by Leah Weiss
Soaring trees blot out the afternoon so I climb the mountain in twilight. I have to stop often to catch my breath, leaning over, hands on my knees, gulping thin air. I come to a rusting trailer on cinder blocks set back from the creek and see an old, stubby woman wearing layers of dresses, puffing on a pipe, standing in the doorway, watching me.
I stop, curiously comforted by her oddness, and call out, “Hello. I’m Kate Shaw. Is this the way to the teacher’s cabin?”
The woman holds me in her gaze. Though ten yards separate us, I see wisdom, not resistance or rebuke, in those squinty eyes wrapped in wrinkles. She nods and points up the path with her pipe. I’m flooded with relief that she understands and answers me.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say and continue, on the alert for wild dogs. Plodding slowly, it takes another fifteen minutes before a cabin comes into view. It’s planted firmly in the woods, bearing the scars of time, with moss on the shake roof. I knock at the door and peek through glass at simple furniture. I turn the knob. It’s unlocked.
“Hello. Anyone here?” I call out, to be on the safe side.
I drop my backpack and satchel on the table. The cabin is one room with a loft, and already night shadows crowd in. There’s the strong smell of mildew, a few puddles of water on the plank floor from a leaky roof, and a clammy chill. A sofa the color of dirt sags in the middle and sits under a large window. A field mouse scurries across the plywood counter, looks back at me, then slips through a crack in the corner.
I light a lamp against the gloom, and it throws shadows on log walls. I eat crackers and cheese and lean against the counter, then collect water from the spring to wash up and make a trip by flashlight to the gloomy privy, using my walking stick to knock down spiderwebs. Then I climb to the loft, grateful the mattress is dry, and collapse on my stomach with my boots hanging over the edge.
The next morning, I find I didn’t bolt the door against my slithering fears.
The door doesn’t even have a lock.
• • •
Today, the sun is out and the world is washed clean. I raise windows to a breeze carrying remnants of summer and start a fire with the kindling stacked beside the stove. Soon, water boils for a proper cup of tea, and with mug in hand, I open the door.
That’s when I see it.
An indigo bunting. A blue bird almost too vivid to be real.
In a wooden matchbox. Chest plump, wings folded in prayer.
Missing its head.
I look around for someone who watches my reaction but don’t see anyone. I think about the old woman I passed yesterday on the trek up the hill and instinctively know this isn’t her doing. I’m more angry and sad than frightened. This lovely creature didn’t have a thing to do with me coming to this place that doesn’t want a teacher. He should have soared for years, eating bugs and bits and feeding generations of babies.
But I came. And now this. A small life has been sacrificed, and I haven’t been here a day.
I find a rusty spade and dig a hole to bury him, box and all, beside the creek. I mark the spot with a flat stone. This is likely the kind of gruesome prank that scared off the other teachers. Harm on a small scale. Unless you count burning down the teacher’s cottage. I may be out of my element, but I’m not easily chased away. Otherwise I’d never have lasted as long at Ravenscroft.
Today is lovely, and beyond my cabin is an expanse of sky. I grab my walking stick and continue on the path that now pulls away from the creek and leads to the summit. I gasp my way to the top, and my reward is wave after wave of mountains that fall away from all sides of a stunning view. Scraps of clouds float in the hollows and blend with woodsmoke. The world looks simple and deceptive from here when I know life is anything but simple, despite its elementary components. A dismissal, an index card, and a letter are all that’s needed to chart a new course and end a former life.
I leave the top of the mountain, stop at the cabin for my emptied backpack and satchel, swallow two aspirins with tea gone cold, retrace yesterday’s steps, and pass the trailer where only crows sit and watch. The forest holds none of yesterday’s slithering fears. This daily walk will come to strengthen and fortify me. Today, I whistle easily.
• • •
How many students will come Monday is unknown. The last teacher reported seven showed up on the first day, and then numbers declined. There are no truant officers rounding up dissenters. I make a pact with myself: I will teach what I can to whom I can, and not lament the rest.
I round the corner of the schoolhouse and see a slight, barefoot girl with hair the color of ginger. Her white dress is dingy and the hem is ripped. She sits on the top step, clearly pregnant. Only a child herself. She carries a rolled-up magazine and stares at my muddy car. Her profile is delicate and her skin pale as porcelain with a dash of freckles.
“Hello,” I call out. “I’m the new teacher, Kate Shaw.” I shift my satchel to my left hand.
The girl stands. Though she’s on the top step, I’m still taller. She shakes my hand and looks me in the eye. I like that.
She says, “Name’s Sadie Blue,” then adds like an afterthought, “Tupkin.”
I say, “Hello, Sadie Blue… Tupkin.”
She frowns. “Not used to my married name. I come to help if I can.”
“Help would be lovely.”
She holds out a folded piece of paper. “This here’s for you.”
“What is it?”
“Preacher Perkins. You won’t here when he come by.”
I unfold the note and read.
Welcome, Miss Shaw. I apologize for not greeting you yesterday when you arrived. I had a funeral to conduct. I trust my sister, Prudence, made you feel welcomed and led you to your cabin. I look forward to meeting you soon. We’re glad you’re here.
