by BJ Hoff
For the first few months after Stuart had come to town, Matthew had thought him quite a puzzle: a good enough sort of fellow, but with his grand education and solitary ways, a bit difficult to warm up to. It had taken a year or more before he could manage to be reasonably at ease with the man.
Even now, he could not help but be sensitive to the differences between the schoolteacher and himself. Whereas Stuart was slight, albeit fairly tall, Matthew had the heavy shoulders and chest, the beefy arms and hands of the MacAuley tribe, causing him to feel something of a lout in comparison. Then too, while Stuart’s grooming was that of a gentleman—never less than impeccable—Matthew could scrub for a month and still not completely rid himself of the black dust ground into his knuckles and under his fingernails from years in the mines.
It seemed that everything about the genteel Jonathan Stuart only served to remind Matthew of his own coarseness.
Over time, though, as he had come to know Stuart better, he often forgot to feel awkward in the schoolteacher’s presence, forgot to be intimidated by his intelligence and fine manners. Instead, he became increasingly appreciative of the man’s kindness and his unflagging efforts to benefit the children in his charge.
He had also come to believe, like Kate, that Jonathan Stuart was “a man owned by God.” It did seem that Skingle Creek’s only schoolteacher was that rarity known as a “good man.”
Despite the respect Stuart had earned for himself, however, Matthew had taken care to warn him not to get his hopes up tonight, for the board members might view his plan as too far-fetched—and too expensive.
Not long into his delivery, though, Matthew realized that Jonathan Stuart apparently had anticipated any objections that might be raised. Watching Stuart, he was surprised at how nervous the teacher appeared to be. He was also gripped by a very real concern for the man as he noted the pallor of his skin, the severe leanness of his frame, and the unmistakable shortness of breath as he spoke.
Slowly, it dawned on Matthew how high a price this address was bound to exact from Jonathan Stuart. It was clear the man had no thought of sparing his pride in order to achieve his goal. Consequently, his respect for the schoolteacher rose another notch.
Only when Stuart was nearly finished with his discourse did Matthew realize that he had been silently but fervently praying for Jonathan Stuart with nearly every word he spoke.
When Matthew walked into the kitchen later that night, Kate was waiting for him, just as he’d expected.
He had told no one but Kate about Jonathan Stuart’s plan. Maggie, especially, would have given him no peace at all if she’d known what was afoot. Even Kate had that impatient, gritty look in her eye, as if she would not wait long to hear all about the meeting. But Matthew signaled her that they would talk later, after the children were in bed.
Later, in their bedroom, she didn’t waste a moment before starting in on him.
“Well? What did they say?”
Matthew shrugged, undoing his collar. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Sure, and they must have said something.”
“Only that they would give it some thought and get back to him.”
“That’s all?”
Matthew dropped his suspenders and then realized he hadn’t brought Sadie inside. “That’s all. I expect they’ll make up their minds in a few days.”
“Well, what do you think they’ll do, Matthew?”
“There’s no telling,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bed. “I can predict Ben Wallace’s vote well enough, I expect. And perhaps Charley Ferguson’s as well. But as for the rest of them…”
Again he shrugged. “The only thing I can tell you is that this could not have been an easy thing for Mr. Stuart to do. I expect it took a considerable notch out of his pride, and he had to know he was risking his job by admitting just how ill he really is.”
“Oh, Matthew! You don’t think they’ll let him go?”
Matthew shook his head. “No. Some men might, but not these men. I’ll wager that Mr. Stuart’s job is safe as long as he’s able to make it to the schoolhouse.”
“Thanks be,” Kate murmured.
“Aye,” Matthew agreed. He stood and hiked up his suspenders. “Well, I’ll just go and let the dog in.”
“You’ll tell me as soon as you hear anything?”
“You know I will, Kate.”
When he reached the kitchen, he was surprised to find Maggie standing at the sink, draining the last of a jar of milk by the flickering light of a candle. Her eyes widened, as if she’d been caught at some mischief.
“Da,” she said, quickly setting the milk in the sink. “I was just going to bed.”
“Ah. And I thought you were just having yourself a drink of milk.”
“I’m sorry, Da. I was being as quiet as I could.”
“What are you doing still up at this hour, girl? You have school tomorrow, you know.”
She nodded. “I couldn’t get to sleep. I know how you always say a cup of milk helps you to sleep, so I thought I’d have one myself.”
“Warm milk, lass. Did you warm it?”
She shook her head. “Maybe I should have some more and warm it this time?” she asked hopefully.
“I think not,” said Matthew, feigning a sternness he didn’t feel. “What is it that’s keeping you awake, then?”
She shrugged, not looking at him. “I don’t know. I just…I don’t know.”
Matthew was fairly sure she did know. He could tell by the way she was avoiding his eyes that something was eating at her. Now that he thought of it, the girl had not been herself lately. Too quiet. Too quiet altogether. And evasive. Was it her concern for Jonathan Stuart? Her wee friend Summer? What?
