“Only half?” George joked.
“Seriously. You’d better watch your step, or you’ll have Ruby Mae and Bessie battling over you.”
“Like the reverend and the doctor are battling over you?” George wiggled his eyebrows in a teasing way. “Shouldn’t they be dueling at dawn any day now?”
“They’ve called a truce,” Christy grinned, “at least temporarily.”
Christy and George paused on the schoolhouse steps. Out on the lawn, the children were gathered in small groups, waiting for the afternoon classes to begin.
“Mother said the reverend asked you to marry him,” George said.
“He did. But I wasn’t ready for a commitment like that. And I have . . . feelings for Neil.”
“I thought so. Well, if you want my two cents’ worth, either one would make a fine brother-in-law.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And in the meantime, if Ruby Mae and Bessie inquire about my availability,” George said, “just tell them I’m not ready for a commitment like that, either.”
Christy went to ring the bell that signaled the end of the break, but just then, she remembered something. “I almost forgot. Miss Alice gave me a letter this morning. Mr. Pentland, the mailman, delivered it to her cabin by mistake. It’s for you.” Christy reached into the pocket of her long skirt and passed the envelope to George.
He glanced at the envelope, scowled, and stuffed it into his own pocket.
“It’s from Richard, isn’t it?” Christy asked. “I’d have thought you’d be glad to hear from him.”
“Naw,” George shrugged, “now he’ll expect a response. You know what a lousy letterwriter I am.”
“I noticed that the return address was from your school,” Christy said, “but I thought you said Richard was going home to Richmond while they did repairs. I mean, the dormitory can’t be lived in, right?”
“Hey, I don’t go around reading your mail, do I?” George snapped.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s just that I happened to notice the return address.”
Instantly, George’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Sis. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. Richard probably sent the letter from the train station before he left for Richmond. That’s why he used the school’s address.”
“Oh, of course. That makes sense.”
“So, time to ring the bell?” George asked.
“Ring away.”
While George rang for the children, Creed Allen and John Washington dashed over to Christy. “Miz Christy?” Creed asked. “Is we a-havin’ story time today?”
“Yes, Creed,” Christy nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She loved telling the children stories as much as she knew they loved hearing them. Since the school was too poor to afford books, sometimes Christy told Bible stories. Sometimes she recounted Aesop’s fables, or stories she remembered reading as a child. And sometimes she just made up tales out of her own head. “As a matter of fact,” Christy said, “I have a wonderful story in mind—”
“We was wonderin’ somethin’, Teacher,” John interrupted, “that is, if’n you don’t mind. We was wonderin’ if maybe George could do the storytellin’ today.”
Christy hesitated. “George?”
“He’s a powerful fine storyteller, Teacher,” Creed said excitedly. “Keeps you in stitches, he does.”
“Well, I suppose,” Christy said slowly, “if George wants to tell you a story, it would be all right.”
“Hooray!” John cried.
Christy watched as the two boys sprinted inside. She’d never seen them so excited about story time. At this rate, George would be ready to replace her before the week was out.
She wondered if anybody would even notice she was gone.
After school, George walked down to the little pond near the mission house. It took a while to lose his trail of fans—Ruby Mae, Bessie, and Clara. But finally he found a quiet spot where he could be alone.
George took out the letter from Richard and opened it. The pages shook in his trembling hand.
He was not going to read the note. What was the point? There was nothing Richard could say to change what had happened.
There was nothing anyone could say.
Another letter would be coming soon enough. George could imagine his mother’s beautiful handwriting. He could almost read her impassioned words. He could almost see the blurred ink, stained by tears.
As soon as she found out what had happened, she would write Christy. It shouldn’t be much longer. He’d have to be ready to leave by then.
Slowly, George crumpled the letter into a tight ball. He tossed it far, far out into the pond.
It took a few moments to sink, but when it finally disappeared beneath the calm grayblue water, he felt relieved.
That part of George’s life was over. He was never going back to school. He was never going home again.
As George pondered his situation, only one question remained: where was he going from here?
Six
That evening, Christy crawled into bed with her diary. She’d gone to bed early. George was still downstairs with Miss Ida, Miss Alice, and David. From time to time, their laughter drifted up the stairs. Each time she heard their voices, Christy cringed a little.
She got out her pen and thumbed through the well-worn pages of her diary. Soon she would need to get another one. This one was nearly full. Full of the daily events of her life here at the mission. Full of hopes and fears and tears and laughter.
She was proud of this diary and what it represented. It was the story of her biggest triumph—coming here to teach. It was about learning, and growing, and making dear friends.
Her life in Cutter Gap was precious to her. It was an adventure of her own choosing. Hers, and hers alone.
Was that why she was feeling resentful about George’s presence here? Did she feel as if this were her territory—something she didn’t want to share, not even with her own brother?
Christy opened her diary to a fresh page. After a moment, she began to write:
I suppose I need to accept that Neil was right—I am jealous of George. As embarrassed as I am to admit that, it’s the truth.
