The Moonlight School

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  One by one, men and women stood, swaying in time with the beat. Feet stomped, hands clapped, voices rose. The air in the brush arbor lifted with them, almost vibrating.

  Mercy. Church was never like this at home.

  Lucy took it all in, the warmth and music flooding her heart, filling it to the point of bursting. She felt something give inside her, something she hadn’t known she could feel.

  There was a place for everything, Father had told her, even religion. But this moment didn’t feel like a compartment. It felt like her whole being was involved in worship.

  Her gaze kept returning to Wyatt. Perhaps conscious he was being watched, he turned to her at first with a smile, then his eyes grew full of concern. She was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized tears were sliding, one after the other, down her cheeks.

  NOT TEN SECONDS after the preacher gave the benediction, Wyatt was at Lucy’s side, steering her away from others. “Is anything wrong?” he asked gently.

  “I was just . . . moved by the music,” she said, and surprised herself by realizing it wasn’t a lie. “I’ve never heard church music played quite like that before.”

  “Mountain music? The style’s been around a long, long time.”

  “You’ve a fine voice, Wyatt.” What a beautiful voice he had. Deep and low, yet mellow as warmed butter. Truly memorable.

  His cheeks grew rosy pink as he looked away. “Came from my granddaddy. I inherited his love for it.”

  Lucy had had years of chorus throughout her school years. She knew that to sing well, even to one with natural born talent, took hard work. She’d worked hard at it, but she’d never had a love for it.

  “You’ll stay for the singing school, I hope?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Cora needs to get back to town. I’m still not confident of making my way back to town, especially when I’m in an area I’ve never been to before.” Frankly, the hills and hollows all looked alike to her.

  “Stay. I’ll take you back.”

  “Goodness, no.” Her voice came out an octave higher than normal; it didn’t even sound like her own. “Honestly, Brother Wyatt—Wyatt—you’ve been so very kind already and I don’t want to put you to more trouble. Really. I don’t—”

  “Stay,” he said firmly and changed the subject. “Let’s go get some fried chicken.”

  Suddenly Finley James was between them. “Yes, let’s.”

  HECK. WHO SHOULD be doling out the fried chicken but ol’ Angie Cooper. When Fin approached the picnic table with Miss Lucy and Brother Wyatt, Angie fixed her beady eyes right on him, like a hawk about to pounce on an unlucky mouse. “Hello there, Finley James.”

  “Where’d you come from?” It might have come out sounding tetchy.

  Angie frowned. “I been here the whole time.”

  “Angie, how pretty you look,” Miss Lucy said. “Such a lovely dress. Doesn’t she look lovely, Fin?”

  “This old thing?” Angie managed an expression of astonishment.

  Fin realized it was the first time he’d seen Angie in a new dress. A white frock with blue trim around her neck. He rubbed the back of his neck and thought what he might say, then decided to fall back on the truth. “Not as bad as usual.”

  Angie snapped Fin a look, then clapped her hands. “How many pieces of chicken do you want? I cooked it myself.”

  Brother Wyatt, who seemed to be at Miss Lucy’s elbow a heckuva lot today, interrupted. “I see Cora waving us over. Please excuse us.”

  Fin frowned, watching the two of them walk off.

  “She’s too old for you.”

  He turned back to Angie. “What are ya talkin’ about?”

  “You!” she hissed. “Yor makin’ a dang fool out of yorself.”

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “No it ain’t.” She held out a tin plate with two pieces of chicken.

  “Don’t say ain’t. Don’t ya know no better?” He grabbed his tin plate of chicken—after all, despite how annoying she was, Angie Cooper did cook up some mighty fine fried chicken—and made his escape. He muttered beneath his breath as he walked around the brush arbor, looking for Miss Lucy and Brother Wyatt. They’d vanished. Oh heck.

  CORA COULDN’T BE PERSUADED to stay on for the afternoon singing school, though she was delighted to hear that Wyatt had offered to escort Lucy down the hill. “You’re in for a real treat, Lucy!” she said, as she swung a leg over her horse. “I’d stay if I could, but I have a frightfully busy week ahead and I need to prepare a talk.”

