Annie Pike Greenwood

by We Sagebrush Folks

  I arose, still smiling. “You are right, Mrs. Duggan; I said exactly what you say I did—but not in the way you said it. I realize that I possess a voice which I could make heard in Rupert or Minidoka from where I am now standing. But I think you who listen to me will not call it shrill. On the day in question I had tried to conduct a spelling lesson. Alberta had persistently ignored my suggestion that she put away her books to begin taking dictation. She was holding back the class. I looked at her; I suggested mildly that she clear her desk; finally I stood over her, and I said, ‘Alberta Duggan! You put your books away!’”

  My contralto voice, low-pitched, big, and full, filled the room with surprising force. The crowd in that school-room that night was as impressed by the amazing volume of my voice, which they could see I was producing without effort, as Alberta had been. I paused to allow the sound to die. Then I continued in conversational but perfectly audible accents, “And did she put her books away, Mrs. Duggan?”

  “Yes, she did!” came the lightning defense of Alberta’s mother. I swept my audience with a comprehensive glance. “If by speaking in that manner I accomplished what other means had failed to do, I believe I was justified in making use of my voice as I did.”

  An interruption took place at this point. “I want to ask,” said Mrs. Bagnel from her seat at the farther side of the room, “I want to ask: Mrs. Duggan, didn’t you ever whip any of your children?”

  Mrs. Duggan answered, “No, Ma’am; we believe in ruling by love. Our Savior said...”

  “I thought so! They act like it!”

  A ripple of laughter ran around the room, and the two women glared at each other. Mrs. Duggan transferred her outraged gaze to me. “There must be something wrong with the way you manage in the school-room, Mrs. Greenwood, because Alberta never had any trouble with a teacher before!”

  I replied quite calmly, “Some weeks ago the girls in the high school told me, in Alberta’s presence, that Alberta had made life miserable for Mrs. Sanderby, and Alberta admitted it as a great joke.”

  Mrs. Duggan sat up, electrified, and turning to Mrs. Sanderby, who sat across the aisle at her left, demanded, “That isn’t true, is it, Mrs. Sanderby?”

  Mrs. Sanderby, taken totally by surprise, would rather have let the dead past bury its dead, but here was I interrupting the ceremonies. She was forced to confess, “I’m afraid it is, Mrs. Duggan. Alberta did not always act as she should have done.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?” demanded the outraged mother.

  “And that is not all.” I turned to another corpse, more recent. “Only last week Professor Larson told us in teachers’ meeting that Alberta had been impudent to him, and that he had said to her ‘You shut your mouth, Alberta Duggan!’”

  The mother who had reared Alberta by love alone was stunned. This was so much worse than anything of which I had been accused that Mrs. Duggan’s jaw dropped, her face crimsoned even more deeply than it had at Mrs. Bagnel’s insult, and her eyes became fixed in tense horror. But only for a moment. She was not a stupid woman. Arousing herself, she demanded of the bald head on the front seat, which had never once relinquished its carpentry cogitations, “Professor Larson, is it true that you said that to Alberta?”

  Professor Larson rose, undulated slowly down the aisle, smiling deprecatorily as he went, and in his most suave and conciliatory manner began, “Why,...I believe I did say something...like that. You see...Alberta was...quite provoking...”

  Mrs. Duggan dropped her chin in her hand, her eyes falling in desperate humiliation. I hated seeing her so hurt. She was really a gentle and conscientious soul. Larson backed his way again to his seat and, once there, looked at one spot on the floor directly ahead of him.

  A contemptuous murmur of disgust swept like a tidal wave over the gathering. Larson heard it, and without turning around or taking his eyes from the fascinating flooring, his bald head became a shade more pink. In all literature, I ask you, did you ever read of a man’s head being covered with a blush? His blushing bald head faced the crowd, while his blushing visage looked in the opposite direction, examining the cracks in the floor.

  Gillespie read, “Eva C. Brady.”

  Mrs. Brady needed no urging. She was loaded. She knew she had a legitimate objection to me. “I have something perfectly terrible against Mrs. Greenwood. She passed a paper around among the high school girls with a vile thing written on it,” she shouted.

