The Healing

by Linda Byler

  “John Stoltzfus.”

  He sat down hard, looked intently at his shoelaces.

  “Why were you looking below other pupils’ desks?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Nothing much to say to that. He guessed he was.

  “John, I have caught you in a lie. That warrants a note for your parents. I want it signed, brought back. If you fail to do so, the school board will pay your parents a visit and you may be expelled. Lying is a bad example for the lower graders.”

  He handed the note to Mam, slouched miserably in a chair, both hands in his pockets, waiting.

  “Hmm. What did you lie about, John?”

  He told her.

  Mam’s face was without expression, her mouth like a pinched line in bread dough. Almost, her nostrils flared, her eyes flashed in anger, but she caught the surge of irritation, erased it.

  “I’ll give this to your father.”

  And she did. Dat read it twice, looked at John. He repeated his story.

  “So you checked your own shoes, checked the other children’s spaces, and what was your conclusion?”

  John shrugged. “There was more mud, well, dried mud below the lower graders’ desks than mine. She picks on me, and I’m a little scared of her. I wasn’t really thinking when I told her I wasn’t looking for mud. Which I guess I was.”

  Ashamed, now, he hung his head.

  “She expected you to head straight for the dustpan, immediately, without any excuse. I believe that is the way Danny Beiler raised his children. So, we’ll sign this, and remember to do better. She’s strict, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  That was the first incident. By mid-October, John despised his teacher. Ivan was beloved, whereas John did nothing right. Then she started picking on Susan, a seventh-grade girl who walked with a limp, spoke with a lisp, and wore a hair net and barrettes. Her dresses were a little fancy, too.

  When John found her crying with abandon, clutching the dreaded note after having been kept in at recess, he ground his teeth in anger. He did not have enough confidence to speak to her while she was crying so heartbreakingly, but he told Ivan about it, and he walked right over and asked her what was wrong, John behind him, hanging back, embarrassed.

  Between sobs, the story unfolded.

  The teacher had told her that if she couldn’t write better than that, she’d flunk seventh grade, and that she had an uncaring, unconcerned attitude.

  “I know my handwriting is not the best. It’s my hand. Sometimes it’s like my . . .” She tapped her knee, ashamed to say it out loud.

  She had a bum leg, no one knew why. It was the way everyone had always known Susan.

  Wedding season came in November, the community humming with anticipation. The best part for the students was that they had substitute teachers on four different Thursdays. On those days, the students breathed, relaxed. First graders giggled, hands held over wide grins, eyes sparkling with delight. School seemed almost fun.

  Henry Zook’s Lena was the teacher on the last wedding day. John sat in his desk and listened to the low, husky voice reading the Bible in the morning. He tried hard to keep his eyes on the thumbnail he was picking, but he stole too many glances at the petite, perfect, blond-haired girl standing in back of the teacher’s desk.

  Her eyes were huge. So blue it took his breath away. Assertive. A good teacher, by all accounts, everyone agreed.

  Well, this was something now, wasn’t it? There was no hope to win the hand of any girl even close to this . . .

  Oh well. He was only fourteen, much too young to be admiring any girl. He bumbled his way through singing class, mostly humming, and felt his face turn fiery red when she asked him to pass out quiz papers. He blushed to the roots of his hair.

  After Anna Beiler returned to take up her post, the downward trend continued until a parent-teacher meeting was held on a rainy evening. Nothing good came of it, with Anna saying the problem was a lack of parental discipline at home, children easily skipping over what was expected of them. Children nowadays had too much freedom. How was a well-meaning teacher expected to keep order the way the forefathers did?

  Parents squirmed uncomfortably, most of them finding their shoes extremely interesting. A few attempts at challenging her opinions were squelched like the rasp of a closing door, shut off with the same pelting words hurled at her pupils.

  When the meeting dispersed, a few low grumbles were heard as men untied heavy neck ropes, backed horses and carriages to a better turnaround position. But mostly the parents renewed their commitment to reprimanding their children and working with the teacher. If parents rebel, what can be expected of the children?

