The Silver Suitcase

by Terrie Todd

  “Miss Simpson, Miss Simpson, come quick! Bert Rogers cut off my brother’s ear!”

  Cornelia prayed that the child was exaggerating as she ran behind the wailing girl. The impressive snowslide on the playground stood well over her head, and the first thing she noticed were red stains running the length of it. She found the entire student body clustered around someone at the foot of the hill. As she approached, they cleared a path and Cornelia saw twelve-year-old Billy Webber lying on the snow, clutching a hand to his right ear. His mittens, hair, and the snow under his head were drenched in blood.

  “Oh God, help me,” Cornelia managed to mutter. Normal School had not prepared her for this. If the training manual contained anything relevant to this situation, it likely would have instructed her to “call for the school nurse” or “telephone for help.” Rocky Creek School possessed neither a nurse nor a telephone.

  The nearest town, Roseburg, had no hospital or clinic, and the nearest medical facility was at least an hour’s drive away. Allan Black lived closer to the school than any of the other students, but Allan was absent today.

  Taking a deep breath, Cornelia pushed down the rising panic. Wounds to the head always bleed the most came to her from somewhere deep in her memory. She unwound her scarf while several students shouted at once.

  “Quiet, everyone!” she commanded. “Now calm down. Randy, tell me what happened here.”

  “We were shoveling snow onto our pile,” the boy said, his voice shaky. “Bert’s shovel got too close to Billy’s ear. It was an accident. He didn’t mean nuthin.’ We’ll still be able to sled on our hill, right?”

  Closer examination revealed that Billy’s ear was still attached, but the gash looked severe, and he was losing a lot of blood. Removing her own mittens, she pressed them tightly against the ear and wrapped her scarf around Billy’s head to hold them in place. While she worked, she instructed the children.

  “Randy, I want you to run as fast as you can to the Blacks’ house. Ask them to call Billy’s parents and then come back quickly. If no one is home, I want you to go into their house and use the telephone yourself. If you get no answer at Billy’s house, keep calling other parents until you reach someone. Then hurry back here as fast as you can. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Randy was on his way.

  Cornelia helped Billy to his feet. “Let’s get back inside,” she instructed. “Bert, please add two big pieces of wood to the stove. Brenda and Marlene, I want you girls to fill a basin with clean water and put it on top of the stove. Everyone else, please put away your coats and boots and sit at your desks. Pray for help to come quickly.”

  The students had never been so quiet or cooperative. The sight of Billy’s blood put the fear of death into them, and Cornelia thought immediately of all the young men, not much older than these children, who were fighting real and bloody battles even at this moment.

  Twenty minutes later—though it seemed as if it had taken hours—Randy returned with Cecil Black at the wheel of his farm truck. Cornelia had slowed the bleeding and cleaned most of the blood off Billy’s face. The boy was trying to put on a brave face, but he continued to shake as Cornelia bundled him in her own dry coat and kept him close to the stove.

  Mr. Black burst through the doors.

  “What’s happened here?” his voice boomed, startling the children. Before Cornelia could answer, he had assessed the situation and herded Billy to the door. “Billy’s mother is on her way. The other Webber children are to come with me, and we’ll meet her on the road. Hurry, now.”

  While he waited for Connie and Teeny Webber to grab their coats and schoolbags, Cecil Black turned to Cornelia with a cold stare. “I don’t know who was supervising these children when this happened,” he said. “But you can be sure the board will hear about this.”

  Cornelia swallowed hard and watched them leave. The students looked at her in expectation, and she could tell that Bert Rogers was fighting to hold back his tears.

  “Class,” Cornelia said. “Please bow your heads while we pray for Billy.” They did so, and sniffles registered around the room.

  “Lord, thank you that Billy’s ear is still attached. Please help him see a doctor quickly. And help him heal completely. Now calm our hearts and bring peace to this room, I pray. Amen.”

