Under the Same Blue Sky (7 page)

He shook his head and scratched. “She’s been sick. Can you make her better?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m helping with her schoolwork.”

“Well, the berries grow back there.” He pointed into the woods. “In a meadow by the pines. You can find them.” Before I could thank him, he melted away, so quickly and cleanly that if not for the leafy package, I might have conjured him. I took a pot to the meadow, gathered berries, and made a passable jam. Then I planned the next day’s lessons. My own teachers had never addressed the problem of a mother’s hovering care. This would be my challenge, the first of many. Perhaps in facing them, I could achieve what Margit couldn’t: a useful, even happy life in a new land.

On Saturday, I walked into town. Families from the country would be there. I’d introduce myself to parents and ensure they’d keep their children in my school. Men in overalls and women in faded print dresses listened politely, looking over my shoulder, or at the ground, or across the street as I spoke. “Yes, miss,” they said. “We’ll send them.”

In two hot hours on Main Street, I told Jim Burnett proudly, I’d accounted for thirteen children. With those from town, every bench would be filled. “Well, let’s hope they stay that way, Hazel,” he said.

A
S WE MOVED
through the summer, my hours with Susanna grew longer. We could sometimes take our lessons in the gazebo, a delicious nest of honeysuckle and roses. By folding Bible study into history; poetry into spelling, penmanship, and mathematics; and alternating natural science with recitations, I postponed the yawns that drew Mrs. Ashton scurrying from the house with her terrible word
overtired
.

“I’m fine, Mother,” might wrest us more time, in which Susanna unfailingly requested geography. “Do you think I’ll ever see the world?” she always asked. I always answered, “Of course.” Then she’d look away, as if searching for herself on the Amazon, in Bombay, or even Arizona.

Often, coming home from tutoring, I found gifts on my porch steps: wild onions, dandelion greens, daylily roots, or edible mushrooms. When I bent to get them, Ben would come melting out of the woods. To be thanked set him to scratching, but he readily explained where he’d found these offerings and how to prepare them.

“Now you let me know if Crazy Ben is bothersome. I can make him stay away,” Henry regularly offered.

“He’s no bother, and he knows so much about the woods.”

“I’m not surprised. Some say he’s half Indian. The crazy half.” Ignoring this, I asked again when my house might be painted. “You’re still wanting
blue
?”

“Yes, I’d like that.”

“Well, we’ll see.” So I’d get no paint. City folks want strange things, he might be thinking. And they don’t mind a crazy man.

It was true that I’d ceased being troubled by Ben’s matted hair, ravaged skin, sometimes-vacant eyes when his voices called, his twitches, and sudden comings and disappearances. The common term
friendship
fit our bond as poorly as cast-off clothes fit his spindly limbs. He listened with quiet patience when I spoke of my plans and fears for teaching, the cities I hoped to see, and my mother’s anxious letters: “All he talks about now are casualties and every night he’s working on those tins.”

“I don’t know much about this war,” Ben said, “but I saw the other one.”

“In Cuba, with the Rough Riders?”

“Yes, that one.” He spoke often of Cuba, or rather, shared wisps of memories: the bright birds, shimmering heat over tobacco fields, fine ladies’ promenades by the sea, and hills where “bad things happened.” Of these “things” he’d offer only: “You can’t get blood off your skin. It’s always there forever.”

“Is that why you scratch?”

He didn’t answer, only noting that he knew where to find more blackberries. Then he was silent. I asked if I could sketch him and he nodded. No model was more patient, or more difficult. I had to wait out his jerks, twitches, and scratching, but he’d pose for hours. I drew him as he was now and as he might have been before Cuba, with smooth skin in a crisp uniform. I drew Susanna for him, and the Burnett family, who were good to him. For myself, I drew children bent over their slates in the schoolhouse. Ben never came inside my house and took no pay for the wild foods he brought or the firewood he chopped. He did accept coffee and some meals on the porch and sometimes let me patch his clothes. Only one fact was troubling: his constant questions about Susanna and our lessons.

“Ben, do you ever watch us from the woods?”

“The judge said: ‘Stay away from my house.’”

“Do you?”