  Sent to school with the serious words of his father in his mind, John made a double effort, minded his p’s and q’s, became even more withdrawn, afraid to raise his hand or voice an opinion.

  That is, until little Lydia Ruth was spanked in front of the whole class for missing too many problems in her arithmetic book. A slow learner, having been sent to school a bit before her sixth birthday, she upset the teacher’s schedule on most days, unable to comprehend the basics of numbers or letters.

  Lydia Ruth was so shy, so tiny, and this assault to her sensitive nerves was more than her frightened body could absorb, so she lost the contents of her stomach all over her new black apron and her new Nike sneakers. The sound of teacher Anna’s harsh words as she swabbed viciously at the offending mess was a stab to John’s heart.

  He scootered home with the full intention of his parents hearing about this, all of it. Something had to be done.

  His father listened, nodded. A flush spread across his mother’s face. But they both said to wait.

  “Why? Why can’t you do something?” John pleaded. “You know it’s not right. That little girl is doing the best she can.”

  “John, listen. Sometimes it’s best to calm down. Very likely, Lydia Ruth’s parents will talk to her, and we’ll be minding our own business, which is best.”

  Lydia Ruth’s parents went to the school board, said they would not be sending their child back, they’d enroll her in another school, if it was allowed. Other parents called for Anna’s resignation, not only the one incident being the cause, but their own children being subject to unfair treatment.

  In mid-December, she was let go, the school board being kind but firm. They hired Henry Zook’s Lena, the substitute, which activated a flurry of protests from a few families.

  She was too young, they said. Only sixteen! Why, she doesn’t look older than her upper-grade pupils. Others said to give her a chance. Henry Zook’s girls all taught school. It was in their blood.

  After Lena started, new artwork appeared, along with brightly colored name charts, apples in brilliant Crayola colors, the classroom taking on a whole different atmosphere.

  John scootered off to school, energized, one leg flying behind him. But a small piece of him felt sorry for Anna Beiler. He pictured her putting her schoolbooks in drawers, fighting what must seem an overwhelming sense of being adrift, her whole identity as a teacher being swept away.

  Lena did not allow anyone to speak ill of their former teacher, explaining in detail that God distributed a talent to each person, and perhaps Anna Beiler had not yet found her true gift.

  John’s admiration of her bordered on worship.

  He took to wearing a stocking cap at night, in a desperate attempt to tame his unruly hair. He viewed the flattened mess the first morning, thinking he looked like a drenched cat. The minute he applied a brush, the loose curls sprang back to life, erupting from his head like an unleashed Slinky. He thought of his sisters’ hairspray, wishing one of them was still at home.

  He searched every drawer in both bathrooms, harboring a hope that his mother would use it, but no, of course not, she hardly had any hair, a fact she bemoaned from time to time, blaming the birth of ten children.

  The stocking cap idea was abandoned after a few attempts. He tried
wetting the brush, holding the bristles beneath the bathroom spigot, then drawing it through his tangled mass of waves, which only served to give him the distinct appearance of a drowned rat. His eyes were so small, his well-rounded cheeks like two watermelons. And always, those persistent red pimples that resisted the drying effect of the Clearasil.

  He wondered if any of his brothers ever went through this form of dissatisfaction about their appearance. But he would never ask, being afraid they’d laugh uproariously at the mere thought of it.

  His mother had not raised seven boys without recognizing the signs of adolescence, the accompanying self-hatred. She had pitied each one as they passed through this tender phase, but often found herself unable to help. The boys just became irritated, shrugged off her gentle attempts of buying a product to clear up unsightly blemishes, vitamins for lethargy, and so forth.

  John was her baby, and one not endowed with a natural promise of being handsome. Mam felt compassion for her youngest, with that head of hair, the excess weight, coupled with the bad complexion.

  She reminded him gently that a bright and friendly spirit had much more to do with a positive image than appearance.

