“That’s right. She isn’t sure she can even pass third grade. She thinks there might be something wrong with her.” I sigh and feel my body grow heavy. Danny is looking at me. I look back and say, “That’s all for now.”
“Can’t you tell me a little more?”
“No. Remember, this is coming from the hidden chapters, and it may not have a happy ending.”
~CHAPTER 35~
1967
“SO, WHAT DID everyone learn in school today?” Father asks as he piles sloppy joe meat on an open hamburger bun, making it all soggy. I wish we’d just have regular hamburgers.
As usual, Jack shows off. “I got another A on my spelling test today. It was easy. I even got the bonus word—it was Minnesota.”
“I bet I can spell Minnesota,” says Danny. “M-i-n-a-s-o-t-a.”
“Wrong,” says Jack.
“But that was really close,” Mother says. “How do you spell it, Jack?”
“M-i-n-n-e-s-o-t-a.”
I wonder why there would be an a at the end when it sounds like the letter u, and how in the world does Danny know that it ends with an a?
“We’re learning all about our state. Danny, do you know the name of the capital of Minnesota?” asks Jack.
“What do you mean by capital? Do you mean to make the letter m a capital?”
“No, the city that’s called the capital of the state. It’s St. Paul. We also had to spell that for bonus points.” Jack turns to me. “Maddie knows so much about saints, I bet she can spell the word saint.”
I’m thinking he’s right, but I can see the look in Father’s eyes and I know what he’s thinking.
“Jack, eat your dinner, this is not a spelling contest,” Father says. But as soon as Jack said the word saint, I began to picture the holy cards in my Bible that I can’t read, but I know the red lettering spells saint, and I’m able to see it.
“Jack’s right, I can spell saint, and it’s never even been on my spelling list.”
“Well, like your father said, this is not a spelling contest,” Mom says.
Looking first at Mom and then at Father, I can see it clearly: neither believes me. They think I’ll mess up and Danny and Jack will laugh. I bring up the picture of the holy card in my mind with the letters neatly printed at the top, repeat the letters in order, and then call out, “S-a-i-n-t.” I know by the look on Mom and Father’s faces that I got it right. I’m glad Uncle Joe is at the table too. After wiping the drippy meat from the corners of his mouth, he gives me the smile I recognize.
“No, that’s not how St. Paul, Minnesota, is spelled. It’s spelled, s-t period. I know that for sure,” says Jack.
“Jack, you’re wrong,” Rob says. “Maddie did spell saint the right way; s-t is an abbreviation.”
“Well, I got it right on the test. Besides,” Jack says, turning toward me, “I’m sure you couldn’t spell Paul. I was the only one in class who got it.”
“Jack, that’s enough,” Father says in a voice that sends a chill throughout the dining room.
I go to work clearing the table as fast as I can so I’ll have plenty of time with my book. Just as I bring the last of the silverware in, Uncle Joe comes into the kitchen.
“Sister Bard, impressive spelling. I never did well with spelling, still can’t spell worth a da—darn. Got to watch my language around a future nun.” This makes me giggle, and when I look up, he winks.
“I was lucky to get that one,” I say before slipping past him to where I gather up the empty glasses. “I’m not very good at it either.”
“I guess that means you take after your uncle here.”
“Maybe. I also think the stories we read during reading time are boring, and I make up much better ones myself.”
“I’m sure you do, but hopefully you don’t make the bad choices I made: screwing off and getting into trouble so as to escape it.”
I set the glasses next to the plates. “No, I hardly ever get in trouble.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my stomach somersaults. I scurry past Uncle Joe to grab the rest of the dishes.
“That’s right, it is Sister Bard.” He again winks at me when I turn to look at him, causing me to break into a smile. I scoop up the used napkins and return to the sink.
“My teacher read us the most wonderful story ever, even better than any I could make up.”
“If that’s the case, it’s got to be pretty good, because I sure have heard some amazing stories from you.”
