by Leah Weiss
“Lucy Dillard, ten years old, almost eleven, I’m Miss Shaw. Welcome to school.”
On that first day I meet Lucy, and her two younger sisters, Weeza and Pearl. They wear dresses made of feed sacks. Their cousins, Grady and Petey Snow, in bib overalls, have matching haircuts hacked and shaved and a sprinkle of scabs on their scalps.
I get information and the children get candy. Lunch is another apple, and in the afternoon we go out in the sunshine and sit on a quilt for our lessons.
Near the end of the school day, curious Preacher Perkins arrives as I thought he might. I’m surprised at how nervous I am at him watching me with the children, and I’m a bit ashamed when I sit up straighter and try to impress him. He stands off to the side and leans against a tree, arms folded.
Weeza Dillard, who just found her tiny voice, tells me ways to make poke sallet tasty, and she has my full attention. I think she says, “You soak them leaves in salt water, and you boil em, and you add a piece of pork fat if you got any, and you fry the stalks like okra. You can pickle em, too.” She ends with a flourish, “But them berries’ll kill you.”
“Thank you, Weeza. I look forward to my first taste of poke sallet. And thank you for coming. See you tomorrow.” I add as they disperse, “And bring your friends!”
I turn my attention to Eli Perkins. His pin-striped suit is worn to a shine and is sloppy in the sleeves. The trouser cuffs puddle over his scuffed shoes. One lace is tied together where it broke. To look at him, you would not think smart and purposeful, yet he is that and more.
“You didn’t have a full house, but it’s a good start, don’t you think? That little Weeza’s a marvel. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say so much.”
I fold the quilt over my arm and head back inside. He follows.
“It was a good first day,” I admit. I put the storybook back on the shelf, proud he saw the children answering questions and feeling at ease. “I want them to see school isn’t all work and no joy.” I erase the blackboard, pick up the jar of penny candy, and hold it out. Eli chooses a caramel, my favorite, and we walk out together. The candy jar gets locked in the car trunk along with the quilt, and I turn to face the preacher, who looks up at me and grins.
“Miss Shaw. Miss Shaw. Miss Shaw.” He shakes his head.
This is awkward, but he’s smiling so that’s a good sign.
“Yes?”
He leans toward me, up on his toes. “Thank you.”
Kate Shaw
The Rusty Nickel, which is Open Somtime, is open today.
At lunchtime, I leave school with students in tow, cross the clearing, and enter to meet the proprietor, Mooney. I hope the children will open social doors for me that might be closed because I’m the outsider who hasn’t paid her dues yet. Mooney is another short man, but as wide around as he is high. He chews on a licorice stick that stains his lips black. Wild hairs shoot out of his ears, eyebrows, and bulbous nose and give him a look of perpetual surprise.
“Are you Mr. Mooney?” I ask.
His laugh rolls up and out and shakes his belly. “Name’s Mooney. Only the po-lice call me Mister Mooney. You that teacher lady. Got you a bunch of scallywags with you today, I see.” He reaches his hand across the scarred counter and takes mine with limp, pudgy fingers. He studies me while the children study the shelves in the dim light. A couple of them pull pieces of penny candy from their pockets and unwrap them slowly. Makes me wonder if they’re taunting Mooney with their good bounty that didn’t cost precious pennies.
“Heard you was a big ’un. And up in years. Won’t exaggerating, was they?”
Mooney scrutinizes me but not in a mean way, and I smile, for my smile is the loveliest thing about me.
“Good to meet you, Mooney. I’m Kate Shaw. Preacher Perkins said you’re the man I need to know because you have all the answers. When are you open?”
“Well, when the door is unlocked, I’m open.” He chuckles at his direct answer. “Otherwise, it depends on the day. And what somebody needs. Things open here pretty regular cept when the road’s closed, or it rains a lot, or snows, or it’s time to hunt, or my knee’s gone out. You need something, talk to me. I get it when I can. Always do.”
“I’d like to order a bag of dog food, please.”
