The Deadly Fields of Autumn

by Dorothy Bodoin

  “Did you take Bronwyn to Sue Appleton?” she asked.

  “She’s there now, and we have a great idea.”

  I told her about our new plan to match geriatric collies with senior citizens, then took a deep breath while she exclaimed how innovative it was and wondered why nobody had thought of doing that before.

  “I want to ask you something, Miss Eidt,” I said. “Do you remember yesterday at the estate sale when I turned on the TV to see if it worked?”

  She did, of course.

  “Do you remember what you saw on the screen?”

  There was another pause. It lengthened.

  Finally she said, “I couldn’t say. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Didn’t you even glance at the screen? Just for a second?”

  “I noticed a picture, but nothing registered except that the TV was working. Why is it important?”

  I could have told her. I should have told her.

  Not yet, I decided. Not until I knew more about the strange television set I had bought.

  I said, “I’m not sure that it is. I’ll try to stop at the library next week. I can’t wait to see the Gothic Nook.”

  Whether I’d be able to do that depended on what the coming week brought. An impromptu teachers’ meeting? Extra preparation or papers to grade? My schedule was no longer mine to make.

  “I’ll see you then,” Miss Eidt said. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  I ended the call and sat back in the rocker. Misty padded up to join me. I stroked her velvety head, waiting for the act of petting a dog to soothe me, to banish the thought that had settled in my mind.

  Was I the only one who was privileged—or cursed—to see the Western movie that didn’t exist?

  ~ * ~

  It had become a tradition for Brent Fowler to stop by our house just before the dinner hour knowing he would be invited to join us. Brent wasn’t a freeloader. He was a millionaire and an extremely generous man. He never appeared without flowers or wine for me and treats for the collies, usually from Pluto’s Gourmet Pet Shop.

  I wasn’t surprised to see him that evening. I had more or less anticipated his visit and had baked two apple pies, then cooked a roast in the oven. Today’s gifts were a sumptuous bouquet of autumn-hued flowers and an assortment of homemade dog cookies.

  “Liver chip,” he announced. “Every dog’s favorite.”

  I took the flowers and cookies, and Crane hung Brent’s jacket in the closet. It was Brent’s favorite outer garment, a rich forest green which set off his dark red hair.

  “How was your first week of school?” he asked, as I filled a vase with water for the flowers.

  “Same as last year. Busy. Rowdy classes. An overbearing principal.”

  “You’ll survive,” he predicted.

  “Possibly.”

  “Jennet is a good teacher,” Crane said. “Her students don’t know how lucky they are to have her.”

  I smiled at him. It was no secret that Crane thought he could manage my classes better than I could, even without his gun strapped on. “The key is discipline,” he always told me.

  I wished there were some way I could prove him wrong.

  Misty leaped into Brent’s lap, confident she’d be welcome, and Sky lay at his feet. Of all our company, Brent was their favorite.

  “How is Raven doing?” he asked. “I don’t see her.”

  She was lying under the dining room table, Sky’s special retreat.

  “She’s healing slowly,” I said. “She sleeps in the house and can’t go for walks yet.”

  “Poor girl.

  I knew Brent would slip Raven a bite of his dinner.

  “Is anything else new?”

  I glanced at Crane. He nodded slightly.

  “I may have another mystery,” I said. “Miss Eidt and I went to an estate sale yesterday, and I bought an old portable television set.”

  “And?”

  “It appears to be haunted.”

  “It would be if you selected it,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

  I chose to ignore that. “My TV has a mind of its own. It only displays its haunted properties when it feels like it.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  I moved the TV to the living room and set it on the table nearest an outlet.

  “It was supposed to be my birthday present, but Jennet decided to keep it,” Crane said.

  “I’ll buy you something else.”

  Turning the television on, I waited for the main street of a western town and a stagecoach to form. Instead two distinguished gentlemen were deep in a political conversation.

  “Darn.”

  “That isn’t very ghostly,” Brent remarked. “It’s scary, though.”

  I shouldn’t have bothered to switch to the other two channels, already knowing they’d be airing contemporary programs. Admitting defeat for the present, I turned the TV off. feeling like hitting it with a hammer.

  “Well,” I said. “This is one of the times my TV is keeping those ghostly properties under wraps.”

  “What did you see before?” Brent asked.

  “Scenes from a Western movie.”

  I added the uncanny facts. “The movie was playing on all three channels, and it had apparently been on for several hours.”

  “That is mysterious,” Brent said, “but I can think of an easy explanation. Almost every movie ever made is out on CD. Maybe there’s a CD of this western embedded in your set.”

  Crane leaned forward. “Interesting theory, Fowler, but how exactly would that work? I can’t visualize it.”

  “And why does the movie come on only some of the time?” I added.

  “I’m not a scientist, Jennet,” Brent said. “It just seems logical to me. What’s the name of this movie?”

  “I didn’t see the title or the stars’ names. When I first turned the TV on, the movie had already started.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. It was something I should know.

  But how was I going to find out more about the elusive Western if the temperamental TV kept serving me a diet of contemporary fare?