  By this time, parents were beginning to show up to collect their children. Most students normally walked to school and home again year-round, but thanks to the efficiency of the party line, word had spread. Cornelia was comforting Bert when she glanced out the window and saw Mr. Rogers and Mr. Murphy shoveling fresh snow over the blood spots. Other parents gathered their children and reclaimed shovels. Rides were offered to students whose parents had not come.

  When Mr. Rogers came in to collect Bert, the boy remained at his desk, alone in the classroom.

  “You responsible for all the commotion?” Mr. Rogers said.

  Bert looked at his lap. “Yes, sir.”

  “It was an accident, Mr. Rogers,” Cornelia interrupted. “The boys were just—”

  “Oh, I know it was an accident, Miss Simpson. But I teach my children to take responsibility for their accidents. Come on, Bert. You’ll make amends to the Webber boy once we know how much damage was done.” The two headed toward the door, Bert’s eyes remaining downcast. “Looks like you might be buying Miss Simpson a new dress, too.”

  Cornelia looked down at her blood-spattered dress and closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

  Just as the Rogers family left, Stuart Baker arrived.

  “Looks like I missed the party,” he said, surveying the room.

  Cornelia resisted the temptation to cry and told him the story as calmly as she could. “How could I let it happen, Stuart? I wasn’t watching them! This is all my fault.”

  “Corrie, you cannot possibly keep your eye on thirty-two children at the same time, all day long.”

  “But I was inside when it happened. I should have been—”

  “And you can’t be in all places at once, either.” Stuart put his hands on her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll help you clean things up.”

  Together, Cornelia and Stuart restored order in the room. He carried the basin of bloodied water to the outhouse rather than pouring it out where it would stain more snow. She straightened desks and swept the floor. Tomorrow was another school day, and the janitor, Mr. Cox, came only on weekends.

  “I need to go home and change clothes before we go anywhere, Stuart,” Cornelia said when he came back inside. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I have an idea.” He grinned at her. “I’ll take you home first. But let’s go out for supper and skip the teachers’ meeting. They won’t miss us. And if they do, they’ll understand once they hear about your day. Besides, No Time for Comedy is playing at the Roxy in New Pass.”

  Cornelia smiled up at him. “That does sound good.”

  That’s when she realized her coat, scarf, and mittens had gone out the door with Billy Webber.

  That night, Cornelia took time to write in her long-neglected diary.

  January 15, 1941

  Dear Diary,

  I must be the worst teacher in the history of Rocky Creek School. Maybe even the world. I don’t know what the School Board will do when they hear how Billy Webber almost lost an ear today. I only pray he heals completely, and quickly.

  Stuart is proving as valiant as he is kind. He wrapped his own coat around me after school today and drove me home. While I bathed and changed into a clean outfit, leaving my green wool dress to soak in cold water, Stuart explained to my father what happened. I don’t think I could have recounted the story one more time.

  Then we drove all the way to New Pass and ate the loveliest supper in the Garden Restaurant. We dined on roast beef with all the trimmings, and it was easy to pretend all was peace and prosperity. Stuart regaled me with stories from
his own classroom and embarrassing mistakes made his first year. We lingered over coffee and shared a slice of chocolate cake, which made us late for Jimmy Stewart’s movie. All we missed, though, were the newsreels and we really weren’t in the mood for more scenes from the war anyway.

  We’re hearing rumors that Prime Minister King may go back on his word and introduce conscription for overseas service. On the drive home, I worked up the nerve to ask Stuart if he worried about being drafted.

  “No. Health issues would prevent it for me,” he said, and left it at that.

  CHAPTER 43

  September 2007

  Benita approached the front porch of her mother’s house with a pounding heart. She had called to ask if she could come for the evening, saying only “I have something pretty serious to discuss.”

