The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 1

by Donald Harington

  Although he learned to use the organ, he did not learn to use another standard piece of school equipment: the ruler, which was intended not for measurement but for punishment. In a corner of the schoolroom beside his desk, he left untouched the long ruler and the long birch cane indicated for more serious offenses. He never learned how to “ferule” an unruly student; he preferred verbal persuasion to physical force. This uncommon approach led to his first conflict with a parent.

  Here, from the tapes, is Jirah Allen, talking to Daniel Lyam Montross one afternoon at the schoolhouse, after school is over, about three weeks after Daniel had begun teaching there. If you listen carefully, you can notice a slight but distinct difference between the speech of rural Vermont and that of rural Connecticut.

  Hwarye, schoolmaster? Spare a minute? Suthin’s on my mind ’baout my boy Marshall, like t’ discourse with ya on it. Fust day a school, Marshall come home with his sis Florianna, and she says, “Guess what! Marsh pulled Agnes Headle’s hair, but the new schoolmaster never feruled him!” Secont day a school, they come home and Flori says, “By jimminety! He never birched him today neither, an Marsh was caught peekin in the gull’s privy.” And thud day a school, they come home and she says, “I don’t cal’late he ever means to start ferulin’ Marsh, and today he bustid a winder and put a toad-frog in teacher’s desk!” And later on, she told as how Marshall tortured poor little Ira Spooner, and threw chalk at yer back when ya wa’n’t watchin, an pissed in the water bucket, an he put a tack where Agnes Headle’d set on it, and she sot on it, an what with one thing an’other his gen’ril cussedness near ’baout tore up the schoolhouse!

  Said to Flori, I did, “By judast! That new schoolmaster orter should’ve flailed him alive! He must be scairt a him.” And Flori says, “No, he aint scairt a him. Dunno as he’s scairt a nothing. But he’d jest ruther not use the ruler or the birch.” “Whut?” says I, “mebbe he jest never seen Marshall do any a them things.” Says Flori, “No, he seen him all right.” “Whut?” says I. “Don’t he do a blusted thing to ’im?” “Wal,” says she, “he talks at him.” “Talks at him?” says I.

  Yeyyup, says she. Now, sir, you’re the schoolmaster, not I, but I kin tell ya it don’t do a mite a good fer to talk t’that mis’able whelp. His brains is so slow, he don’t unnerstand talk anyway, that’s the reason he’s been in the fust grade fer six years. Only talk he unnerstands is whut the birch says to his backside. A reg’lar dose, too. Me, I whup him twice a week, on schedule, whether he’s good or bad, jest to keep him in line.

  Whut’s thet ya say? He’s behavin lately, is he? Wal, don’t be fooled, don’t be fooled. Calm before the storm. Horse pullin the plow and waitin fer a chance t’ kick ya.

  Mebbe the trouble’s yer such a young one, not much more’n a boy yerself. Mebbe yer own backside still remembers too many birchin’s. But let me tell ya, there’s no way on earth to keep school proper ’thout a birch, so y’orter learn to use one, ’caise if ya don’t, yer going agin the childring’s upbringin, yer going agin their own folks, an we won’t stand fer it.

  But Daniel Lyam Montross, it seems, never learned to use the feruler or the birch. It wasn’t that he had any modern notions against corporal punishment, nor even that he considered verbal reasoning more effective than physical chastisement, but that he had never administered a flogging, and was afraid to start, was afraid, perhaps, that if he started flogging people he might develop a taste for it. As he told himself, “I don’t cal’late to start any new hankering. Got too many now I’m not able to satisfy.”

  One of these was for hard cider. He discovered, after sampling the first batch from that recipe I mentioned, that he could practice his organ playing with less awkwardness under the influence, and it became his habit for a while to go home after school, pour himself a couple of quick ones, then return to school and spend the balance of the day pounding away at the organ.

  One afternoon while he was belaboring the organ for all it was worth, and even accompanying himself vocally—although his voice was terrible—he threw his head back on one particular high note and happened to see, sitting on one of the rear benches, Rachel McLowery, the redhead, his oldest pupil. She was listening and smiling. He stopped playing immediately. He wondered if her smile was amusement over the atrociousness of his singing and the fervor of his playing. He was embarrassed no end, but he managed to ask her how long she had been sitting there listening to him.

