The Moonlight School

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “No. I don’t mind at all. I wish I could change your mind and encourage you to stay over. You’re more than welcome at the house.”

  “Gotta get back. Singing school tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, I forgot. I’m sorry to miss it.” To her surprise, she truly was sorry not to be there for it. But she wanted to stay the night in Lexington, hoping for a private moment to talk to her father about Valley View Lumber’s contracts. The whistle of the approaching train broke her thoughts.

  As other passengers started moving toward the platform, Wyatt didn’t budge. He held out a hand to say goodbye and she took it. “So, did it help? The ceremony?”

  She looked down to see their fingers intertwined, her hand slender and small in its white glove, his large and brown. A workingman’s hand. “Candidly, no. To think of an empty grave . . . it just seemed . . . like utter foolishness.”

  “She’s not really there.”

  “Exactly.” And then, “Wait. How do you mean?”

  “Empty graves . . . are exactly why the Lord Jesus went to the cross and rose again. To offer each one of us a chance for an empty grave.” He tilted his head. “‘Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.’” He looked Lucy straight in the eyes. “Wherever your sister Charlotte may be, she is not alone. She’s never been alone. The Lord is with her.” He grinned. “Amen. Sermon over.”

  And just like that, the burden lifted, the heavy stone that had settled on Lucy’s chest since Charlotte had gone missing. Where had it gone? She stared at him, frozen in place, until a man waiting behind them cleared his throat. Wyatt dropped her hand like a hot potato, as if he just now realized he’d never released it, and turned to climb up the steps to the train.

  The train whistle blew and she watched the train get underway, at first slowly, then with gathering speed. She stood beside the train tracks until the train disappeared from view and the little white wisps of smoke from its engine vanished.

  In the end, this day was what she had needed to finally let go of her guilt and remorse and sorrow over Charlotte: coming home again, the grave marker, the comforting words from Wyatt. Her body felt light, nearly buoyant, as she walked back to the waiting carriage.

  AFTER A LIGHT SUPPER, Lucy went into the drawing room to sit by the fire, hoping Father might join her. There’d been precious little time alone with him today, as Hazel was ever present and quite talkative. Lucy couldn’t stop thinking about Finley James’s quick defense for the loblolly trees, or that exhausted land Brother Wyatt showed her, nor that look of discouragement in Sally Ann Duncan’s delicate face, or the despair in Barbara Jean Boling’s eyes.

  Against the far wall of the drawing room, Lucy noticed a new wooden cabinet. When she crossed the room to study it, she noticed the cabinet’s edges were trimmed in gold, and inside was a Victrola phonograph. A recent purchase of Hazel’s, no doubt.

  After just one full day back at home in Lexington, Lucy felt discomfited, as if she were wearing a dress two sizes too small. Almost shamed from the life of comfort—of luxury, of excess—she had lived, knowing much of it came at the expense of those in the mountains.

  By the fireplace were her parents’ sitting spots. Father’s chair was big and overstuffed. Mother’s low and snug, with a high back. Lucy wondered how long before Hazel had these two chairs replaced. Or the Oriental rugs, the velvet draperies.

  She sat in Mother’s chair and watched the licking flames, tired from the long day. Just when she was about to give up on her father, the door opened and in he came, book in hand. “I thought you’d retired for the night. Aren’t you exhausted?”

  “No, not really.” She pointed to his chair. “Please come and join me. I’d like to talk to you.”

  He settled into the chair and watched the fire. “So, how’s it going up there? Ready to return to civilization for good?”

  Where to begin? There was no point in trying to tell her father what life was really like up in the mountains—the hardship, the poverty—because he knew. He would try to explain it all in a voice that suggested this was simply how it was.

  What he didn’t seem to want to acknowledge was the stark beauty of the mountain peoples’ life—the fierce loyalty to each other, the reverence of holding on to beloved traditions from the old country.

  “Actually, I’ve been learning quite a bit about the lumber up in Rowan County. The loblollies, in particular.”

  Now that pleased him. “The end of logging virgin timber in Rowan County devastated the county. They depended heavily on logging. Other counties have coal, but not Rowan County. All it has are those trees. By harvesting the loblollies, we’ve been able to bring relief back to the county.” He opened his book and started to read.

