The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) (6 page)

She let her feet
move faster, clicking hurriedly down the remaining bit of sidewalk and up the
walk to their front door. She turned the knob – always left unlocked – and let
herself into the kitchen, still and sunny in the long Saturday afternoon. On
the table, a note from Geoff told her that he’d run over to the school to fetch
some papers and would be back by supper-time. Emmeline slipped into a chair at
the table. So she had until five o’clock to figure out what to tell him.

M
r. Kinner looks sad
today.
The
thought surprised Grace as she glanced up from her literature book and peeked around
Kirby McMillan’s round body. In front of Grace’s desk, Kirby stood stiffly,
shoulders bowed over like an old potato, droning out the stanzas of
In
Memoriam
with as much emotion as a four-line newspaper obituary. Mr.
Kinner, normally the sort of teacher who moved constantly around the classroom,
sat at his rectangular desk, dwarfed by its massive width. Throughout Kirby’s
reading, he’d remained motionless except for the steady blinking of his eyes.

I wonder what’s
wrong.
As Kirby’s voice whined on, Grace studied Mr. Kinner, noting the shadows
circling his eyes, the tight line of his usually-mobile mouth. She’d just
dropped her eyes back to her textbook when she felt a poke from behind her.

It was Ruth Ann
Richards, Grace’s lunchroom friend, passing a note. With a glance at the
unobservant Mr. Kinner, Grace took it, unfolding the small square of lined
yellow paper. She held it on her lap to read it.

What’s wrong
with Mr. K. today? He never lets Kirbs go on like this.

With a furtive
look up, Grace licked the tip of her pencil and scribbled her reply.
I don’t
know. Seems kind of sad, doesn’t he?

She passed it
back and waited for the reply. A moment later, she received another poke.

My mother is on
the Sunday School committee with Doctor Philips’ wife, and she said something
is wrong with his wife.

Grace squinted
down at the note and paused a minute before scratching out her reply.
Whose
wife? Doctor Philips’?

A moment’s wait.
A poke.
No, silly. Something’s wrong with Mr. K.’s wife.

Grace couldn’t
resist the pull of curiosity.
What’s wrong with her?
Her pencil asked
the question breathlessly.

Ruth Ann’s
answer came swiftly.
Can’t have a baby, I guess. She’s pregnant and is going
to lose the one she’s carrying now.

Grace raised her
eyebrows. Not being able to have a baby might be a good thing. Letting her eyes
linger on her schoolmate’s scribble, she thought of Mama with her six children,
seven come late winter, scraping together pennies, scrubbing floors full of mud,
weeping in the night when she assumed that no one could hear her.

Whenever Mama’s
sister Mary Evelyn – Grace’s little sister was Aunt Mary’s namesake – came over
to see Mama from her apartment in Boston… Well, Aunt Mary would
tsk
her
tongue every time one of the Picoletti kids came in or out of the room. Grace
knew what Aunt Mary thought, sitting there primly, all dressed up in her shiny
patent-leather heels and her mink wrap: The children were the root of Mama’s
problem.
If you’d been smart like me, little sister, you’d never have had
kids, marriage or no marriage. You’d never have gotten yourself stuck with a
man like this.
That’s what Aunt Mary thought; Grace was sure of it. And
then Mama would just fetch Aunt Mary another cup of coffee, full of Bessie’s
cream. And the cup would pass from the work-roughened hands of one sister to
the smooth tapered fingers of the other one. They would sit there sipping their
coffee, both thinking, Grace was sure, of what might’ve been.

The note still sat
on her lap, and Grace knew that Ruth Ann wanted a reply. Itching her leg with
one shoe, the sole of which had been refastened with rubber bands, Grace
penciled her side of the conversation.

That’s all?

Ruth Ann’s
answer came swiftly.
What do you mean, that’s all? My mother says Mr. K. probably
wishes he’d married a different girl. Plenty of girls were after him, you know.
And—

“Miss
Picoletti.” Empty of its usual good-humor, Mr. Kinner’s voice broke into her
reading. Grace felt the blood drain from her face and then flood it again. She
forced her eyes to look up at her teacher, but she found she could only manage
to gaze steadily at his starched white shirt. “And Miss Richards,” Mr. Kinner
continued. “You both will be detained after class today. May I have the note,
please?”

