by Avi
She picked up a grammar exercise that Natasha had done. Even as she looked at it, red marking pencil in hand, she thought of her own studies. She was slipping behind. The problem was, there was so little time for herself. Each day ended with her getting home late, doing her chores, eating dinner, and grading schoolwork. Only then did she do her own studying, at least until she could no longer keep her eyes open.
Every day seemed the same, and every day she was growing more exhausted. And further behind. Could she be content if Tom passed and moved on to high school while she stayed back?
Her mind continued wandering until she noticed that Tom was raising his hand. "Yes, Tom?"
"Miss Bidson, I'm having trouble with this," he said, holding up a reader.
Ida went to his bench and took her old place beside him.
Tom, grinning shyly, slid his reader over. It was open to an excerpt from Shakespeare, from the play Julius Caesar.
"I don't think I get it," Tom said.
Ida stared at the passage. "Friends, Romans, countrymen," it began, "lend me your ears." It was a memory passage required of every eighth grader. In fact, Ida had heard it so often she had memorized it in fifth grade. How, she wondered, could Tom not know it? He must be trying to get my attention, she thought, and didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed.
"How," Tom asked, "can you lend your ears to someone?"
Ida read and then reread the passage to herself as Tom waited patiently.
"I suppose," she finally, if cautiously, said, "it means he just wants them to listen."
"Oh. That all?"
Ida slid the book back to him. "Do you think?" she asked.
"You're the teacher," he said. "What you say, goes."
Ida blushed, then rose from the bench and returned to her desk.
The next morning an hour before dawn, Ida heard her mother call up the ladder, "Ida, honey, it's past milking time!"
Ida bolted up. Before she climbed down the ladder, she glanced at Felix, still asleep.
He looks so peaceful, she thought with a twinge of envy.
Wearing a pair of her father's rubber boots, she went to the barn. A low-burning lantern hung from a stall peg. Crisp air clouded her breath. The air was thick with the smell of cow and sheep.
Sitting on a stool with her mother's shawl over her thin dress, Ida pressed her face against the rough, warm belly of Bluebell and milked her. As Ida squirted the milk into the pail rhythmically, she thought of all the problems that lay before her.
But the big problem was that she was so tired. Teaching was much more exhausting than she ever thought it would be. She wanted to be young again, like Felix. Felix was content to do what he was told and was capable of plodding on cheerfully, eager for hard work or fun, no matter which.
Suddenly Bluebell slapped Ida in the face with her wet tail. With a start, Ida looked up. There was light in the sky. She was really late. And filthy. Pail in hand, she ran for the house and tripped, landing on her knees in the mud. The milk sloshed away, wasted.
"Pa," Ida said wretchedly when she went into the sheep barn to tell her father what had happened, "I'm no good at anything!"
Her father sighed and gave her a hug. "I suppose I could tell you everything's going to be all right," he said, "but you're too old for that."
Ida, to her own surprise, felt stung by his remark. "What's going to happen?" she asked.
"Happen?"
"To me."
"Honey," her father said, "think of what you're trying to do: the work around here, your teaching, moving on with your own studies, and I guess just being yourself. You've taken on a whole lot."
"Spilling the milk was an accident."
"Sure it was. But you were rushing. You've got too much on your mind. Lord knows, living round here is a full-time job. Lambing. Spring shearing coming up. Culling. Fence work. Cooking. Cleaning. Fixing. Planning. It ain't ever done."
"Should I stop teaching?" Ida asked in a small voice.
"Sweetheart, when you choose a hard way, it's going to be hard. No harm in admitting to a mistake."
"But I want to go to high school!" Ida cried.
"Ida, I'm going to remind you again that's not a sure thing. Even if you do get in, we'll need to find you a place to board. You know we might not have the money."
Ida hung her head.
"Ida, love, it's never mean to tell the truth."
She said nothing.
