Sycamore Hill (7 page)

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 turned away,
eager to be gone.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, turning back again. “The well is
about two hundred yards back from the schoolhouse. They dug it outside the
school grounds so there would be no chance of an accident with one of the
smaller children. You’ll have to tote your water. There are buckets just
outside the back door, but don’t forget about the steps. The bottom two are
broken.”

“I won’t forget.” My voice sounded flat.

“Good night, then,” he said and walked out the door. I heard him
speaking in low tones to his wife as they moved away from the gate. I stood in
the classroom, which was dimly lit by my lantern, and looked around. The floor
was dust-coated. Desks were shoved around. Three of them were smashed and
broken in a heap as though someone had intended to build a fire. The walls were
gray. Spider webs with their lurking inhabitants suspended from room comers,
and jumbled books reclined in a rickety cabinet. The teacher’s desk at the
front of the classroom was bare except for the dirt that had accumulated with
time. A message was scrawled in childish writing across the blackboard. “All
who enter here be warned.”

As I crossed the room to the door of my quarters, I left
footprints in the dust. My heart sank to even deeper depths as I peered into
the room that was to be my home. It was sparsely furnished with an old commode
containing three small drawers. A washbowl and pitcher stood on top next to a
towel and washcloth that had been carefully laid out by Berthamae Poole. The
bed against the back wall was narrow but freshly made up. It had one blanket.
Another blanket was folded and set on top a small table near a wood-burning
stove. Above the stove was a shelf on which stood a tin can with long-stick matches.
Hanging on a hook was another kerosene lantern. Drab, faded curtains hung in
the one window, effectively blotting out any natural light that might have
entered the dreary room. The floor was bare except for the film of dust and
grit that had accumulated over a year since the previous teacher had left.
Everything about the room was oppressive and pathetic.

There was plenty of work ahead of me tomorrow, I thought with a
wry smile. I would not have time for self-pity and thoughts of what might have
been had the Haversalls been honest, loving guardians. But the loneliness.
Would I be able to bear that?

There was a stillness around me like a shroud. After a few minutes
I became aware of a cricket rubbing its courtship song somewhere in my room.
Outside an owl hooted from one of the oaks.

My companions, I thought. Then, putting my hands to my face, I
cried uncontrollably.

After moving the desks from the schoolroom, I spent my first day
sweeping out dust and cobwebs. Then I lugged bucket after bucket of water into
the place and, setting up a ladder, began scrubbing the grimy walls. By the end
of the day I had barely completed half of the room. My hands were raw and
chapped by the harsh soap Olmstead had contributed for my cleaning efforts. I
looked around at my work and sighed heavily. It was clean, but it did not look
it. Depressed, I dumped out the last bucket of dirty water and quit for the
day.

With my last few dollars in hand, I dragged myself to the general
store and bought some much needed supplies. Olmstead gave me the use of his
wheelbarrow to carry my purchases back. By the time I had stashed things away
and returned the wheelbarrow, I was so hungry and tired I felt sick. I could
not face another minute of work, even to cook, and collapsed without dinner
onto my narrow bed. I slept until dawn.

After several unsuccessful attempts to light my wood stove the
next morning, I poured kerosene onto the kindling. It worked but almost singed
my hair. I cooked a pot of coffee, several brown eggs and warmed a half-loaf of
leftover bread Emily Olmstead had given me as a gift. Replete, I felt ready to
tackle the schoolroom.

I lugged more water, mixed in more detergent and set to work on
the walls on the other half of the room. By that evening my quarters were also
scrubbed down. Forcing myself to cook, I made a cheese-rice-and-vegetable
concoction that was more nutritious than delicious. Then I took a sponge bath.
Falling into bed, I expected to find sleep immediately, but it was impossible.
All I could think of was the work yet ahead of me, the lessons I needed to
prepare for 64 children; the yard work; the floor scouring; the minor repairs,
such as fixing the picket fence, the squeaking doors; the tom bookbindings; the
loose chalk tray; the wobbly desks. So many things to do and only a few more
days in which to do them. I had never worked so hard in my life.

The third day saw me on my hands and knees scrubbing floors. By
the end of that day my back ached from toting water from the well, my legs were
sore from walking and getting up and down from the floor, and my arms felt like
limbs of wood hanging from drooping shoulders. Yet when I went to bed, I still
tossed and turned. The more I needed rest, the more impossible it became. I
could not stop thinking of the work that still stretched out before me.

Finally, in frustration, I got up and stood at my window. The
first thing I sensed was the disgusting malodorous outhouse, which the children
and I were expected to use. Anger made my blood boil.