“Oh, it’s much better than any of my stories.” I bend down to get the dishpan out, continuing the conversation in my head. Just yesterday, I read the word believe all on my own. I’m reading the book myself. I set the dishpan in the sink with hands trembling. “Uncle Joe, I’m getting better at reading.”
He says nothing.
“The small writing you wanted me to read said car-sales-man.”
He gives a quick smile but then starts looking around the kitchen.
“Dad didn’t need to get so mad when I was about to read the small writing for you.”
“Madelyn, he wasn’t mad.” He says this so fast it makes me wonder if he’s mad at me, and I stiffen. “It was just bad timing. He had a hard day, and like he said, your mother needed your help.”
When I look at Uncle Joe, he looks away. I know what he said isn’t the truth. I turn the hot water on full blast. He moves back and forth across the kitchen, like Danny does while waiting for dishes to dry. I keep the water blasting, and just as it starts to overflow, he leaves.
~CHAPTER 36~
1967
“MISS STANLEY, have you ever heard of a dream catcher?” It’s Saturday, and I follow Miss Stanley into catechism class while the others are running around outside waiting to be called in.
“Why, sure. I read that Indians made dream catchers to keep bad dreams away. Where did you hear about dream catchers?”
“It’s in The Fairy Angel’s Gift. A wise spider named Gwendolyn shows Yram the fairy how to make one to keep dreams alive.”
Miss Stanley sets her purse down on the large wood desk and pulls a Bible out from the drawer. She turns to me. “That’s an interesting title. I’ve never heard of it—sounds really good.”
“It is! I’m reading it.” Because I don’t want to leave Yram alone all day, I slip the book out from my coat and hold it up for her to see.
“Oh, what a beautiful fairy on the cover.”
“That’s Yram.” I almost tell her about Yram’s name and my name, but instead I hand the book over to her and watch as Miss Stanley opens to the first inside page.
“This book was written a long time ago—nineteen forty-five. Well, this is interesting. Is Frieda Zinc the name of your teacher?”
“Her name is Mrs. Zinc. How’d you know?” I lean over and see she’s looking at the blue cursive writing. “Can you read that to me? I’m not good at reading cursive.”
“It says, ‘Congratulations on achieving your dream. Soon the day will come when you’re reading this charming tale to your own class of students. Mom.’ And then there are x’s and o’s, which is a way to say hugs and kisses in writing.” She looks right at me, but I’m just staring straight through her. “Your teacher’s name is written above this. She must really trust and like you to share this special book of hers.” I see her smiling at me, but I don’t feel it.
I try to smile back, but all I can do is say, “Uh-huh,” and move toward the back of the class.
I hear Miss Stanley’s voice, concerned, ask, “Madelyn, are you okay?”
“I don’t feel so well.”
“You look pale. Here, honey.” She takes my arm. “You have a seat here, and I’m going to call the class in. Thanks for bringing the book in to share. Someday, I’ll have to read it.”
Frieda Zinc? Hugs and kisses, Mom? Mrs. Zinc’s mom gave her the book? Why didn’t she tell us? Why would she toss it in a pile of papers? Now I know for sure she’ll notice it missing.
I don’t raise my hand and join the d
iscussion today. It’s about Jesus being tempted by the Devil in the desert, which I know all about. I sit with The Fairy Angel’s Gift resting against my chest under my coat and wonder: What was Mrs. Zinc’s dream? I can tell she’s been a teacher her whole life. I think of her being like Paulette when she was young. She probably was good at reading the first day she entered kindergarten. My thoughts continue on, keeping me from hearing anything Miss Stanley says, until suddenly I see Miss Stanley standing in front not saying anything, and then, just like with Mrs. Zinc, it becomes real quiet, so loudly quiet, I notice. Usually, it’s hard for Miss Stanley to make the class quiet.
I look up at the clock. It’s almost time to leave. I gaze back at Miss Stanley and notice how different she looks today. She’s wearing clothes that are big and puffy, tent-like, instead of bell-bottoms and a sweater. Her face looks more round. I had been too busy wanting to share my book to notice.
“I have some sad news to share.”