“They keep her inside too much. That makes her sick. Outside, the bad things go away. Look, Miss Hazel, the night’s first firefly.” So we looked, as tiny lights filled the ragged lawn. I put down my pencil and let the outside fill me.

With each week, I was growing more at ease in Galway. I’d begun attending church. Parents smiled and nodded as we gathered for coffee after services. Some children shyly asked if I was strict, if I switched “the bad ones,” how long they’d have for recess, what we’d do for the Christmas program, and if I could teach them how to draw, for word had spread that I could do this.

Several mothers politely said they’d heard from Mrs. Ashton that Susanna enjoyed her lessons. Judge Ashton, always formal in a wool jacket and waistcoat despite the heat, pulled me aside to admit that he’d tested Susanna and found her progressing well.

“Thank you, Judge.”

He cleared his throat. “However, please do not expose our daughter to diseases.”

“Sir?”

“I’m talking about Crazy Ben. I’ve heard he—visits at your house.” Had Henry told him this?

I bristled. “Ben Robinson has a mental condition. It’s in no way contagious.” The bushy eyebrows pulled together.

“He scratches like a dog with fleas.”

“It’s a mental condition,” I repeated, managing a wide smile as Mrs. Ashton came to remind me of the ice cream social that afternoon.

“Susanna is still too delicate for school,” she said, “but we do hope to send her soon, don’t we, Edgar?” The judge nodded, gave me a chill handshake, and moved away.

That evening I wrote home about the social and the square dance that followed. “Everyone is very nice. Come visit soon and see.” I’d asked Henry once again when the house would be painted. My parents would be troubled by the dreary, bare siding. Of course, I could buy the paint and do the work myself, but why? My salary was small, and I fully intended to be Galway’s best schoolmarm. Unpainted wood rots more quickly, making more expense for the school board. Blue paint would save this expense as well as white. There was no excuse for Henry’s “We’ll see” besides stubbornness. Or else he assumed that the start of school would wash away all my thoughts of blue.

O
N THE MORNING
of my first school day, I rang the bell, as I’d done so often in my dreams. Twenty children marched in, fewer than I expected. The town children had new clothes and shined shoes; most of the country children were barefoot, and would be, I’d been told, until the first frost. But they were all alike in this: the friendly, open faces at the ice cream social had vanished. Now forty eyes watched me warily.
Even Alice Burnett seemed cautious, as if we’d never met. Of course, what child wants summer to end? But what of the older boys’ smirks and covert signs?

I introduced myself and announced we’d start the day with nature drawing. With Ben’s help, I’d collected fantastically turned roots, stones with embedded crystals, feathers, oddly shaped branches, bird nests, and abandoned honeycombs. I set these all on a table. “Now choose a partner, pick something interesting, and draw it in your own way.”

“Miss Clay always did spelling first.” No face claimed the statement; it might have come from the walls. My crisply pressed shirtwaist grew hotter and smaller. I’d never imagined the first day like this.

Something moved in Horace Butler’s pocket. He pulled it out and tossed it on the floor. Screams filled the schoolhouse as a toad croaked and hopped across my feet. I nearly screamed myself. How could they know I had an irrational fear of toads?
Don’t show it. The rest of the year depends on what you do now.
I managed to corner the wildly hopping little beast, which must have had an equal fear of schoolhouses. I spread my skirt and closed the cloth around him. He was frantic now, thumping against my legs, and I was frantic to be rid of him. But I couldn’t do this yet, even if—and this was also terrible—the children were seeing my petticoat.

“Empty the water bucket and bring it here, now!” I ordered Horace and sent Charlie Davis for a piece of glass that workmen had carelessly left behind. “Now get this thing out of my skirt, put it in the bucket, and cover it with glass.”

“How?”

I wouldn’t answer, only glared. Horace and Charlie managed the maneuver, mortified to be so close to me. “Now get your slates and list thirty things you notice about a toad. Don’t stop until you do.” The class was watching me, openmouthed, as if I were a toad-charmer.
“We’ll do nature drawing now,” I said. They moved meekly to the table, chose their objects, and set to work, their backs to the boys with the bucket.

By recess time, Horace and Charlie had listed ten factors of color, size, and shape. “There’s nothing else to notice,” they moaned.

“Twenty more. You noticed enough to catch him. When the others are outside for recess, you’ll have more quiet for noticing, won’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Renner,” they said.