Respectfully,
Eli Perkins
I’m flummoxed. Could the learned writer of this note possibly be related to glum-faced, monosyllabic Prudence P of yesterday?
“Preacher Perkins brought this by?”
“Yes ’um.”
“And Prudence Perkins is his sister?” My tone is incredulous.
“Yes ’um.”
I pocket the note and walk to the trunk of my car while Sadie follows. “I met Prudence yesterday after the storm…” I start to explain, then stop. I’ll understand the dichotomy in good time.
I hand Sadie the globe and I carry the heavier box of books and rolled-up posters.
“Found my way up the trail yesterday to the cabin.” I chat and unpack the box of supplies at my desk. “Managed to fix a proper cup of tea this morning, so all is right in the world.”
I take the globe from Sadie’s grasp, set it on the desk, and spin it. Her face opens like a child’s.
“This globe represents Earth, the planet we live on. This area”—I outline—“is the United States of America, the country we live in. Here is the state of North Carolina, and your mountain”—I point with the tip of a pencil—“would be just about here.” She leans in close, maybe hoping to see something familiar. I put away the few textbooks, lined paper, and pencils, and Sadie spins the globe.
“What’s the magazine you carry?”
She holds it up for me to see and says, “Country Song Roundup.”
“It’s special to you?”
“Yes ’um. I fancy anything with Miss Loretta Lynn’s picture on it.”
I don’t know who Miss Loretta Lynn is, so I inch into unfamiliar territory. “What do you like about her?”
Sadie isn’t fooled.
“You don’t know Miss Loretta Lynn?” She sounds more than disappointed in my limited knowledge.
I failed my first test.
“She’s only the greatest singer in this whole, wide world,” she says, then adds, “I love her so.”
“What do you love about
her?”
She declares without hesitation, “She got a hard life. Sings hard songs. She found a way up and out of her Kentucky holler. Miss Loretta is a miracle to me.”
I didn’t expect such an emotional, concise response from this girl about life and its challenges in this remote place. When I pull the desks into a friendly circle, Sadie helps. I drag my teacher’s desk into the circle, too. We sit down at desks facing each other.
She hands me her prize magazine. The cover picture features a pretty woman with high cheekbones and stiff hair with curls draped over her shoulder. I thumb through the pages, but the magazine easily falls open to page sixteen, and more pictures of Sadie’s hero.
“Tell me what you like most about her.”
The girl beams, props her elbows on the desk, and rattles off a string of facts and song titles about a woman who would inspire anyone who appreciates a hard-luck story turned successful. But she concludes by saying, “I don’t read but a handful of words.”
“Then who reads to you?”
“Preacher Eli, usually. It was him that got me this magazine from the valley two years back. I listen to Miss Loretta singing on the radio.”
My heart swells, hearing this tender gift of a hero and mentor Sadie relates to. Eli plants hope and promise in rocky soil that holds little of either. This is a good sign that progress is being made against debilitating odds. I lean in on my desk and put my chin on my fist.
“Do you want to learn to read?”
Sadie bites her lip and looks down at the desktop, suddenly shy. She traces the carved scars with her finger. “Yes ’um, I was sorta hoping, but can’t come to school regular.”
“If you want to read, you will read.”
She says softly with a hint of pride. “I already know me some words to spell. Stop and go. Yes and no.”
“Those are good words. Do you have a favorite?”
The girl tenderly holds her belly. “Baby. B-a-b-y.”
I look away as my mind flies back to Ravenscroft and the urgent knock in the night and Jen Carter’s frantic face and her falling to her knees to beg.
Jen Carter’s favorite word was never baby.
• • •
There’s little to do in the schoolroom except hang posters and stack a few books on a shelf. Sadie follows me back to the car where I refill the backpack and satchel with more things to take to the cabin. I look like a hobo carrying my life’s belongings. Last, I pick up the bonsai from the front floorboard.
“That’s a puny-looking bush.”
“It’s a bonsai. A fifty-year-old trident maple tree.”
“Bonsai.” She tries the word.
“It’s an ancient art form,” I explain. “This one is quite young.”
“What good’s it for?”
“You’ve got a point, Sadie. It’s beautiful to some people. A challenge to grow. A gift from a student.” I stop, because the concept only has merit in another life.
“Would you like to help me at school?”
“Me?”
I’ve caught her off guard.
“Yes, you, Sadie Blue. I see potential when I look in your face.”
She’s puzzled. Few people have likely said she has potential except Eli Perkins. One moment her face glows, the next it closes. “Roy Tupkin don’t take to learning.”
“Roy’s your husband?” I guess.
“Yes ’um. Got married Thursday a week back.”
“Ah…and you carry his child.”
She nods.
I shift my load. “Teaching doesn’t take place only in a schoolhouse. It can happen anywhere and anytime. I’d be honored to teach you to read whenever we meet.”
“That’d be nice. But I gotta git,” she says quickly, as if remembering an obligation, and leaves. I hope I wasn’t too eager with my promise to the girl, not knowing the risk she takes to be my student or friend. But she came to me, and that’s a start.