"Ida...," he went on gently, a hand on her shoulder. Her head was still bowed. "How do you want to be treated, like a kid or a grown-up?"
The question startled her, and so, even more, did her lack of a ready answer. She looked up into her father's face. It was the same as always, but for the first time she saw a hint of sadness in it. "I don't know," she confessed softly.
"Honey, that makes two of us," he said.
Ida pulled herself away and gathered up the empty milk pail. In the barn she carefully washed it out, then turned it upside down to drain dry. Her father would scald it later.
Back in the house she went up to the loft and dressed herself for school. Then she woke Felix.
They were late in leaving. Felix tried to talk, but Ida kept shushing him up. "Got to plan the day," she snapped. Her head ached.
By the time they drove up to the school, everybody except Herbert was there. Someone had already gone through the window and opened the door. Ida rushed inside.
On her desk was an apple. Seeing it, she stopped short, overcome with a flood of emotion. Leaving an apple was something she had done for her teachers. Did that mean—despite her faults, her tiredness—they thought she was doing a good job?
The day began as usual with flag raising. Then, just before lessons started, Ida said, "Someone left me an apple. Thank you. May I ask ... who it was?"
At first no one raised a hand. Then, rather bashfully, Tom did.
Ida felt herself blush. Of all the people in the room, the one person she didn't want thinking of her as just a teacher was Tom.
"She don't even like apples," Felix blurted out.
"Felix!" Ida cried.
Everyone laughed.
Ida stammered another thank you.
Then with a start she realized the class was waiting for her to begin.
"Susie Spool," she asked tremulously, "will you lead us in a song?"
Eleven
THAT FRIDAY, BECAUSE Herbert had been out of school for three successive days, Ida decided to visit him.
She didn't tell anyone what she was doing, not even Felix. When she drove away from school that afternoon, she simply turned the car to the right instead of the left. The Bixler farm was two miles south down the valley.
"Brake and clutch!" she called to Felix after the short ride. She stopped the car, but kept the motor running. Cranking it up on her own was very hard.
"Why are we stopping?" Felix asked.
Ida untied the door. "We're at the Bixler farm," she announced.
"What we doing here?" Felix wanted to know as he squirmed out from under the dashboard.
"I want to see if Herbert is all right," Ida said as she stepped down.
"Is something the matter with him?"
"I don't know. Thought I'd better find out why he's not been at school. You wait here."
The road where she had parked ran along a slight bluff. The Bixler farm was below her, cradled by a curve in the road. While Ida didn't exactly know how big the place was, she knew a poor farm when she saw it.
There was one small house, its wooden sides gray with weather and the remnants of red paint. Not far from the dilapidated porch was a rusty truck. It had no wheels and seemed to be permanently mired in the ground. There were two other pieces of farm equipment, both quite rusty. The remains of a child's swing hung from a cottonwood tree, its two frayed rope strands dangling.
Some thirty yards from the house was the barn. It was fairly large, but its main doors were lopsided and, from all appearances, permanently open. Over the doorway h
ung the bleached skull of an elk, its white antlers extended like long fingers of ice.
In the small corral in front of the barn stood a horse. A leggy young colt hovered close by, the only new thing in sight. Herbert was not to be seen nor, for that matter, was any other human.
There was a sense of disorder about the farm. Surely not the way Ida's father ran things. Ida wondered if it was a good idea for her to even be here.
As she hesitated, a man strolled out of the barn. Ida recognized him immediately as Herbert's father, Mr. Bixler. He wore rubber boots, rather dirty clothing, and a straw Western-style hat on his head. His face, what she could see of it, was hidden by a shaggy gray mustache.
"Howdy," he called, looking up to where Ida stood. He touched his hand to the brim of his hat in a gesture of polite greeting even as he poked the pitchfork tines into the earth, then leaned on it. "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"I'm ... Ida Bidson," Ida called down. "I'm Herbert's ... classmate."
"Are you, now?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what's bringing you here?"