  Five

  “I bought a dog at the estate sale,” I said. “She’s an older sable and white collie named Bronwyn.”

  In his surprise, Brent almost spilled Misty out of his lap. “They were selling a dog?”

  “For thirty dollars,” I added. “If Bronwyn wasn’t sold by the end of the day, she was going to the pound.”

  “That’s outrageous. Is she here?”

  “Sue Appleton has her,” I said.

  Brent didn’t hesitate. “If Sue can’t find a home for her, I’ll take her. I always have room for one more.”

  Bronwyn was indeed lucky with two offers of a home, one from a kind and gentle older lady and one from a man in his prime who already owned two collies.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said, “but we’re starting a new program at the Rescue League. We always have trouble placing collies past the age of six or seven. From now on, we’re going to look for senior citizens to adopt our geriatric collies.”

  “I’ll bet you’ll find a lot of people willing to open their hearts to an older collie.”

  “I hope so.”

  “If not, give me a call.”

  “I will and thank you.”

  That reminded me. I was supposed to call Jill Lodge about writing an article for the Banner to help promote our new program. Well, it was Sunday. I’d call her tomorrow after school.

  And because it was Sunday and the weekend was winding down, I’d better make the most of every minute.

  While Brent and Crane discussed the possibility of embedding a CD into an old portable TV, I set the table with the autumn bouquet in the center and lit the tapers in the candlesticks that had belonged to Crane’s Civil War ancestress, Rebecca Ferguson.

  As always I counted on them to bring a blessing to our home.

  ~ * ~


  The next morning, I fixed Crane a big breakfast, made a sandwich of leftover roast beef for my lunch, and set out to pick up Leonora, my longtime friend and fellow English teacher. I didn’t have to worry about the dogs as Camille always took care of them when I was at school.

  Ever since Leonora’s move to Foxglove Corners, she and I had carpooled to Marston High School, which made the hour-long commute pass more quickly. We never ran out of conversation. Among today’s topics were the haunted TV, Bronwyn, our new program at the Rescue League, and the newlywed Leonora’s struggle to combine marriage with her career.

  She would learn the ropes. We all did, and with time life would get easier.

  This year Leonora was experiencing something different for her—a difficult class. With her blonde good looks, charisma and calm, in-control personality, she rarely had a discipline problem, let alone a surly, disruptive class, the kind I had at least once every semester.

  “From the moment they first walked in the door, they were unruly and obnoxious,” she said for about the sixth time. “Usually kids are on their best behavior, for a few days at least.”

  “The honeymoon period. It never lasts.”

  “With this class, it didn’t even start.”

  We both had sections of American Literature, which was required for all juniors who hoped to graduate. This year our classes were scheduled at the same time.

  “Fourth hour is a bad time,” I pointed out. “The kids are anxious for lunch, then still wound up after lunch and tired.”

  “That’s no excuse for bad behavior,” Leonora said.

  “There must be something about that age. Most of my trouble has been with juniors.”

  “If only we had more appetizing material to teach.”

  That was part of the problem. Our survey started with the beginning of American literature, which meant staid Colonial writing, Puritan sermons, and devotional poetry as thick as mud.

  “Cheer up,” I said. “We have witches to look forward to.”

  “The Salem witch trials. Even those excerpts are boring.”

  I couldn’t resist teasing her. “Never say that. They’re scintillating, profound, and reflective of an exciting time in American history.”

  “May I borrow that sentiment for my lecture?” she asked.

  “You may.”

  The freeway exit loomed ahead, seeming to float in a light September mist. From the car, I could see the colors of autumn swim by. Crimson, russet, and gold, touched by early morning light. How beautiful it was! How much more beautiful in the countryside we’d left behind.

  A new day, a new semester, the first literary efforts of a new country to teach, I thought. Monday, please be a good day.

  ~ * ~

  I couldn’t complain about my first three classes, Journalism, a section of World Literature, and a conference hour. In Journalism, it was always exciting to train a new staff for the school newspaper, and my tenth graders in World Literature, were, so far, enthusiastic about their study of the short story. My conference period was next, scheduled at a time when I didn’t need a break.

  Then came fourth hour American Literature. They stormed into the classroom like an invading horde of barbarians, thirty-four strong. Some went to their assigned seats, some to the desks they had assigned themselves, and a few remained standing. The window ledge with a view of school-owned woods was a popular place to hang out.

  The bell rang. I pulled the seating chart out of my gradebook. It was too early in the semester for me to remember everyone’s name.

  “Class,” I said. “Take your assigned seats.”

  My reasonable request elicited a round of grumbling from a disgruntled few and a demand to know why they couldn’t sit near their friends.

  Well, that should be obvious.

  “Sit in your assigned seats.”

  I waited for the inevitable shuffle to be completed, then took attendance. Four students were absent. Would those four not being present today make a difference? It didn’t seem so. Correction. Didn’t sound so.

  I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes had gone by. Principal Grimsley would call this a rocky start to class. I couldn’t disagree. It was certainly noisy.

  But so was Leonora’s class next door.

  Well, this class was mine, my responsibility.