  She bent low in the saddle to say something to Wyatt, something that made him laugh. He patted her on the boot and off she went with a wave of her hand.

  Wyatt shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched her disappear into the trees. “That woman is one of a kind.”

  “How do you mean?” Lucy said. “I’ve always thought so, but she’s my kin.”

  He dropped his hand and turned to her. “Cora’s a natural champion for the hill people. She knows the lifestyle firsthand, and knows what needs to change . . . yet she’s able to instill pride in others. You’ve probably already been able to see that she’s making strides.”

  “Yes, of course I see.” But not really. Still overwhelmed by all she was absorbing in this new place, Lucy felt ignorant about so much. “Such as?”

  “Well, for example, she’s a believer in vocational training, so she started clubs . . . for boys as well as girls.”

  “What kind of clubs?”

  “Farming clubs,” he said, taking her elbow to lead her toward a stand of trees. “Poultry clubs, carpentry clubs. Did Fin tell you about the cabinet he’s making for Miss Maude?”

  “No. I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  “He’s doing a fine job. Borrows every tool he can get his hands on.” Once they reached the trees, he led her up a steep trail.

  “Where are we going?”

  He glanced at her and smiled conspiratorially. “There’s a place up yonder I’d like to show you.”

  This time, “up yonder” actually meant close by. When Wyatt reached a small waterfall that dropped into a fast-running stream, he finally paused and sat on a large boulder. “Here we are. Thought you’d enjoy this spot. I call it nature’s cathedral.”

  It was beautiful. Tranquil and peaceful. She leaned her elbows against the boulder. “You love these mountains, don’t you?”

  “I think I might like them better than anywhere on earth.” He put one ankle over the other. “Whenever I’m away from these hills, I feel like I can’t take in deep breaths. Like I can’t fill my lungs completely. Up here, you can breathe. It’s just you and the creeks and the birds and the trees and the sky.”

  They stayed there for a long while without talking, just listening to the waterfall, basking in the warm sun. Wyatt seemed to feel no need to make an effort at small talk, and to Lucy’s surprise, the silence was very comfortable. Now and then she stole a look at him, wondering all that was running through his mind.

  Too soon, he peered up at the sky, then over at the trees. “We should return and get you some of that fried chicken I boasted about before its gone. Singing school will start soon.”

  “How do you know the time? How does everyone seem to know what time it is without a timepiece?”

  “By the shadows of the trees.” He started down the trail, then stopped and turned. “Coming?”

  She pushed herself off the boulder, a little sorry to leave this hallowed place.

  When they returned to the brush arbor, Lucy saw men moving the benches to form a hollow square. Wyatt left her at Angie’s picnic table and hurried away to prepare for the singing school.

  Angie glowered at her. “There’s only scrawny little wings left.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll take a wing.”

  Angie jabbed a fork into a chicken wing and held it out to Lucy. “Plates is all gone. Napkins too. Jest have to use yor fingers.”

  Gingerly, Lucy slipped the wing off the fork with her fingers. �
�When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

  Angie gave her a curious look. “Where’s that?”

  “Rome? It’s in Italy. Surely you’ve heard of Italy.”

  That familiar scowl returned to Angie’s face. “There’s a line behind you.” Move along, she meant.

  Lucy stepped aside to find two small boys, holding out their hands for a chicken wing.

  “Here you go, boys. Toss them bones in the basket when you’re done so Paw’s dog don’t choke.” Angie’s voice had turned sweet, motherly.

  Lucy watched the boys head off. “Are they your brothers?”

  “Yup. Twins. Double the trouble.”

  “I can tell they’re twins. Goodness, they even walk alike.” She glanced at Angie. “They don’t resemble you. My sister and I . . . we didn’t look alike, either.”

  Angie’s face remained stoic.

  “Is your father here?” He was at that dramatic hand-stitching crisis with Fin, but she hadn’t taken note of him.

  “Jest over yonder.” Angie cupped her mouth to create a megaphone. “Paw! The fancy city lady wants to meetcha.”