My stomach lurches, and I can tell that she looks sad. Maybe she’s sick and dying. I’m ready to cry before she even starts to tell us.
“I’ve decided I need to take a long vacation to take care of some personal matters. I’d love to keep being your teacher, but . . . I’m not sure I’ll be back in the fall.”
It’s so quiet I hear everyone breathing. I open my mouth to shout, No, that’s not fair, but nothing comes out.
“So, next time we have class will be my last day with you, and then you’ll have a new teacher, someone I’m sure you’ll like.”
No, no, I won’t like the new teacher.
She lifts her hands up as if to say, “Time to go,” and more quietly than usual, everyone but me turns toward the door and leaves. I can’t get myself to move. Suddenly, my head feels hot and heavy. I drop it to my arms crossed upon my desk and begin to sob.
“Sweetheart, is there something bothering you?” Mom’s tucking me in. I felt sick all afternoon and didn’t eat much dinner. I can’t tell if it’s a real sickness or sadness. They feel the same to me. She puts her hand on my forehead.
“Miss Stanley’s going away. She’s my favorite teacher. I’ve known her since second grade.” I work hard at not crying.
“I’m so sorry to hear this.” She means it. I can tell. “Actually, I got a letter from Father Stevens. I didn’t realize you were being told this week or I would have prepared you. I know you’ll miss her.”
A letter? “But Mom, why does she have to leave?”
Mom’s quiet. She starts to answer, but then she doesn’t.
“What did she tell your class?”
“Something about needing a vacation—but I thought vacations only happened in the summer. She didn’t look like her usual self. I’m worried that she’s sick and might be dying.”
“Sweetheart, that’s not the case at all. Miss Stanley’s in fine health, and she’s made the best decision for herself that she can. We need to accept that.”
“But you’ll also miss her, Mom. Everyone will, because she plays the best organ music.”
“You’re right. We’ll all miss her.” Mom brushes my bangs back and kisses me on my forehead. “It’s time to say your prayers and get some sleep. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
When Mom leaves my room, I’m too tired to pull The Fairy Angel’s Gift out from under my pillow, but I can tell Mom knows something more about Miss Stanley. I’m ready to turn over and say my prayers, but I also want to understand. I wait long enough for her to settle into the living room, and then I sneak to the bathroom. The TV makes it hard to hear their conversation. Mom says something that’s completely drowned out by the sound of a commercial; but I hear Father, his thunderous words, loud and clear.
“It’s really a shame she didn’t act more responsibly.” My body tightens; I know he’s talking about Miss Stanley the same way he does to us when we do something wrong. Before he says another thing, I race back to Yram and my dream catcher and prepare to visit my rooms so I can settle down to sleep.
~CHAPTER 37~
1967
AFTER NEATLY folding up the Sunday newspaper, Father changes into his work clothes. I always slip out of my dress and into my jeans as soon as we get home from church. Miss Stanley played the organ for the last time, and it was beautiful. I kept thinking about her praying to Saint Rita and how I’m now reading words in The Fairy Angel’s Gift because I too pray to Saint Rita. I tried not to think about her leaving.
Father heads outdoors. For some reason, I begin to think about how it took Ethan’s father a long time to notice Ethan was getting healthier, how he didn’t believe it at first. I know what chore Father has in mind. He’s always busy on the weekends, and usually I stay away, but today I decide to help him rake the leftover leaves from fall that have been covered by snow. Father shares how it’s special to be raking leaves in the spring when most people only do it in the fall. It’s because the snow comes so fast that we never have time.
He’s surprised to see me show up with a rake and wearing my only pair of boy jeans. Sometimes, I wonder if it would be different for us if I were a boy too. Usually, I do girl jobs inside the house, but I really want to learn how to work outdoors. Maybe it would be different if, like Jack or Rob, I too brought home As. Danny’s too young, but I know he’ll also bring home good grades.
