Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (9 page)

There must be more to life than that. Or is there—for a woman?

What was I born for, after all? I have to know. If I'd stayed at home, going the round of the same parties, I don't think I ever would have known. Mother and Father didn't understand why I was so anxious to come here. But I couldn't wait forever.

Come Monday, I won't have to wait any longer.

Ten

Y
ou okay?” Mr. Grantland inquired on Monday morning. “You look a little green around the gills.”

Christy gave him a weak smile. “Butterflies,” she said.

“I'm not sure I follow—”

“My stomach. It's full of butterflies. So full it's amazing I haven't fluttered away.” She gazed at him hopefully. “Was it like this for you, the first time you preached a sermon, Mr. Grantland?”

“Don't you think it's time you started calling me David?” he asked.

“David,” she amended.

“And the answer is yes. Matter of fact, I still get the shakes every Sunday. Feel better?”

“Not much.”

He laughed, then extended his arm. They started down the steps of the mission house. For this first day of school, David had put away his working clothes and was dressed in a tweed suit with a white shirt and bow tie. He wore heavy boots, laced almost to his knees, because of the deep snow.

The boots made Christy's dainty shoes, with their pointed toes and patent leather, look even sillier. Carefully she picked her way across the cleaned boardwalk that led to the school.

“Is this a fashion parade on Fifth Avenue in New York?” David teased. “Those are silly, silly shoes. Ice-pick toes!”

“I know,” Christy admitted. She'd wanted to look just right for her first day, but suddenly she saw herself through the eyes of the mountain children. She would look silly and overdressed to them. “Is it too late to change?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head.

Her right shoe began to skid on the boardwalk. “Hold on!” David called, reaching out his arm to support her. “We don't want you slipping again!”

She could feel the warmth of his hand even through her coat. She wondered if her hair still looked all right and if he liked the way she'd worn it.

But suddenly she had more important things to worry about.

The schoolyard was swarming with children waiting for the first glimpse of their new teacher. Their high-pitched voices rang in the clear air. Most were skinny, too pale, and none were dressed warmly enough for January.

Christy hesitated, watching them run in and out of the school building. So many students! And so lively! What if she couldn't handle them all?

“These children are really excited,” David said. “You'd be surprised what a big event the opening of this school is in these people's lives.”

As they noticed Christy and David approaching, the children stopped to stare. A little boy detached himself from the group and came running up to Christy. He had carrot-red hair and blue eyes.

“Teacher,” he said with a shy eagerness, “I've come to see you and to swap howdies. I memorized your name. It shore is a funny name. I never heard a name like it afore.”

“Miss Huddleston,” David said solemnly, “this is Little Burl Allen, one of Bob Allen's sons.”

So this was one of the children who would have been fatherless if Dr. MacNeill had not operated. All over again Christy felt grateful for the good news she'd heard about Mr. Allen.

She reached down for the little boy's hand. It was cold. “I'm delighted to swap howdies with you, Little Burl.” He was so little—and those icy feet! She longed to pick him up and get him warm.

They headed up the steps to the school. As they entered, they were met by the smell of wet wool and cedar pencils. Already there were puddles of water on the floor from the melted snow the children had tracked in. Most of the children filed up to the teacher's desk to get a better look at Christy. Many of the girls were too shy to say anything, but the boys whispered furiously to each other. Christy overheard snatches:

“Got uncommon pretty eyes, ain't she?”

“You're already stuck on the teacher!”

“Reckon she'll have us a-studyin' like dogs?”

“Naw. She's too little to tan any britches!”

It took almost fifteen minutes before David could drag the children away from Christy's desk and quiet them down. To her surprise, the girls seated themselves on one side of the room and the boys on the other.

“Why are they separated that way?” Christy whispered to David as he shooed a straggler to his seat.

“Tradition,” David said. “That's how their people have done it for centuries. Same way at church on Sunday.”