He knew from experience she wouldn’t confide in him, even if he were to ask. Like her sisters, she took her secrets only to their mother. Kate had a good way with them. He always told her she was too soft with the children, but in truth, he was glad of it.
Girls needed a mother they could turn to, someone who could make them feel safe. He knew they considered him too hard, too set in his ways. Perhaps they were even a bit afraid of him, though he didn’t like to think it.
He had been afraid of his father, he had—a man fond of beating on his two sons and even his wife when he was in his cups.
There had been a night just past his sixteenth year when Matthew stopped being afraid.
Even then, he had been big. No bigger than the old man, but not nearly so soft and flabby, either. His da had kicked their dog across the room and then gone after Matthew’s mother with his belt because she’d given the hound—her pet, not his—a leftover biscuit and what was left of the gravy from supper.
Seeing his mother, crouched like a dog herself before her husband’s rage, Matthew felt something snap inside him. The next thing he knew he’d ripped the belt away and turned it on his father, lashing him across the back with a furious threat that if he ever hurt his mother again, he would use an oak club on him instead of a belt.
There had been bad blood between him and his father from that night on, but it was the last time the old man had touched Matthew’s mother in anger.
It was also the last time Matthew ever raised a hand to another soul. The fury that exploded out of control in him that night had actually frightened him. Never again would he risk turning into the wild thing he had become for those few deranged moments in his mother’s kitchen.
His memories of his father gave him reason enough to hate the thought that his own children might fear him, yet he couldn’t seem to find a way to be softer with them, to encourage their trust in him. So he fell into the practice of handling the practical side of their needs and applying any necessary discipline, while leaving to Kate their more personal matters and confidences.
Now, looking at this daughter of his with her mane of flaming hair and large, troubled eyes, he sensed a sudden, but not unfamiliar, desire to gather her in his arms and hold her and rock her to
sleep as he had once done when she’d been but a babe.
Instead, he merely gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and told her to go on to bed.
After she left the kitchen, Matthew went to the door and let the dog in, stooping down to rub her cold ears and stroke her back, waiting until she plopped down on her rug behind the stove before going back to his own bed.
Kate was only half awake when he slipped in beside her, shivering from the cold, but she opened her arms to him, holding him until the chill had passed and he finally fell asleep.
Eighteen
An Exchange of Pain
Do you know that your strong heart,
so noble and true,
strengthens all those who stand
in the shadow of you?
Anonymous
Maggie had been told she was a lot like her grandmother on her mother’s side.
She didn’t remember her Grandma Min, who had died only a year or so after Maggie was born, but she had heard plenty about the old lady she was said to resemble.
In truth, she would eavesdrop on as many hushed conversations as possible between her mother and Aunt Vivienne, Ma’s sister who came to visit them from Frankfort every few months. It seemed that Grandma Min had been “strange.” Not strange in that her mind was unhinged or that she did bad things, but more that she was different from their other relatives. Different from just about everybody, from the sound of it.
Fascinated by the stories she’d heard, Maggie was pretty sure that if she were to take after one of her grandparents, Grandma Min most likely would have been her choice.
Except on days like today.
It seemed that Grandma Min got “feelings.” Maggie had heard her mother, who was older than Aunt Vivienne, say that Grandma Min had always seemed to know when something bad was going to happen. Aunt Vivienne seemed fixed on the idea that it was “an Irish thing.”
Maggie thought that sometimes she got “feelings” too. Not strong ones like Grandma Min, but more a kind of nudge that something was wrong, or something was about to happen.
She still remembered the first time she’d experienced such a feeling. One of the Twomey twins, who lived across the road a few houses down, was teasing an old hound dog with a stick, chasing it up the road a few feet at a time. Maggie had been standing at the gate, watching, when all of a sudden she felt a strong sense that the ornery little Twomey boy should hotfoot it back to his house and get inside as fast as he could.
She shouted at him, but as all the Twomey young’uns were wont to do—there were at least seven or eight of them—he ignored her and went right on deviling that old hound dog. Suddenly, the dog turned on the boy—who couldn’t have been more than three years, if that—and went after him with a bloodcurdling growl, his teeth bared and his ears standing straight up in points.
The little one was so surprised he couldn’t seem to move his feet, but just stood shrieking, water running down his legs from under his short pants from where he’d wet himself. The dog chomped down on his foot, and the boy let go a terrible scream.
Maggie snatched up a rock and charged out the gate, screeching at the dog and hurling the rock as she ran. She missed the dog, but it bolted, leaving Maggie to tend to the Twomey boy, who was still squawking as though he were being murdered.
By that time Maggie’s mother, who had been around back of the house hanging up the wash, came tearing across the road, her apron flapping in the breeze. At the same time, Mrs. Twomey came running out of the house, followed by two or three of the other young’uns.
The Twomey twin came through just fine, with only a small gash where he was bit, but when Maggie, still excited and running loose at the mouth, tried to tell her mother about her “feeling,” she received not only a fierce scolding for “taking on so,” but was also banished to the bedroom.