  “Quiet!” I said, hoping to drown out the last hold-outs. “Settle down. Today we’re going to review Friday’s material on the early American settlers.”

  “Review?”

  The speaker was a pretty blonde girl who wore far too much makeup and looked older than the average junior.

  “We don’t need a review,” she said, adding in a lower but still audible voice, “It was bad enough the first time.”

  “Fine,” I said, quickly consulting the seating chart. “Brianna—perhaps you can tell me the title of the first piece of American writing and its author.”

  “I know that!” she said. “It’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving.

  I suppose I should give her credit for knowing the name of an American author.

  “You’re about a century off,” I said. “We do need that review. I have a quiz for you tomorrow,” I added. “It would be to your advantage to pay attention today.”

  Predictably this ushered in another muttered protest.

  The quiz was a spur-of-the-moment inspiration. All right. A punishment. I’d have to create it tonight and print copies.

  Ten more minutes had passed. That flippant response to my announcement wasn’t part of my plan.

  “That’s a nice dress, Mrs. Ferguson,” said a girl in the first row, another blonde. How many blondes did I have in this class, for heaven’s sake, and how could I tell them apart? This girl was Jessica.

  I’d chosen the outfit, a navy polka dot dress with a high waistline, because I always felt pretty in it and needed to feel confident when standing before a classroom. Still, I recognized the compliment, timed as it was, as a delaying tactic.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now, back to the early American writers. Who can give me the gist of the Puritan sermon we read yesterday?”

  “Gist?” someone said.

  “Why do we have to know that?” Jessica asked. “How’s it going to help us when we graduate?”

  I had my answer ready, not that they believed it.

  It had taken us almost a half hour to reach what I’d thought would be the beginning of the day’s lesson. If Grimsley had been sitting in my class—heaven forbid—he would be certain to comment on that.

  At this point in fourth hour, I always got hungry, so hungry that I didn’t know how I could last until the bell rang without eating.

  Don’t think about it, I told myself. Try to summon up a little enthusiasm for the lives and perils of those courageous people who sailed across the ocean to settle a new land.

  In truth, it was a marvelous adventure.

  In college, I’d had a Classics professor who had entertained us with tales of Odysseus and company as if they were his personal friends. He’d kept us laughing. I’d been enthralled and for the first time read the Classical writers eagerly. How had he done it?

  Apparently he truly regarded these austere personages as his friends. Could I do that with the likes of William Bradford and Jonathan Edwards?

  Not in a million years.

  The class grew restless with the review. In the back of the room, two or three students initiated their own conversation. The noise level rose. Another conversation started close to the front door. My demand for quiet fell on deaf ears.

  It was also noisy in Leonora’s room next door.

  Even without looking at the clock, one could tell it was almost time for the period to end, almost time for lunch. Three minutes.

  “Remember the quiz tomorrow,” I said. “You might reread a few of the selections tonight…”

  And the lunch bell rang.

  Six

  Our lunch hour was a twenty-minute reprieve in a hectic day.
It wasn’t an hour, nor was it strictly speaking twenty minutes. Teachers and students had ten extra minutes to travel to and from the cafeteria. To redeem that time, Leonora and I brought our lunches and ate in her classroom or mine.

  “Did you see Grimsley in the hall just before fourth hour?” Leonora asked.

  I unwrapped my sandwich. “I didn’t notice him.”

  It was his habit to patrol the halls, ostensibly sending malingerers back to class. We all knew he was really spying on us, which was his right as principal, I supposed.

  “My class was diabolical today,” Leonora said.

  “Mine, too.”

  “We can look forward to a lecture on discipline in our next meeting,” she added. “Because the way our class behaves is our fault, of course.”

  “There’s no meeting today. Thank heavens.”

  I took a bite of my sandwich. The roast beef tasted even better in a sandwich, but the slices of white bread were too small. The Hometown Bakery was closed for vacation. Our current loaf had come from Blackbourne’s Grocers.

  “We’ll have a Rescue League meeting tomorrow, though,” I said. “Sue wants to tell the members about the new program before they read the story in the Banner.”

  “That’s a good idea, but I hate meetings. They take away from my home time.”

  She fell silent, no doubt thinking about Jake. After their marriage he had transferred from Ellentown to the sheriff’s department in Foxglove Corners, and they were going to stay in the house Leonora had bought, which made her happy. It was a pink Victorian on wooded acreage, perfect for Leonora, Jake, and the two collies.

  I was quiet as well, wishing I’d made two sandwiches but happy I’d brought an oatmeal-raisin cookie for dessert. Whatever I had would have to sustain me until the end of the school day.

  ~ * ~

  As soon as I got home, I called Jill Lodge and told her about the new program. She was happy to write a feature story on placing older collies with senior citizens.

  “Why aren’t all the rescues doing this?” she asked.

  “They should be.”

  “My aunt had a collie, Pilot, on her farm in Harrisville,” she said. “It broke her heart when she had to sell the farm and move to town. She bought a small house with a yard, but after Pilot died, she never had another dog. I’m going to tell her about your program.”