  Lucy saw a man lift his head at Angie’s shout, set his tin plate on a bench, and walk toward them. As he neared, he looked younger than he had from a distance, his beard dark against a sun-browned face. She could sense his authority, as well as his gentleness. “Hello, Mr. Cooper. I’m Lucy Wilson, Cora’s cousin.”

  He gave a nod. “I’ve heered about yor coming. Glad yor able to bring some relief to Miss Cora’s heavy load.” He glanced at Lucy’s hand, holding a chicken wing. He frowned at Angie. “Angel Eleanor, go find a plate and napkin for our newcomer.”

  Angel? Angie’s formal name was Angel? Lucy swallowed a laugh. Arthur Cooper seemed like a kind and good man. What made his daughter act so cross all the time?

  Just then, a bell rang to gather everyone for the singing school.

  Lucy gave up on a plate for the chicken wing, ate it quickly, and dropped the bones in the basket as she walked past. Most of the benches were already filled, so she sat in the back. Fin left his spot on another bench to sit beside her. Most everyone from the morning’s service joined in except for little boys and girls, allowed to play tag on the meadow.

  After Wyatt passed out well-worn pamphlets, he stood in the center. Everyone stilled, and Lucy wondered what to expect next.

  Wyatt sang a line, but not in words. In syllables: fa la la la la. One by one, each section followed his lead, singing back to him that limited scale in syllables. It sounded more like babbling than singing. Wyatt occasionally shot Lucy a look, checking if she was okay, but despite being thoroughly confused, she was oddly content to sit back and take it all in as the outsider she was.

  After all four pew sections had gone through the scales, Wyatt sang a line which Lucy recognized from an old hymn. Each section sang the line, this time in words, one after the other, so now it became four-part harmony. The woman next to her nudged her and shared the open pamphlet with her. It looked like musical notes on a staff, but the notes were different shapes, not circles.

  Lucy stared at the pamphlet for a long time, until its meaning dawned on her. Each shape represented a different musical note: quarter note, half note, whole note. If a person couldn’t read music, he or she could still sing along. But then Lucy realized there were no words written, either. Brother Wyatt provided the words to the songs, verse by verse, then each section would chant the line.

  Her head bobbed up. Mercy. This entire group of people . . . they couldn’t read.

  ON THE WAY DOWN THE HILL, Lucy peppered Brother Wyatt with questions about the singing school. “Who first thought of it?”

  “Shape note notation? Dates back to the 1700s, I believe. It spread quickly throughout the mountains. It’s a way to help folks who love music but can’t read. By looking at the shape of the notes, they can participate.”

  “The scale doesn’t have a wide range.”

  “Good ear, Lucy. You’re right. It’s a limited scale.” He shrugged. “But enough for most hymns and ballads. I adjust what I can.”

  “So, then, you print up those pamphlets?”

  He nodded.

  An offering had been taken at the end, which she assumed would provide payment for him. A pittance.

  “So that’s what a singing school master does with his time.” She wondered what kept him so busy. He was rarely in town, and always seemed to have some errand or task on his mind. Always seemed to be on his way somewhere.

  “What about you, Lucy?” He slowed Lyric so that Lucy could draw level with him. “I know how Cora is keeping your days full. But what was your life like in Lexington?”

  Lucy told him a few things about her life in Lexington. About graduating from the Townsend School for Girls, about returning home to discover her father was engaged to a former classmate. When she stopped, he seemed to be waiting for her to go on, but she said, “That’s about it.” She leaned forward and stroked the pony’s neck.

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, when Cora asked if I would come to Morehead to be her stenographer, it seemed propitious timing.”

  He looked at her with such a mixture of interest and concern that suddenly she became self-conscious. “Is that why there were tears in church?”

  “No,” she said, surprising even herself. “That’s not all. I had a little sister.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Lucy never knew how to tell people about her sister, so she studiously avoided it. Guarding herself from others was such a deeply engrained habit that it overruled the nearly overwhelming urge to share her aching heart. But there was something about the look of kindness in Wyatt’s eyes that made her want to tell him about Charlotte.

