The Revenant

by Sonia Gensler

  “Are you …?” I couldn’t think how to ask it politely.

  “Am I Cherokee? No. There has never been a Cherokee principal of the seminary. Only now, after forty years of operation, are we finding qualified Cherokee teachers.” We’d reached the second floor, and she turned to face me. “You should know, Miss McClure, that the Cherokee are well nigh obsessed with education. This seminary was the first institution of higher education west of the Mississippi. I’m certain you’ll be satisfied with our high standards.”

  I gulped, having no idea how to respond. She merely raised an eyebrow before turning away and leading me to the first door on the right. Opening it, she gestured me inside.

  The room was made large by the narrowness of the bed at the center. A small desk and wooden chair stood against the opposite wall near a cast-iron radiator—something I’d only seen in the most recently constructed buildings back home. My eyes were drawn to the golden light streaming through the bay windows. A large chiffonier stood between the windows, but even so, I could see the wall was curiously curved. I gaped like a child. This curved bay was formed from one of the turrets I’d marveled at when walking toward the school.

  By no means was it an elegant room, but compared to what I’d grown accustomed to, it was quite spacious and well appointed. And wouldn’t Papa have been delighted to know that his princess lived in a turret?

  “I trust this room is sufficient?” asked Miss Crenshaw after a moment.

  “Yes,” I breathed. “Very much so.”

  “It was a student room. Four girls slept here in two beds, but we’ve had changes in enrollment and those girls are now situated elsewhere. I thought it would make a spacious dwelling for our new teacher.” She gestured toward the windows. “You’ll get a nice breeze during the warm months, and steam heat keeps us cozy enough in the winter.”

  “I am very grateful, Miss Crenshaw.”

  We stood in awkward silence for a moment. Had I not thanked her sufficiently? Fortunately, I was saved by the sound of swishing fabric at the door. We both turned to find a lady standing there—surely this was a lady teacher and not a student, for though she was much younger than the principal, she had the stiff spine and graceful bearing of one who held authority. Her eyebrows, however, were arched in surprise.

  “Ah, Miss Adair,” said Miss Crenshaw. “Meet your new colleague, Miss Angeline McClure. She hails from Columbia, Tennessee, and is a graduate of their Athenaeum.”

  The lady’s vague alarm melted into a smile as she stepped closer. Her eyes were dark and prettily framed by long lashes. She took my hand and grasped it firmly.

  “Olivia was once my student, and a very fine one at that,” said Miss Crenshaw. “She is one of a select group of Cherokee ladies who have both studied and taught at the seminary. So you see, Miss McClure, how far these girls have come from their humble beginnings?”

  Miss Adair lowered her head. It wasn’t clear whether she was pleased or embarrassed by the principal’s praise.

  Before I could speak, Miss Crenshaw lifted her brooch watch and clucked her tongue. “There is so much to do and already it is nearly time for supper. Olivia, will you take Miss McClure on the tour?”

  Miss Adair led me back downstairs and paused first at the parlor door. The room glowed softly in the late-afternoon light. I stepped inside, bracing myself for the eerie blast of cold air. But I did not shiver, nor did gooseflesh prickle my arms. The room was quite warm. Had I imagined the earlier chill?

  “The girls do not spend much time here,” said Miss Adair, “unless it is to clean the room or, more rarely, to receive family or visitors from the male seminary.”

  “There is a Cherokee Male Seminary as well?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. Its enrollment is not as high as ours, and their building is much older, but it’s a fine school. You will see the male students in town, and they will visit here from time to time.”

  Across from the vestibule stood a library with handsomely arching windows and endless shelves of books. Tables and chairs gleamed in the warm light, and I was certain a gloved finger traced along the wood’s surface would remain pristinely white. We moved on to view several classrooms full of wooden desks, the sight of which made my stomach flutter. At the far end of the building was a high-ceilinged chapel, full of desks rather than pews, that extended into another large room set up as a study hall. We completed our first-floor tour by making our way to the other end of the building, past more schoolrooms and around the corner to a grand dining hall that could seat hundreds of girls.

