A Distant Music

by BJ Hoff

  Not that this was the first time he had caught the girl being idle. Indeed, over the past few days he’d frequently had to rouse her from these episodes. But today she had seemed particularly distracted. Several times he had caught her either staring out the window, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, or else making a poor pretense of working at her studies when he could tell she wasn’t concentrating at all.

  Jonathan had been a teacher long enough to distinguish between the predictable and fairly common distractions that could steal a student’s concentration and those that pointed to something more serious—problems at home, the onset of an illness, or spring fever.

  He was almost certain there was no trouble at home of any serious nature. His impression of the MacAuleys over the years had been that of an extraordinarily close and devoted family. Matthew MacAuley was known and respected as an honest, hardworking mine foreman who was good to his family and his neighbors. As for illness, Mrs. MacAuley was the type of mother who kept a watchful eye on her brood and wouldn’t think of sending one of them out of the house if there were any sign of sickness. Besides, Maggie certainly showed no hint of being unwell.

  And the snow falling outside almost guaranteed this wasn’t a case of spring fever.

  It wasn’t that Maggie’s total attention was riveted on her studies a hundred percent of the time. She was an extremely bright girl, curious and eager to learn, but she possessed the sort of mental acuity that needed to be continually challenged lest she grow restless and bored.

  Jonathan knew the girl had been troubled for a long time now over the ailing Summer Rankin—and well she might be. In truth, he feared there would be an even more bitter grief for Maggie in the not too distant future. It was possible that her behavior was due solely to Summer’s illness, but somehow Jonathan thought not. So, although he disliked keeping such a good student after school because of any negative implication the other students were sometimes quick to attach, he thought he would at least let her know that he was concerned about her and give her an opportunity to explain.

  The familiar lag in his heartbeat reminded him that what he should do was go home and rest. Not that he begrudged the extra time needed to speak with a student. It was just that any additional drain on his energy was nearly immobilizing. He was increasingly frustrated because there was so much he wanted to do for his students, yet so little he was able to do. Sometimes it seemed to tire him merely to think.

  He could not help but wonder how his illness might be affecting the children. He would hate for them to believe he had lost interest in them, that he no longer cared about them.

  Most of his students, like Maggie, had decent, caring parents who involved themselves in their children’s lives. But there were others—Kenny Tallman came to mind—who often appeared, if not dejected or somewhat lost, at least lacking in some elemental, enabling sense of worth.

  If God had gifted him in any way at all, Jonathan sensed it was to be a kind of shelter for his students. To his way of thinking, his responsibility wasn’t only to teach, though certainly teaching was a high calling in itself. But he saw it as equally important to offer each child who entered his schoolroom a place of safety, where there was someone to trust, someone who would at least make an effort to understand that child’s heart and needs. Someone who would recognize the spark of the Divine in each youthful spirit and nurture it.

  It ate at him like a cancer that he could no longer provide what his students needed. Of late, he seemed to live under a cloying cloud of failure that thwarted his efforts and threatened to deny him in part the goals he had set for himself as a teacher.

  The truth was that his students deserved better than he had been giving. He was determined that this downward spiral on his part would not continue.

  Maggie felt strung as tight as a slingshot and slightly breathless as she stood waiting for Mr. Stuart to clean his eyeglasses.

  She couldn’t think of what she had done to bring on a talking-to, but she knew she must have done something. Mr. Stuart seldom kept a student after school, and when he did it was most usually for one of two reasons: that student had caused trouble and was up for a scolding, or else extra help was needed in a particular lesson.

  To the best she knew, she hadn’t done anything actually wrong— although Mr. Stuart had caught her woolgathering again. She knew she wasn’t failing any of her subjects—her grades would have showed it before now. Well, she couldn’t draw worth anything, and her grade showed that too, but that wasn’t exactly anything new.

  The thing was, Mr. Stuart had looked uncommonly serious when he asked her to stay after school, and her mind had been racing ever since to come up with a reason. Watching him slip his glasses on, Maggie figured she was about to learn that reason.

  “I asked you to stay, Maggie, because I thought we might have a little talk.”

  Jonathan smiled to put the girl at ease and indicated that she should pull up a chair beside his desk. Once she was seated, he sat quietly and studied her for a moment. Then he decided to come right to the point.

  “I’ve been wondering, Maggie, if everything is all right with you.”

  A pinched frown replaced her earlier expression of uneasiness. “All right? Ah…yes, sir.” She paused. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  Jonathan hurried to reassure her. “No, no. Not at all. It’s just that you’ve seemed somewhat…distracted…lately, and I wanted to make sure there’s nothing wrong.” He waited. “Is there?”

  As he watched, the girl’s usually cheerful countenance underwent a series of changes. At first something like fear flickered in her eyes, almost instantly replaced by what could only be described as anger or resentment, followed by an expression that completely baffled him, for what he saw looking out at him appeared to be a plea for help.

  Then it was gone, and she was again closed to him, her spirit shuttered by an adolescent wall of defense Jonathan recognized and knew from previous experience to be very nearly impenetrable, at least by an adult.

