The Lesson by Suzanne Woods Fisher

had a vivid imagination. “What’s her name?” he asked.
    “Teacher M.K. That’s all I know about her. That and the fact that she has had no teaching experience whatsoever. I’m not even sure she can read. Probably not.”
    Chris rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt the school board would give the teaching job to a teacher who couldn’t read.”
    “Well, I heard that the real teacher was run over by a crazed lunatic. Just last week. And she’s dying as a result. That’s a fact. I heard that too.”
    Chris knew Jenny had impossibly high expectations for teachers and they always fell short. Jenny had yet to find a teacher who challenged her. She was always “bored.” Butthe more he heard about the school day—starting with the fire in the trash can and ending with the disappearance of a little first grade girl, the more he had to agree with Jenny’s assessment. This new teacher sounded like she had no ability to control a classroom filled with big boys. No backbone at all. If this was day one, it was going to be a long school year.
    He knew what it was like to have good teachers and not-so-good teachers. That was the thing about a one-room schoolhouse. You didn’t have much of a choice with your teacher. At least Jenny had a place to be each day, and this hapless teacher was too preoccupied with putting out fires to ask his sister too many questions about her background.
    But he did make Jenny promise not to stir up any trouble. The last thing she needed to do was to add to this poor pitiful teacher’s problems with the big boys.
    Chris had problems of his own on his mind tonight. He stared at the ceiling. The sight of water stains and peeling plaster did little to dispel the cloud of gloom hovering over him.
    He was working at Windmill Farm this morning and got caught in an untimely conversation with Hank Lapp, Amos’s uncle. Chris had been cutting hay in the north field and noticed the bit for the large Belgian wasn’t fitting properly. The big horse kept tossing her head. When Chris examined the bit, he saw that a piece of it had come undone and was causing discomfort for the horse. That wouldn’t do. He headed back to the barn to see if he could either fix the bit or find another one.
    As he passed by a buggy, a loud voice called out: “DADGUM!”
    Chris stopped to locate the source of the voice.
    “BLAST! WHERE DID THAT DADGUM THING GO?”
    All around the buggy were tools. Chris looked into the shopand thought he had never seen such a mess. Buggy parts and tools littered the floor. Every horizontal surface was filled. A headful of wild white hair popped out from under the buggy and peered up at Chris in surprise. If Chris wasn’t mistaken, one of the man’s eyes wandered.
    “Uh, hello,” Chris said to the head. “I’m helping Amos cut hay.”
    The wild-haired man pulled himself out from under the buggy. “So I heard!” He rose to his feet and thrust an oil-smudged hand at Chris. He pumped Chris’s hand up and down. “Hank Lapp. Known far and wide for my buggy repairs.”
    “Not hardly,” came another voice.
    Chris whirled around to face another older man with a long white beard.
    “When will this buggy be ready, Hank?” the man said. “It’s been months now.”
    “Now, Elmo, what we’ve got here is a tricky problem,” Hank said. “Very hard to fix. Needs just the right part and I can’t seem to . . . uh . . . locate the source.”
    As the two men discussed the buggy, the conversation became more animated, especially on the part of Hank Lapp. Chris decided it would be wise to slip quietly away. On the ground, he noticed a clevis—a little metal pin that held the singletree to the buggy shafts. He bent down and picked it up, then walked to the buggy. He looked up to see if he could interrupt the men, but Hank was waving his arms, talking fast, trying to explain why there was such a delay in fixing this particular buggy. Chris slipped the clevis into place and rose to his feet. Hank