child. Linda Bennett, Jordan’s
daughter, is the prettiest and also the quietest, and it’s no wonder—”
“Em.”
“Katrina Lane is another story altogether. She’ll probably turn
out to be just like her mother.”
“Em!” This time her husband was heard. “Miss McFarland can’t be
bothered with your senseless gossip,” he chastened. “Right now I think she
would rather have a good night’s sleep. She’s got a full day ahead of her
tomorrow, cleaning out the schoolhouse.”
I wanted to laugh hysterically, but swallowed the urge with a
determined effort of will.
“Is she going to stay over there tonight?” Emily gasped, and her
husband gave her a baleful look.
“Why shouldn’t she? Now, don’t start in again, Em. Berthamae took
fresh linen over this afternoon and made up the bed for her. She won’t notice
the dust tonight. The place is perfectly habitable.” Emily looked from him to
me and then down at her hands clasped in her lap. There were worse bondages, I
thought suddenly.
“I shall be fine, really, Mrs. Olmstead. You’ve been very kind.
I’m so tired, I’ll sleep like the dead.”
Emily Olmstead’s rosy cheeks faded white with my reassurance, but
she made no further comments. She stared at her husband, but he ignored her.
“Get your shawl, Em,” he ordered. She hesitated and seemed about
to say something, but her husband’s look commanded her obedience.
With the Olmsteads, I retraced my afternoon walk up Main Street.
Emily’s earlier exuberance was curbed. She hardly uttered a word all the way
down the street. When we turned up a side street where Olmstead said the
schoolhouse was located, she slowed noticeably, holding back, and then made
some excuse to go back to the store. Her husband put his hand beneath her
elbow, making her keep pace with him.
The sky was darkening, and a few stars were out. Crickets were
chirping. At the end of the street, separated from the last house by several
hundred yards, I saw a modest building. It was surrounded by a poorly repaired
picket fence that had not been painted in some time. Weeds grew high around the
building, which seemed to stare at me with its two broken-window eyes. It
looked sad and uncared for in the receding light of day. Off to the left of the
schoolhouse were three majestic oaks. Another two grew behind and to the right.
There was a broken-down outhouse, and a well in the vee of the hills beyond. On
the building itself were bold black letters above the entrance, proclaiming its
community function. The place looked as tired, disheveled and lonely as I felt.
Emily Olmstead stopped at the gate. “I’ll wait here,” she said,
ignoring her husband’s scowl.
“Em, for goodness sakes.”
“I’ll wait here,” she said, adamant. James Olmstead sighed.
“All right. I’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered and held the
gate open for me. He lit a lantern just inside the schoolhouse door and handed
it to me. He pointed across the schoolroom at a closed door.
“Your quarters are right through there,” he instructed without
moving. Then he went on briskly. “Kindling and wood are out back. We’ll keep
you supplied with what you need for the schoolroom. It gets cold in the winter.
The roof in your room doesn’t leak, as far as I know, but if it does, the
school board will make arrangements to have someone come by and fix it. You’ll
be paid at the end of each month. Twenty-five dollars, as we agreed in our
letter. Since you’ve got a place to live, you’ll be saving on rent. Food comes
cheap hereabouts. It’s cattle and farming country, and people will be glad to
share what they have with you.” Implying that I was to beg for handouts? I
wondered. Dear God, my situation is becoming worse by the minute.
“Well, that’s about it,” he finished and gave me a grim smile.
“Speaking on behalf of the community, we’re glad to have you here. We hope you
stay.”
“Thank you,” I managed a semblance of a smile. He
daughter, is the prettiest and also the quietest, and it’s no wonder—”
“Em.”
“Katrina Lane is another story altogether. She’ll probably turn
out to be just like her mother.”
“Em!” This time her husband was heard. “Miss McFarland can’t be
bothered with your senseless gossip,” he chastened. “Right now I think she
would rather have a good night’s sleep. She’s got a full day ahead of her
tomorrow, cleaning out the schoolhouse.”
I wanted to laugh hysterically, but swallowed the urge with a
determined effort of will.
“Is she going to stay over there tonight?” Emily gasped, and her
husband gave her a baleful look.
“Why shouldn’t she? Now, don’t start in again, Em. Berthamae took
fresh linen over this afternoon and made up the bed for her. She won’t notice
the dust tonight. The place is perfectly habitable.” Emily looked from him to
me and then down at her hands clasped in her lap. There were worse bondages, I
thought suddenly.
“I shall be fine, really, Mrs. Olmstead. You’ve been very kind.
I’m so tired, I’ll sleep like the dead.”
Emily Olmstead’s rosy cheeks faded white with my reassurance, but
she made no further comments. She stared at her husband, but he ignored her.
“Get your shawl, Em,” he ordered. She hesitated and seemed about
to say something, but her husband’s look commanded her obedience.
With the Olmsteads, I retraced my afternoon walk up Main Street.
Emily’s earlier exuberance was curbed. She hardly uttered a word all the way
down the street. When we turned up a side street where Olmstead said the
schoolhouse was located, she slowed noticeably, holding back, and then made
some excuse to go back to the store. Her husband put his hand beneath her
elbow, making her keep pace with him.
The sky was darkening, and a few stars were out. Crickets were
chirping. At the end of the street, separated from the last house by several
hundred yards, I saw a modest building. It was surrounded by a poorly repaired
picket fence that had not been painted in some time. Weeds grew high around the
building, which seemed to stare at me with its two broken-window eyes. It
looked sad and uncared for in the receding light of day. Off to the left of the
schoolhouse were three majestic oaks. Another two grew behind and to the right.
There was a broken-down outhouse, and a well in the vee of the hills beyond. On
the building itself were bold black letters above the entrance, proclaiming its
community function. The place looked as tired, disheveled and lonely as I felt.
Emily Olmstead stopped at the gate. “I’ll wait here,” she said,
ignoring her husband’s scowl.
“Em, for goodness sakes.”
“I’ll wait here,” she said, adamant. James Olmstead sighed.
“All right. I’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered and held the
gate open for me. He lit a lantern just inside the schoolhouse door and handed
it to me. He pointed across the schoolroom at a closed door.
“Your quarters are right through there,” he instructed without
moving. Then he went on briskly. “Kindling and wood are out back. We’ll keep
you supplied with what you need for the schoolroom. It gets cold in the winter.
The roof in your room doesn’t leak, as far as I know, but if it does, the
school board will make arrangements to have someone come by and fix it. You’ll
be paid at the end of each month. Twenty-five dollars, as we agreed in our
letter. Since you’ve got a place to live, you’ll be saving on rent. Food comes
cheap hereabouts. It’s cattle and farming country, and people will be glad to
share what they have with you.” Implying that I was to beg for handouts? I
wondered. Dear God, my situation is becoming worse by the minute.
“Well, that’s about it,” he finished and gave me a grim smile.
“Speaking on behalf of the community, we’re glad to have you here. We hope you
stay.”
“Thank you,” I managed a semblance of a smile. He
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