Grace’s mouth turned
to cotton. She heard Ruth Ann take in a quick breath. Numbly, Grace lifted the
heavy note and passed it to Mr. Kinner, her ears going through various shades
of pink, purple, and scarlet.

He folded it
along the same lines as Grace and Ruth Ann had and slipped it into his pants
pocket. For all its dangerous information, it didn’t even make a bulge. Mr.
Kinner turned to Kirby. “Mr. McMillan, you may continue reading.”

Grace’s heart sank
into her soles of her shoes and onto the dusty floor. For the rest of the
class, her mind drifted between what Mr. Kinner would think of her once he read
the note – that she was a pitiless gossip – and whether he would send a message
home to her mother. If he did, Grace certainly would receive a sound beating
from Papa… if he was home. She cringed to think of his hand thudding against
her ear, to look forward to bearing the bruises of his punishment to school for
several days following it.

Yet that surely
would not be the worst of it. The worst of it would be that Mr. Kinner would
never want Grace to be in the special choir now. For Grace had taken heart when
she’d heard Ben talk to Mama about her joining. She’d planned to ask Mr. Kinner
for another permission slip after school today.

Grace drooped
down in her desk chair. Not now, though. Not ever.

T
he siren of the
school bell broke Grace’s miserable reverie. Her eyes traveled to the clock
above the classroom door. The black hands pointed out the time: 2:27 p.m. The
early afternoon sun slid through the paned windows lining the far wall, but it
did nothing to thaw Grace’s fear.

Heart thudding
from her thin chest into her fingertips, Grace rose from the desk. She was
silent compared to the loud scraping of her fellow students as they gathered
their books together, laughing and chattering. But then, they didn’t have to
think about the rebuke that surely awaited her from Mr. Kinner’s mouth, the
disappointment that would certainly float in his eyes. Nor did they have to
dread the backhanded strike of Papa, which might meet Grace tonight.

Ruth Ann caught
her eye and smirked. “Come on, Grace. Let’s get this over with,” she whispered,
flipping her cinnamon curls over her shoulder and picking up her small stack of
schoolbooks, piled up like Saturday morning pancakes. Grace knew Ruth Ann
wouldn’t be carrying them home; she’d only have to flutter her thick eyelashes
at some boy out front of the school and he’d tote all the books she wanted home
for her.

Grace tucked her
own stringy hair behind one ear, fingers trembling worse than the autumn leaves
still clinging to some of the trees outside the classroom windows. She forced
herself to nod at Ruth Ann, pick up her own stack of books, and carve a path up
to Mr. Kinner.

Beside his desk,
Mr. Kinner stood in his characteristic slight slouch, intently listening to
Paulie Giorgi. In his hands, Paulie held last week’s essay assignment, three or
four pages of paper clipped together. Mr. Kinner had returned the essays to the
class today, all graded with the now-thick-now-thin navy blue ink of his
fountain pen.

“So I’m just
wondering, Mr. Kinner, why my grade is an A minus,” Grace heard Paulie say, his
peppy voice betraying no disrespect for the teacher, only confusion. “I added
together the points for the components of the essay, and it seems to come to a
ninety-six, sir, not a ninety-two.”

Seeming to force
a smile, Mr. Kinner reached his hand out for the paper. “Here, let me see,
Paulie. I may have made a mistake.” He flipped through the lined yellow sheets,
filled to the margins with Paulie’s enthusiastic cursive. His lips moved
silently as he added the points marked beside each essay component while Grace
resisted the urge to look at the clock again. Mr. Kinner never gave an
incorrect grade; he did everything methodically as a pocket-watch. Couldn’t
perfect Paulie just accept the fact that this essay hadn’t turned out to be his
best? If Mr. Kinner didn’t finish with Paulie soon, and then with her and Ruth
Ann’s scolding in double-quick time, Grace knew she would pay for being late
from school again.

Grace sighed,
and just then, Paulie turned his head a little and gave her a slight smile.
He
has nice dimples,
Grace surprised herself with thinking, despite her
growing anxiety. She turned red as spring beets, but it didn’t matter because
Mr. Kinner had drawn Paulie’s attention back to the essay in question.

“You’re right,
Paul,” he said, taking his pen from inside his suit jacket. “I didn’t add that up
correctly.” His pen making a scratch-scratch noise, Mr. Kinner crossed out the
ninety-two at the top of Paulie’s essay and wrote in his new grade: ninety-six.
“I’ll change your grade in my log as well,” he said, pocketing his pen once
more.

