by Linda Byler
The classroom became devoid of sound as Daniel was marched to sit in an empty desk, without his juice. Dora helped mop up the sticky mess with paper towels, but it was Teacher Catherine who had to use warm water and soap in a bucket, get down on her knees and wipe it all up properly, while her sandwich got cold.
It served that Reuben right. Daniel, too. Those little second graders couldn’t hold still one minute, not even long enough to eat their lunches. The pupils had to remain seated for 15 minutes, which was the most cruel thing the school board had ever invented. You could easily eat a sandwich in five minutes, drink all your chocolate milk, grab your bag of pretzels and be out the door.
Recess was only 45 minutes, which wasn’t long enough at all. Especially now, with all this snow. So they ate in a big hurry, sat together with their feet in the aisle, traded snacks and talked.
Calvin said there was a fire on the other side of Georgetown; the fire engines had made an awful racket. Isaac asked him how he knew already, and Calvin shrugged his shoulders, so Isaac figured one of his brothers who was at the rumspringa age had a radio or a cell phone, maybe both.
You just didn’t talk about those things in school, those objects being verboten (forbidden)the way they were. It was not a good subject to discuss, especially with the more conservative children like Isaac, whose family would never own anything the church frowned on. It was called respect.
Isaac knew Calvin’s brothers were not like Sim. They each had had a vehicle for a short time, even. Isaac and Calvin never talked about it, though, which was good. That was a separate world, and to avoid that subject meant they could like each other tremendously. They lived in their own young world of friendship, discussing only matters of importance, like horses and sleds and scooters, and really awesome ideas like making a better scooter, how to fire up a stove with the right kindling and who was the best skate sharpener in Lancaster County.
When the long hand on the clock finally reached the three, they moved fast and efficiently, throwing their lunch boxes on the shelf with one hand, grabbing their coats and hats or beanies with the other, and moving to the front door with long strides that were not really running, but certainly not quite walking, either.
The minute their heads popped out the door, a nanosecond ahead of their feet, yells of pure elation broke out. They dashed to their sleds, grabbed the rope handles and raced out of the schoolyard, around the fence, and up Eli Esh’s slope.
Sledding was the only time they were allowed out of the schoolyard. They had to be closely supervised, staying off the road until they were safely in the field, which was free from traffic. But the “big boys” were allowed to go ahead, before Teacher Catherine appeared with the smaller ones.
They had already reached the top of Eli’s hill and were on the way down. The paths they had cut to smooth perfection on Monday, now slick from the sun’s rays, had frozen and melted and frozen again. It made for glorious sledding.
The sun, the flying bits of snow, the absolute speed, the cold, all filled Isaac’s mind. So when the horn sounded, the brakes screeched, the children screamed and screamed without stopping, it took a while until he knew something wasn’t right.
In fact, something awful had just occurred.
Chapter Seven
ISAAC WAS OFF HIS Lightning Flyer before it stopped, left it and began to run.
The vehicle had skidded to a haphazard stop, sideways on the road. A small black figure lay inert on the cold, hard macadam.
A middle-aged couple emerged from the car, the man reaching for his wife’s hand. Her gloved hand was held across her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.
Teacher Catherine reached Raymond first. She bent, put out a hand, then looked up as the English man reached her. He got down on one knee. Isaac was relieved to hear a moan, followed by an ear-piercing scream.
It was Raymond! He was conscious.
Isaac was joined by Calvin and Michael, then Jake and Danny, the fifth-grade boys. Teacher Catherine got up, spoke sternly, loudly, as Raymond’s screaming continued.
“Take them all inside. Ruthie. Dora. Nemmat die kinna ny.” (Take the children in.)
With one wild look at Raymond, the car and the English man and his wife, they obeyed, herding the sobbing huddle of black-clad children back to the schoolhouse, where they promptly stationed themselves on the bench below the windows, watching.
An approaching car stopped. The man got out, assessed the situation and pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket, as Raymond continued his screams of pain.
The English lady dashed back to the car, returned with a crocheted afghan in red and green, then bent to lay it gently over the child.
Teacher Catherine was on her knees beside Raymond, stroking his hair, talking to him in Pennsylvania Dutch, but nothing helped. Raymond just went on screaming.
Isaac could hardly take it. He felt sick to his stomach, and the white, white world went crooked for an instant. He swallowed and was all right.
Why did the fire company take so long? Surely it shouldn’t take the medics that much time.
Teacher Catherine left Raymond only long enough to step over and tell the boys to scooter to Jesse Kauffmans’ and tell them to come, fast.
The boys ran, grasped their scooter handles, bent low and pedaled furiously, one leg flung back as far as it would go to build momentum.
Raymond’s mam was eating her lunch. Her face turned white, but she remained calm, instructing her older daughter Ella Mae to run to the phone shanty and call her dat, who worked at the welding shop in Gordonville.
“Bleib yusht do,” (Just stay here.) she told Ella Mae, then hopped on a scooter and followed the schoolboys.
The medic had arrived. Raymond was sedated and put on a stretcher before his mother got there.
Isaac was relieved, glad Jesse sei Anna did not have to witness that horrible screaming.
