Ghost Girl

by Delia Ray

  Then the accident happened and Mama never said another word about going to church. Whenever Aunt Birdy invited us to join her, Mama just shook her head and found a way to change the subject. Daddy didn’t try to persuade her otherwise.

  So you could have pushed me over with a broom straw one rainy Sunday morning when Mama said after breakfast, “You better get dressed, April. We’re going down to the meeting at the schoolhouse.”

  “Is Daddy coming, too?” I asked. I figured going to church must have been his idea. He had been away all week, helping to fence pastures for a cattle farmer down the mountain. Maybe since it was Sunday, he’d be joining us at the schoolhouse.

  But Mama shook her head. “No. It’s just us going. Daddy won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  I decided not to ask why we were going. I ran to put on my best dress before Mama could change her mind. My insides were so full of butterflies, I could barely hook up the buttons. Mama was coming to school. Finally, she’d get to see how fine everything was—the shelf full of National Geographic and Child Life magazines, and the world globe that could spin around, and the jars full of rulers and scissors and paintbrushes. Miss Vest had told us that after each Sunday meeting she was planning to serve coffee and hot cocoa. Maybe she’d pick me to add the marshmallows to the cocoa again, and I could serve a cup to Mama.

  We didn’t bother hitching up Old Dean for the trip over to the schoolhouse. The rain was pounding on the roof like hooves, splattering down to make muddy rivers in the yard. Mama found an old green slicker and I held a shawl over my head, and we set off with a gust of wind blowing at our backs. By the time we made it to the schoolhouse, the classroom was packed full with folks, all dripping wet from the trip over. Miss Vest was scurrying around, mopping at the floor with a rag and setting up folding chairs in between the desks.

  She trotted over when she saw us coming, and the next minute Aunt Birdy was at my side, giving my hand a squeeze. “See there, Miss Vest,” she said, grinning, “I told you not to give up on ’em. I told you Alma was coming.”

  Mama and Miss Vest nodded to each other, and then Aunt Birdy scooted us over to three folding chairs in the second row, behind the Jessups. I knew Mama would have rather found a place in the back, but she followed Aunt Birdy without a fuss, trying to ignore all the ladies who stared as she walked by. Most folks hadn’t seen her out in company for a year or more, and I wasn’t surprised at the way they put their heads together and started clucking like hens.

  Mrs. Jessup, who was bouncing Dewey’s fat baby brother, Little Elton, on her lap and sizing up everybody who came down the aisle, hoisted herself around and said hello to Mama. “Good to see you out again, Alma,” she said in a loud, sugary voice. “Look, Ida . . . Dewey . . . there’s April. I hear Wes is working down in Criglersville now. It’s been so long since we seen you all. We been looking for you over at our place on Sundays.”

  Mama nodded, but I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. She’d sooner walk through fire than go to the Jessups’ house again, with our Victrola sitting right out in their front room.

  Aunt Birdy leaned across me and tapped Mama’s arm before Mrs. Jessup could say anything else. “Look over yonder, Alma,” she said. “That’s where Apry sits ever’ day. In that desk where Alvin Hurt is setting. Miss Vest showed me at last Sunday’s meeting. And look up there. There’s her painting up on the wall, the one of the chestnut trees down the mountain. See, it’s got a gold star on the top.”

  Mrs. Jessup huffed herself back around again, and Mama seemed to relax. She flicked her eyes up to my painting on the bulletin board and tried to manage a smile. “Looks real nice, April,” she said, and I smiled back, feeling something flutter in my chest.

  I was getting ready to point out some other things around the room when Miss Vest came up to the front and welcomed everybody, sweeping her hands this way and that. She was thrilled to see more new faces each week, she said, glancing at Mama and me. Then she announced that she had decided to start each Sunday with a Bible reading, since that seemed to be everybody’s favorite part of the service.

  “For today,” she said, carefully opening the Bible, “I’ve decided to read the passages from Genesis about Noah and his ark. . . . When I selected these, I honestly had no idea we’d be living through our own flood this morning. You all might need an ark to get back home today.” Everybody laughed and turned to look at the rain streaking across the windows.