I would be double-damned if I was going to dig a hole for an
outhouse, I decided. If anything was “heavy work,” as Olmstead had phrased it,
that was! Surely, the kind citizens of this town did not expect that of me as
well as everything else they had given Olmstead to outline. More resentful
thoughts began to whirl in my exhausted brain, and then an idea struck me. I
started to laugh, a jubilant sound in the depressing darkness and glum
atmosphere of my austere quarters.

Everything was going to be just fine, I thought with another
chuckle. If Olmstead and the rest of his demanding school board did not like my
methods of maintaining the schoolhouse, they could always register their
complaints with me. I would be more than pleased to listen. I laughed again.
However, by that time I hoped my plans would be well started if not completed.

The following morning I was in much better spirits, though still
tired and stiff from my strenuous labors. I took care of minor repairs and was
satisfied with my accomplishments by the end of the day. The picket fence had
all its sticks in place, the door did not squeak anymore, the bookbindings were
glued back, and the chalk tray no longer wobbled. I had checked all the desks
and found them in good repair. The three smashed ones I used for firewood.
Everything was moved back into place again. It was Saturday, and school was
scheduled to start on Monday. That gave me the following day to make my lesson
plans.

I spent Sunday making lists of projects needed to be done. Then I
worked late into the night on lesson plans for the first few days of school.
Nervous excitement kept me awake the whole night, and the rising sun found me
very apprehensive, but smiling.

Just after eight o’clock I spotted a man riding down the hill
behind the schoolhouse. Trailing reluctantly after him were two children on
matching pintos. The three stopped for a moment, and the man spoke to the
children—one, a girl in a pretty lilac dress, and the other, a boy in somber
brown pants and shirt. Then the three rode forward. As they came out of the
shadows of the oaks, I recognized Jordan Bennett. Emily Olmstead had not
mentioned a son as well.

I hurried from my window to the back door. Just as I started down
the steps, I heard the crack and remembered Olmstead’s warning about the stairs.
I jumped over the last three and heard Jordan Bennett laughing. My heart
pounded, and I managed three slow breaths to smother my rush of temper. Then I
smiled brightly and strode through the tall grass to meet the approaching trio.

“Are you really that eager?” Bennett grinned.

“Does it surprise you?” I countered with a smile that did not show
my nervous tension. “But as for that jump, I forgot about the broken steps.”

“You always seem to be doing some dance or other when I see you,”
he teased, reminding me unkindly of my collapse in the road. I chose to ignore
that comment and turned instead to look at the children. Neither resembled
Jordan Bennett, but both were beautiful in contrasting ways. The little girl,
whom I assumed to be Linda, was looking surreptitiously through a veil of fair
lashes. Her eyes were an unusual violet. The smile on her face was faint with
shyness.

The boy, not much older than the girl, was dark-skinned,
black-haired and brown-eyed. He looked at me with openly curious appraisal.
However there was a tension about him. His thin shoulders and his full mouth
looked too hard and firmly set for a boy so young.

“Miss McFarland.” Bennett doffed his hat mockingly. “Meet my
daughter, Linda, and Diego Gutierrez, the son of my housekeeper. Say good
morning to your new schoolteacher, children.” His tone irritated me, but I was
careful not to show it. Both children mumbled some polite, mechanical response,
and I smiled, ignoring the sparkle of mischief that lighted Bennett’s eyes.

“Now go into the schoolhouse and get the best seats you can. Today
should prove very interesting,” he further told them, making it sound like some
grand entertainment was in store for them rather than classroom instruction.
They obeyed.

Bennett laughed again, and I practiced my willpower with a polite,
if somewhat stiff, smile.

“You’re looking rather tired this morning, Miss McFarland,” he
grinned, obviously pleased about it. What a typical Jordan Bennett observation,
I thought, stifling the urge to tell him to go home.

“I should be,” I commented.

“Oh? Did you do a little work around here?” he asked, glancing
around the overgrown school yard I had not yet gotten to. “It doesn’t look like
it.”

My smile stayed plastered to my face, but I knew my eyes were
speaking volumes. “Give it a few days, Mr. Bennett, and you might be very
surprised.”

“I do hope so,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth jerking up
in suppressed amusement. “I’ll even go so far as to loan you a scythe.”

“I’d prefer a horse and plow,” I commented coolly. Bennett threw
back his head and laughed. Then he looked at me, and something flickered in his
eyes.

“That I’d like to see. A fair maid from Boston proper behind a
horse and plow. People would come from miles around just to see such a
spectacle.” There was an odd bite to his words, making it a deliberate insult.
I decided to pick up the thrown gauntlet.