I love my brother dearly. But around him, I always feel like the little sister. People are drawn to him. Even my students seem to prefer him to me.
I know I shouldn’t feel this way. But when I was sitting there at school today, listening to the children giggle at George’s silly version of “Jack and the Beanstalk,” I felt the old green-eyed monster— jealousy—eating away at me, the same way it did when I was a little girl and George sometimes stole away my parents’ attention.
On top of all this, I still have lingering doubts about the real reason George is here. Today, for example, he acted oddly when I asked him about a letter he’d received.
Maybe I’m imagining things. Could it be that Neil is right, and I’m just looking for problems that aren’t there because I’m feeling resentful of George?
Neil invited George and me to dinner tomorrow night. I have to admit that for a moment, even that simple, kind gesture from Neil made me resent George.
Just then, the sound of loud laughter met Christy’s ears. She sighed and set down her pen.
A phrase from the Bible flashed into her head: “Charity envieth not.”
Yes, the doctor had been right. It was jealousy she was feeling, all right.
She certainly hoped there was a cure.
“And if’n I add four and eight, then I got me thirteen?” Creed asked Christy the next day.
“Close, Creed.” Christy took a deep breath.
It was time for arithmetic lessons, and as usual, the children were struggling. Why was she having such a hard time teaching addition to these children?
She’d asked David, who helped with the arithmetic classes, for advice, but he’d just smiled and counseled, “Patience, Christy. That’s the secret. You need a sense of humor, an
d the patience of Job.”
But with seventy children to teach and virtually no supplies, sometimes patience was hard to come by. Christy gazed around the room. The children were laboring over their chalkboards, doing the addition problems she’d assigned—harder tasks for the older students, simple counting for the very youngest.
“Try again, Creed,” Christy urged.
The boy looked dejected. “I could figger it, I reckon, if’n I just had more fingers.”
George, who was sitting nearby, signaled Christy. “Why don’t I give a whack at explaining things?”
Christy’s first reaction was to be annoyed. After all, she was the one with the teaching experience. She was the one who’d studied to become a teacher. George was just a high school student—and, come to think of it, not exactly a genius at mathematics, either.
On the other hand, she had sixty-nine other students in need of her attention.
“All right,” Christy agreed. “Creed, George is going to explain this addition problem to you. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure thing,” Creed said excitedly, clearly relieved to be exchanging instructors.
“Just don’t do the work for him,” Christy cautioned.
George gave her a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”
For the next few minutes, Christy made her way around the classroom, correcting students and answering questions. In the corner, George and Creed were giggling away. It hardly sounded like George was teaching the boy anything.
Just then, Ben Pentland, the mailman, appeared in the doorway. “Howdy, Miz Christy,” he said. “I got a letter for you. Been a busy week for mail at the mission. Looks like this one’s from Asheville.”
George looked over. “From Mother?” he called.
“Probably,” Christy replied, “I’m about due for another one.”
“You sure it’s not for me?” George asked, sounding oddly strained.
“Nope. Says to ‘Miss Christy Huddleston,’ plain as day,” Mr. Pentland said.
“Don’t worry, George. I’ll let you read it,” Christy said. She shook her head. “You know, you’d get more mail if you wrote more letters.”
“I suppose you have a point there,” George said sullenly.
Christy thanked Mr. Pentland, then joined George and Creed.
“So, how are we coming here?”
Creed beamed up at her. “I think I got it whopped, Miz Christy. If’n I got me four magic rabbits and eight magic rabbits, and I put ’em all in a big ol’ hat, well, then, I’ll have me twelve magic rabbits.”
“That’s right, Creed!” Christy said.
“I’ll have me a passel o’ baby rabbits, too, sooner ’n you can blink an eye,” Creed said. “That is, if magic rabbits are anything like the ones that live around these here parts.”
Christy glanced at George. “Magic rabbits?”
“I thought it might make the problem more interesting. It’s no fun adding apples or stones. But magic rabbits, now, they’re interesting!”
“Well, I guess the important thing is that it worked,” Christy said grudgingly. “Thanks, George.”
“He’s a fine teacher, Miz Christy,” Creed said.
“Yes, I guess he is.”
Christy started for her desk. For a moment, hot tears stung her eyes. She always tried to make her lessons as fun and interesting as possible, she told herself. Just because George had come up with an inventive approach didn’t mean she wasn’t a fine teacher.
And yet . . . once again, there it was—the green-eyed monster.
“Sis?” George was right behind her. “Everything all right?”
Christy forced a smile. “Just fine. I was thinking about . . . about monsters, actually.”
“Hmm. They might work even better than the magic rabbits.”
“Maybe so.”
George pointed to the letter in the pocket of Christy’s sweater. “I was wondering. You plan on reading that?”
“Eventually. I usually wait until evening to read my letters. I like to save them. It gives me something to look forward to.”
George lunged toward Christy and grabbed the letter.
He raced around the room holding the letter high in the air, taunting her. A few of the children started to giggle.