• • •
For the rest of the week, more children come to school and find apples on their desks. Penny candy is just reward for answers. Potatoes in their jackets bake in the coals of the woodstove. Word spreads that school isn’t all bad and bellies don’t stay empty. I keep a list of mountain words I struggle with and consult my book when I get home. Pearl said, “It’s startin to get arish,” and that means it’s getting chilly. Petey Snow said, “I brung in a cathead for lunch,” and that’s a large biscuit. The most helpful phrase—Was you born in a barn?—is thrown at anyone who forgets to shut the door. My initial expectation remains simple: pique their curiosity. Once joy is instilled, we can roll up our sleeves and go to work.
• • •
September 11
My dear Rachel—
I had a run-in with a dangerous man today—Roy Tupkin, Sadie Blue’s husband. I had just left the Rusty Nickel across from school when Roy staggered out into the clearing, drunk, and locked me in his hard gaze. He’s a leather strip of a man with a cocky swagger, and insecure as all cocky men are. He stared at me from beneath the brim of his hat and shouted unoriginal obscenities—“Hey, bitch cow, you even a woman in that big body of yours? Got any titties under that man shirt?”
Mooney, the proprietor, called out to Roy not to make trouble. Said he’d call the sheriff if he did. Roy took three long steps toward me, threw his arms up in the air, and shouted “Boo!” I stood my ground. I knew he was only a bully, plus I had the man by three inches and thirty pounds. He tipped his hat, smiled with dead eyes, and walked off into the woods. I’m truly afraid for the girl Sadie Blue and her unborn child.
• • •
Despite Eli’s attempt to put a lock on my door that holds, while I teach, someone comes to my cabin. My books are moved from the window ledge to the table but neatly stacked. My wool sweater moved from one peg to another. The journal that sat on the table when I left in the morning is on the chair in the afternoon. The visits are daily now, and I’m left small gifts: a smooth rock the size and color of a biscuit, an unbroken wishbone, the shell of a robin’s egg, the delicate skeleton of what looks like a child’s hand.
Someone different and mean-spirited hasn’t crossed my threshold but leaves warnings outside, hoping to frighten me. A blue, headless bird was the first. They nailed my privy door shut another day—when I wasn’t inside, thank goodness. My tolerance is being tested, and I remain pragmatic as no real danger line has been crossed…yet. Rachel has warned me many times that I take chances I shouldn’t. So far I’ve been lucky, and the pranks are dwindling because I choose to ignore them.
I have taken to heart Prudence’s warning about wild dogs and, as small defense, always carry my hiking stick when I walk. I even bought a bag of dog food. I’m outside one Saturday, gathering armloads of sticks for the insatiable woodstove, when I hear the bark of dogs up on the ridge. They’re coming this way!
I drop my bundle and run inside, slam the door, and watch through the window while my heart gallops. A deer jumps the creek and darts past, followed by three dogs. Their tails wag. Their tongues loll out of their mouths. They’re having fun instead of lusting to kill—they’re enjoying the chase. I feel rather silly about the fear I let Prudence Perkins instill.
That afternoon, when I get water from the spring, I see one of the dogs has returned and lies next to the cabin between the door and me. His body is thin, ribs exposed. His mixed breed is the result of a questionable lineage, but he’s bits of boxer and terrier. He raises his chunky brown-and-black head when he sees me and beats his whiplike tail on the ground in greeting. I’m cautious and in
ch toward the cabin door in case he attacks.
I speak softly. “Hey, fella. You okay?” He sits and looks me in the eye. His face shows trust. “Do you belong to somebody and forgot where you came from?”
He walks toward me, wiggles his skinny backside, and lays his lumpy head in my hands. When he pants, his mouth turns up in a grin so delightful I laugh. So much for wild dogs who want to tear me apart. This one seeks a friend.
I go inside and fill a bowl with dog food and bring it outside. He downs the food in three bites, then lifts his leg and pees. I take these as good signs, and we strike a deal: if he stays, he stays, and if he goes, he’ll at least have food in his belly before he does.
I confess that the dog with the endearing grin brings comfort I didn’t know was missing. He roams by day yet knows when I get home. I’m glad to see him. I call him Dog, and he lets me.