  Here’s Rachel, from the tapes, or rather here’s Daniel, or rather here’s me saying what Daniel said that Rachel said. Incidentally, these monologues from the tapes, and there are quite a lot of them, might seem to contradict the conventional idea of the taciturn, tight-lipped Vermont Yankee. Judge Braddock, certainly, was not your ordinary laconic Vermonter, nor was Jirah Allen, and certainly not Rachel. Could it have been that these people of Five Corners were exceptions to the rule of silence? Or is the rule a myth? Possibly, part of the truth is that Daniel Lyam Montross was the sort of person who naturally drew people out, the sort of person who makes you want to talk to him. Well, here’s Rachel, replying to his question, “How long have you been sitting there?”

  Not long. Jest a twink. Your playin gets better’n better, Mister Montross. Honest it does. Few weeks ago you couldn’t barely play a note, and now listen to ya.

  But I didn’t mean to listen in. Not why I came here. I need some help on my lessons. Geography is all right, haven’t had a bit of trouble with China or Japan. History too. And arithmetic, you know I kin run circles ’round ya, doing algebrar. But hygiene. Hygiene’s suthin else again.

  Even if we don’t give but fifteen minutes a day on hygiene. Even if we don’t but listen while ya read a page or two. Even if we don’t have no homework but to mem’rize the bones and muscles and such. I kin do all that.

  But I wonder, what’s hygiene for? Book says tobacco will stunt your growth and alcohol will blind ya, but everybody knows that anyhow. Book says we orter wash reg’lar, and keep clean, but Mum says that anyhow. Book says we ortent spit on our slates, it will spread germs, so we keep little bottles filled with water. That’s a lot to know, is it?

  But the book’s ’sposed to be ’baout takin keer a the body, aint it? Aint hygiene ’baout the body? Well, then, my lands, why don’t the book tell ’baout the body, ’sides washin it and keepin germs off it and not givin it any tobacco or alcohol? Book says we got four systems, one takes keer a the blood that runs through ya, one takes keer a the nerves that run through ya, one takes keer a the air that runs into ya, and one takes keer a the food that runs through ya. Now is that all? Is suthin wrong with me, or is that all? It aint that you’ve not got to the right lesson yet, ’caise I’ve borried that book orf yer desk when ya wa’n’t watchin, and read it cover to back.

  How come there’s not a word to that book ’baout how folks get made and borned? Aint there any system fer that? Aint there suthin that runs through the body fer that? Don’t ya laugh at me, Agnes Headle’s jest as dumb as me on the subjick. She says same way as cows and mares and ewes, and hens and sows and gyps, but I knew this feller, he said them were animals and everybody knows that people are different. That’s what he said, everybody knows. But I don’t know. And that book aint no help.

  People, this feller told me, have got souls, and animals aint got souls. How come there’s nothing in the book about souls? Don’t the soul need any hygiene? No, then why does the soul bleed out of a girl’s velvet each and every month? Not a word to the hygiene book ’baout that bleedin. I cal’late that feller must’ve been right ’baout souls, ’caise I’ve watched cows and mares and ewes, and hens and sows and gyps, and I’ve never seen one of them bleed. They don’t bleed. No souls.

  Well, the book says bleeding’s bad, and it tells how to stop bleedin and how to make plasters and bandages and turnicuts. Last time I got to bleedin I tied a turnicut ’round my waist but all it did was give me a stummick ache. Rags won’t stop the bleedin but jest soak it up. I know Agnes Headle bleeds too,
she told me she did. And why don’t the book tell at least why it’s each and every month, reg’lar as the moon? Does the moon cause it? Aint a word to the book ’baout the moon.

  But what I’d really keer to know is, how come fellows don’t bleed too? Don’t they have souls like girls? Or do you bleed, but it’s not red but that white sirup? But the moon don’t cause that. And how come there’s not a word to the book about the white sirup? That would tell how you can tell if it’s got seeds or not. So you could tell if you’d get a baby or not. When it’s in your belly. Or is it always white? His was. Maybe if it’d been red. Maybe red means seeds. He didn’t. Book talks about red cells and white cells. Not a word on white sirup. Is yours? Teacher, what do you know that the book don’t say?