  But that only made him feel worse, the way she implied his looks were a lost cause. As if he’d have to make up for his wretched appearance by plastering a knockout smile on his face, which only pushed his watermelon cheeks up to squeeze his small eyes to mere slits and tilted his thick glasses.

  Mothers were seriously so bumbling. So well meaning, with exactly the wrong thing coming out of their mouth too much of the time.

  That was why he didn’t bother saying more than “OK” when she asked him how school was. If he’d tell her each incident that had affected his day, she’d ramble off with some strange story or advice that had nothing to do with the incident itself.

  He figured, though, that she couldn’t help it, it was just the way mothers were, their head crowded with too many things at once, a workload that pressed on them like a heavy backpack. If she wouldn’t plant so many pink petunias all over the place, her workload would be significantly decreased.

  CHAPTER 3

  THERE WAS NO CHRISTMAS PROGRAM THAT YEAR, LENA HAVING taken over a week before, and Anna Beiler having held a distaste for programs in general. There was no exchange of names, and no presents for the teacher. She didn’t feel right, receiving the presents that Anna should have had. Which was true, John thought, his admiration of Lena increasing yet again. But he found a deep-seated yearning to present Anna Beiler with a Christmas present.

  He mulled this over for a few days, before deciding he could not accomplish this without his mother’s help. So he approached her, shamefaced, afraid she would think him too soft, sentimental.

  She had her back turned, chopping cabbage at the sink. When John asked her to accompany him to Rebecca Zook’s store because he would like to take a gift to Anna Beiler, the knife stopped, and she held very still.

  Uncomfortable, John added, “I don’t have to. I just thought . . .”

  When Mam turned, her nose was red and she was blinking furiously, her voice quivered and came out garbled with swallowed emotion.

  She managed, “Why, John?” and her voice slid to a stop.

  “What’s wrong with that? I pity her, sort of. I mean, she was just teaching the way she thought she was supposed to. She didn’t know any different.”

  Mam nodded, her lips trembling.

  So on Saturday morning, John hitched up Capper and waited by the sidewalk till his mother bustled out, buttoning her coat, carrying her bonnet. Yes. Yes, indeed, she would accompany him.

  They found many beautiful gift items, Rebecca Zook and her three employees harried, too busy the week before Christmas, but friendly, helping each customer as they needed assistance.

  John chose a wooden box, with a hinged lid and a bright gold clasp.

  “She could keep cards and letters in here.”

  “Certainly she could. A good idea. I’ll ask them to wrap it.”

  And so John helped his mother tie Capper to the hitching rack at Anna’s house, and followed her to the front door.

  The house appeared much the same as hundreds of other Amish farmhouses, white, with a washhouse and a porch along the front, a few hedges, a garden with rye sowed, the winter cover crop.

  Anna’s mother opened the door, greeting them with the traditional, “Hya. Kommet rye.” She was gaunt, hard faced, lines all vertical down her face, a permanent scowl. Her father was at the table, thin, spare, piercing eyes, long thin face with a full flowing beard covering his shirtfront.

  “Hello, Rachel. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “We brought a Christmas present for Anna.”

  “Oh.” She moved off, called for Anna, who appeared, suspicious, like a dog with its hackles raised, untrusting.

  John stepped forward. “Here. This is for you.”

  He wanted to say more, wish her a Merry Christmas, thank her for being his teacher, anything to take away that sense of failure she surely must have.

  “How nice.”

  “There’s a card.” He blinked, self-conscious now, under the crowlike gaze of the father and the mother’s cold, calculating stare.

  “Ich sauk denke,” she thanked him.

  “Gyan schöena.”

  Anna made no move to open the present or the card. To John’s disbelief, the taut face crumbled and silent tears spilled from her eyes. She lifted her gray belted apron, brought out a navy blue men’s handkerchief, swabbed at her streaming eyes, her mouth drawn to a thin line as she made an effort to control herself.