"His ... teacher wanted to know if he was all right."
"Did she? I'm sure I told Miss Fletcher it wasn't none of her business where my boy is. That she wasn't to come asking for him no more. She didn't ask you to come here, did she?"
Shocked by Mr. Bixler's words, Ida stammered, "No. Not ... really."
"Then what you doing here?"
Ida didn't know what to say.
"Aren't you a bit young to come a courting?" he asked dryly.
Ida blushed. "No, I'm actually ... his teacher," she blurted out, only to instantly regret her words.
Momentarily, Mr. Bixler glanced toward the barn. Then he looked back at Ida. "What happened to Miss Fletcher?" he asked her.
"She left," Ida said, wishing she had never come.
"Did she?"
"Her mother got ill," Ida said. Now, dimly, she saw Herbert standing deep in the interior of the barn. Hidden by the shadows, he stood motionless.
"Just how old are you, anyway?" Mr. Bixler asked.
"Fourteen."
"I see," Mr. Bixler said with care. There was no anger in his voice, just a dry tone that was burdened with a sad and weary weight. "You Noah Bidson's daughter?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And you're playing at teacher, are you?"
"We're not playing, Mr. Bixler," Ida said with growing frustration. "We're trying to do things properly. And since I ... I am his teacher, I was wondering about Herbert. He hasn't been to school lately. We've missed him."
"That right? Look here, Miss Ida, as I told that Miss Fletcher, Herbert is sorely needed around here. Schooling, I'm afraid, comes second to this farm, specially now that I hear it's just a play school."
"Mr. Bixler, it's not a—" Ida started to protest.
"Excuse my interruption, miss, but did you get the school board's approval for what you're doing?"
"I—"
"Miss Ida, the truth is, schooling just hasn't much to do with what's here." Mr. Bixler again touched his hat with his hand. "So I'd be much obliged if this was your last visit. Otherwise I just might have to visit Mr. Jordan and let him know what's going on." Without another word, he turned and headed for the barn.
Ida was certain she saw Herbert dive away, back into the barn's interior.
For a moment she stood there, angry at Mr. Bixler but angrier still at herself. Had she given everything away? Worried, she ran back to the car and all but jumped into the seat.
"What's the matter?" Felix asked.
"Nothing," Ida snapped. "Let's get on home. Chores are waiting."
As she drove she went over what had been said, getting more and more worried. Then, three miles from their home, she called out, "Brake, clutch!"
Abruptly, she swung the car down a side road.
"Where we going now?"
"Got to see Tom."
"Why?"
"I need to speak to him."
They reached Tom's house in moments. The Kohls, like the Bidsons, were sheep farmers, and fairly successful ones. Where everything was shabby about the Bixler farm, the Kohl farm was neat and spruce. Beneath the soft shadows of Sand Mountain, buildings, fences, and machinery were all in good order.
Ida came to a jerky stop in front of the main house, where there was a long open porch. Mary was on the front steps, playing with three dolls. Tom was hunched over a table.
"Hey there!" he called. There were streaks of black over his face. His hands were dirty.
Ida let Felix out of the car, then climbed out herself. "I have to talk to you," she announced.
"You Miss Bidson or Ida?"
"Oh, Tom! Please don't."
"Come on up," he said with a grin. Felix, not waiting for an invitation, had already joined Mary on the steps.
Ida stepped onto the porch. On the table was some kind of small machine. There were lots of dirty sheets of paper about. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"Got me a little old printing press," Tom said. "My dad found it in the junk shop in town. I made myself some ink out of old crankcase oil and solvent. Got most of the letters. Just not enough Os. And it only does one page at a time."
"What are you printing?" Ida asked.
"Circular about a church supper. But what is it? You look all ragged."
"Tom," Ida said, "I just went to Herbert's place. Wanted to find out why he wasn't at school."
"His father keeps him close."
"I know. Mr. Bixler didn't know what we were doing at school. And by mistake ... I told him."