  Rustic mission school, indeed.

  On the second floor, Miss Adair pointed out the cavernous lavatories with their rows of sinks and curious water closets with flush toilets. We even peered into a student room comparable in size to mine but crowded by two larger beds and additional furnishings. The windows were shaded with pretty gingham curtains, while crocheted doilies brightened the desk and small side tables.

  “Are all the rooms furnished with such homey adornments?”

  Miss Adair smiled. “The students often bring items with them. Some of the more fortunate girls bring their own dressers and beds. These girls knew they would be coming back to this very room, and so they left some of their decorative furnishings behind.” She closed the door. “It’s a little different upstairs.”

  “Are there more students upstairs?” I asked as we continued down the corridor.

  Miss Adair frowned. “Yes. The primaries reside above and take their lessons there as well.”

  “Primaries? They are little children, then?”

  “Some are small children. A considerable number are country girls over the age of twelve who are not quite as … advanced as the other students. Their circumstances are less fortunate, and thus they must work for their tuition. Miss Crenshaw keeps them upstairs together to protect them. The girls from town are not as gentle with them as they should be.”

  “I well remember how it feels to be teased and condescended to as a charity case,” I said absently, then cringed at my own stupidity. Angeline McClure had never been condescended to in her life.

  Miss Adair looked at me searchingly for a moment before continuing. “The infirmary is upstairs as well, though many of the upper-school girls loathe to go there. They think they’ll catch lice from the primaries.” She paused by a door. “This is my room.”

  The door opened to a room smaller than mine—the same narrow bed, a wooden chair and desk, but a single window rather than the curved bay with two windows. Books were stacked unevenly on the desk and beneath her window. A small dresser stood near the door. The room was crowded and stuffy, but she’d enlivened it with a cheerful bed quilt and white curtains edged with lace.

  “It’s charming,” I said.

  Miss Adair shrugged. “Most of the teachers have rooms like this. You were given a room meant for four or more girls.” She did not look at me as she spoke, and her hands fluttered as though she were nervous.

  “Is there a reason I was given a student room?”

  She met my gaze then, and something in her expression made the back of my neck tingle. Sorrow darkened her eyes, but also … fear? She opened her mouth, and I leaned forward, expecting something lurid to pour from her lips.

  “Well,” she said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper, “it may not be my place to tell you—”

  Footsteps thumped in the corridor, and Miss Adair clamped her mouth shut. I turned to find Miss Crenshaw gliding toward us, her petticoats hissing on the wood floor and a frown on her face.

  “Whispering in the corridors already, ladies? Surely Miss McClure wishes to rest before supper.”

  “Yes, Miss Crenshaw,” said Miss Adair. She turned to smile at me. “I look forward to speaking with you later.” With a nod to the principal, she entered her room and shut the door.

  Miss Crenshaw walked me to my room, following closely as if I might bolt at any moment. “Supper is at six,” she said briskly as we walked. “Our gathering will be small an
d informal. As for tomorrow, we ordinarily rise at five-thirty sharp, but as classes are not yet in session, the bell will ring an hour later than usual. Breakfast will be served in the dining hall at seven o’clock, followed immediately by Chapel.” She paused before my door. “Until supper, then.”

  “Yes, Miss Crenshaw.” But she was already walking away, and I was not sure she even heard me.

  Supper was quiet, with teachers and students seated together at one table. The girls from the parlor were not there, and I breathed a little easier in their absence. Miss Adair kindly made introductions, but I was too tired to do more than smile and nod. I forgot the names almost instantly. A negro man called Jimmy served us a baked hash with bread and vegetables, the smell of which made my stomach groan in anticipation. Eating so preoccupied me that I said little to the others at the table. I would strive to make a better impression the next day.