  Of course I had heard about old Noah before, but I never knew the whole story until Miss Vest began to read. Nobody had ever told me that Noah was six hundred years old when he made his big floating barn out of gopher wood. And I had never really thought about what it would be like for all those animals to squeeze together, two by two in the ark, with the windows of heaven stuck open and rain pouring down for forty days and forty nights.

  I could have sat listening to Miss Vest for at least that long. Her voice was steady and soothing, like the sound of the rainfall outside, and next to me Aunt Birdy closed her eyes and rocked back and forth as she listened. It was like we were all under a spell of some kind in that warm, steamy room, with the smell of Silas Hudgins’s pipe tobacco hanging in the air.

  I was sorry when Miss Vest closed her Bible. But then she started talking to us about what happened after the flood, how God had used the rains to make the world clean and new again. Her words kept humming through my head, even when folks started standing up, one at a time, saying prayers for their kin. Effie Kerns asked the Lord to heal her sister’s youngest, who had taken sick with scarlet fever. Somebody else had a father with palsy. And after each person finished speaking, we all said “Amen,” and it felt powerful, as if that one little word could truly help make the sick folks well.

  And then the strangest thing happened. All of a sudden, it was me who was standing up, rising to my feet in front of that whole room full of people. All of a sudden, it was me saying right out loud, “God, please watch over my little brother, Riley, up in heaven and please help Mama and Daddy and me—”

  But I never got to finish. Right then, I felt a sharp poke, like a broom handle, in my side. And I turned just in time to see Mama pulling her hand away. Her face was hard and blank as stone. But she had done it. She had jabbed me with all her might, cutting my words off at the quick. I stood there, wobbling, trying to decide what to do next, but there was no way I could finish after that. I sat down hard and stared at my lap, feeling my cheeks burning red.

  “Amen, April,” I heard Miss Vest say, and a few others joined in, their voices all soft and nervous. They must have seen what Mama had done.

  I couldn’t look at her. All I could do was squeeze my fists tighter and tighter, hearing those same ugly words I had been saying to myself for more than a year, “She hates me. . . . She loved Riley best and now she’s stuck with me. . . . She hates me.”

  And there was no denying it—she would hate me more if she knew what really had happened that night.

  After the accident, when all the questions came, when everybody started asking, “What happened, April? Where were you? What happened?” I had lied. Before I even knew what was coming out of my mouth, I found myself lying. I told Mama and Daddy the fire had been getting low and we were awful cold and that I had gone out back to fetch another log from the woodpile. Riley must have been trying to stoke the fire himself, I said, and by the time I came back inside and threw the quilt over his little body, it was too late.

  But that wasn’t the way it had really happened.

  Aunt Birdy’s hand crept over and caught hold of mine. That’s when my eyes started filling up with tears. I was too ashamed to wipe them away, so they rolled down my face and dropped onto the back of Aunt Birdy’s wrinkly hand.

  I finally lifted my head when Miss Vest called Preacher Jessup up to say his piece. But looking at the Jessups, beaming at their daddy from the front row, only made me feel worse. Mrs. Jessup kept leaning over to kiss Little Elton’s fat cheek, and Dewey was wearing his new br
own wool suit—the one he had bought down at Taggart’s with all the money the reporters had given him.

  To make things worse, Mr. Jessup had started to rock back and forth on his heels, like he always did when he was getting worked up for one of his sermons. I knew he would probably preach for an hour or more, his words pouring out smooth as melted butter. He’d wave his hands through the air and bang the Bible against his chest, going on and on about scary-sounding things like Judgment Day and souls lost to the ways of sloth.

  I felt like a bird I had seen once trapped in the rafters of our shed, beating its head and wings against the boards. I leaned over to tell Aunt Birdy that I was headed to the bathroom. But just as I tapped her arm, I heard the door in the back of the classroom open.

  Mr. Jessup stopped rocking. His eyes got wide, and soon everybody was turning around to see what he was staring at.