“Thanks, Mr.
Kinner,” Paulie smiled. “I appreciate it.” He took the paper Mr. Kinner
proffered and tucked it into his leather school satchel, fastening the buckle
securely. With a nod to Grace and Ruth Ann, Paulie left the otherwise-empty
classroom, shutting the door behind him with a snappy click.

Mr. Kinner
focused on the two girls. “Ah, Miss Picoletti and Miss Richards. The note
passers,” he commented, his voice void of humor but holding no anger. “Now,
girls, it’s the beginning of the year. I would like us all to start off on the
right foot.” Again, he forced a smile to his lips. “Passing notes has no place
in my class. While I like to encourage friendships inside and outside the
classroom, I don’t care for misuse of time. Which is what note-passing is when
the context is literature class. Do you understand?”

Grace nodded
fervently. Ruth Ann replied, “Oh, yes, sir. We understand, don’t we, Grace?”
She turned wide-open blue eyes to Grace.

Grace licked her
lips, desperate for moisture before croaking out, “Y-yes.”

Mr. Kinner gave
a single nod, letting the smile drop off his face. “Alright, you may go.
There’s no further punishment this time for you two.”

Ruth Ann broke
out into an exuberant grin, quite the alteration from her attitude of degraded
penitence just moments before. “Oh,
thank you
, Mr. Kinner, sir. And I
promise, we’ll never do it again, will we, Grace?” She looked to Grace for her
agreement, and Grace managed a weak bob of her head, her heart pounding with gratitude
for getting off so easily. But her eyes traveled to Mr. Kinner’s pocket, where
the note must still reside.
Has he read it?

Ruth Ann backed
away, still rewarding Mr. Kinner with her smile and forgetting Grace, who stood
unsure before the teacher. A moment more, and Grace’s schoolmate left the room
to Grace and Mr. Kinner, who tilted his head, evidently wondering why she
stayed. “Grace?” he asked. “Is there something else?”

Grace swallowed.
Could she…
Should
she ask? The clock ticked loudly on the wall, mocking
her hesitation. But she counted five seconds and then made herself say, “Mr.
Kinner…”

She could get no
farther, but he must have seen how her eyes moved to his pants pocket. A ghost
of his usual kind expression rested on his countenance. He drew out the folded
note. “Here you go,” he said, offering it to Grace. She took it, breathing a
sigh of relief when it left his hands and returned to hers. “I didn’t read it,”
Mr. Kinner added, turning toward his desk. He closed his thick teacher’s
edition of their literature book and shoved it into his own satchel.

Grace couldn’t
reply; gratitude swelled her throat.
Thank you, God,
she silently
uttered a rare spontaneous prayer. If Mr. Kinner had ever read the things she
and Ruth Ann had written about his wife! And about
him
! Grace felt her
knees turn to jelly just thinking about it now that it was over. She squeezed
the folded paper in her palm, destining it for the stove once she got home.

Home! Suddenly,
her mind and feet began to work again. With a weak smile at Mr. Kinner, Grace
scrambled for the door, mentally cursing the rubber-band shoe that
would
flop.

“Miss
Picoletti.”

At Mr. Kinner’s
call, Grace stopped with her hand on the heavy knob.
What now?
Dread rose
again in her chest as she turned back to the teacher.

But he merely
held out a sheet of mimeographed paper. “You dropped your permission slip the
other day.”

Grace felt so
stunned she couldn’t reply. He still wanted her to be in his special choir, though
she passed notes in class? Though she had a shoe that flopped? Though she’d
fallen flat on her face in the auditorium before him? She froze, knowing her
mouth hung open like a fish out of water.

“You know,”
continued Mr. Kinner, “for the special choir. You do still want to be a part of
it?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Grace commanded
her mouth to close, her tongue to moisten her lips again, and her vocal chords
to work. “Yes, sir,” she replied, gaining courage. “I do.”

He gave a little
smile. “Good. Here you go, then.” He held the permission slip out to her again,
and Grace moved up the aisle to grasp it. Once it reached her hands, she
clasped it against her chest. She wasn’t able to contain the grin that broke
through all her nervousness and shame, so she let it fall on Mr. Kinner before
rushing out the door.