When the children trooped back, we began our regular lessons. So many reciting in a small space made a deafening noise; my throat ached from speaking when lunchtime finally came. I sent the children outside, including Horace and Charlie, whose list had reached twenty-five. Dripping with sweat, I sank into my chair, listening to their shouts and calls from the schoolyard. I’ll draw them, I was thinking wearily, but not today.

Suddenly the screaming stopped. Why? I ran to the window and saw Alice Burnett rolling and jerking in the dust. The class made a gawking circle around her. Some twitched in mockery, encouraged by their friends. I raced outside. “The devil’s got her!” Frances was shouting in gleeful horror.

“Devil fit, devil fit!” others chanted.

“Get back! Leave her alone!” I shouted. By now the fit had passed, and Alice lay spent, hiding her face in shame.

“Is it catching?” asked a voice behind me.

“Of course not. Charlie, take everybody inside. Lunchtime’s over.” I had Emma, the oldest girl, help Alice clean herself at the well. I might have predicted that the first day of school might cause anxiety. Which Jim Burnett had said could bring on a fit. I should have been more attentive to her, or given her a small task inside with me. Now all I could do was lecture the children until they hung their heads.
“Will this happen again?” I asked in a steely voice that was new to me.

“No, Miss Renner,” they chorused.

Emma slipped back into the room. “Alice went home,” she said. “She wasn’t feeling well.” Of course not. Her first day in my classroom had been mortifying.

I handed out paper from the small stock that Henry provided. “You’ll each describe a time someone laughed at you and how you felt. Then you’ll describe how you think Alice feels today. The younger children can draw pictures.
If
this happens again, I’ll show these papers to your parents.” Every child gulped. I watched them work. So this was what they’d remember of their first day at my school: a punishment.

For the rest of the afternoon I marched the children through spelling and mathematics exercises at their several levels, released them at three, and dragged myself home. I couldn’t face Alice’s parents. Henry had dropped off a package from my mother:
butterplätzchen
, carefully wrapped. “For our Hazel,” the note read, “who will be an exceptional teacher.” Exhausted, embarrassed, demoralized, I bent over the table and cried. Ben had been gone for days, driven to Red Gorge by his voices. Owls hooted outside, laughing at me. Fortunately I’d already planned the first week’s lessons. I ate a bowl of cold soup and spent a miserable night. Why had I thought teaching was easy? What arrogance suggested I’d be exceptional?

Alice wasn’t in school the next day. Nor were five of the older country children. After morning prayer, Emma cleared her throat and announced: “Miss Renner, we’re sorry about yesterday with Alice.”

“And—?”

“And about the toad.”

“Thank you, Emma. I appreciate the apology. And I’m sure you’ll
all
apologize personally to Alice.” Silence. “Won’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Renner.” I promised to have Dr. Bentley explain what was known about epilepsy. I described in detail what would be done and not done if Alice had another fit.

“Now we won’t talk more about what happened. We’ll have Charlie and Horace tell us what they learned about toads.” They did this, shyly pleased with their list. Then came spelling and geography bees, with questions scaled for each grade. I made quick sketches of the winners. Perhaps, with enough varied competitions, every child could win a portrait by Christmas. At recess, I asked Emma about the five students who hadn’t returned.

She shrugged. “They always do that—show up the first day and then stay home.” Apparently nothing had made them act otherwise for me.

After school I went to Burnett’s Grocery and waited until Jim was alone to confess: “I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. How is Alice?”

“She cried all night. She’d convinced herself that she wouldn’t have a fit in your school, that everything would be different with a new teacher.”

Instead, everything was the same. “I’m so sorry, Jim,” I repeated.

“It’s not your fault. No teacher can stop fits.”

“I wish I could, but the children will not behave as they did. I can promise her that. You have our word.”

“It’s so hard to see your child suffer, and Dr. Bentley says it’s just something she’ll have to live with. But if the others don’t torment her, that’s something. I’ll tell her what you said, Hazel. Now you tell me about the rest of the day.” I described the toad incident, which made him laugh. It was, in retrospect, mildly funny. “And I’ll bet you won’t have any more trouble from Charlie and Horace. They’re good boys, once you’ve got them on your side.”