I round the corner of the schoolhouse and see a slight, barefoot girl with hair the color of ginger. Her white dress is dingy and the hem is ripped. She sits on the top step, clearly pregnant. Only a child herself. She carries a rolled-up magazine and stares at my muddy car. Her profile is delicate and her skin pale as porcelain with a dash of freckles.
“Hello,” I call out. “I’m the new teacher, Kate Shaw.” I shift my satchel to my left hand.
The girl stands. Though she’s on the top step, I’m still taller. She shakes my hand and looks me in the eye. I like that.
She says, “Name’s Sadie Blue,” then adds like an afterthought, “Tupkin.”
I say, “Hello, Sadie Blue… Tupkin.”
She frowns. “Not used to my married name. I come to help if I can.”
“Help would be lovely.”
She holds out a folded piece of paper. “This here’s for you.”
“What is it?”
“Preacher Perkins. You won’t here when he come by.”
I unfold the note and read.
Welcome, Miss Shaw. I apologize for not greeting you yesterday when you arrived. I had a funeral to conduct. I trust my sister, Prudence, made you feel welcomed and led you to your cabin. I look forward to meeting you soon. We’re glad you’re here.
Respectfully,
Eli Perkins
I’m flummoxed. Could the learned writer of this note possibly be related to glum-faced, monosyllabic Prudence P of yesterday?
“Preacher Perkins brought this by?”
“Yes ’um.”
“And Prudence Perkins is his sister?” My tone is incredulous.
“Yes ’um.”
I pocket the note and walk to the trunk of my car while Sadie follows. “I met Prudence yesterday after the storm…” I start to explain, then stop. I’ll understand the dichotomy in good time.
I hand Sadie the globe and I carry the heavier box of books and rolled-up posters.
“Found my way up the trail yesterday to the cabin.” I chat and unpack the box of supplies at my desk. “Managed to fix a proper cup of tea this morning, so all is right in the world.”
I take the globe from Sadie’s grasp, set it on the desk, and spin it. Her face opens like a child’s.
“This globe represents Earth, the planet we live on. This area”—I outline—“is the United States of America, the country we live in. Here is the state of North Carolina, and your mountain”—I point with the tip of a pencil—“would be just about here.” She leans in close, maybe hoping to see something familiar. I put away the few textbooks, lined paper, and pencils, and Sadie spins the globe.
“What’s the magazine you carry?”
She holds it up for me to see and says, “Country Song Roundup.”
“It’s special to you?”
“Yes ’um. I fancy anything with Miss Loretta Lynn’s picture on it.”
I don’t know who Miss Loretta Lynn is, so I inch into unfamiliar territory. “What do you like about her?”
Sadie isn’t fooled.
“You don’t know Miss Loretta Lynn?” She sounds more than disappointed in my limited knowledge.
I failed my first test.
“She’s only the greatest singer in this whole, wide world,” she says, then adds, “I love her so.”
“What do you love about her?”
She declares without hesitation, “She got a hard life. Sings hard songs. She found a way up and out of her Kentucky holler. Miss Loretta is a miracle to me.”
I didn’t expect such an emotional, concise response from this girl about life and its challenges in this remote place. When I pull the desks into a friendly circle, Sadie helps. I drag my teacher’s desk into the circle, too. We sit down at desks facing each other.
She hands me her prize magazine. The cover picture features a pretty woman with high cheekbones and stiff hair with curls draped over her shoulder. I thumb through the pages, but the magazine easily falls open to page sixteen, and more pictures of Sadie’s hero.
“Tell me what you like most about her.”
The girl beams, props her elbows on the desk, and rattles off a string of facts and song titles about a woman who would inspire anyone who appreciates a hard-luck story turned successful. But she concludes by saying, “I don’t read but a handful of words.”
“Then who reads to you?”
“Preacher Eli, usually. It was him that got me this magazine from the valley two years back. I listen to Miss Loretta singing on the radio.”
My heart swells, hearing this tender gift of a hero and mentor Sadie relates to. Eli plants hope and promise in rocky soil that holds little of either. This is a good sign that progress is being made against debilitating odds. I lean in on my desk and put my chin on my fist.
“Do you want to learn to read?”
Sadie bites her lip and looks down at the desktop, suddenly shy. She traces the carved scars with her finger. “Yes ’um, I was sorta hoping, but can’t come to school regular.”
“If you want to read, you will read.”
She says softly with a hint of pride. “I already know me some words to spell. Stop and go. Yes and no.”
“Those are good words. Do you have a favorite?”
The girl tenderly holds her belly. “Baby. B-a-b-y.”
I look away as my mind flies back to Ravenscroft and the urgent knock in the night and Jen Carter’s frantic face and her falling to her knees to beg.
Jen Carter’s favorite word was never baby.
? ? ?
There’s little to do in the schoolroom except hang posters and stack a few books on a shelf. Sadie follows me back to the car where I refill the backpack and satchel with more things to take to the cabin. I look like a hobo carrying my life’s belongings. Last, I pick up the bonsai from the front floorboard.
“That’s a puny-looking bush.”
“It’s a bonsai. A fifty-year-old trident maple tree.”
“Bonsai.” She tries the word.
“It’s an ancient art form,” I explain. “This one is quite young.”