  Standing in the doorway was an older man dressed in city clothes—in a dark gray hat and a three-piece gray suit and starched collar. I had seen him before, but I couldn’t remember where until I heard somebody in the room let out a gasp. Then Aunt Birdy said, “Well, look a’there,” and all of a sudden, I knew.

  Still, just to be sure, I turned around and double-checked the big framed picture hanging over the chalkboard . . . the stiff collar, the serious face, the steady gray eyes.

  It was him all right—President Herbert Hoover. And following along behind was his wife, Lou Henry Hoover, and behind her were two marine guards. The marines stepped into the doorway and stood with their hands behind their backs, gazing out over the schoolroom.

  For a minute, everybody froze. Then, all at once, the room was full of chattering and whispering, and Miss Vest was springing up from her chair. “Hello!” she cried, hurrying down the aisle. “I got the message that you might come, but I never thought you’d be able to make it up here in this weather. Welcome, Mr. President! Good morning, Mrs. Hoover!”

  “Good morning to you,” the president said, looking around, with the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. We must have been a sight, all gawping at him with our jaws hanging open. He took off his hat, shaking drops of rain from the brim. Then he searched around for a place to set his umbrella.

  Miss Vest rushed up to take it, but Mrs. Hoover shooed her away. “Please, Miss Vest,” she said. “Don’t let us interrupt any longer. We’re so sorry to be late. The muddy roads took a bit longer to navigate than we thought.”

  Miss Vest shook her head. “It’s quite all right! You’ve arrived at a perfect time. Mr. Jessup was just getting ready to begin his sermon. Please . . . please sit down.” She flitted back to the front of the room to a pair of folding chairs propped against the wall next to her own. “Here. Here are some seats I saved for you,” she said.

  Mr. Jessup hurried over to help set the chairs into place along the wall, and I heard him say in a hoarse voice, “I can leave my sermon till next week, Miss Vest. It might be best, you know, seeing as we didn’t expect the Hoovers here and all.”

  “No, Mr. Jessup,” she whispered back. “You just go right ahead like we planned. The Hoovers didn’t want us to make any fuss or change our routine.”

  He frowned and looked over at his wife, but Mrs. Jessup was busy handing Little Elton off to Ida and smoothing her dress over her knees.

  As the Hoovers walked down the aisle to their seats, a few men reached out to shake the president’s hand. Mrs. Hoover greeted everybody, acting like she didn’t even notice all the women stretching their necks to get an eyeful of her flower-print dress and her smart hat. The name, first lady, suited her, the way she glided along, smiling and murmuring, “How do you do? . . . Pleased to see you. . . . How do you do?”

  I couldn’t help sneaking a glance over at Mama to see what she was thinking. Our eyes met—just for a second. Then Mama looked away and so did I, and we sat there quiet, waiting for everyone to get settled while Aunt Birdy perched on the edge of her seat like a little girl.

  Once the Hoovers had taken their chairs against the side wall, Miss Vest came back to stand at the front of the room. “I’m sure everyone here,” she said, turning to smile at the Hoovers, “would like to convey how thrilled and happy we are to have you with us this morning. Of course, if it weren’t for your generosity, this fine schoolhouse and these children and their families wouldn’t be here today.”

  Everybody broke out clapping, and the Hoovers bobbed their heads and smiled till the room turned quiet again. Then Miss Vest said, “So now without further delay, I’ll let Mr. Elton Jessup get on with his sermon.”

  Mr. Jessup stepped to the front of the room. I waited for him to take a deep breath like usual and start in with “Brothers and sisters . . .” But as soon as he lifted his head, we could all tell something was wrong. His face had turned gray, like the color of dirty dishwater, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. And he didn’t say a word. Just stood there, blinking and swallowing with his Adam’s apple working up and down in his throat. I could see Dewey squirming in his seat, wondering what was the matter.

  “Elton?” Mrs. Jessup called faintly.

  Her husband glanced down at her and gave a puny little laugh. “Nobody told me the president was coming today,” he said. His voice sounded lost, nothing like the swelled-up voice we were all used to.