• • •
As promised to Eli, I attend church the next Sunday to be neighborly and to meet my students’ families, but nothing more. I admit I’ve never been instilled with burning, blind faith, and I’ve had no need for it. Other than running into an empty church to escape a storm and finding an index card on a bulletin board carrying my destiny, church has never played a part in my life. I would love to think prayers are answered as Eli professes, but I’m a skeptic.
As predicted, people come today to see me, the newcomer—the jasper, I hear some call me—and I’m anxious once more over our differences. The men, in clean bib overalls and ironed shirts buttoned to the top, tip their hats but don’t look me in the eye. The women, in plain dresses, hair knotted at their necks, and scraps of hats on their heads, are more skittish and only nod halfheartedly. The doors to the church stay open to accommodate the overflow, and people stand at the back. I look around for my students’ faces to tie to parents. Lucy, Weeza, and Pearl are in the seat behind me, and they smile. They look like their mother, who sits with them, stoic, guarded. She holds tight to the smaller girls’ hands in her lap. Hers are red raw, and the cracked nails blunt and stained. I clutch my smooth hands together.
Preacher Eli walks to the podium, and everyone grows quiet while he tells a joke, quotes Bible verses, builds up a rhythmic preaching momentum with what I guess is his practiced delivery, then the topic turns to me. His face grows kind. He says I am their blessing. He urges everyone to welcome me.
Then I ask to speak. My stomach is knotted with stress, yet I feel I must own my voice up here. I stand in front of these strangers, choose straightforward words and make the decision to be honest, though Rachel pressed me not to. Mr. Poore read in my file that I was dismissed, so the truth is out there if anyone cares to look.
“I left my last job,” I start, then take a deep breath and start again. “No, I lost my last job because I helped someone and got into trouble. When I looked for another teaching post, it was Preacher Eli’s faith in your children and”—I glance at the preacher in his oversize suit and add—“his faith in me that brought me here to teach. I am happy to be here.”
I sit down, surprised my palms are sweating and my heart galloping. My chest is tight so I breathe slowly and deeply, aware I’ve spoken on erudite topics to groups ten times this size and never broken out in a sweat or elevated my blood pressure. I suddenly know that this primitive place and Eli Perkins and these plain people are important to me for reasons that aren’t perfectly clear. That the restlessness I’ve felt all my life has started to subside and is being replaced by a flutter in my belly of excitement and wonder. Could I be on the right path at last?
Church is finally dismissed, and for the next ten minutes, the onslaught of names and faces meld into a blur. The odd dialect is a jumble to my ears. To the parents, I say kind words about their children, aware my words are as difficult for them to understand as theirs are for me. The overall dynamics are as expected: the giant outsider must earn her place.
Thankfully, the only stone they cast this day is in the soup.
The tragedy of the morning is seeing fresh bruises on Sadie Blue. Practiced at hiding her injuries, she wears oversize clothes. Her hair hangs across the left side of her damaged face. When she smiles, her swollen lips stretch to a grimace. Her aunt Marris drapes a protective arm around Sadie’s shoulders, but the old woman’s expression says she knows defeat when she sees it. This abuse is nothing new. I clench and unclench my fists by my side and know Sadie sees my concern and the anger in my eyes. She is embarrassed, but I want to lash out at the coward Roy Tupkin who beats a girl carrying his child. Unlike Aunt Marris, I can deliver serious harm.
• • •
The next Saturday, while I write to Rachel, Sadie Blue knocks on my cabin door. I haven’t seen her this week, and I’m elated she has come by—and equally happy to see her bruises have faded and not been replaced by new ones. I’ve thought a lot about her, the pregnancy that led to the husband, and possibilities that hold her down by the anchor of poverty. Despite all those strikes, she’s spunky. She’s exactly the reason I’m here.
“Hi, Sadie. Come on in. I’m having tea. Want some?”
She steps inside, sets the beloved magazine on the table, and says right off, “That ain’t good.” She points to the pile of sticks I’ve collected to burn in the woodstove. “Burn quicker than a powder fuse. Need logs for your stove. Gotta be seasoned.”
“Where do I get seasoned logs?”