  Had he heard about the incident with Billy and Orrin? Maggie shifted on the chair, tempted to spill the entire story, including her worry for Kenny.

  She’d seen the two boys watching him during recess and after school, staring at him hard and then snickering to each other. No matter what Kenny said, she didn’t believe for a minute those two were finished with their meanness. No way would their bullying cease just because Kenny had threatened to tell his father.

  But as for telling Mr. Stuart, she couldn’t. Both she and Kenny had agreed to keep silent. Besides, what could the teacher do? He was certainly no match for thugs like Billy and Orrin, especially with him being so poorly these days. Why, if those two set their minds to it, they could hurt Mr. Stuart—and hurt him bad.

  Not that Mr. Stuart would ever believe anything of the sort. What with his being a teacher and all, and being the kindhearted man that he was, more than likely it would never occur to him that two of his students might actually hurt another student…or him.

  She should have known he would notice that she wasn’t exactly herself these days, though. Mr. Stuart was never the one to miss much, and Maggie knew her mind was jumping around in all directions lately, hardly ever landing where it belonged. She tried to concentrate on her schoolwork, but it seemed that when she wasn’t thinking about Summer and wondering when she was going to get better…wondering if she was going to get better…then she was worrying about Kenny, about what Billy and Orrin might do to him. Or fretting about Mr. Stuart, which was most of the time. And if that wasn’t enough, she also had poor Benny Pippino on her mind too.

  Her mother always said that worrying didn’t do a bit of good, that if, instead, they would spend their worry-time on praying, they’d see more results. Ma might be right, but what Maggie couldn’t seem to figure out was how you stopped worrying, at least about the people who were important to you. How did you just stop being afraid for someone you cared about?

  Of late, it almost seemed as
if she was always afraid. She felt as if she spent most of the time holding her breath. In fact, how long had it been since she’d taken a really deep breath? When was the last time she hadn’t felt fearful and twisted in knots inside?

  Clearly, she needed to tell Mr. Stuart something. Otherwise, he’d think she was just another silly girl mooning about boys and clothes. Someone like Lily Woodbridge. She definitely did not want to be lumped in the same basket with Lily, especially by Mr. Stuart.

  But she had already decided she couldn’t tell him about Billy and Orrin. And she didn’t feel like talking to anyone about Summer. Somehow it only seemed to make things worse to talk about her. It was almost as if she didn’t dare say out loud what she was afraid of, that maybe, if she kept her fears to herself, what she dreaded wouldn’t happen.

  She could tell the teacher about Benny Pippino. Even though the boy wasn’t one of his students, Mr. Stuart would care about him. In fact, maybe he could even think of something to help. What a grand surprise for Da that would be!

  Jonathan’s spirit shrank like a child before a thrashing as he realized where Maggie’s story was headed.

  “And because he lost his hand, he can’t be a breaker boy any longer, and Mr. Tallman—”

  She stopped as if she couldn’t decide whether to finish what she’d started.

  “It’s all right, Maggie. I’ll keep your confidence.”

  She nodded then and continued. “Mr. Tallman wanted to put him out of the mines altogether. I reckon he figures Pip won’t be able to do anything worthwhile now. But Da coaxed him into keeping him on, and he finally agreed. But only if Da can find him a job that truly needs doing. Otherwise, Da might be in trouble too.”

  Jonathan’s heart hammered and then slowed. He felt as if he might strangle on the knot of resentment in his throat. But anger at Judson Tallman would accomplish nothing for the injured child. Like any other strong emotion it would only chip away at his own tenuous strength.

  He took a deep breath, waiting for Maggie to go on. When she didn’t, he said, “It’s good of your father to try to help the boy.”

  Again Maggie nodded, but her expression sobered even more. “I don’t think he has much hope of finding another job for Pip, though. Da says you mostly need two hands to work in the mines.”

  Something stirred at the back of Jonathan’s mind. He tried to think, but he was fading quickly. He needed to rest, for a short while at least. Perhaps later he could come up with an idea. He might even speak with Matthew MacAuley. But he mustn’t say anything to Maggie. Not just yet.

  “I’m glad you told me about this, Maggie,” he said. “I’ll pray for—Pip, is it?” And of course he would. Even if he could do nothing else, he could pray for that unfortunate child.

  Jonathan wanted to ask her about Summer, but he sensed that she had closed this part of herself to him, perhaps to anyone, at least for now. He also suspected that she was holding back something else, something she wanted to tell him but for whatever reason couldn’t bring herself to divulge. And, disgusted with his own sorry weakness, he realized that at this moment he simply did not have the strength to encourage any further confidences.

  “You should be starting for home now,” he said. “Your mother will worry.”

  “Oh, I don’t go straight home after school,” she told him, getting up from her chair. “I work at the company store most days.”

  Jonathan watched her leave, a cloud of discouragement settling over him. He didn’t like to think about the future that might await Maggie MacAuley.