I’m happy to have a rake in my hand. Father doesn’t understand that this is better than a dust cloth. The leaves are damp and thick. They take a lot of muscles to move, not like the light, crispy ones we’d pile up like a small haystack in early fall and then, unable to hold back, leap into the pile, tossing leaves into the air, and then start over again. It’s much more fun to rake in the fall. Now it’s spring. Spring and then summer. Usually, I’m excited to think of spring turning into summer, but this year, Mrs. Zinc has taken the excitement away. I might be flunking.
Father’s wearing his brown brimmed hat, making him look even taller. Even though it’s May, it’s chilly outside. I notice how his strong sweep with the fanned-out metal rake scars the dirt as if a mini-plow has passed through, while my rake only skims the top, catching a small handful, causing me to do a second and third sweep. We work for a long time in silence while Jack and Danny run around pretending to be stacking up loose sticks, but I can tell they’re playing their own version of tag. I think about joining them but don’t.
“Dad, I’m getting better at reading.” I keep sweeping my rake over the small area that’s finally coming clean. After the third pass, I look up, not sure if he has heard me.
“Madelyn.” Now his rake has stopped. “Mrs. Zinc has shared with your mother and me her concerns about how you’ll manage in fourth grade.”
“Oh.” I want to tell him about the book and the words I’m learning. Instead, I begin raking so hard that I too make the dirt look like a plow has passed through. Then I remember. “Dad, I got an A on my science test.”
“Mrs. Zinc told us. But she said you couldn’t have gotten that grade if she didn’t have the volunteer read the test to you.” I had forgotten that part. “Fourth grade is a lot harder than third, and it requires a lot more reading.”
“I know . . . but I’m getting better.” Now I also have a sizeable pile of leaves. My rake is all gummed up with soggy leaves. I use my rubber boot to kick them loose and see an acorn lodged between the spokes. I pull it out and am about to hurl it across the yard when I feel Father next to me.
“Look at that,” he says.
“It’s an acorn,” I mumble.
“Sure is. I’m surprised the squirrels missed this one.” Now he holds it up, having slipped it from my hand. He takes out his white handkerchief, rubs over it, and examines it as if he had never seen an acorn. “Take a close look, Maddie. This small seed may someday grow as large as the oak in front of your bedroom window.” He hands it back to me. I look closer than I’ve ever looked at an acorn and see for the first time tiny ridges not so different from the rake’s marks, even and straight. The shell shines and feels smooth. The c
ap sits on top as if someone grand designed the perfect hat. “An acorn is God’s way of reminding us something small and ordinary can grow mighty and extraordinary, just like that beautiful oak tree.”
Even though a moment before I was ready to fling it far, and thought how good it would feel to hit the tetherball really hard, taking a close look at this acorn somehow calms me down, just like listening to Miss Stanley’s organ music. I think about burying it so it can grow up and be a big tree, but instead, I decide to keep it to myself, safe in my pocket, so I’ll remember.
It’s almost dinnertime when I wander into the garage, where I find Rob, alone. Rob and Jack spend lots of time here, often with Father. When I step into the part that’s not for the car, it’s like stepping into someone else’s house, someone who lives far away and whom I don’t know very well. I see tools I can’t name, jars filled with different size screws, and wooden boxes divided into sections of nails of all sizes. No matter what time of the year, the garage always has a cool, greasy smell to it. Rob is sorting out screws or nuts or bolts. I can’t tell the difference—maybe they’re washers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He startles. “Dad wants me to put all the nuts and bolts back into their right spots. You know, cleaning up.”
I glance over at the wood-and-metal frame. “The go-cart looks cool. When will it be done?”
“Depends on when Uncle Joe has time to help us with the engine.”
“Well, I think it looks pretty neat.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want some help?”
He turns his gaze to me for a moment and then returns to his sorting. “No, thanks.” This isn’t a surprise. He thinks just because I’m a girl I can’t sort screws and bolts.
I’m about to leave, but instead I ask, “Did you hear about Miss Stanley not coming back?”
He continues to put small metal pieces in various drawers and, without looking at me, says, “Yeah.”
“Oh. Who told you?”
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 18