by BJ Hoff
Mr. Stuart had sat down at his desk, but now he got to his feet again, smiling as Lester handed him the tray, turned, and clogged back to his desk.
It occurred to Maggie that she had never seen Lester move quite so quickly, as if he couldn’t wait to get away from the teacher.
As she watched, Mr. Stuart’s smile faded, his features tightening. She had known the collection would be scant, but it was worse than she’d feared. After a nerve-racking length of time, the teacher upended the tray, revealing that it was completely empty.
Maggie felt a hot surge of shame rise up in her. Mr. Stuart stood holding the empty tray in one hand while gripping the edge of his desk with the other, all the while regarding them with a look of disappointment that made Maggie wish she could shrivel up into nothing and disappear entirely.
“It seems—” The teacher cleared his throat, and then again, as if something were lodged in it. “It seems that we won’t be able to help just now.”
For a long time he said nothing more. Then his expression seemed to clear slightly. “We can’t give what we don’t have, of course. But perhaps if we think about it overnight, we might recall having put away some savings to buy Christmas presents. If so, we might decide that we can spare at least a little something for Mrs. Hunnicutt and the Crawford family as well. In the meantime, some of you older children might consider volunteering to do odd jobs around the Crawford place, and for Mrs. Hunnicutt when she returns home.”
He paused. “If she manages to keep her home, that is.”
His studying gaze seemed to take in every student in the room, one at a time. “You do understand, I hope, that giving of your time and effort means just as much as putting money in a collection plate. Sometimes it might even mean more. When we have no money to give, we can still give something of ourselves—our time, a job that’s needed, a word of encouragement. In fact, by giving of ourselves—and giving with love—we not only give a gift to the other person, but to God as well. I think there can be no finer gift than that.”
He smiled at them then, not the forced-looking smile of moments before, but his usual warm, easy smile that said he cared about each and every one of them. “We’ll leave the tray here on my desk for now. Perhaps by tomorrow some of us will find a little something to put in it.”
He waited another moment, and then he flipped open his gold pocket watch and checked the time. After instructing Maggie’s sister, Eva Grace, to drill the younger children in their arithmetic problems, he sank down onto his chair to hear the book reports of the older students.
Maggie sat watching him, feeling for all the world as if she’d just had the wind knocked out of her.
Seven
Disappointment
Disappointment has a bitter taste
that only hope can sweeten.
Anonymous
Jonathan made a show of reviewing his grade book, though he was actually studying the children as they gathered their books and papers, preparing for dismissal.
He supposed his disappointment was irrational. With only two or three exceptions, these were poor children. Their families struggled simply to keep them clothed and fed. There was no money for extras.
And even if there had been, the holiday season was upon them. It was only natural that they would hold tightly to the little they had in hopes of affording some inexpensive gifts for their loved ones.
What had he expected of them, after all?
Clearly, he had allowed his desire to help the Crawfords and Mrs. Hunnicutt to cloud his common sense. Even if some of the children had anything extra to spare, it wasn’t likely they’d be carrying it on them. Besides, what little they might be able to collect, even with the help of their parents, almost certainly wouldn’t be enough to make any real difference for those in need.
He traced over and over a triangle on a piece of scrap paper, berating himself for his reaction to the empty collection tray. They had seen his disappointment, of course. He would have thought he was beyond displaying his feelings to a group of children. After years in the classroom he ought to be capable of controlling his emotions in front of his students.
His family would help, he was sure. But it would take several days by the time he contacted them and waited for the mail to bring a response.
He thought of his own modest savings. The idea brought a tightening in his chest. The money he’d put by was to pay for his care…later.
The time was coming, no matter how he tried not to think about it, when he would no longer be able to work. The frequent pain, the shortness of breath, and numbing fatigue were almost constantly with him now. At times it was all he could do to drag himself home in the evenings and fall into bed. He hated the idea of being dependent on his parents for however long he might be totally disabled. If there was any way to leave his savings untouched, he really needed to do so.
The flute would have brought a tidy sum…
But the flute was gone. Still, he had to think of something. What had possessed him anyway, giving in to disappointment over the children’s failure to come up with a collection when he hadn’t yet decided on what he could do?
He drew a long breath and stood, anticipating the familiar lightheadedness and then waiting for it to clear as he dismissed the children. Most of the students were gone when he glanced toward the door and saw Maggie MacAuley standing there, watching him. Jonathan managed a smile for her, but her expression remained uncharacteristically solemn. Finally, she gave a small nod and turned to go.
Jonathan was thankful that she wasn’t there to see him stumble in his weakness as he turned to bank the last of the fire in the stove.
As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Maggie and the others lost no time in assembling outside. To make sure Mr. Stuart didn’t overhear them, they went all the way to the gate at the end of the school yard.
That’s where the argument began.
To Maggie’s dismay, some of the students seemed to have already made up their minds that the money in the collection jar ought to go to the Widow Hunnicutt and the Crawfords, rather than toward a new flute for Mr. Stuart. Lily Woodbridge quickly moved to squelch the suggestion, and for the first time she could recollect, Maggie found herself in agreement with the other girl.
