Despite Eli’s attempt to put a lock on my door that holds, while I teach, someone comes to my cabin. My books are moved from the window ledge to the table but neatly stacked. My wool sweater moved from one peg to another. The journal that sat on the table when I left in the morning is on the chair in the afternoon. The visits are daily now, and I’m left small gifts: a smooth rock the size and color of a biscuit, an unbroken wishbone, the shell of a robin’s egg, the delicate skeleton of what looks like a child’s hand.
Someone different and mean-spirited hasn’t crossed my threshold but leaves warnings outside, hoping to frighten me. A blue, headless bird was the first. They nailed my privy door shut another day—when I wasn’t inside, thank goodness. My tolerance is being tested, and I remain pragmatic as no real danger line has been crossed…yet. Rachel has warned me many times that I take chances I shouldn’t. So far I’ve been lucky, and the pranks are dwindling because I choose to ignore them.
I have taken to heart Prudence’s warning about wild dogs and, as small defense, always carry my hiking stick when I walk. I even bought a bag of dog food. I’m outside one Saturday, gathering armloads of sticks for the insatiable woodstove, when I hear the bark of dogs up on the ridge. They’re coming this way!
I drop my bundle and run inside, slam the door, and watch through the window while my heart gallops. A deer jumps the creek and darts past, followed by three dogs. Their tails wag. Their tongues loll out of their mouths. They’re having fun instead of lusting to kill—they’re enjoying the chase. I feel rather silly about the fear I let Prudence Perkins instill.
That afternoon, when I get water from the spring, I see one of the dogs has returned and lies next to the cabin between the door and me. His body is thin, ribs exposed. His mixed breed is the result of a questionable lineage, but he’s bits of boxer and terrier. He raises his chunky brown-and-black head when he sees me and beats his whiplike tail on the ground in greeting. I’m cautious and inch toward the cabin door in case he attacks.
I speak softly. “Hey, fella. You okay?” He sits and looks me in the eye. His face shows trust. “Do you belong to somebody and forgot where you came from?”
He walks toward me, wiggles his skinny backside, and lays his lumpy head in my hands. When he pants, his mouth turns up in a grin so delightful I laugh. So much for wild dogs who want to tear me apart. This one seeks a friend.
I go inside and fill a bowl with dog food and bring it outside. He downs the food in three bites, then lifts his leg and pees. I take these as good signs, and we strike a deal: if he stays, he stays, and if he goes, he’ll at least have food in his belly before he does.
I confess that the dog with the endearing grin brings comfort I didn’t know was missing. He roams by day yet knows when I get home. I’m glad to see him. I call him Dog, and he lets me.
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As promised to Eli, I attend church the next Sunday to be neighborly and to meet my students’ families, but nothing more. I admit I’ve never been instilled with burning, blind faith, and I’ve had no need for it. Other than running into an empty church to escape a storm and finding an index card on a bulletin board carrying my destiny, church has never played a part in my life. I would love to think prayers are answered as Eli professes, but I’m a skeptic.
As predicted, people come today to see me, the newcomer—the jasper, I hear some call me—and I’m anxious once more over our differences. The men, in clean bib overalls and ironed shirts buttoned to the top, tip their hats but don’t look me in the eye. The women, in plain dresses, hair knotted at their necks, and scraps of hats on their heads, are more skittish and only nod halfheartedly. The doors to the church stay open to accommodate the overflow, and people stand at the back. I look around for my students’ faces to tie to parents. Lucy, Weeza, and Pearl are in the seat behind me, and they smile. They look like their mother, who sits with them, stoic, guarded. She holds tight to the smaller girls’ hands in her lap. Hers are red raw, and the cracked nails blunt and stained. I clutch my smooth hands together.
Preacher Eli walks to the podium, and everyone grows quiet while he tells a joke, quotes Bible verses, builds up a rhythmic preaching momentum with what I guess is his practiced delivery, then the topic turns to me. His face grows kind. He says I am their blessing. He urges everyone to welcome me.
Then I ask to speak. My stomach is knotted with stress, yet I feel I must own my voice up here. I stand in front of these strangers, choose straightforward words and make the decision to be honest, though Rachel pressed me not to. Mr. Poore read in my file that I was dismissed, so the truth is out there if anyone cares to look.
“I left my last job,” I start, then take a deep breath and start again. “No, I lost my last job because I helped someone and got into trouble. When I looked for another teaching post, it was Preacher Eli’s faith in your children and”—I glance at the preacher in his oversize suit and add—“his faith in me that brought me here to teach. I am happy to be here.”
I sit down, surprised my palms are sweating and my heart galloping. My chest is tight so I breathe slowly and deeply, aware I’ve spoken on erudite topics to groups ten times this size and never broken out in a sweat or elevated my blood pressure. I suddenly know that this primitive place and Eli Perkins and these plain people are important to me for reasons that aren’t perfectly clear. That the restlessness I’ve felt all my life has started to subside and is being replaced by a flutter in my belly of excitement and wonder. Could I be on the right path at last?
Church is finally dismissed, and for the next ten minutes, the onslaught of names and faces meld into a blur. The odd dialect is a jumble to my ears. To the parents, I say kind words about their children, aware my words are as difficult for them to understand as theirs are for me. The overall dynamics are as expected: the giant outsider must earn her place.
Thankfully, the only stone they cast this day is in the soup.
The tragedy of the morning is seeing fresh bruises on Sadie Blue. Practiced at hiding her injuries, she wears oversize clothes. Her hair hangs across the left side of her damaged face. When she smiles, her swollen lips stretch to a grimace. Her aunt Marris drapes a protective arm around Sadie’s shoulders, but the old woman’s expression says she knows defeat when she sees it. This abuse is nothing new. I clench and unclench my fists by my side and know Sadie sees my concern and the anger in my eyes. She is embarrassed, but I want to lash out at the coward Roy Tupkin who beats a girl carrying his child. Unlike Aunt Marris, I can deliver serious harm.
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The next Saturday, while I write to Rachel, Sadie Blue knocks on my cabin door. I haven’t seen her this week, and I’m elated she has come by—and equally happy to see her bruises have faded and not been replaced by new ones. I’ve thought a lot about her, the pregnancy that led to the husband, and possibilities that hold her down by the anchor of poverty. Despite all those strikes, she’s spunky. She’s exactly the reason I’m here.