  Grace opened the door before Benita reached the bottom step, a worried frown on her face. “Benita, honey, come in.” She led the way to the kitchen, where a pot of coffee was nearly done brewing. Her mother seemed to be studying Benita’s face, looking for clues, a worried crease across her forehead. “Let’s sit on the back deck. It’s a nice night and it’s quiet out there.”

  Benita accepted a coffee mug from her mother and followed her to the deck. She settled herself in a wicker chair across from the one her mother had taken, and decided to jump right in.

  “Mom, like I said . . . I have something serious to talk about. I don’t know how to begin.”

  “Is this about you and Ken, sweetie? I’ve been sensing a little tension there.”

  “Oh! No, Mom. It’s not that. Well, I mean—you’re right, there’s tension there. More than a little. But it’s something else. Remember the night I asked if you ever wondered what it would be like to meet a long-lost sibling, given up for adoption?”

  Grace shook her head. “Honey, I told you, you weren’t adopted, I promise. I remember every contraction.” She chuckled and rubbed a hand around on her tummy.

  Benita sighed. “It’s not that, Mom. It’s . . . well . . . you know I had been reading through Gram’s diaries, right?”

  “Before those awful hoodlums stole them, yes.” Grace placed her mug on the table between them and smacked her right fist into her left palm “I’d like to get my hands on those rascals. I looked forward to reading Mother’s diaries myself when you finished, and now I may never get to.”

  “Mom, Gram revealed a pretty big secret about something that happened to her when she was a young girl. Before she met your father. Did you ever hear of her having a boyfriend named Henry who died in the war?”

  Her mother thought for a few seconds. “Yes, I did. His relatives lived in our community, but he was a city boy. I asked her once—when I was in my teens—if she had any boyfriends before Dad. ‘Just one,’ she said. It was a short summer’s romance, though, nothing serious. He went off to join the army and died in a train wreck. What a tragedy. So young.”

  “Turns out it was a little more involved than that, Mom. Did you know Gram stayed with Henry’s parents here in Winnipeg for a while after he died?”

  Grace thought a minute. “I think she may have mentioned it, although I wouldn’t have remembered if you hadn’t told me.”

  “Did you know she didn’t return home for over a year?”

  “Really? Well, she wouldn’t have, would she? She went to Normal School in Winnipeg.”

  “But before Normal School, Mom. Something happened. In June of 1940. Gram gave birth to a baby girl.”

  Her mother went silent and her face started to turn pale. Benita let this revelation sink in for a minute before continuing.

  “The baby was Henry’s. Gram gave her up for adoption, then went to Normal School for a year. She graduated in 1941.”

  Grace seemed to regain her composure, but then she shook her head and her rate of speech picked up to double time.

  “You’ve got your facts mixed up, Benita. Mom started teaching back in Roseburg as soon as she finished Normal School. That’s when she met Dad, and they got married in ’42. Dad was a teacher, too, as you know. The army would have drafted him, but he couldn’t serve because of a bad knee. Mom used to tease him and say that was the reason she married him, because she knew he wouldn’t go off to fight. They moved into Grandpa’s farmhouse when I was born, although I don’t remember living there. They built the new house in ’46 when I was two. After the war ended.”

  Grace paused for a quick breath. “Grandpa passed away when I was ten. I remember it, because I was so heartbroken. He was such an old sweetheart. Had the bluest eyes you ever saw. I used to tag along with him when he did the farm chores. ‘My right-hand girl,’ he called me. They let me go to the funeral, though, and I was the only kid in my whole school who ever attended a funeral, so I felt pretty important. I can still remember what I wore. This little navy suit with a white—”

  Benita jumped in. “Mom!”

  Her mother stopped talking, but her eyes continued to dart about the room like she was tracking a fly.

  Benita tried to proceed gently. “I’m sure your grandpa was a wonderful man, Mom. The diaries indicate she never told him her secret. It’s possible she didn’t even tell your father. Do you think he knew?”