Christy stood beside the battered teacher's desk on its raised platform and surveyed her class. Several of the pupils actually seemed to be as old as she was—including the three boys who had been the last ones to slink into the schoolroom. She noticed David eyeing them warily and wondered if they might be troublemakers.

On the other hand, some of the children were tiny, not more than five years old. They wore a strange assortment of clothes—coats several sizes too big, with sleeves turned up. Many of the youngsters looked very tired, with the serious, worn faces of old men and women.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” David began, sending the class into a chorus of giggles, “I am indeed honored today to introduce to you our new schoolteacher, Miss Huddleston.”

While he spoke, Christy tried to count the number of children in the room. She counted the number of desks in each row—nine—and the number of rows—eight. Seventy-two, with five desks empty! It was unbelievable! How could one teacher handle sixty-seven squirming children? All at once her careful lesson plans seemed crazy. No wonder David and Miss Alice had warned her about being too ambitious!

The introduction was over. Christy moved to the front of the desk. “Thank you,” she began. “I—I'm glad to be here. I know that you have all sorts of things to do, Mr. Grantland, so we won't ask you to stay.” She couldn't bear the idea of his watching her first fumbling attempt at teaching. Christy gave him a bright, confident smile, hoping that he would take the hint.

A titter began at the front of the room and swept backward. What had she said that was so funny?

She looked at David and saw amusement in his eyes. Had she made a mistake already?

“Don't worry,” he said softly. “It's nothing. Your way of using English just sounds as funny to the children as their way of speaking sounds odd to you. You'll get used to one another.”

Christy nodded with relief. “Sure you don't want me to stay?” David asked. The look in his eyes told her he thought it would be a good idea to let him. For a moment, staring at the big boys in the back of the room, she wavered.

“Lundy Taylor,” David commented, keeping his voice low. He nodded toward a boy as tall as a grown man. He had a sullen expression, as if he were looking for a fight. “He's never been to school before with the Allen children.”

“I don't understand—”

“There's a feud between the two families,” David said. “As old as these hills.”

Christy thought for a moment. The boys might cause trouble, and it would be nice to have David nearby for help. On the other hand, last night at dinner, Miss Alice had explained that in the mountains, women were still not accepted as equal. It was important, Christy knew, that she deal with this situation herself and make it clear that she was in charge.

“Thank you, David,” Christy said, trying to sound confident. “I'll take it from here.”

David nodded. He seemed doubtful, but she could see a glimmer of respect in his eyes. Without another word, he left.

Christy took a deep breath. So now she was on her own. All at once the children seemed like giants. She leaned against the edge of the desk for support. A little boy in the front row whispered behind his hand, “She's scared.”

“How can ya tell?” Little Burl asked.

“Look at her shakin'.”

He was right. Her legs were trembling violently. Christy breathed deep and thought,
Well, it would be best to start at the beginning.
Her first task was to get an attendance roll on paper. She needed to know her students' names and have some information on how much schooling they'd had.

Christy beckoned to Ruby Mae, a familiar face. She knew Ruby Mae could write some. “Could you and two other girls help me take a roll?”

“Well, yes'm, I reckon so,” Ruby Mae said thoughtfully. “What's
take a roll
?”

“Write down each pupil's name, age, address, and so on. I'll tell you what to do.” She pointed to a pretty girl who looked about twelve or thirteen. “Who's that blonde girl, there? Red bow in her hair?”

“That's Bessie Coburn, my best friend. She's had schoolin' afore.”

“She'll do fine. And over there—” Christy spied Clara Spencer, Fairlight's oldest daughter. “How about you, Clara? Would you like to help?”

Clara glowed and jumped from her seat.

“This is a special job, an important one,” Christy explained as Ruby Mae puffed with pride. “We want to write down the full name of each pupil.” Christy handed each girl a ruled tablet and a pencil. “Age . . . beneath that, parents' names . . . home address . . . and schooling the child might have had.”