Christy was irritated, but more than that she didn’t like the serious look that filled George’s eyes. She couldn’t help feeling that this was not a joke.
“George,” she yelled, “it’s my letter!”
“Mine,” he said as he bounced merrily about the room.
“George, give me the letter” she said firmly.
Reluctantly George stopped and handed her the letter.
She shrugged. “I know it sounds silly. But around here, a letter is a big event.”
“I was just curious to see how Mother and Father are doing. Maybe I could read it now, but not tell you what it says—”
“No, George!” Christy cried. “It wouldn’t be the same at all. Half the fun of getting a letter is opening the envelope. It’s like a present. You can read it when I’m done.”
George looked annoyed, but Christy didn’t much care. He was already taking over her friends and her job. The least he could do was let her enjoy her precious letter.
He started to turn away, but Christy touched his arm. “Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For helping with Creed. Maybe you should consider going into teaching.”
George gave a strange, faraway smile. “I have a pretty good feeling my future’s not heading in that direction,” he said darkly. And with that, he left.
Seven
You’re awfully quiet,” Christy said to George.
“I’m just concentrating on not falling off the side of this mountain,” he replied.
It was late afternoon, and the two of them were heading for the doctor’s cabin. Christy was riding Prince, the mission’s black stallion. George was on Goldie, Miss Alice’s palomino.
The path to the doctor’s was narrow but well-worn. By now, Christy was used to the sheer drop-offs and craggy peaks. But she was being careful to keep the pace slow, for George’s sake. He’d seemed preoccupied on the trip—no doubt because of the steep trail. In any case, there was no point in rushing. It was a beautiful afternoon, a time to savor the rustle of the birch and hemlock and the musical rush of the mountain brooks.
“The children missed you this afternoon,” Christy said. “Where’d you go?”
“Oh, just wandering,” George said softly. “Taking in the sights. Thinking deep thoughts.” He paused as Goldie stepped gingerly over a fallen log. “I hope I wasn’t out of line today.”
“Out of line?”
“You know. Trying to teach Creed. It’s not like I knew what I was doing. You’re the teacher. I’m not.”
Christy glanced over her shoulder and smiled at George. “Well, I have to admit I was a little miffed. I’ve had such a hard time getting through to Creed, and then you step in with your magic rabbits, and presto— Everything’s fine.”
“Beginner’s luck. Believe me, Sis, you’re a great teacher.” He sighed. “I wish there were more teachers like you at the Bristol Academy. You treat the children like real people. Not just scores on a piece of paper.”
“Aren’t there any teachers you like?”
“Oh, some are all right. But the headmaster, Mr. Koller . . . he’s the worst.”
Christy was surprised at the bitterness in her brother’s voice. “What do you mean?”
George hesitated. “Oh, don’t listen to me. You know I love to complain. Hey, up ahead— is that the doctor’s cabin?”
“I told you I’d get you there in one piece.”
“Now, if you can just get me back to the mission intact.”
As they tied up the horses, Doctor MacNeill came to the door. “Welcome!” he cried, waving the spoon he held in his right hand. “You’re just in time to help.”
As usual, his cabin was a mess. T
he kitchen table was covered with a hodgepodge of medical books and glass bottles filled with drugs. The bookcase was layered with dust. Still, the cabin was a comfortable place. The air was sweet with something Christy couldn’t quite identify.
“Shall I take your sweater?” the doctor asked.
“Thanks,” Christy said, “it’s warm in here.”
“I’ve been cooking all day. That smell,” the doctor said proudly, “is my very own rendition of rabbit stew. I got the original recipe from Granny O’Teale.”
“Granny?” Christy asked doubtfully. Granny O’Teale was known for her strange mountain potions and herbs. Who knew what her recipe for rabbit stew would taste like?
“Have you ever made this before?”
The doctor grinned. “Trust me. I’m a chef at heart,” the doctor assured her.
Then turning his attention to her brother, he asked, “What about you, George? Ever done any cooking?”
“I used to lick the spoon when Mother made chocolate frosting.”
Doctor MacNeill passed him a wooden spoon. “Let’s put your talents to the test. Go ahead and stir up that pot, would you?”
“What about me?” Christy asked.
“You can clear off the table and set it,” the doctor instructed, “if you’re feeling brave.”
While Christy and George went to work, the doctor began making biscuits. Doctor MacNeill and Christy chatted away, but George remained distant and preoccupied— nothing like his usual buoyant self.
“So, George,” the doctor said, “I think you have the makings of a fine chef.”
“Today I told him he should consider a teaching career,” Christy added.
“What is it you want to do for a living someday?” the doctor asked George. “Have you given it any thought?”
George shrugged. “I’d like to work for a newspaper, I think. You know—dig up stories, write on deadline. Maybe in New York, some big city like that.” He looked out the window at the setting sun. “You don’t even really need an education for that, I expect.”
Stage Fright / Goodbye, Sweet Prince / Brotherly Love Page 16