  If Daniel Lyam Montross had been embarrassed by her eavesdropping on his organ practice, it was as nothing compared with his embarrassment over the subject she had raised. She must have mistaken his nervous laughter as a mocking of her ignorance, but she did not seem to notice that his face was nearly the color of her hair and that his respiratory system was on the fritz. He nearly blurted out, “Wal, heck, I’m not but seventeen myself,” which might have cost him, possibly his job, certainly her respect. But in truth those matters which were mysteries to her were largely mysteries to him. He did not know why the human female is the only creature who menstruates. And her questions were terribly pregnant to him, that is, they set him to brooding and pondering about these matters himself. What if, after all, that substance which he had known as “quid” was only blood with white cells instead of red? At length he allowed as how he didn’t know anything that wasn’t in the book, and if it wasn’t in the book it either wasn’t important or else it wasn’t meant to be learned.

  But the nature of this subject had aroused in Daniel Lyam Montross a new interest in Rachel McLowery. At the first opportunity, he sought out Judge Braddock and reminded him that he had told Daniel to remind him to tell him something about Rachel.

  Listen to Judge Braddock again:

  Ah, yes. Suspect you’ve been around that red hair long enough to want to see it on the next pillow when you wake up. Schoolmasters and schoolmistresses are just alike, every one of them. They always fall for their oldest scholars. And she’s your oldest. And not a bad looker, I might say. We even have an expression. You haven’t heard it? You will. “Red as Rachel’s hair.” Yes. A week ago the maples were nearly “red as Rachel’s hair.” Aaron Tindall painted his barn this past summer and it was “red’s Rachel’s hair.” Matt Earle gashed his arm on his harrow and it bled “red’s Rachel’s hair.” Sit around the fireplace in Glen House, and you’re bound to hear someone remark that the coals are “red’s Rachel’s hair.”

  But, my boy, I think you ought to know about her, and I’m surprised you haven’t yet. I suppose Jake Claghorn don’t talk much, does he? And you’d be the last person the other scholars would tattle on her to. If your heart’s running a temperature over her, you’ll likely not take me kindly that I’m the one who told you. But if I incur your disfavor, it’s better than if you didn’t know. What if you were to run away with her and not find out until later?

  Because she ran away, that’s the story I’m trying to tell you. Couple of years back. She wasn’t but fourteen then, yet already bloomed out the way she is now, and those locks like fire around her head. She attracted the attentions of a pedlar, a man from Rutland. I knew the man, at least I’d bandied words with him, I’d taken his measure. A shameless lecher, I’d say.

  Now, nobody knows for certain that it was him she ran off with. That’s to say, nobody saw them leave together and I doubt that Joel McLowery has been able to beat a confession out of her. But he was here one day, hawking his goods, and he was gone the next day, and so was she. It doesn’t take a genius to make the connection.

  Well, she was gone near on to three months. We had given her up as gone for good, although there’d been some talk of getting together a delegation of a few of us to go over to Rutland and look for them. Just as well we didn’t bother, for when she returned finally, it was learned that it hadn’t been Rutland she’d been to, but Springfield. That’s all that was learned, though. Joel couldn’t beat the story out of her, nor even find out why she had come back.

  She just told how it hadn’t been what she’d expected, and led us to think she’d come back out of disappointment. Joel got Doctor Beam up from Bridgewater to look at her, and Doctor Beam claimed that her maidenhead seemed to be intact, which got some folks to wondering how she’d preserved it—I’m just mentioning this to you, young man, because some fellows are strict about the condition of their bride’s virginity—anyway, that was Doctor Beam’s report, and at least it was some comfort to the McLowerys that she wasn’t with child.