• • •
September 5
My dear Rachel—
I’ve been in this hamlet of Baines Creek for a week and am still standing. I promised I’d tell you the truth about this adventure, and for your sake and mine, I won’t hold back. Already I know accepting this post is what I needed to do. What I don’t know is who will be the more successful teacher—the mountain or me.
Love,
K
• • •
Monday morning, I fortify myself with strong tea, brush my teeth, then shake wrinkles out of my shirt. Preacher Eli reminded families at church yesterday that school starts today, and I’m more excited than I can ever remember being on opening day. This is a day of firsts for many reasons. I don’t know if anyone will show. I don’t have a syllabus or textbooks but for those I found in a thrift store. I’ll be judged by everyone, but the good news is my predecessors left depressing track records, so I have nowhere to go but up.
I walk down the trail, whistling easily, and get to school early, all the while nursing the perpetual headache that feeds on thin air. The desks are separated again into islands, so I pull them and my desk once more into a circle. The books and supplies on the shelves have stayed where they belong. Two bushels of apples that I bought on my way here are in my trunk, and I put one on each desk along with the word apple printed on an index card. I get the fat-bellied glass jar of penny candy—Tootsie Rolls, bubble gum, Mary Janes, Black Cows, taffy, and suckers. The trunk will serve as my lockbox for all things school related. I write my name on the blackboard—Miss Shaw—then I sit at my desk and wait.
When I accepted this teaching post, Rachel was disappointed. She believed I had lost my sanity and was sacrificing my classical education for the rudimentary with little reward in exchange. She said I would quickly tire of the uphill fight. I said my whole life had been an uphill fight. What she chose not to see was how inspired I felt by Eli Perkins’s invitation to become his ally for a better cause. In the end, she had no recourse except to wish me good luck and say she was there for me.
I went to the Asheville library to find the backstory on Appalachia and was directed to a pitifully small section in the dusty stacks. In all I found, the message was repetitious: this has always been an isolated community, stretching across parts of thirteen states, a parallel existence, backward from the civilized world that has morphed into the modern day, leaving these people behind. With their isolation come foreign dialects they’ve held tight to, and that I fear the most. To be understood and to understand is essential to my role here. Without that tool, I’m left powerless to do my job, make friends, ask for help, or offer it.
Printed literature about the Appalachian dialect was difficult to find, but with the help of a historian in Asheville, I found a recent paper by West Virginian Wylene Dial titled “The Dialect of the Appalachian People.” I brought a copy with me to help translate. Prudence and I understood enough three days ago to muddle through our meeting. My concern is the children who come through that door and face different. My accent, mannerisms, and attitude will be strange. I don’t want to build a wall between us.
But students have to show up first.
I’m enveloped in an eerie silence. Minutes pass, and I wonder if my ears still work. I strain to catch the wind passing through and am relieved when it whispers and a crow caws.
It’s already nine fifteen. I check my watch every few minutes. Look out the window daydreaming. Study an industrious spider in the corner. Pick up my apple and polish it on my pants when I sense the arrival of little people.
The door opens and five children enter on bare feet, hair in tangles, faces dirty, bodies scrawny beneath thin clothes. They’re timid and will bolt if I sneeze. I stay seated, for my height may frighten them.
“Hello.” I speak softly. “Come in.” They shuffle across the floor with tentative steps.
“My name is Miss Shaw. Please
sit.” I speak slowly and gesture with my hand.
They crawl up on the seats farthest from me and stare at the apples in front of them. “The apples are yours. While you eat, I’d like to read a story.”
The younger ones look at the oldest for permission, and when she picks up her apple and bites, everyone follows suit and licks the juice running down their dirty hands.
Mental note: Remember a wash bucket and soap tomorrow.
I’ve chosen to read The Story of the Three Little Pigs for its fantasy and moral: when you think the odds are stacked against you, preparation can sway the course. Plus, what child can resist the rhythmic line, I’ll huff and I'll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!
Each page I read, I hold the book up so the students can see the pictures. Natural curiosity pulls them forward like sunflowers to the sun. When the book ends, I pick up the round, glass candy jar from the floor and set it on my desk. The children sit up straighter, all eyes on the candy jar. I’m sure it is a mass of sugar treats they’ve never seen in one place. One of the boys licks his lips.
“Who would like candy?”
Their shoulders sag, and the oldest girl speaks for them. “Got no money, ma’am.”
“Oh, my candy isn’t for sale. No, you can’t buy my candy with money. An answer buys my candy, and then you get to pick the piece you like.
“Question one,” I ask the girl with long legs and straight hair tucked behind tiny ears. “What is your name?”
She sighs in relief because she knows the answer. “Lucy, ma’am.”
“And your surname, your family name?”
“Dillard, ma’am. Lucy Dillard, ma’am.”
“Excellent.”
“And how old are you?”
“Ten, ma’am. Mostly eleven.”
Her name goes in my logbook, and I take the lid off the candy jar. I beckon for Lucy to come forward. “I asked three questions, and you gave three answers, so you get three pieces of candy.” I don’t rush her. She bites her thumbnail, deliberating. She picks a Tootsie Roll, a Mary Jane, and a red sucker, then sits down. She counted to three on her own.