  “Anna, it’s all right,” Mam said, very softly.

  John felt an unbearable sympathy for Anna. In her thirties, unmarried, living a life tamped down by the severity of her parents’ upbringing, surely she would not have chosen this herself.

  He cleared his throat.

  “You were a good teacher,” he mumbled.

  “It’s nice of you to say that, John, but we both know it isn’t true.”

  She sighed, blew her nose, returned the handkerchief. “I should have been smarter. Known my ways weren’t the same as everyone else’s. We are all Amish, yes, but we have our differences.”

  With the parents there, she stopped, respecting her own stringent upbringing. For one reason or another, the blue handkerchief was the most pitiful. How many women used a handkerchief rather than a Kleenex nowadays? The handkerchief was an outspoken symbol of conservatism, a family who clung to the old ways, frugal, nothing frivolous within sight, buying only what was truly necessary. They carried the old virtues like an Olympic torch in the race of life, honoring the belief that nothing was better for the human soul than denial of the flesh, the lust of life, the ordnung kept to the letter, come what may.

  She stepped forward, placed a large hand on John’s shoulder, her voice trembling.

  “I will never forget this.”

  A week later, he received a thank-you note in the mail. It was an apology written in her perfect, cursive hand.

  Mam showed it to his father. Dat stared off into space, his face betraying nothing. Finally he said, “You know, most people only need kindness and understanding, don’t they? Remember that, John.”

  Word must have gotten around among the brothers. John was treated with a bit of respect for a while, anyway, so that he had the nerve to ask Samuel, the handsome one, what to do with his untamable hair.

  “Your teacher doesn’t have anything to do with it, does she?”

  John’s face flaming, he shook his head from side to side.

  Samuel laughed, but it wasn’t a mean, teasing sound.

  “Tell you what, buddy. Let me go to school, and you can go to work and your hair will be the last thing you have to worry about.”

  “Ha!”

  “I would gladly sit in your desk.”

  “You can’t, so get over it.”

  “I know. Just kidding.”

  “No, you’r
e not”

  “Not entirely, no.”

  “This doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, your hair. Other than shaving it all off, I don’t know what to tell you. Marcus uses that stuff. Looks like shoe wax.”

  “That stuff” turned out to be the miracle John badly needed. Worked into his scalp, it tamed the lawless waves and curls, brought them into some semblance of order and changed his appearance to a well-groomed young man in eighth grade. The only problem was using small enough amounts so Marcus wouldn’t notice.

  This “borrowing” went on for a while, till John heard Marcus bellowing from the bathroom, blaming first Samuel, then Allen, for using his hair stuff. From the bedroom came a stentorian yell, a swift denial. First Samuel, then Allen.

  John held very still, turning hot all over, his heart rate galloping. He pulled the covers all the way over his head, as a shield against his own thievery.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Another yell from Allen, sifting effectively through the guilt and into John’s ears.

  “That round black and yellow container of styling cream. It’s expensive. You know how much that stuff costs?”

  “What do you care? You’re the roofer. Making megabucks.”

  “The next person I catch using this stuff will be given twenty lashes.” From another bedroom

  “With what? A wet noodle?”

  “Hey! Everybody shut up. OK? Let a person get some sleep,” came Abner’s voice.

  John had his own thoughts about Abner. Maybe if he used some of that stuff in the black and yellow container he’d be able to elicit an approval from his long-sought-after Malinda. He went to volleyball games, youth suppers, and hymn singings wearing the same three shirts for months. Blue, lighter blue, or almost blue. No wonder he couldn’t get a girl. Plus, his hair was never right, either frizzy, thicker on one side of his head than the other, cut crookedly, or some kind of uncombed pouf in the back. The sneakers he wore to play volleyball would likely have suited his father, black all over, from Walmart, no name brand like Adidas or Nikes. The footwear was important.

  Abner didn’t care about things like that. Comfortable in his own skin, he was content to let styles come and go, the way they invariably did.