  What a relief to finally retire to my very own room for the night! I opened the windows of my turret and sat in the evening air. The breeze wasn’t much cooler than the still air in the room, but it was fresh and smelled of cut grass. I stared out onto the boardwalk that led down toward town but could see little. Faint lights sparkled in the distance, but the seminary lamps had been extinguished. All was dim and quiet outside this fortress.

  When I felt cooler, I unpacked my case by lamplight. It was a rather pathetic collection of items. A nightgown, which I placed on the bed. Two shirtwaists and one skirt. Very worn underclothes, patched in a few places, but soft from many washings. A heavy shawl, which made me sweat to look upon it. The last item was a fine black cape with a ruffled collar and a satin bow at the neck. I placed it around my shoulders and studied my reflection in the chiffonier mirror. Very handsome it was, and very unhandsome I’d been in taking it. I shrugged the cape off and folded it carefully, placing it with the other items in the chiffonier.

  All that remained in my bag was my father’s three-volume set of Shakespeare’s complete works and, within the first volume, a faded tintype of him in full costume as Orlando in As You Like It. He was very young when the photo was taken—he’d not yet met my mother and surely thought himself quite the dandy. I sat upon the bed and gazed at the image, wanting to touch it, as though petting a photograph would bring me comfort. But I did not wish to cause damage with my sweaty hands.

  I placed the photo back between the pages of the volume.

  That was everything I owned. Father’s gold watch had been sold, as had my good coat. I’d needed the money for the train fare and one night’s stay at a respectable inn along the way.

  I glanced at the white paper peeping out of the third volume of Shakespeare’s works—the collection of his tragic plays. How fitting. The letter had all the makings of a tragedy unfolding. But it now signified a tragedy averted, for rather than drawing me to my doom, it had spurred me to action. I pulled the letter out and smoothed it open on my lap.

  Dear Willemina,

  Your father’s dream was for you to have a fine education, and you’ve worked hard to stay at the Athenaeum when I had no money for tuition. You’ve made me proud. You frown and shake your head as you read this, but I write the truth.

  We need you home now. My heart is heavy as the ink blots this page, because I feel your disappointment like a weight even though you’re so far from me. I am with child again. It is a blessing, to be sure, but right now it seems like a wasting disease has come upon me. I can barely rise from bed. The food won’t stay down, and I get sicker by the day. I can’t get the housework done, and it’s nearly killing me to chase after the boys.

  Willie, you are seventeen, with many years of schooling behind you. I need you at home. I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so desperate. Mr. Toomey will come for you on Saturday. I beg you not to be rude to him. He’s been very good to us.

  When the child is older, perhaps we’ll get you back to school, though by then you might feel too old. By then you might be ready to marry and start your own family.

  I can barely sit up long enough to finish this letter.

  Mother

  That letter was delivered to me at the Columbia Athenaeum four days prior, and I’d immediately hidden it in the pocket of my apron. All that day, despair had clutched at my innards, its dull ache nearly doubling me over. I’d dreamed up a thousand different ways to avoid returning to that farmhouse, where my father’s laughter had been replaced by the howls and crashings of twin boys. I’d offered to work at the school during the summer for paltry wages—most of which I sent home—just to avoid the place.

  I’d been sweeping the floor in the Athenaeum’s dormitory, sluggish under the weight of my doom, when fate intervened in the form of Angeline McClure’s golden head popping through her doorway to beckon me.

  Angeline was a young lady of refinement who kept her person perfectly tidy. Her room, however, always looked as though Mother’s little boys had been locked inside to run rampant. That day was no exception—the only difference was that two elegant trunks lay in the midst of the chaos. Apparently, Angeline was packing. When I entered the room, she stood next to one half-filled trunk, her eyes nearly bulging with excitement.

  She wanted me to ask why she was packing. Her entire body quivered with the yearning to blurt her news. I crossed my arms and waited for the eruption—I would not call it forth myself.

  “Willie, I am getting married!”