They opened the back doors of the ambulance and loaded Raymond into it. His mother was taken with the English people who had accidentally hit him.
The police swarmed about, their yellow lights whirling on top of their vehicles, their radios crackling, asking questions, jotting down information.
Teacher Catherine remained calm and effective, answering questions. Her face was white, her blue eyes huge, filled with liquid her pride would not allow to spill over. Isaac admired her so much. He sure had a story for Sim.
They went back to the schoolroom and sat in their desks. No one wanted to continue sledding, work on the poster or practice for the Christmas program.
Teacher Catherine asked each family whether their parents were home, and then dismissed the school at one o’clock. She said as soon as she received any news about Raymond’s condition, she’d leave them all a message on their voicemail, so they should be sure to check their messages later in the day.
The children nodded soberly. They wended their way quietly out of the schoolyard. Concerned parents wiped tears, hugged their own little ones and were thankful. To be able to hold their warm, healthy little bodies was something, now, wasn’t it?
Edna Beiler went to the phone—hers was in the shop on her husband’s metal desk—and called her sister Esther, who often heard her phone. Esther had a bell rigged up to it, which was louder than the high insistent whine of an ordinary telephone.
Esther always got her way, that Amos being the kindhearted soul he was. Edna knew her Paul would never rig up a bell to her phone. He said women didn’t need to sit there yakking and gossiping all day, so she set her phone in an aluminum cake pan, which increased the sound quite a bit, deciding if Paul didn’t like it he could just get her a bell like Esther had.
Thankfully, Esther answered after about six rings, and they had a breathless conversation about Teacher Catherine not watching those children.
Edna said maybe Catherine had been there, and Raymond didn’t listen. You know how first-graders are. Barely off their mothers’ laps.
Edna said it was a good thing it happened to J
esse Kauffmans, they could afford a hospital bill better than some, and Esther snorted and said nobody could afford a hospital nowadays, no wonder there were so many benefit auctions and suppers.
Edna promptly told her that Paul said maybe they should stop, too much going on all the time, when we’re told to live a quiet and restful life. What’s quiet or restful, going, going, going the way everyone did?
That really irked Esther, so she hung up before Edna finished, leaving Edna staring at the black receiver in disbelief. Not knowing what else to do, she took the tip of her apron and cleaned the dust off the black telephone.
Then she dialed Esther’s number again.
That was just wrong. She wasn’t one bit mad. She had only voiced an opinion. Not even her own, but her husband’s. Oh well, they were both upset, felt helpless in the face of this tragedy. What if poor little Raymond died?
When Esther didn’t answer the phone, Edna decided she was just as dick keppich (thick headed) as she had always been, left the shop in a huff, then cried in her dishwater.
Voicemails were filled with the news much later that evening.
Raymond was home. His collarbone was broken, and he had a bad brushburn on one thigh where the car had thrown him on the rough macadam, but Eli Esh sei Barbara was already at Jesse Kauffmans with burdock leaves and B & W ointment. The collarbone would heal on its own, although he came home wearing a stiff, white neck brace. The doctors at Lancaster General allowed the B & W ointment to be used, although Jesses had to promise to report any infection.
The children returned to school a subdued lot, the accident still embedded in their memory, a thorn of pain along with Raymond’s.
Esther and Edna forgave each other on the phone the following morning and got together a Sunshine Box, sending messages to dozens of voicemails. Each family was given a letter of the alphabet, and they were to buy a gift starting with that letter. Then the gifts were placed in the Sunshine Box, so that each day Raymond would open one, starting with the letter A.
Poor Sarah ended up with three poems to recite since Raymond couldn’t say his, which greatly upset her. She went home and told her mother she felt like she had too much to do at the Christmas program. So her mother sent a note along to Catherine asking her to reduce Sarah’s load. Teacher Catherine asked everyone if they felt they had too much to say. Isaac volunteered to say another poem, so he was allowed to say the one everyone considered too difficult.
The plays were going much better. The pupils only needed to glance briefly at their copies to get it right. Isaac’s version of Abraham Lincoln was perfect, Calvin said, especially after they crafted a top hat out of black construction paper.
Then, the front door broke. Jake went flying out, slammed it back against the brick wall and busted the glass. Teacher Catherine’s face got red and she made Jake go sit in his seat.
She wrote a note for the school caretaker but he was down with a herniated disk, his back causing him awful grief. Isaac stepped up to the plate, offering Dat’s services, secretly plotting not Dat, but Sim’s expertise. He knew Sim could replace that window. He’d watched him plenty of times at home.
Gleefully, he cornered Sim in the forebay when he was leading the Belgians to the water trough that evening.
“Hey, the door—the window in the door—at school broke. Henna Zook broke his back, or something like that, so I told Catherine Dat would fix it. You will though, right? Right, you will?”
Sim looked at Isaac, then said he wasn’t going to go there when all the children were there, and Isaac said that was fine, Catherine stayed later in the day, he’d go along.
“Maybe you need to stay home.”
“If I do, will you ask her?”
Sim showed up at school the next day with a tape measure, while the children flocked around him wide-eyed, watching every move he made. He went off to the hardware store and returned just after everyone had gone home, with Isaac lingering on the front porch.