“I positively will not go along with any such thing!” Lily warned, tossing her sausage curls. “That money is for Mr. Stuart’s flute.”
Maggie put in a word to signal her support of Lily.
Junior Tyree then commenced to make, what was for him, a lengthy speech. “I reckon we all want to do something for Mr. Stuart,” he said in his usual slow drawl, “but it don’t seem right somehow, spending all that money on a music instrument when other folks is going hungry.” He finished on a quick breath, looking at no one in particular.
Something stirred in Maggie, an uneasiness she did her best to ignore.
“We took up that collection for one reason!” Lily snapped at Junior. “To replace Mr. Stuart’s flute. The Crawfords and the Widow Hunnicutt are not our concern. We can’t be responsible for everyone!”
A few heads nodded in agreement while Maggie grew even more uncomfortable. No one else said anything for a moment, until Kenny Tallman spoke up. “I think Junior’s right,” he said, pushing up his glasses a little higher on his nose. “It seems like it might be more important to buy food and medicine than a flute.” He paused. “Even if the flute is for Mr. Stuart.”
Maggie glared at him, but he didn’t look back at her.
Everyone knew Kenny “liked” her, and over the past few weeks, Maggie had just about decided that she liked him back. He was, after all, the smartest boy in the room, smarter than even the few older boys who only thought they knew everything there was to know. He was clean, too, with his hair never mussed and his shirttail always tucked in. And he never acted stupid like the other boys, either. Kenny was quiet-natured and polite.
Now, however, Maggie wasn’t so sure she liked him after all. And if he really liked her, wouldn’t h
e be on her side about a matter of such importance? Wouldn’t he at least pretend to agree with her?
To her further exasperation, even Lester Monk decided to voice his opinion. “Folks who is hungry need food,” he said, his hair standing straight out in the blustery wind. “And sick people can die without medicine.”
“Well, Mr. Stuart might die too, if we don’t do something!” Maggie blurted out. “And we don’t have time to start all over again with another collection.”
The instant the words were out, she wished she could swallow them back. By a kind of silent agreement, they had all been careful not to give voice to the idea that Mr. Stuart might not be around much longer. That he might actually die.
Lily didn’t seem to notice Maggie’s blunder. “Since my daddy put in almost half of the entire collection, it seems to me I should have some say in what it’s used for.”
Her tone had gone all high pitched like a chicken’s squawk now, the way it always did when she was fixing to take on. “And I say it goes toward a new flute for Mr. Stuart.”
Even though Maggie agreed with her, she sensed that Lily’s high-and-mighty airs were rubbing some of the others the wrong way. Hoping to avoid an all-out ruckus, she said, “I recommend we go ahead just like we planned. Once we’ve made a down payment on a flute, we can start up a new collection for the Crawfords and Mrs. Hunnicutt.”
There was a ripple of approval, if not wholehearted enthusiasm.
Then Kenny spoke up again. “If you don’t think there’s time to take up another collection for Mr. Stuart,” he said, still not meeting Maggie’s gaze, “how do you figure the Crawfords and the Widow Hunnicutt can get by much longer? It sounds to me like they need help right now—maybe even more than Mr. Stuart does.”
The debate continued back and forth, but they couldn’t seem to settle on anything. At last Kenny suggested they take a vote, and on that much, at least, everyone agreed.
Until Maggie thought of something else. “Summer should vote too. It’s only right.”
Lily shot her a peevish look. “Why? She hasn’t been here often enough to even know what’s going on.”
“I’ve told her what’s going on,” Maggie countered. “She ought to have a say in what we do.”
“She probably didn’t put anything in the collection anyway,” said Lily. “Well—did she?”
“I don’t know if she did or not.”
In truth, Maggie figured Summer wouldn’t have put anything in the collection, not only because she hadn’t been at school, but because she wouldn’t have had any money to spare even if she were well. Still, she didn’t want to give Lily the satisfaction of proving a point.
“But even if she hasn’t had a chance to give, she still can once she gets back to school,” she said.
“Summer isn’t coming back to school, and you know it!” Lily snapped. “She’s too sick. She’ll never be able to come back to school.”
Maggie wasn’t prepared for the way Lily had turned on her, and she was even less prepared for the other girl’s mean-spirited words.
“That’s not so!” she shot back.
“Is so! My daddy said.”
Maggie had never wanted to light into anyone the way she wanted to go after Lily Woodbridge at that moment. She had all she could do to keep from smacking the other girl to wipe that smug, know-it-all look off her face.
“I don’t believe you!” she burst out. “But no matter what he said, it doesn’t make it so!”
“My daddy is a doctor, Maggie MacAuley. I expect he knows a whole lot more than you do. Summer is not ever coming back, so we don’t need her vote. She doesn’t count!”
Maggie flinched as if she’d been struck. She clenched her fists, blinking hard to stop the hot tears threatening to spill over from her eyes. “Don’t you ever say that again, Lily Woodbridge! Summer does so count. She counts just as much as any of us! And don’t you forget it.”
A few murmurs of agreement went around the group, but Maggie was past caring whether anyone agreed with her or not. When Lily smirked and waved a hand as if to dismiss the lot of them, Maggie began to rock on the balls of her feet, ready to tear into the other girl.