  Angeline had been courted all summer by a well-to-do landowner, so this did not surprise me. She was only telling me because there was no one else around. She’d never taken much interest in me, for I was younger and a charity student. I knew her disdain and tried to stay cool, but the small sentimental part of my heart perked up to be singled out by her.

  “Congratulations,” I said softly.

  She clapped her hands with glee, then shoved a stack of papers off a chair and gestured for me to sit. Still smiling fatuously, she settled herself upon the bed without bothering to move the clothing scattered upon it. Then she held out her hand and wriggled her fingers so that I could not miss the sparkle. I murmured my admiration.

  “It took some maneuvering on my part to secure this proposal, let me tell you.”

  “How romantic,” I said, knowing the irony would be lost on her.

  “In fact,” she continued, “I had to accept a teaching position to force his hand. And from quite a curious school! Can you imagine what sort of school it was?”

  I shook my head.

  “A seminary for Cherokee girls in Indian Territory! Is that not a scream?”

  I tried to imagine Angeline, in her prissy clothes, demanding recitations from a group of sullen Indian girls. “Why did you want to teach there?”

  “Gracious! Can you imagine me teaching Indians?” She frowned thoughtfully. “Accepting the position was the only way to push Jarvis into action. He was far too complacent before he knew I might leave for the back of beyond. It wasn’t until he set his eyes upon the letter offering me the position that he realized he might lose me.”

  “Quite a gamble,” I said.

  “Not really.” She tossed her head. “I knew it would work.” She looked at the disorder around her and sighed. “And now I must gather all this together, for on Saturday I leave for Arkansas so that Mother and I can prepare my wedding trousseau. But I’m already late for lessons with Reverend Wilson’s girls.” She tilted her head and scrunched her pale features into a pleading expression. “Would you mind, Willie—would it be a terrible inconvenience if I asked you to post a letter for me? I fear I shall forget.”

  This was why she’d asked me in—not to share news with a friend, not just to crow over her “victory.” She needed me for an errand.

  I forced a smile. “Of course. Give it to me and I will take it when I run errands for Mrs. Wilson.”

  “Oh, it’s written, but not yet placed in an envelope. I really must dash. It’s all there on the desk—would you mind finishing it up for me? I’ll return the favor somehow, I promise.”

&nbs
p; And with that, she was gone to teach her lessons. I stood up and waded through the clutter to the desk. Fortunately, her letter was on top of the pile of papers, so I folded it and poked around for an envelope. She’d not addressed one, of course, and I would have to beg coins for postage from Mrs. Wilson.

  The letter from the school lay underneath, and I copied the address onto Angeline’s envelope. Angeline hadn’t for a moment intended to teach at this simple charity school, and I felt a flash of sympathy for the principal who would receive her letter declining the position.

  I was about to leave when something caught my eye in the letter from the seminary. It was a number—a number that leapt off the page and slapped me in the face.

  $450.

  I grabbed the letter and looked closer. “Room and board are provided, and the salary is $450 per annum.”

  Four hundred and fifty dollars? With none of it going toward food? And a room of one’s own—surely a teacher would have her own room. Her own bed, at least. Four hundred and fifty dollars to teach a group of simple Indian girls?

  My heart began to pound.

  I rifled through the papers on Angeline’s desk. At the very bottom was her teaching certificate, newly signed that summer. After staring at it for a moment, I added the certificate to the letter and envelope. Then I gathered the remaining papers into a neat pile on the desk. But of course she would notice that and wonder. So I set my small bundle of papers down and looked about me. I would have to tidy the entire room. I could leave a note telling her it was my wedding gift to her, for I knew how busy she was. Hands hot and trembling, I collected the clothes from the floor and bed and folded them neatly. It was so easy I could not see why she couldn’t manage it herself.

  When I beheld the cape, with its high ruffled neck and satin ribbon, my heart expanded. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. And Angeline had many things like it—elegant clothes for which she cared so little that she would toss them upon the floor. Would she miss this beauty? In her fleeting gratitude for my tidying labors, would she miss this one cape?