  But the important thing, it seems to me, is that she did run off, and was gone three months with the fellow, whether or not his instrument was of sufficient caliber to sever her membrane. He was not, I might mention, a very attractive or even presentable man. He was not rich. He was not intelligent. As far as I can see, he had nothing in his favor except Rachel’s lust, which could have been wanderlust but was probably simple heat mixed with curiosity perhaps, which you would think she could have satisfied with any one of the boys here in Five Corners…or even an old gentleman like myself, ha, ha! Pardon my levity, I wouldn’t consider such a thing.

  Now, if my telling of this little tale hasn’t quite stuck in your stomach or turned you away from her, and you have in mind to pursue her, you might possibly, in time, learn the true facts of the matter. If that should come about, I would appreciate it considerably if you’d pass along to me whatever you learn. Not that I’m a busybody, and I’m certainly no scandalmonger, but for my own satisfaction I like to know what’s going on in this world, and this business of Rachel is a skeleton in the cupboard that I’d like to see some clothes if not flesh on, you might say. Have you ever heard the old saw, “There’s not much happening in this town, but what you hear makes up for it”?

  Maybe she would never breathe a word of her past to you. But if she does. If she does. I think it would be worth your while to make me your repository.

  Well, how are things at Jake Claghorn’s? He feeding you well enough?

  No, Jake Claghorn was not feeding Daniel Lyam Montross well enough, but as I have mentioned Daniel was able to keep from starving by foraging for himself whatever could be found in the woods and fields and streams…although now that winter was coming on this became increasingly difficult. Claghorn rarely if ever served meat, although on one occasion some relative of Claghorn’s gave him a goose, or rather an elderly gander, and beginning on a Saturday they had meat regularly, on Sunday, cold gander for breakfast, for supper one leg of the gander heated up, on Monday the other leg, and so on, but by the following Saturday, with the gander still holding out, Daniel decided he would just as soon not have meat on the table.

  Rachel McLowery noticed at school during lunchtime that Daniel’s lunch pail contained only stale bread and apples. Thereafter she began, without asking him, to bring a lunch for him from home, things from the McLowery’s comfortable larder, slices of ham, fresh carrots, hard-boiled eggs with some salt wrapped in paper, and a jar of real tea to replace the swamp tea he’d been drinking. Daniel was at first embarrassed by this charity, but then touched by it, and eventually quite grateful for it. Rachel was careful that the other pupils not discover it and learn that she had become the teacher’s pet.

  She was his pet indeed. Sometimes he played the organ and she sang ballads, alone together in the schoolhouse at the end of day. She made him a present of a nice little mirror she had stolen from home; Jake Claghorn’s house had no mirror; Daniel had been in the habit of pausing by the millpond on his way to school in the morning and looking at his reflection in the still water to see if his hair was combed and his face clean.

  They talked a lot too, or rather Rachel talked a lot and Daniel was content to listen. She told him who the mysterious Henry Fox was,
whose name he had heard mentioned several times. Henry Fox was an assayer from some foreign country—some said Switzerland—who had come to Five Corners way back in the 1860’s during the height of the gold rush that had occurred on all the streams between Five Corners and Tyson. Fox bought his way into the Rooks Mining Company, the major operation, and became superintendent, and when the company curtailed its operations he bought it out for a mere $12,500 and still lived, all alone, practically a hermit, in the house at the mine entrance. Rachel offered to take Daniel and show him where it was, but she didn’t want to introduce him to Henry Fox. Everybody knew that Henry Fox was crazy as a loon.

  It didn’t bother Daniel Lyam Montross too terribly much that his pet had a past, that she had run away with a man two years earlier, but he wanted to know about it. He took his time in bringing up the subject, meanwhile talking frankly with her—or listening to her frank talk—about sexual matters. She had not, he discovered, ever heard of such words as “perkin,” “vale,” and “funicle”—not because of innocence or ignorance but because those were the local idioms of Connecticut or at least of Dudleytown. Here in Five Corners, he learned, the equivalents were “picket,” “velvet,” and “fuse”—although the latter had a connotation, for her at least, which did not correspond with his notion.

  Now the following is a part which I very much dislike transcribing from the tapes, but without it there wouldn’t be much understanding of the story, and Daniel Lyam Montross would not respect me if I omitted it. So even though it’s distasteful to me, I hold my breath, you might say, and shut my eyes and plunge in. Listen: