"No."
Tenderly, he pried her hands from her face.
"Please go, Michael. I don't want to you see me like this."
She tried to full away, but he drew her into his solid embrace.
It wasn't until then that she realized he was breathing hard, as if he had just run a great distance.
"Michael?" Her tears seemed to vanish as she looked up at him. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks were reddened from the sharp December wind. "What's happened? Are you all right?"
She had been so busy wallowing in self-pity, and all the while he needed her.
He nodded once, then took a deep breath. "I went home to see if you were there, Em. There are some new folks in town, and they have a baby. It's colder than they expected here, so I thought I would lend them our baby's blanket. I didn't think about it much. I went into the trunk."
The grasp he had on her shoulders was almost painful, but she didn't care. "What happened?"
"Your diary fell out. I started to put it back in, Em. It fell open to your latest entry. I didn't mean to read it but my eyes seemed to take in the words even as I closed the book. I tried not to read it. But I did. And then I had to find you."
"Michael?"
He rubbed a hand over his eyes before he spoke again. "You don't know what your words mean to me," he said softly.
For a moment she tried to remember what she had written. Then it came back to her—that with Michael by her side, anything was possible. Had he seen the other entries as well? No. He had only seen the last one, the one she had made a few days earlier.
"Michael." She reached up just to touch his face, and grasped her hand and kissed her palm.
Then, without warning, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, She was about to speak, when she realized his shoulders were shaking, his bread, strong shoulders. Perplexed, she returned his hug, stroking his back, wondering what was happening.
He was crying.
Her own knees began to tremble, and she squeezed her eyes shut and held him, comforted him.
"I miss him, Em." His voice was broken. "I miss him so much, And all this time I thought you blamed me."
"No. Of course not."
It came like a splash of cold water, as she realized what he must have been going through. How could she not have seen it before? How he must have tortured himself, how he must have suffered alone, the double agony of loss and guilt.
For a long time they stood in the mess of a cold schoolhouse, holding each other, gently rocking back and forth in silent understanding. His breathing became even, no longer ragged and harsh, and she could not recall what had seemed so important before he came into the schoolhouse.
At last she spoke. "Did you give them the blanket?"
"I did." He hesitated. "It still smells of him, Em. I had almost forgotten that sweet smell, but it's there in all of his clothing and blankets.
"I know." Her own voice wavered, then she spoke more firmly. "I know."
An image came to her mind, of a toddler with curly dark hair and eyes brown and deep, just like his father's. And of a dark smile, with new teeth just emerging, and a small soft hand patting her cheek.
"Do you remember the way he used to pat your face? Remember that, Em?"
She smiled and nodded. "I do." Another picture unfurled in her memory. "He had a rabbit that I knitted for him. The ears were so long. He used to put the bunny over his eyes, an ear covering each eye when he'd sleep."
"The bunny is still in the trunk. I just saw it, but I couldn't pick it up. Not today, Em. But maybe someday I will."
Again they remained silent for a timeless spell. It was like viewing an old home-movie in her mind and Michael laughing, holding the squealing form over his head in play, the child gleefully gurgling.
He took a deep breath and kissed her temple. "Emma?"
"Yes?"
"The school is a mess."
She was about to agree. She was about to confess that it was an impossible task, one she would never in the world be capable of, and to suggest they slink away in the darkness of the night and never return.
But now those thoughts seemed absurd, even ridiculous. She glanced up at him, and he looked so handsome and hopeful and young, far younger than he had seemed before. It was his eyes. The shadow was gone, the furtive shading she would catch like a forgotten nightmare. Then he smiled, an open, generous smile of love and strength and vigor.
"Oh, Michael," she whispered, "with you by my side, anything is possible."
Eight
THE STUDENTS FILED ONE BY ONE, some nodding at Emma, others making a pointed effort to avoid eye contact.
She turned her back to class and wrote her name on the blackboard, oversized letters proclaiming "Mrs. Graham." Pausing for a moment, she took a deep breath and hoped her heart would stop pounding.
It was the ultimate first day. This would be completely unlike any teaching experience she had ever had. She was to be alone with children who were raised without television, without playgrounds, or even books. Most had only heard music when the traveling dancemaster came through with his fiddle. Newspapers were rare and, when they reached the town, months out of date. There were no such things as hamburgers or pizza, no Toys "R" Us or Superman.
The truth was that she had absolutely nothing in common with these rural children from another century. She would be unable to draw upon her own childhood with these kids. It would be like teaching a room full of aliens from another planet.
With Michael's help, and the unexpected help of Mrs. Zoller—who had adopted the school as her own pet project—the school was now warm and welcoming. The fireplace was stoked, all signs of dirt and dust had vanished. Emma had put some of Rebecca Larson's ornaments—the ones that had chipped or cracked in the groundhog kiln—on the walls, and studied some of Michael's old schoolbooks for ideas on how to teach these children.
They hadn't helped much, but at least she now knew the meaning of some archaic words with too many syllables to count.
"Good morning," she said in a voice full of false confidence.
"Good morning, Mrs. Graham," they answered back.
Emma blinked. Somehow she hadn't been expecting a response, anticipating instead sullen silence. She looked at the rows of students, all still wearing their coats and boots, all shifting at their newly repaired desks. Michael had fixed the desks with astonishing speed and skill.
Every desk held a slate and two pieces of slate chalk for the students to write on. No paper in this school, only boards and chalk.
The students were all sizes, all ages. Her degree had been in early childhood education. How could she ever teach a fourteen-year-old boy?
A girl in the front row raised her hand. Emma smiled at her. "Yes. Please introduce yourself."
The girl pulled off her faded pink bonnet to reveal a magnificent head of blonde hair. "My name is Hannah." She flipped her hair and glanced at the other girls, as if daring them to speak.
Emma noticed another girl, with short brown hair, was staring straight ahead. She went to her desk and leaned over. "I'm Mrs. Graham," she said softly. "What's your name?"
At first the girl said nothing, then her lower lip began to tremble. "My name is Hannah, too," she said in a stricken voice.
"Why that's a beautiful name."
The first Hanna flipped her hair back. "Thank you, Mrs. Graham," she replied.
Emma stayed with the dark-haired girl. "What's your last name, Hannah?"
A slight hesitation, she said, "Robinson. My last name is Robinson."
"Then you will be Hannah R.," Emma said, bringing a small smile to the girl's face.
"My last name is Van Wyk," announced the long-haired Hannah.
"Then you shall be Hannah V."
Emma went around the room, asking each child to state his or her name and tell a little about themselves.
"My name is Asa Blake." The fourteen-year-old boy's voice cracked as he spoke. "I live just outside of town and I'm real good at ch
eckers. I ain't good at ciphering none, so my pa sent me here for a spell."
"I'm Elmer Jenkins," said the next boy. "I have hogs, and my favorite is named Jasper."
"Ah." Emma folded her hands. "How is Mr. Jasper? I haven't seen him lately, Elmer."
"Well, he gets a little scared this time of year, on account of this being butchering season, and all. I believe the smell of smoking ham makes poor Jasper somewhat melancholy, Mrs. Graham."
Emma managed to hide her smile at the thought of a melancholy hog and went on to the next child. He was a little boy of about eight.
"My name is also Asa." He giggled. "I mean, not 'also Asa,' just Asa. My last name is Zimmerman, so I reckon I'm going to be Asa Z." Then he straightened. "My parents were making funny sounds the other evening. I sear, I couldn't sleep none with all the shouting and hollering they were doing."
"Were they fighting?" Elmer Jenkins asked.
"I thought so at first," Asa Z. said thoughtfully.
"Mrs. Graham?" Hanna V. waved her hand in the air. "I once heard a story about a fellow named Mr. Bluebeard who had all these wives and killed them. He hung them up in his barn, one by one, all in a row. I wonder if Aza Z.'s father was killing his wife?"
"No!" Asa Z. stood up. "That ain't so! I thought someone was being hurt, so I went in there, and they were just changing their clothes."
"Changing their clothes?" another child asked.
"Yep. They said it was time to put on some warm clothes, and the sounds I heard was them trying to get the new clothes on. It was dark. I don't know why they didn't light a lamp, but it was dark, so they were having some trouble with buttons and all. That's why they were hollering."
The fourteen-year-old guffawed, then became quiet when Emma glared at him. "Very well. Now, I'm going to put some words on the board, and I want all of you to write the words on your slates."
A moan when through the room, a familiar sounds, the sound of reluctant students. Emma stopped. There was a smell now, too. It hadn't been there before, when the room was empty. But now it was unmistakable, the sticky-child smell she knew so well from Brooklyn. It was here in 1832 Indiana.
She had begun to write, when the door opened. It was George Washington Larson, sucking his middle fingers, clutching a bucket containing his lunch.
"Good morning, George." She took his hand. The leather shoelace on his shoe was untied, so she bent down to fasten it into a bow. Two other children asked to have their shoes tied, and Emma silently longed for the speedy invention of Velcro.
Finally she was able to return her attention to George, who was looking very alone and frightened and sucking vigorously on his fingers. She bent close to him to speak. "Where would you like to sit?"
There were several empty seats, and just as Emma was leading him to one, Elmer Jenkins stood up.
"Mrs. Graham, ma'am? George Larson, here is an Indian, and I ain't supposed to be around none of them, on the account of my Uncle Henry being killed by Indians. My mama says that if any Indians come to school, I have to go home. She gets worried about me."
Emma stood, momentarily stunned. George's face was expressionless. He simply stared straight ahead.
"I'm very sorry about your uncle, Elmer," she began. "George?" The little boy looked up, and Emma squeezed his hand. "Do you promise not to kill anyone at school today?"
There was a brief silence, and the children exchanged perplexed looks. George pulled his wet fingers from his mouth. "I promise, ma'am."
Elmer Jenkins turned red, and some of the children giggled, a bit uncomfortably at first. Then as little George had to be helped to his chair, even Elmer Jenkins began to smile.
Emma paused by Elmer's desk. "I'll speak to your mother, Elmer. Maybe we can change her mind a bit."
She returned to the blackboard and began to write.
Somehow, the day passed, slowly at first, then with surprise, she realized that the day was over. The children lined up to leave, some shoving each other. Aza Z. pulling Hanna V.'s hair, then pretending another child had done the deed.
And then they were gone.
She sat in the strange silence of the room, the children's voices fading as they chattered outside. The board was covered with numbers and letters and phrases.
The schoolroom door opened, and Michael went to her side. "How was it?"
She sighed. "The same. I can't believe it, Michael. There was the stuck-up girl, the tomboy, the class clown. I think I even have a few difficult parents."
Her last words were cut off by a kiss. "I'm so proud of you, Em," he whispered. "So very proud.
Emma and Michael were exhausted by the time they returned to their own home. He had been silent during their walk from the schoolhouse, staring straight ahead as they trudged through the snow.
"Michael?"
"Hum?"
"How about if I plan a Christmas party at the schoolhouse. We could invite the whole town. It's already decorated with ornaments, and I saw some evergreens in the back. Perhaps I could make little gifts for the children."
"Gifts? Emma, no one celebrates Christmas like that, not out here." Then he stopped. "At least, they didn't before you came."
"But I'll bet the kids would love it," she sighed as they entered their cabin and hung their cloaks on the peg. "How about if I have them do a play to the 'Twelve Days of Christmas'? It would be a good way to combine numbers and words, and I could get an idea of their academic level without having to embarrass anyone. I think school should be fun for the children, don't you?"
"Maybe." Michael stacked the wood in the fireplace and lit the fire, blowing on it until the flame caught.
She watched him as he moved, the strong hands, the striking face in profile. As if he knew she was watching him, he stood slowly and faced her.
"Em," His voice was low.
She stepped into his embrace, her eyes closed as he rocked her in his arms, gently, tenderly.
"The doctor says we can try again," he whispered.
"I know. But the ground is frozen and it's snowing."
His lips pressed against her temple, then at her throat. "I'm not talking about the rosebushes."
Later, in the orange glow of their bedroom, the embers in the fireplace crackling, Emma watched him sleep.
This was so right, being here with him. What extraordinary, magical force had sent her here? Or sent him to her. It must be magic. Pure Christmas magic.
Michael took a deep breath and pulled her closer, yet she could not sleep. Her thoughts traveled back, far away, to another time and place that seemed as distant as a long-ago memory.
The ring. She held up her left hand and touched the ring. It was so soft, so smooth.
Before, she had not been able to read the inscription. The script had been faded and worn. What wondrous words had Michael inscribed? She slipped the ring slowly off her finger to read the etched letters. Just as it passed her fingertip, she felt him reach for her.
"No, Em! Don't!"
And then she was asleep.
Nine
THE WARMTH TICKLED HER NOSE. Half-asleep, she reached out. "Michael," she sighed.
And rolled onto the floor.
Gasping she rubbed her eyes. The warmth that had tickled her nose let out a plaintive cry.
"Pumpkin." Emma stared as the cat arched against her hip. Outside a car alarm shrieked.
"No." Her hand flailed, and she knocked over the much that had held her hot chocolate, now cold and empty. For a moment all she could do was stare at her furniture, at the television set that hummed with the morning news. "Oh, God, no."
The fold ring. She looked down at her hand. The ring was gone. "Michael?" It hurt to say his name, knowing there would be no answer.
It had all been a dream. The town, the life.
And Michael.
It had all been a glorious, terrible dream.
A weatherman on television announced a sever snowstorm watch, hazardous driving conditions, and ice on the roads. The time, he added, was
seven-thirty.
She was late—she had to get to school. A feeling of nausea gripped her; shock and pain and a horribly sick hum seemed to vibrate through her body. Everything was ff, everything was wrong.
She went through the motions of getting showered and dressed, feeding the cat, watering the plants. As if in trance she felt nothing, would not allow herself to think.
The ring was nowhere to be found. Even after she crawled on her hands and knees and peeked under every table and chair, she could not find the ring. The synthetic fibers of the carpet burned her palms, but it didn't matter.
Emma needed to cry, She felt the urge to sob rise in the back of her throat; the desire to simply crumple up and scream was almost overwhelming.
But she couldn't. A class full of first graders was waiting. And she knew that once she started to cry, she wouldn't be able to stop. Not for a very long time.
Perhaps in the evening she could cry to her heart's content, shake her fist in the air and ask why she had such a dream. Because she knew that, after this dream of Michael, her life was ruined. Never again could she wrap herself in false contentment, never again could she convince herself that she was perfectly happy.
From now on, every small joy would be tarnished. Now she knew real joy, and it could never again be hers.
She followed the path she had so often followed, stopping at the muffin shop for coffee, checking her mailbox in the school's main office. The routine of her normal day was shallow and meaningless—every motioned seemed to be a cruel mockery.
The secretary said hello, and Emma supposed she returned the greeting. Someone's mother handed her a bag full of junk. Emma realized it was for some sort of Christmas project.
The classroom was exactly the same—the slightly messy desks, the fragrance of paste and construction paper, and a faraway aroma of something sticky. How could the classroom be the same when her whole world had been turned upside down?
The children arrived as usual, trickling in, shoelaces untied, hair askew and spiked by static. When she spoke, she heard the words echo, as if another Emma Graham stood beside her and uttered the same old words.
A Gift of Love Page 43