  Even then my cheeks did not flame. Quite shamelessly I explained. “I wish every one here to understand the circumstances under which that was done. Some young men from Rupert had made an insulting remark to two of our high-school girls. I objected to having those young men invited to the following party. Clarissa Brady demanded the reason why. Thinking to convince her, I wrote, partially, the insult, never dreaming that one of the girls to whom it had been made was Clarissa herself. It was Clarissa who allowed the paper to pass from her hands. I had no intention of giving the information to any one except her, and only to her because I felt sure that she would not continue to demand that the Rupert fellows be invited if she knew the truth. There...”

  “The whole story about those Rupert boys is a lie!” Mrs. Brady screamed the interruption.

  Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Gillespie stood up at his prominent position in the front of the room. “It is not a lie, Mrs. Brady. That story is God’s truth. Your daughter and another girl were standing at the foot of the stairs. I had come to fix the lights, and I was standing at the head of the stairs. One of those Rupert fellows leaned out of the car and called to the girls, ‘Come and get in, girls! We’re in for a raping tonight!’”

  The horrifying word shot through the room like an obscene missile. There was not one person present who had not some familiarity with it; but never before had they heard it publicly hurled in speech, in all its naked beastliness. There was a second of shocked, disconcerted silence, during which each one avoided the eyes of his neighbor. I was the first to recover. I realized that I must be the first to take advantage of this psychological moment.

  “Mrs. Brady,” I said, “I supposed when I tried to protect your daughter from those base young men, I should at least merit your gratitude. Judging from the manner in which you have taken my action in this matter, I should have pleased you better had I cared nothing for your girl’s fate, and, with my eyes open to the vileness of those rough-necks, had I allowed her to associate with them, making no protest, on the theory that I was hired to teach her, and not to save her. I had thought there were things more important than lessons from text-books. You would lead me to believe differently. In spite of your attitude toward me, I do not regret the course I took with regard to your daughter and those human skunks. I would do it again, under the same circumstances, for I need only the approval of my own conscience.”

  My voice had sunk to the greatest solemnity. I felt just what I was saying. The people were impressed. Poor Mrs. Brady shrank beneath their indignant eyes.

  “Mrs. Jake Troughton,” read Gillespie.

  Mrs. Troughton, rose, trembling from head to foot. Seated just in front of her, I turned to look up at her as she faced the crowd, and I closed one of my hands tightly over hers as it rested upon the desk.

  “I jest want to say,” Mrs. Troughton’s voice shook, “I jest want to say that I ain’t got nothin’ agin Mrs. Greenwood. She’s always done right by my children, and I ain’t got nothin’ agin her.”

  “Then why did you sign that petition?” exploded Mrs. Baker.

  “I signed partly becuz you women was bounden I’d do it,...and partly becuz I wanted to git this thing before the public ‘stead of havin’ Mrs. Greenwood talked about behind her back!”

  It tickled me immensely to have Mrs. Troughton turn on those women the very arguments with which they had broken her faith with her adored Jake. I gripped the rough, bony hand encouragingly. Mrs. Troughton sat down.

  “Samuel Baker,” read Mr. Gillespie.

  Mr. Baker stood up, awkwardly,
by reason of the sleeping infant he bore in his arms, the good husband that he was. “I haven’t a single thing against Mrs. Greenwood,” he said. “I didn’t sign this petition until just before I came into this room, and then I signed it because my wife felt that it was not fair to her unless I did. But I have got something against Professor Larson. When he slaps my boy in the face because that boy will not perjure himself by saying whether he smokes, I think he is overstepping his authority as principal of this high school!”

  Trustee Jensen towered over him. “Do I understand you to say that you signed this petition to put Mrs. Greenwood out of her job although you haven’t a thing against her?”

  Baker did not reply. Jensen turned to Gillespie. “Are there other people’s names that are in the room?”

  “No, sir,” answered Gillespie. “I have looked these over. In fact, Mrs. Mead allowed me to look this petition over before coming here tonight. Those who have spoken are the only parents signed up who have children under Mrs. Greenwood. The rest are taxpayers who have nothing whatever to do with her.”