“Jerome Biddle be glad to make a dollar or two chopping wood.”
“Lovely. You solve my wood problem, and I’ll get a new friend.”
I pour tea and open a tin of cookies while Sadie walks over to my gifts on the window ledge and studies them.
“It’s good you respect em like this,” she says, picking up the biscuit rock, then putting it back down.
“What do you mean? Do you know who leaves these things?”
“Birdie. She lives in that trailer you pass coming and going.”
“I saw her the day I arrived, but not since.”
“She show herself when it’s time.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Anything ails you, she got the cure. Older than dirt. Used to live with a Injun. Got a crow for a friend.”
“Why do you think she left the bones of a child’s hand? It’s so tiny and fragile.”
“It’s likely tied to a pure spirit, a wise spirit Birdie knows who walks these woods, seeing things, helping. This spirit likely watches over you.”
I don’t tell the girl I don’t believe in the bunk of the supernatural, but it’s disturbing to think of a child’s grave being robbed or the child never being buried in the first place. I’ve never held bones like these, intact, delicate, tragic.
Sadie picks up a feather from the window ledge. “Birdie say you brave to stay.”
“What tells you that?”
“This here eagle feather.”
“She left that yesterday.”
Sadie gently puts the feather down and walks back to the table. “Don’t never hide it. Don’t never let it touch the ground.”
• • •
Sadie made good her promise, and Jerome Biddle, a lopsided gnome of a man with a wispy beard, has come to cut woodstove-size logs for my woodstove. The day’s labor produces a stack four feet high between poplar trees ten feet apart. In my naivety, I think it’s enough wood to last a lifetime.
I give Jerome extra money to chop wood for the schoolhouse. Our desks have already been pulled close to the stove, and some mornings there’s frost on the insides of the windows, but the mood inside stays warm. I love my time with the children. They’re inquisitive and hardworking. They want to please me, and they do. When one of them misses a day of school, I make inquiries and let Preacher Perkins know, but I don’t insinuate myself. I’ll always be a jasper.
I find a milk supply with Eli’s help and add it to the apple and potato diet. Attendance increases to
between fifteen and eighteen students. We don’t mind sharing desks, and Eli found extra chairs. We graduate from picture books to storybooks. No one knows how to read except simple words, so everyone starts at the beginning. I whistle walking to and from school.
• • •
The next Saturday, I pass Birdie’s trailer and see her.
She waits outside the door, a squat woman with wide hips. As she was the first day I arrived, she wears layers of dull, long dresses that drag the ground, to which she’s added a striped sweater, a paisley shawl, and a necklace of beads and bones. She reminds me of a homeless woman I once saw in New York City who wore a dozen layers of clothing—even a bicycle tire around her neck—to keep her possessions safe.
Everything about Birdie is knotted. Arthritic fingers grip a gnarled staff. Lips clamp a twisted pipe. A braided belt hangs from her waist. Cotton-fuzz hair piled helter-skelter on her head has a live crow nesting in it, for heaven’s sake! Hygiene is highly questionable.
“Need to talk” is what I think she says before she turns and ambles up the two steps, lumbering side to side. When she crosses the threshold, the crow lifts off and flies to a branch and perches.
Birdie’s door stays open so I must enter or risk rudeness. I worry I’ll embarrass myself, or hurt the old woman’s feelings when I can’t understand her or find her smell too rank. I sense Birdie has been my protector these weeks on the mountain and the giver of gifts, but I’m scared of what I’ll find inside.
Still…
I take a breath, stoop low, and step inside.
Every surface—ceiling, walls, table, ledges—is covered with drying herbs, moss, leaves, snake skins, bones, turtle shells, seeds, nuts, and stones. Burlap covers windows and cuts light to a hint. Birdie’s trailer smells like the deep throat of a secret cave: rich, earthy, cool, mysterious. It’s potent but not unpleasant.
The crone sits regally behind a table made from a tree stump. Old books bound in cracked leather are stacked high. One lies open, and I see writing on parchment paper. A jar of ink and homemade quills from feathers are beside it. Oil lamps and candles light this cave of a place, and I think magical, not frightening.