Perfect!
While Isaac watched, offering advice, Sim worked to remove the broken glass, and then the frame. Teacher Catherine stayed at her desk, checking papers, and nothing happened. Not one thing.
Sim whistled low under his breath, not even glancing in her direction.
She kept her head bent, her blond hair neatly combed back beneath her white covering.
The sun fell lower in the evening clouds, a red orb of inefficient heat in the winter sky, night-time fast approaching, the cold beginning to flex its muscles as Isaac sat on the cement steps.
“Why don’t you go on home, Isaac?” Sim suggested.
“I’m going with you.”
“You’ll freeze your backside, sitting there.”
“Will not.”
Finally, Sim tapped one last time and bent to retrieve his tools. Then he stood up, fixed his hat, adjusted his coat collar, opened the door, and walked into the classroom.
Isaac followed, eager to watch the action, his eyes bright pools of curiosity.
“How are you, Catherine?” Sim asked, in his deep, manly voice.
She looked up, smiled and didn’t look away. She didn’t answer, either. She just looked.
So Isaac scrambled happily up on Calvin’s desk and sat there.
“I’m fine,” Catherine said, and her voice was not shaky and flustered. It had music in it.
“How’s your dat?”
“Much better. I haven’t seen him with this much energy ever, I don’t think. Did I thank you for picking me up that day? In the sled?”
“I don’t remember, I’m sure you did.”
She laughed, sort of soft and low, and so did Sim, which made absolutely no sense to Isaac. They hadn’t even said anything funny, so why did they laugh?
They talked about the accident, and Catherine said she felt bad, still, that if only she would have been quicker she may have prevented it. Sim told her that was total nonsense, no one could have stopped Raymond if he darted into the path of a car that fast.
Catherine shook her head and her blue eyes turned darker and she looked sad, in a way.
Isaac said to Calvin the next day that he thought his brother Sim might like the teacher. Calvin said lots of guys did, but his mam said Catherine was terrible picky; that’s why she was still single.
So Isaac figured everything he’d gained pretty much shifted out of his grasp again, Calvin making that comment and Sim looking so dull these days.
The poster was looking more wonderful each day. Ruthie surprised him most. She drew a girl skating backward, going in a tight circle, her skirt and scarf blowing so realistic and all, that Isaac admitted to Michael he didn’t know girls could draw freehand like that.
Hannah drew two horses that looked like camels and were about the same color. Isaac told Teacher Catherine they couldn’t have those horses on there, and she said they could not hurt Hannah’s feelings, the horses had to stay. Maybe he could draw blankets on them.
Isaac did, then, and the horses looked like camels with horse blankets, but when he colored them a bright shade of red, it looked Christmasy, decorative and colorful enough. Hannah was insulted anyway, sniffing and parading around like a cat that fell in the water trough, saying the horse blankets ruined her horses, so Isaac told her to cover them up with snow.
That really got her going.
Chapter Eight
TEN DAYS THEY HAD.
Teacher Catherine really cracked down on the procrastinators. There was no putting off what could be done today. Those that did not listen and learn their parts would have to give them to someone else.
That got the ball rolling.
No more copies were allowed. The plays had to be memorized, the parts said at the right time with the proper expression, and loudly enough. Teacher Catherine stood against the wall at the back of the classroom, a formidable figure, her lips set in a grim line of determination. The pupils sat up and took notice. She praised, cajoled, stopped the quiet ones and made them do it over, always goading them
on.
The only pupil that seemed hopeless was Ruthie. She desperately wanted to speak. She had a lovely poem, but so far, had been totally unable to finish it. She picked her face, cleared her throat, reached behind her back to pin and re-pin her apron, stalled for time, but nothing worked.
Isaac talked to Mam one evening, the best time of the day to approach her when she had just gotten out of the shower. She smelled of lotion and talcum powder. She wore her homemade, blue flannel bathrobe, buttoned down the front with leftover pants buttons, a dichly, that triangular piece of fabric she wore to cover her head at night so that when she woke in the middle of the night, she would have her head covered so she could pray for her family, starting with the first and going all the way to Isaac. Her gray hair was wavy after she washed it, loose and wavy, even when it was bound by the ever-present dichly, making her appear more girlish, safer, somehow.
“Mam, what do you think of trying to help someone overcome stuttering?”
Mam looked up from the Blackboard Bulletin she was reading.
“Why?”
“You know Ruthie? Lloyd’s Ruthie?”
Mam nodded.
“She just can’t say her poem this year.” He described in vivid detail Ruthie’s nervousness, her unwillingness to talk to her mother.
Mam shook her head.
“Well, Isaac, I don’t want you to think this is looking down on someone, but Ruthie probably doesn’t have much of a home life. Her mother and, well … she has reason to be nervous.”
“So what could we do? Is it true that you can help someone stop stuttering, stammering, whatever you want to call it, by speaking slowly?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“How could we do it?”
“Why don’t you start a support group? Sort of a system where all her friends work with her? Ask Teacher Catherine to help you.”
Isaac thought that sounded just wonderful. He pitied Ruthie and told Mam so.