  “You told us we had to have it signed by taxpayers,” Mrs. Baker challenged Jensen defiantly.

  “Certainly. We couldn’t act unless it was. But the fact remains that there’s only you four women against all the other parents of the high school. And so far you four women ain’t brought nothink we can fire Mrs. Greenwood for. If we tried it, she could draw her salary by the courts and do nothink but come here every day.”

  I stood up. I was no longer playing a farce. I was dead in earnest. “You need never fear such a course from me. If the parents of my pupils don’t want me, I will leave this district at once, never to return.”

  This seemed to strike Mrs. Baker with unusual force. I saw that I evidently appeared to her in an entirely different light from her preconceived notion of me. “Mrs. Mead,” she said, “you told us that Mrs. Greenwood said she would come here and sit at her desk and draw her pay if any one ever tried to put her out.”

  “No, I didn’t,” denied Mrs. Mead. “What I said was that when Mrs. Greenwood first came here, she was telling me about the case of a teacher near Buhl who went and sat on the school-house steps every day, and drew six months’ pay.”

  Desperately Mrs. Baker spoke out: “Professor Larson, we want to hear from you! I remember you said that you could support this petition with some of the blackest things. Now it’s up to you to let these people and Mr. Jensen know that we had reason for bringing this petition. We want you to speak! We demand it!” Mrs. Baker was nobody’s fool—certainly not Larson’s any more forever.

  AGAIN that electric effect of suspended breathing, while Larson advanced to the center of the room, drawing from his pocket a sheaf of manuscript. Even then there was a chance for him. I refused to condemn him utterly until there was no more hope. Those women had so greatly misunderstood me and my motives, might they not have done the same thing with Larson? Perhaps he had really prepared a paper in my defense, since he had always praised me so highly. That must be it. He should not receive judgment from me until he was unqualifiedly proved a Janus.

  “Mr. Jensen,” Larson had turned to the Chairman of the Board of Trustees, “I should like to have these here high-school boys leave the room before I begin reading. I do not think this is the place for pupils to be when a teacher is being tried.”

  I felt my first unqualified suspicion. I sprang to my feet while the last word was still in his mouth. “Mr. Jensen, I want these boys to remain!” I insisted.

  “But, Mrs. Greenwood, this no place for pupils when a teacher is being tried,” explained Jensen patiently.

  “Mr. Jensen, isn’t this my trial?”

  “I guess it is, Mrs. Greenwood.”

  “Then I believe I should have the right to say what persons should be barred. Herbert,” I addressed the long, lank lad with the keen eyes at the back of the room, “Herbert, are you here as a friend of mine?”

  I had counted on his intelligence to grasp the situation, and I gloried in his wit when he immediately answered, “No, Ma’am. I guess I have caused Mrs. Greenwood as much trouble as anybody this year.”

  I addressed each boy in turn, and each one, taking his cue from Herbert, replied in the negative. I turned to Jensen. “You see I have not packed the house. I did not even know these boys were coming.”

  “I came here because everybody seemed to be getting an invitation, so I thought I had a right to be invited too,” volunteered Herbert. He was sniffing in the direction my bloodhounds had taken.

  “I insist that they be allowed to remain,” I repeatedly emphatically.

  “Very well,” said Jensen. “I guess you’re the one to have the say.” Jensen was splendidly fair that night. Of course, it must be taken into consideration that whatever motives had drawn the crowd, it was now almost wholly for me.

  Larson looked as though he did not know whether to proceed or not. Finally he began his paper with a long prelude about the unsatisfactory attendance of the parents at Parent-Teacher Association meetings. He told the audience how few visitors had been to the school, taking occasion to dwell glowingly upon the fact that Trustee MacMillan, who was seated near him, had not been remiss in making calls. He then dwelt at great length upon the cigarette evil.