Bessie shook her head. “I vow and declare, Teacher. That home address—I'd be much obliged if you'd tell us what you're meanin' by it.”

“Where they live. So I can send parents reports and notices and so on. We have to know that.”

“Can't guess what she's gettin' at,” Ruby Mae said to Clara, who seemed puzzled, too.

“Tell you what. Let's each take a row,” Christy said. “You watch me with the first name, and then you'll understand perfectly.”

All the pupils in Christy's row were boys. The first one looked to be about a second-grader. He was blond, with eyes that looked directly at her as he spoke. He had the firmest mouth she had ever seen on a youngster. “Your name?” Christy asked, her pen poised, ready to write.

“Front name or back name?”

“Well . . . er—both.”

“Front name is Sam Houston.”

There was a long pause. “A fine name,” Christy prodded. “A Tennessee hero. He picked up where Davy Crockett left off, didn't he?” She paused. “Well now, your—what did you call it— back name?”

“Holcombe.”

“Fine. And your father's full name?” Christy asked, writing away.

“He's John Swanson Holcombe.”

“And your mother's name?”

“She's just Mama.”

“But she has a name. What's her name?”

“Women folks call her ‘Lizzie.'”

“But her
real
name?” Christy pressed.

The small brow wrinkled. “Let me study on it now. Oh, surely. Now I know. Elizabeth Teague Holcombe,” the boy announced triumphantly.

Christy glanced over at her three helpers. Their faces seemed to say
You see, not quite as easy as you thought
.

Christy questioned Sam Houston Holcombe. He was nine years old. He had never before been to school. “Last question, Sam,” Christy said.

“Generally go by Sam Houston, Teacher.”

“Of course. I beg your pardon. And now your address. Tell me where you live.”

“Well—” Again, the puzzled look appeared on the small face. “First you cross Cutter Branch. Then you cut across Lonesome Pine Ridge and down. The Gap's the best way. At the third fork in the trail, you scoot under the fence and head for Pigeonroost Hollow. Then you spy our cabin and pull into our place, 'bout two miles or so from the Spencers'.”

Christy scribbled something down quickly, aware of the three girls watching her. Obviously she was going to have to come up with some new system in a hurry for addresses in Cutter Gap!

Slowly she worked her way down the row. Her third student was a boy who claimed his name was Zacharias Jehoshaphat Holt. As soon as the name was out of his mouth, the room burst into snickers.

The boy immediately behind him said softly, “Plumb crazy. That ain't your name at all.”

Christy smiled. She recognized the Tom Sawyer look-alike as Creed Allen, one of the boys she'd met at the Spencers' cabin that awful day.

“This isn't the time for fooling,” Christy said with just a hint of sternness. “We're trying to get the roll down. Now tell me your real name.”

“Zacharias Jehoshaphat—” With that, the boy's right ear jerked violently.

The children laughed uproariously, some of them doubling over. Creed, still straight-faced, volunteered, “Teacher, that's not his name. He's packin' lies. You can tell. Just look at his ear.”

Sure enough, Zacharias' ear jerked again. “Certainly, I see his ear,” Christy said. “But what's that got to do with not telling the truth?”

“Oh, ma'am! All those Holts, when they tell a whopper, their ears twitch—”

Christy ignored him. She turned again to the boy in front. “Tell me your name,” she tried again.

“Zacharias—” He snickered, then swallowed.

“Jehoshaphat—”

Once again, the ear wiggled. But this time Christy saw it—the boy had a string over his ear!

She reached over to remove the cord. But Creed jerked it away from her and stuffed the string in his desk.

That did it! Christy knew she had to control the class, or this sort of prank would get out of hand.

She marched to Creed's desk and reached in. Her fingers touched a mass of wriggling fur. She squealed and stepped backwards, and a small animal as frightened as she was climbed onto the desk, screeching in protest.

A ring-tailed raccoon sat there, looking at Christy from behind his funny mask of a face. He began scolding her, as if he were the teacher and Christy were the naughty pupil.