  Then Mr. Jessup looked over at Miss Vest, who had taken her place next to the Hoovers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “If I’da known they were coming, I would have planned something special.”

  Miss Vest stared back, helpless. She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it when Mr. Jessup slowly turned to the Hoovers.

  “I would have planned something special,” he said again. “’Course, I had plenty to say today about the Scripture we heard, and well, about the paths to salvation. . . . But everything just ran right out my head when you walked in here.”

  A chunk of Preacher Jessup’s slick hair had fallen down on his forehead. He didn’t even try to push it away. “I reckon you’ve heard some fine speeches in your life, sir,” he said to the president.

  From where I sat, I could see President Hoover lean forward in his chair as if he and Mr. Jessup were the only two people in the room. “Yes, and I’ve heard some mighty dreadful ones, too, Mr. Jessup,” he told him. “I come from a Quaker background, so my favorite sermons are the simplest—straight from the heart.”

  Mr. Jessup nodded for a long time, looking down at his feet. “That’s real good advice, sir,” he finally answered. “I won’t be forgetting it any time soon. But for now, I reckon I just . . . just better say thank you and head on out of here before I make a bigger jackass of myself.” And before we knew what was happening, he was walking softly down the aisle, excusing himself as he pushed past the marines and slid out the door.

  The door swung shut behind him, and there was a second of awful quiet until Mrs. Jessup started getting to her feet, too. We could all hear her nagging at Dewey and Ida. “Come on now,” she hissed. “We got to go after your pa. . . . Come on.” She yanked Little Elton out of Ida’s arms, and headed after Mr. Jessup, with her eyes blazing and her kids trailing after her.

  Dewey was the last one to follow. As he walked by, he kept his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked shamed to the bone. I know I should have felt bad for him, but I didn’t. Not one little bit. I felt glad—glad that Dewey Jessup was finally seeing what it felt like to have folks staring and feeling sorry for him.

  Miss Vest looked weary, as if all her weeks of trying so hard were finally catching up to her. Somehow she managed to announce that it was time for the closing hymn, “Bringing In the Sheaves.” Without a fiddle or even a mouth organ to keep us in tune, our singing sounded pitiful. Miss Vest and Aunt Birdy and Mrs. Hoover were about the only ones who knew all the words, and the rest of us limped along in scratchy voices.

  After we were done, everybody rushed up to the front of the room to shake hands with the Hoovers, like nothing with Mr. Jessup had ever happened. Aunt
Birdy pulled me into line, saying, “Come on, Apry. Don’t you want to meet the president?”

  I nodded, trying not to watch Mama as she slipped away through the crowd and out the door.

  Nine

  I was spending recess under my chestnut tree the next week when Poke McClure turned up out of nowhere. One minute I was sitting by myself trying to make out words in a little book Miss Vest had loaned me. The next minute, I turned around to find Poke slouched against the tree behind me.

  “You learned to read yet?” he asked, eyeing the book spread across my lap. It was filled with pictures of a brother and sister smiling and feeding their new kitten and putting her to sleep in a straw basket.

  I squinted up at Poke through the bright afternoon sun. He looked even meaner than I remembered, with his dirty hands hitched over the straps of his overalls and a shadow of black fuzz growing along his sharp jaw. I didn’t know whether to answer him or not.

  “Well?” he asked again.

  “Almost,” I lied. I bent over my book and pretended to start reading again.

  Poke grunted and glared out at the schoolyard, where Ida and her friends were busy skipping rope and chanting the singsong rhymes that Miss Vest had been teaching them: “Mabel, Mabel . . . set the table . . . just as fast as . . . you are able.”

  I looked around for Miss Vest, then remembered she was still inside, clearing a space in the classroom for the new piano. The piano had arrived just that morning, right in the middle of our arithmetic lesson. It had been sent as a present for the school from a musical instrument company. All the kids were so excited that Miss Vest had to ask the delivery men to roll the piano into her parlor for the time being—at least until we finished our lessons for the day.