  This stodgy, irrelevant paper, coming in the midst of a discussion so heated, seemed funny in crescendo to me, and I could scarcely control my mirth. The crowd did not feel as I did. That to me made the situation more humorous. The people were bored, restless, indignant, outraged. It was as though, watching the cinema, they had seen the heroine dash for liberty with the villain a breath away, when a big fat woman with a big fat hat had sat down in front of them. The difference was that in a picture show they might have squeezed to one side, but there was no getting around this dreary exhibition of Larson’s. Just as the crowd was about to groan or tear up a desk and brain the offender, the big fat woman took off her hat and exposed an even more exciting scene. Larson said something more about cigarettes, and Mr. Mead strained intently forward. When Larson began to expatiate about the criminality of men who bought from stores and resold to youths, Mead yelled, “You mean that I let men have cigarettes, knowing that they’ll give them to boys! You know you do!”

  Larson abased himself as humbly as Uriah Heep, denying any shadow of such a thought. But Mead was not satisfied. He was not another bloodhound, sniffing. He was a lion, roaring, and his prey was in sight. It was plain to be seen that just the sight of Larson was enough to enrage him, and that Mead was not only ready to place his own construction on anything Larson might say, but he was lying in wait for something to pounce upon.

  Larson, having done his best to make the lion purr, proceeded, “And, besides the cigarettes, we have the awful presence of Sen-Sen to endure.” (I recognized that Larson, a man without sense of humor, was trying to be humorous. I detected something else. His too amiable, too cautious approach appeared to be for the purpose of directing suspicion away from him as to any ulterior motives concerning me. Just so would a man write who wished to appear disinterested. Particularly since the whole object of the meeting was to discharge me.)

  He was continuing: “The boys would come loaded with that objectionable odor until Mrs. Greenwood and me could hardly stand them.” (He was endeavoring to prove his total lack of malice toward me by including me in this harrowing experience. I knew this must be making a great hit with the boys at the back of the room. No wonder Larson wanted them removed while he cracked his little joke at their expense.)

  The lion gave a great roar: “Yes, and they bought it at my store. And they had a perfect right to buy it. There’s no law in the State of Idaho against the use of Sen-Sen. And I’m tired of your insinuations. By God, I’ll...”

  The room was so crowded that Mead started to climb over desks to get at Larson. Helen Gillespie’s voice thrilled the air, “Dad!” and Gillespie pushed the crowd away as he took great strides down the room, calling as he went, “Dad!”

  Gi
llespie, throwing an arm around the infuriated Mead, drew him out into the congested hall, and possibly farther, until the merchant could calm down. Up to this point the paper Larson had so carefully prepared was the most inappropriate document possible for the occasion. He had seized the opportunity to let his light shine, and it proved to be a very little light indeed. No one would have grieved if he had left it home under a bushel.

  He was sneaking up on his subject cautiously, diplomatically, as he thought. Diplomacy and humor, all in one man, and that man Larson! “Now, as to the lady here tonight,” he read, his voice becoming very sad—his back was turned to me, and he could not see my face. “Now, as to the lady here tonight that the petition is about, I am sure that she has my sympathy. I feel great pity when I think how her heart must ache.”

  I did not wish to be rude, but involuntarily my head went back, and I smiled the broadest smile of my life, my shoulders shaking in my efforts to suppress a hearty laugh. The crowd, its eyes fixed upon me during Larson’s lachrymose declaration, responded with emotional reactions similar to my own, smiles being kept within bounds only because of the suspense which must hear every word. At last the show was on again. The fat woman had not only removed her hat, she had even slumped down perceptibly. The comedy promised to be as entertaining as the preceding feature.

  When Larson had written that paper, he had pictured me in the greatest distress, a public Niobe, with a red nose and all the other weak uglinesses that accompany a woman’s feeble protest against adverse fortune. Instead, I was an inward tumult of laughter at the ridiculous farce he had staged. I had an almost irresistible impulse to step to the piano and begin playing “Chopin’s Funeral March” to the accompaniment of his doleful voice. He was saying, “No one could feel sorrier than I do that this petition has been brought. Mrs. Greenwood is a lady of great education. She prepares her work careful. She is never neglectful of what she should do. The lady is true-blue.”