  The girl had the kind of intelligence that hungered for more and more knowledge, the sort of searching curiosity that would never be easily satisfied. But the wages of a miner were barely adequate to keep a family in food and shelter. There was little hope for any advanced education for the MacAuley children. Instead, it seemed all too likely that Maggie, like so many others before her, would end up cutting her schooling short to go to work in the company store or somewhere else until she married—most likely a coal miner—and brought children into the same world to live the same kind of life as her own: a life of hard work and narrow boundaries and little promise of anything better.

  More than anything else, it was this lack of promise, this bleak absence of hope for children like Maggie—children he had come to love—and his utter helplessness to do anything about it that sometimes caused Jonathan to feel as if his own hope was bleeding to death, one drop at a time.

  Seventeen

  A Meeting of the School Board

  I feel like one who treads alone…

  Thomas Moore

  On Thursday evening a special meeting of the school board was held at Jonathan Stuart’s request.

  Pastor Ben Wallace came early and had a fire blazing in the iron stove. When Jonathan arrived, the meeting room was already comfortably warm. Someone—most likely Regina Wallace, the pastor’s wife—had thoughtfully set out an ample supply of coffee and cookies. All in all, the room was cozy, the setting friendly.

  By the time the other members began to file in, however, Jonathan was struggling with a severe fit of nervousness, prompted, of course, by the proposal he was about to make. He knew these men, knew their hearts were good, and over the years they had seldom refused him anything they could manage. Even so, money was scarce in a mining town, and he was fairly certain that any extra funds came directly from the board members’ pockets. That being the case, he had always tried to be rigorously conservative with his requests. In truth, he disliked asking for anything and routinely took care of many of the school’s small expenses out of his own money.

  What he intended to suggest during the next few moments wasn’t exactly extravagant, yet there was no denying that it was out of the ordinary and could hardly be considered a critical need. Except, perhaps, to a widowed mother with four children and a little boy with a missing hand.

  He watched each man who entered, studying their faces as he laced his fingers together to still his unsteady hands. Ben Wallace, the pastor of Jonathan’s congregation and his closest friend in Skingle Creek, was by nature generous to a fault and would do anything he could for the children. Charles Ferguson, the manager of the company store, was occasionally somewhat dour and took forever to make a decision, but in the end he almost always voted the same way as the others.

  Lebreen Woodbridge, the town’s one physician and a difficult man to predict, was wearing his usual mask of guarded cynicism as he walked in with Ernest Gibbon, president of the town’s only bank. It was a bit of a push to call the small white dwelling with the stone front a “bank.” Miners were paid mostly in scrip and, far from managing to put a little extra by, were usually in debt to the company store. But for the fortunate few who were able to maintain a small savings, as well as for the non-mining families in the community—also few—the bank existed under Gibbon’s able management and the assistance of one clerk, Gibbon’s son.

  Not far behind the doctor and Gibbon came Henry Piper, an aging bachelor who lived just outside of town on a large piece of land his family had farmed for years. Henry was thought of as the town eccentric. Never seen in anything but a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of overalls that were a full size too large for his scrawny frame, he smoked some sort of offensive-smelling tobacco in his pipe, its odor accompanying him everywhere.

  Word had it that Henry Piper was an educated man, a graduate of the state university who had in fact once studied for the law. But upon his father’s death, Henry had come home to manage the farm and at the same time care for his mother and younger sister.

  As it happened, his mother died within six months of Henry’s father, and not long after the sister married a buggy salesman and went to live in Richmond. After losing his family, Henry apparently isolated himself more and more on the farm, his only involvement with the town being his place on the school board and his regular weekly attendance at the Baptist church.

  Jonathan doubted that Henry was a true eccentric. More than likely, he was just a
nother lonely man who needed companionship but was either too shy or too set in his ways to seek it out.

  The last to enter was Maggie MacAuley’s father. Matthew MacAuley was the only miner on the board—perhaps a sop to the “laborers” of the community—and as practical and levelheaded a man as Jonathan had ever known. Indeed, he had come to trust MacAuley’s judgment and held him in high regard.

  Having talked with MacAuley beforehand, he was assured of at least one member’s full support. Well, he could probably count on the support of two members. Although Ben Wallace hadn’t committed himself, Jonathan knew his friend well enough to be reasonably certain of what his decision would be.

  As soon as all the pleasantries were exchanged and all the coffee mugs filled, Ben called the meeting to order, immediately deferring to Jonathan.

  As he walked to the front of the room, Jonathan was keenly aware that all eyes were upon him. They were friendly gazes, and he reminded himself that he was among good people who truly cared about Skingle Creek and the town’s children. For that matter, they had demonstrated more than once that they also cared about him.

  Nevertheless, he was about to strip himself of his pride and lay bare the truth—more of the truth than what he would have chosen to tell under normal circumstances—about his medical condition. He could hardly impress upon them any existing need without being ruthlessly candid about why that need existed.

  With his heart delivering a hammer blow to his chest, Jonathan clenched his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and started in to explain just why he had reached the point of needing some assistance. Assistance of a physical nature, not in a teaching capacity.

  The longer Jonathan Stuart spoke, the more Matthew MacAuley found himself struck anew by a genuine admiration for the man and a fresh realization as to why his Maggie and the other children were so devoted to their teacher.