By the time Da came home and was told about the incident, it seemed that the old hound dog had become a wild dog and Maggie’s attempt to rescue the little Twomey boy might as well have been a jump into a fiery pit. Moreover, when she tried to explain to Da about her “feeling”—her mother having already raised the subject—her father’s face turned so red Maggie looked for him to start foaming at the mouth at any minute.
She was sure she was in for it, but all he did was send her to the bedroom. Again.
For some reason, her parents seemed to think that being sent to the bedroom was punishment, but Maggie never quite saw it that way. For one thing, it meant she could have the bedroom all to herself because neither Eva Grace nor Nell Frances was allowed to share it during the time of her punishment. She actually liked being confined to the bedroom because she relished the peace and quiet.
So even though she didn’t see her punishment of that day as anything more than an inconvenience, she picked up on the fact that her folks didn’t care for her having “feelings.” In fact, they seemed to find it downright worrisome.
Only once after that did she ever forget herself and again mention a “feeling”; this time was when she got it in her head that something bad was going to happen at the mines. To her enormous relief, nothing did happen, but the very mention of a feeling that something might happen was enough to bring her da to his feet with a terrible scowl and a direful warning that he’d not have “that old country superstition” in the house.
It hardly ever happened after that, and even if it had, Maggie wouldn’t have mentioned it. But two or three times since, she had caught an inkling of something about to occur or change.
It never seemed to her a bad thing. Nor was she convinced, like her Aunt Vivienne, that it was “an Irish thing.” Indeed, it seemed such a simple thing that she was surprised when she realized that not everyone could feel the “difference” as she did. In truth, she expected they could, if only they weren’t always so busy, going here and there and doing this or that. More than anything else, it was like the sudden change that could be felt when the weather was about to turn—like on a summer day when the wind was getting ready to stir up a rainstorm.
Like today.
The feeling struck her the instant she saw Orrin Gaffney and Billy Macken sneaking around the corner of the schoolhouse after dismissal, hitting each other on the back and laughing like a couple of rowdy six-year-olds.
They didn’t see her, and Maggie waited until they were a good piece down the road before coming out from behind the privy. She very nearly left the school yard then and started for the company store. She actually did hike her knapsack up a little higher and head toward the road, but something made her stop and turn back.
As she neared the building, she heard something. Something that sounded like coughing or gagging.
Or maybe even someone crying.
It was coming from around the side of the building.
The side of the building where Kenny dumped the ashes from the stove into an iron drum, a chore Mr. Stuart had assigned to him when the weather turned cold.
In that instant, fear snaked down her back like an icy trickle of water.
She crept around the corner, careful to wedge herself close to the building so as not to be seen. But the thin layer of ice beneath her feet crunched and gave her away.
Kenny looked up as soon as she came into view, immediately throwing his hands up over his face and turning away from her. But not before she had seen.
He was on his knees by the drum. His face was nearly black, covered with ashes, except for where tears had tracked down the sides of his face. Even his hair and his hands had been dusted.
He was coughing and sniffling, and Maggie instinctively started toward him.
But before she could reach him, he thrust his arms out in front of himself, shaking his head as if to warn her off.
She hesitated and then stopped. “What happened?” Her voice sounded high and strained. “Kenny?”
But Maggie already knew what had happened. “I’ll go and get Mr. Stuart!”
Kenny was on his feet in a shake, his eyes huge and blazing at her f
rom his blackened face. “No!”
Maggie stared at him. “But you’ve got to tell him, Kenny! You can’t let them get away with this. I’ll go—”
“I said no, Maggie!”
Again he covered his face with his hands and turned away from her.
Maggie didn’t know what to do. She just stood there watching him, aching for him.
She wanted to go after that awful Billy and Orrin. She wanted to make them sorry. She wanted to hurt them.
She had to do something. Someone had to know.
“Kenny—”
He whipped around so fast Maggie caught her breath.
“You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell Mr. Stuart, Maggie! You can’t tell anyone!”
“But why not?”
His expression turned hard. “Because if Mr. Stuart finds out, he’ll go to my dad. And I don’t want my dad to know.”
She stared at him. “But your dad has to know. You can’t—”
“Maggie!”
Kenny didn’t sound like Kenny. The way her name ripped from him was ugly, like he was mad at her.
“You have to promise me you won’t tell. My dad already thinks I’m a-a coward.”
“But that’s so wrong!”
“You’d have to know him.” Kenny’s face looked about to shatter. “He-he just doesn’t have much use for me. If he finds out about this, he won’t let it rest. He’ll nag me to death about being too much of a coward to take up for myself.” He stopped. “And besides—he really might fire Billy and Orrin’s fathers from the mine. What do you think will happen to me then?”
Maggie stood transfixed. She couldn’t fathom what he was saying. How could a father torment his own son so? And how could Mr. Tallman think for a minute that Kenny was a coward? Kenny was anything but a coward! But was he right? It would only go worse for him if Mr. Tallman fired Billy’s and Orrin’s fathers from the mine.
She thought she knew the answer. She found she couldn’t swallow for the numbness that had seized her.