Before she could make a move, however, Eva Grace stepped between her and Lily. “Maggie can talk to Summer tonight and find out what she thinks,” she said firmly, looking first at Lily and then at Maggie. “Even if Summer can’t be here, she’s entitled to an opinion.”
Maggie continued to glare at Lily, who finally gave another shrug and then took on a look of total indifference.
Finally, Kenny spoke up again. “So everyone agrees then? We’ll meet again in the morning and vote our conscience.”
Maggie felt him watching her, but she deliberately didn’t look at him. At the moment all she wanted to do was get away by herself and try to think.
Maggie pretended not to notice that Kenny was following her down the road from school. She was still furious with Lily and still confused about her own feelings regarding the use of the collection. Any further opinions from Kenny would only unsettle her that much more.
She couldn’t very well ignore him, though, when he came up alongside her.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
Maggie walked even faster, but apparently he meant to keep up with her.
“Maggie?”
“Why would I be mad at you?” she answered, her head in the air.
“It just seems as though we ought to first help Mrs. Hunnicutt and the Crawfords,” he offered.
Maggie said nothing.
“Don’t you think?” he pressed.
Maggie stopped and faced him. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him what she really thought about his not taking her side in the school yard, but the idea of being spiteful to Kenny somehow didn’t feel right. Kenny always looked so—sad. Even with his glasses on, his eyes often reminded her of her dog Sadie’s eyes. Sorrowful.
Kenny was the only boy in school with eyes like that. Only Mr. Stuart had eyes as soft and sad as Kenny’s.
“I don’t know what the right thing is,” Maggie said. “I just know we need to help Mr. Stuart too.” She paused, trying to think how to make him understand. “It’s not that I don’t care about the others. I do. But I don’t really know them. Mr. Stuart, he’s…special. And he needs our help.”
Kenny nodded. “I know. It just seems that the Widow Hunnicutt and the Crawfords might need our help even more.”
Maggie drew in a long breath. “I reckon I’ll just have to pray about it.”
Kenny fidgeted a little and looked away.
“Do you pray?” she asked him.
Kenny shrugged, his gaze still elsewhere. “My daddy says only girls pray. And he doesn’t believe it does any good anyhow.”
Maggie stared at him. She couldn’t imagine her own da saying something like that. “Doesn’t your daddy believe in God?”
Kenny’s answer was a long time coming. “I suppose not. He says people just made up God a long time ago because they were too cowardly to take care of themselves.”
Maggie actually gasped. Was this what her da called blasphemy?
“Is that what you think?”
He looked at her. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not really. Mr. Stuart says everything around us is living proof that God’s real. And the Bible stories he tells us—you can tell he believes every word.” He stopped. “If Mr. Stuart believes in God, I guess I do too.”
Maggie nodded, relieved to learn that Kenny wasn’t a blasphemer after all.
They started walking again. “Anyway,” Kenny said, his voice low, “I didn’t mean to side with the others against you. I just didn’t know what else to do. We don’t have enough money to help everybody.”
They came to the fork in the road, where Kenny would go one way and Maggie another. “I reckon you’re right,” she said, stopping.
“About what?”
“About voting our conscience. I expect that’s all we can do.”
&nbs
p; They parted then and turned for home. All the way down the road, Maggie worried over exactly how her conscience might tell her to vote.
It worried her even more to think that her conscience might have already spoken and she was just trying hard not to listen.
Eight
A Heavyhearted Night
We never knew a childhood’s mirth and gladness…
Lady Wilde
Late that afternoon, after sweeping up at the company store, Maggie went up on the Hill to visit Summer.
As always, the Rankin cabin seemed to be running over with people. Maggie reckoned there were more folks crammed into one place at the Rankins’ than anywhere else in town.
Although Summer claimed to like visiting the MacAuleys’—where it was always “lots quieter”—Maggie also enjoyed her visits to Summer’s house. The Rankin cabin was so noisy and crowded that the two of them could do mostly as they pleased without anyone taking notice. The grown-ups and young’uns were forever jawing at one another, and even though there was usually a baby crying somewhere, there was plenty of laughter as well. Often, there was also music, with Summer’s da playing his harmonica and Mrs. Rankin singing.
At Summer’s house, no one seemed to mind if they tracked in mud from the outdoors or if they left crumbs on the table and dirty dishes in the sink. Moreover, they could even drink Mrs. Rankin’s strong black coffee instead of milk, and they were allowed to play hidey-go-seek indoors as well as out.
This afternoon, however, Maggie could tell as soon as she arrived that Summer didn’t feel up for playing anything. She found her friend in the back bedroom that Summer shared with her three sisters—a small room separated from the kitchen by a faded blue drape. Summer was alone, already hunkered down under a pile of quilts, with nothing showing but her head.
Maggie took note of the fiery red stain mottling the other girl’s face, a sure sign that the fever was on her again. Summer sat up, but the mere movement triggered a fit of coughing. Maggie perched on the side of the bed, waiting, trying not to notice the bright red splotches on the handkerchief when Summer took it away from her mouth.