There was no further discussion at home about the four–five split, my objection forgotten. Both Amanda and I, even before the first day of school, were determined to make Mrs. Kraselnik love us best, both of us full of Mrs. Kraselnik lore. “Her name,” I told Amanda, “is Barbara.”
“Befowah she mayweed huh name was Bawbawa Baker.”
“The doctor is bald and he looks a little black.” I added knowledgably, “That’s because he’s an Ashkenazi Jew.”
“He’s a wadiologist.”
“Her horse is Suzie. Not Chief.”
“She’s a Thowoughbwed.”
Where was she getting her information? “Brianna Kraselnik,” I said, “has hair to her waist.”
“She’s going to babysit me sometime.”
This stopped me cold. I had never been babysat in my life, one of my parents always at home, or Gloria came over if necessary. I had only seen Brianna from a distance and maybe she was nearly as regal and lovely as her mother, but still—I said scornfully, “Babysit!”
I had gathered some of the facts myself, on occasion quietly making my way up to the Cortland line, the row that abutted the Kraselnik property. On several afternoons I’d climbed a tree, keeping watch for our teacher. Once I saw her drive into the garage, a heart-stopping moment. Followed by her taking groceries into the house. As children have been for time immemorial I, too, was stricken by the revelation: My teacher cooked food and she ate. On another day I watched her work with her horse, walking the animal around on a lead-line. Any view from the Cortland line was partially obstructed by the cedar trees but I could usually see the bright ribbon on her ponytail, and here and there the swish of Suzie’s own tail, and I could hear the firm commands, Suzie naturally being a good girl for her trainer. When I mentioned to Amanda that she might join me in the reconnaissance we both sat on a sturdy limb, waiting. We ate Fig Newtons. Our patience was at last rewarded, the goddess appearing on the driveway, and there she shook out a small blue rug. Amanda froze. She fortunately understood how still a witness should be. Amanda, my companion in Velta, observing the rite, the Mrs. Kraselnik devotion. She couldn’t even chew.
Then school started and by order of the law we were required to be in Mrs. Kraselnik’s presence for roughly six hours for the next 188 days, not counting holidays and weekends. It was on the very first morning that our teacher told us we were going to be studying Shakespeare and the Greek gods and the planets, and we were going to investigate big cats at risk, and also we would memorize the highest elevations, the longest rivers, the driest deserts, we’d track violent storms, as well as study our school neighborhood and climate. We would do so, she said, in service to learning, each of us creating our own minds. “Do you realize, boys and girls, that you can create your own mind? Creating your own minds,” she repeated, a habit she had when the message was crucial. Our learning, she went on, would also be essential preparation for the Geography Bee.
So, Amanda had been right. She smiled at me not in a gloating way but as if to say, Can’t you hardly wait, Fwances?
What Amanda didn’t know was that when Mrs. Kraselnik came to the apple barn on the weekends to buy a bushel, a forty-pound weight that would include all my favorite varieties, I would be on hand to assist her. Amanda never helped at the barn. Instead of giving my teacher one red apple I could bestow upon her a whole orchard’s worth. Mary Frances, how in the world can you tell all these varieties apart? Never have I seen a girl who could do such a thing!
There wasn’t a moment to be lost, Mrs. Kraselnik was saying. Each of us was going to participate in the bee in November in order that the winning student could go on to the county competition, and then state, and possibly to Washington, DC, in March. “You will discover this year, boys and girls, why geography is at the heart of every subject you could ever hope to study. You will discover this secret and at the same time you will become informed citizens of the world.”
Informed citizens of the world? Amanda and I, pencils in hand, notebooks open, were prepared. I was already certain that it would be I, Mary Frances Lombard, who would go to Washington, DC, in March, boarding a plane, hand in hand with Mrs. Kraselnik, turning to wave on the steps to Amanda and the rest of the family, and also pausing to respectfully listen to the high school band’s selection for our send-off.
6.
The Incident During
the Fifth Cloth