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

by Ruggieri, Alicia G.

  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.

  The 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 sch
ool 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Geoff gathered up the last of his papers, neatened the pile by giving it a crisp knock on the desk, and tucked it away into his satchel. The room was quiet now. He felt the heavy silence gathering around him as he finished the final tasks of the school day. He straightened the row of seven pencils on his desk, kept ready for forgetful students. He cleaned the chalkboard thoroughly, wiping every remaining tinge of white from the dust-smoked surface, breathing in that dry scent familiar to every teacher. It steadied him now. Kept his mind on the necessary, everyday things. The things that mattered. Not the things that didn’t.

  Because they will never be. His faith collapsed as he thought of the words Emmeline had laid before him two nights ago: We will never have children of our own. Doctor Philips says that I’m losing this baby as we speak.

  The clock’s face drew Geoff’s eyes, an executioner to an unwilling victim. Two-forty-nine. Emmeline would expect him home any time. And he would leave the school soon. But first, he must prepare himself, for he would not – he could not – enter their home with this bitterness drawing new patterns across his face. He could not fail her now; Geoff would get it together before his feet crossed the threshold.

  Even if my own heart breaks, Emmeline must never know it. She must believe – he must make her believe – that it didn’t matter to him if she lost this baby. If she could never carry a baby to full-term. That his only concern was for her health.

  Geoff’s dazed eyes found a piece of chalk that had rolled away beneath his desk. Another excuse to delay just a moment longer. He knelt, welcoming the marble-cold feel of the tile as evidence that the present was indeed real. Once Geoff knelt on the floor, the piece of chalk no longer stood in his line of sight, but his fingers found it readily enough with a little fumbling. They closed around it, and he clambered to his feet again.

  But he couldn’t find the chalk box; the night janitor must have moved it. The fool, he thought, enjoying the unusual stinging pleasure of directing his pain toward another, more innocent man. With no chalk box to be found, Geoff stood clutching that solitary piece in one hand, staring out at the empty desks.

  In one more minute, the detention bell rang. Breaking out of his trance, Geoff shook his head and breathed deeply. Without hesitation, his fingers closed firmly around the chalk-piece and bent. A snap sounded out, clear and loud. If anyone had heard – but there was no one to hear in that empty schoolroom - the crack might have reminded the hearer of a sparrow’s neck suddenly broken.

  Why, God? Why this?

  Grace took off her shoes and socks as soon as her feet found their way off the main road and onto the tree-lined path leading to Papa’s land. The September day had warmed considerably since that morning, and her toes felt hot and cramped.

  Mama sat on the back steps, her worn print skirt covering some of the places where the green paint had chipped off the cement. Her auburn hair wisped around her face in sweaty tendrils, and she’d rolled the long sleeves of her dress way up above her elbows. A dead chicken drooped over her lap; Grace shuddered, glad Mama had strangled it before she’d gotten home.

  “Hi, Mama,” Grace offered, gripping her stack of schoolbooks in one hand, her shoes and socks in the other. Would Mama scold her fiercely for coming home late?

  But Mama just nodded and glanced up, taking in everything about Grace with one blink of her emotionless eyes. Mama’s fingers, thick from half a lifetime of scrubbing dishes and diapers, didn’t pause in their plucking. The white feathers floated around Mama’s feet, shoved into an old pair of Ben’s shoes, sockless. “Careful going into the house barefoot, Grace,” she said.

  Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise, pausing right beside Mama, feet in the piles of feathers. “Why?” she asked, looking down at Mama’s bowed head.

  “Broke something earlier,” Mama replied matter-of-factly. “Clean
ed it up as good as I could, but there might still be some bits of glass lyin’ around. Evelyn got a piece in her foot already.”

  “What, a canning jar broke?” Grace asked. Mama always put up lots of canned preserves and pickles at the end of summer and beginning of fall. Sometimes the newly-washed jars would slip to the floor, splintering into seemingly thousands of pieces.

  “Nope.”

  Grace hesitated, but Mama didn’t offer any further explanation, so she headed on inside the house, careful where she put her feet. The screen door screeched shut behind Grace, but otherwise, the house echoed with silence. She wondered where Evelyn had got to, and Cliff, too. Lou and Nancy were no puzzle; they worked ‘til nearly six o’clock most weekday nights, Lou at a drugstore and Nancy at a fancy department store down-city.

  I wish Ben had stayed. The thought crept from Grace’s heart into her mind, but she pushed it away as she tucked her hair behind her ears. She wouldn’t – she couldn’t think about Ben. He’s gone now, so forget about him, Grace. She saw the broom leaning lazily in the corner and decided to sweep the kitchen thoroughly so it would be ready for bare feet again. Grace took the broom with both her small, strong hands and began sweeping, scraping the corners and edges of the room to be sure to get all the glass. When she’d finished, she scooped the little debris pile into the dustpan and threw the contents into the barrel Papa had placed outside the back door.

  “You want potatoes peeled for supper, Mama?” Grace offered, pausing before going back inside the kitchen. “Or you want ‘em baked?”

  Mama just shrugged. Grace bit her lip. If Mama was in a bad mood, she might refuse when Grace asked her to sign that permission slip. “You want me to open up a jar of beets, too, Mama?” she ventured.