  The words tumbled out, unchecked. “I was supposed to keep watch of her one day while we were at a train station, but I got absorbed in a book. She wandered off. Father and I searched everywhere. The police were involved. We looked for weeks but she was never found. There was no sign of her. Nothing. Not a single trace. Charlotte was simply gone. Father offered a large reward, but there was never any lead of substance. Lots of crazies, but nothing that led to our Charlotte.” And as much as Lucy told herself over and over that it just didn’t make sense, that it wasn’t possible, that Charlotte couldn’t have vanished without a trace, she had.

  Wyatt let the words settle. He waited, as if to check that he had heard right. “How old was Charlotte?”

  “She was only two-and-a-half years old.”

  “What do you think happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never given up hope that she is . . . alive. Somewhere.” She looked away. “I think it would’ve been easier if we’d known she had died. If her body had been found.” She covered her mouth with her hand, as if horrified that she was even saying the words out loud. Saying it aloud made it so real.

  Quietly, he said, “How you must miss Charlotte.”

  Something broke inside of Lucy and a wave of grief rose up. “So much,” she said, her fists pressed tightly to her cheeks. “I miss knowing her. The feel of her and the touch of her and the sweet smell of her and the way she curled up with her stuffed bear and a hundred other things, like the way she used to try to say my name. I miss having a sister. I miss knowing her.” Her voice choked with tears and she struggled to contain them. “I miss her.”

  “All these years,” Wyatt said softly, his gray eyes filled with sorrow, “you’ve been living with that tragedy. That uncertainty.”

  Stalling to allow her emotions a moment to recover and stuff them back into place, Lucy studied the tips of her boots. They no longer looked new but were scuffed and scratched. After a long silence she stole a look at Wyatt. “It’s better now, I suppose. With the passing of time.”

  “Better begins within.” Lyric reached out to eat some grass and Wyatt let her stretch her neck. “There’s a verse in the book of Isaiah, in which God declares that he knows the name of every star he set in the sky. Not one is mi
ssing, he says.”

  She watched the horse nibble the grass, not wanting to look at Wyatt. Not trusting herself to keep from tearing up. “What does that have to do with Charlotte?”

  “He is the All Mighty, Lucy. Mighty over all. And if the All Mighty knows the whereabouts of each and every star, do you not think he knows where your sister is?”

  A breeze came up and Lucy shivered, or maybe she shivered because of the topic. “If he knows . . . then why doesn’t he say?” She crossed her arms tightly against her middle. “Wyatt, I know you mean to offer comfort. But I prayed and prayed and prayed about Charlotte. First, that she would be returned to us. Then, later, that at least we would know what happened to her. There was never any answer from God. Nothing. Not ever.”

  “Or maybe . . . not yet.”

  Please don’t. Don’t try to dig up buried hope. Don’t try to overspiritualize this tragedy. Bad things just happened. There was no explaining them. Lucy worked to get the conversation back to a more comfortable place. “We’d better get a move on,” she said, startling him with her abruptness. “The sun is dropping.” And her heart was too.

  Ten

  ANGIE COOPER TOSSED AND TURNED in bed that night, unable to sleep. She’d seen how often Finley James sidled up next to Lucy Wilson at the brush arbor. She’d seen how often he stole looks at her, gawkin’ at her like she was a visiting queen from . . . Rome, Italy.

  Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

  Why did she have to love him so? As far back as she could remember, Angie had been head over heels in love with Finley James. She felt a devotion to him that had never wavered, not once, even though he could barely read and write. Even though he paid her no mind a’tall. His intelligence wasn’t the schooling type, it was the heart type. Fin had a noble heart, like the heroes in the dime-store novels Angie loved to read. Time and time agen, she’d seen him go outta his way to take care of people in the holler—chopping wood for Miss Mollie, plowing a field for Sally Ann, hauling water for Barbara, then have to stay up late to finish his own chores. And then there was his knowledge of nature. He could identify every bird in the sky, knew which plants to eat and which to avoid, and was considered the best fisherman on this side of the mountain.