  Grace stared at a spot on the floor, then slowly shook her head. “There was no secret, Benita. No baby. You’re mistaken. It’s not possible.”

  Grace gathered up the coffee mugs and headed for the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 44

  January 1942

  Cornelia sat on her hands to keep from biting her fingernails. The school board had called a special meeting and asked her to attend. Now she sat in Cecil Black’s living room waiting for the rest of the board members to arrive. Mrs. Black had placed cookies and teacups on the coffee table, but they sat untouched. Cornelia’s Aunt Miriam sat perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair. Mr. Rogers, the chairman, had chosen an overstuffed armchair. When Mr. Johnson and Mrs. McKinnley arrived, they completed the quorum, and Mr. Rogers wasted no time before calling things to order. While he read the minutes of their last meeting, Aunt Miriam leaned over and whispered in Cornelia’s ear.

  “I won’t be defending you, Corrie. Not because I agree with Cecil Black, but because you need to stand up for yourself.”

  Cornelia’s thoughts turned to the conversation she’d had with her father the previous evening.

  “Daddy, what if they fire me?”

  “Sweetheart, they’re not going to fire you. Where would they find another teacher in January?”

  “Oh, thanks. That helps a lot.”

  Charles chuckled. “Honey, Cecil Black has been nothing but a bully since he and his family moved to this district five years ago. I don’t know what’s eating him, but you remember these words and you’ll do fine: ‘The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.’”

  “Is that one of your Sunday school Bible verses, Daddy?”

  “You know it.”

  “Where’s it found?”

  “Beats me. Chapter and verse were your mother’s specialty. Somewhere in Exodus, maybe.” He kissed her cheek and headed up the stairs to bed. “You have yourself a good sleep. It will turn out all right. You’re smarter than that whole school board put together.”

  Mr. Rogers’s abrupt “Carried!” brought Cornelia back to the moment. The minutes of the board’s last meeting were approved.

  “Miss Simpson,” Mr. Rogers said, “I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that we’ve called this meeting to discuss the events of ten days ago at your school. I’m turning the floor over to Mr. Cecil Black. Cecil?”

  Mr. Black cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and studied his notes. “On January 15, 1942, I was shovelin’ manure in my barn when I heard a young man runnin’ toward my farm yellin’ at the top of his lungs. It was Randy Murphy, all out of breath. The boy told me there was an accident at the school with one of the Webb
er children. I immediately ran into the house and telephoned Mrs. Webber. We agreed I would pick up her children and meet her on the road. The Murphy boy got into my truck and we hurried back to the school.

  “When I saw all the blood on the playground, I was sure the Webber child would be a goner. I carried him and his sisters in my truck quickly down the road, where I met their parents at the corner of the old river road and the Kelm road. They was some upset. Mrs. Webber was cryin’ and carryin’ on. The lad required stitches and stayed in the hospital overnight.”

  The man paused, and Cornelia hoped he was done. But he flipped his paper over, scratched his ear, and continued.

  “I believe if the children had been properly supervised, this event could have been avoided. Why did Miss Simpson here let ’em bring shovels to school in the first place? I understand Miss Simpson was not outdoors watching the students but inside the schoolhouse at the time. I’m only thankful my own boy stayed home with a cold that day, or it might have been his ear what almost got cut off. This type of serious neglect is completely unacceptable to me as a parent, and as a member of this here board, I move that Miss Simpson’s position be exterminated immediately.”

  Cornelia’s head snapped up. Just like that?

  “You mean terminated,” Aunt Miriam muttered, rolling her eyes.

  “Is that a second?” Cecil Black asked.

  “Now just a minute, Cece,” said Rupert Johnson. “I don’t think you or anybody else should make any motions until we’ve heard Miss Simpson’s side of this story.”

  Mr. Rogers spoke up. “Rupert’s right. It is indeed regrettable that this happened, and we’re all aware it could have been far worse. But according to the reports of my own children, Miss Simpson handled the situation admirably.”