"You did?"
"Tom, he said he might talk to Mr. Jordan. Think he will?"
"Don't know."
"But, if he does, what do you think will happen?"
Tom considered the question. Then, with a shrug, he said, "Guess your guess is as good as mine."
"You tell your folks?"
"Some."
"About me?"
"Well, yes."
"What did they say?"
Tom grinned. "Said they always figured you as smart."
Ida felt pleased but embarrassed. "Well, I'm really worried. Just hope I didn't ruin everything."
"Can't imagine you ruining anything."
Suddenly feeling shy, Ida turned and stepped off the porch. "Come on, Felix," she said brusquely. "We've got work at home."
Tom followed them to the car. "Thanks for coming by," he said.
"I'm sorry I can't stay," she said.
"Pretty busy," Tom said.
"I guess I am."
Tom bent over the crank.
Felix got in, then Ida. "Tom!" Ida called.
Tom stood up.
"Your farm, ours," Ida said, "they're so different than Herbert's. His was so ... sad." Finding it difficult to say what she felt, she gripped the steering wheel hard. "Why do you think that has to be?"
"Don't know. Luck maybe. My old man says it's a different way of working. Maybe we'll learn all about that in high school."
She shook her head. "I wish I knew."
"Hey, Ida..."
"What?"
Tom pushed the hair away from his forehead. "Just want you to understand we all know how hard you're working. Can't be easy."
"Thank you," she said. "Felix, clutch."
Tom gave the motor crank a few turns.
Ida adjusted the spark and throttle, then called, "Clutch and brake!"
"We going home now?" Felix asked, as the car began to move.
"Yes," Ida said, watching Tom's image grow smaller in the rearview mirror.
Twelve
THOUGH IDA STILL HADN'T figured out how to be teacher, student, family member, and herself all at the same time, she found herself truly enjoying teaching. Each time she drove to school, she looked forward to what new things would happen.
As the days passed, she worked with or listened to each student separately, though there were times she worked simultaneously with two or three. When she wasn't spending t
ime with them, the children were either learning lessons by themselves, memorizing, working with each other, studying together if they were on the same level, or helping one another if they were not. When they became tired or bored—which happened—they sat quietly, staring out the windows at the mountains, daydreaming. Sometimes they did little but listen to the other lessons that buzzed ceaselessly around them. Of course there were arguments, spats, even mean words—some of which brought tears. Once Herbert and Charley even got into a fight. Everything took sorting out.
Then there were school chores. Sweeping, mopping, cutting and hauling wood, dusting, taking out ashes, polishing desks, filling the stove, cleaning the privies, washing windows. Everybody did some of everything.
But with every passing day Ida felt more confident that things were truly going well. The children seemed to be working hard. She herself was not quite as exhausted as she had been. Even Herbert was in school more often than not. Maybe, after all, her visit had helped.
One afternoon as they were driving home, Felix said, "Ida, guess what Tom was talking about?"
"What?"
"That final exam you have to take."
"What did he say?"
"Said he's going to pass it easy."
Gritting her teeth, Ida said, "I hate that Tom Kohl," and immediately resolved to concentrate wholly on her own studies. But as soon as she arrived home, she was greeted by her father saying, "Ida, I need you in the barn." It was lambing season, an exciting but unsettled time. Newborns had a schedule all their own.
It was quite late when Ida finally crawled into her bed. She—working with her mother and father—had helped deliver twelve lambs. Spent, she lay down, only to realize she had done absolutely no schoolwork that night, neither for the students nor for herself.
She sat bolt upright. She must do something. Then Felix, across the room, gave a deep sigh in his sleep. He sounded so content, so utterly at rest, that Ida could do nothing but give way to her own tiredness.
Full of the pleasing sensation of willfully doing nothing, of being aware of nothing but her own body, she snuggled beneath her blanket. It seemed the sweetest thing to do in the whole world. In moments she was asleep.