  “Yes . . . but, Father, I’ve discovered discrepancies . . .” Her voice stuck. This was harder than she thought it would be. “It seems”—she cleared her throat—“Valley View Lumber might have an unfair advantage over the mountain people.”

  “Unfair advantage?” he said in a calm voice, though she could sense his defensive reaction from the narrowing of his eyes.

  “By altering the landscape. Diverting creeks away from farms to create holding pens. Those families depend on the water.”

  He scoffed. “Blame the drought for that. Valley View Lumber can’t be held responsible for the weather. After the trees have been harvested, the woodsmen will remove the dams to open the ponds.” He waved a hand in the air, reminding her of Andrew’s similar attitude. “The rains will return. The creeks will start flowing. Land is very forgiving.”

  “It’s not just the ponds. What about the roads you’ve put in? They crisscross peoples’ fields. Fields needed for farming.”

  He abandoned his book to stare at her. “Lucy, those roads could be—should be—seen as a gift.”

  “How so?”

  “The world could open up to them with those roads. Instead, they choose to remain hidden in those forsaken hollers.” He slapped his book on the table. “Business goes up into those hills to bring jobs and opportunities. It’s never the other way around. Those hillbillies refuse to join the rest of the world.”

  “They can’t read or write. They didn’t know what they were signing their X to. Father, don’t you see? They don’t understand what they’re signing.”

  “It’s all perfectly legal. No one forced their hand on the quill. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Nor nothing right. It’s like they’re getting tricked.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished them back. Too accusing, too insulting. The air in the room seemed to vibrate.

  He rose to his feet, glaring at her. “That’s a despicable thing to say. You’ve been there what—just a month or so? And you think you know everything about those mountain people? You don’t.”

  There was no backing out of this now. “I’m trying to make you see that people suffered at what your company has done. You’ve taken resources out and left nothing in return. These are families. Fathers and mothers and children.”

  “Suffered? Because of my company?” He thumped his chest with his fist once, then twice. “My company?! I’ll tell you what has caused suffering. Isolation! It’s proved disastrous for those people. It’s kept them poor and ignorant. Even the Indians used to call it a dark and bloody ground.”

  “There’s another side that you refuse to see.” Lucy remained seated and tried to keep her voice as calm as possible, though her heart was pounding. She had never challenged her father before. “That same isolation has created rich pockets of culture. Isolation has meant they’re forced to rely on each other for survival and for entertainment too. I think nearly everyone I’ve met, young or old, can sing or dance or play an instrument.”

  “Clogging to fiddle music,
” her father said stonily. “Some wouldn’t consider that to be entertainment.”

  “Perhaps not in Lexington, but it’s beautiful music. Songs that tell stories. Father, what I’m trying to say is that the land has shaped the people and the people have shaped the land. You can’t separate the two. Lumber companies have taken advantage of innocent families and stolen livelihoods, all for the sake of a profit.”

  “Spare me the dramatics, Lucille,” her father said. “What you call ‘profit’ is what I call progress. Valley View has created jobs and opportunities for more people than the few left in those decrepit hollers. The lumber has built houses and shops and courthouses. And schoolhouses. It’s the way of the future. You can’t hang on to the past.”

  “But surely you can see what happens when bright young children get a chance. Children like you, and Cora.”

  “Exactly. I know what those hills are like. I went to those schools. The only way you can tell who’s the teacher and who’s the student is that the teacher has shoes on. Those school trustees will hire whoever they like or know. Nothing to do with qualifications. And I’ll wager that hasn’t changed, even under Cora’s watch.”

  “She’s trying, though. She’s creating interest and enthusiasm, and she’s bringing the schools up to a higher standard. You should see the correspondence she gets from other teachers and principals, from all over Kentucky, asking her for advice about improving schools.” Lucy folded her hands in her lap. “Father, please sit down.”

  Slowly, he lowered himself into his chair.

  “You make your upbringing sound quite severe. Cora has an entirely different view.”

  “Oh really? Well, both of our parents had the wisdom to get us out of the hill country during the Rowan County War. There’s no way to help those people, Lucy. They’re too isolated. Their thinking gets isolated. They resist progress. They prefer to hang on to violent feuds and old ways.”

  “It’s also their home. Their land. Valley View Lumber has a responsibility to be fair and reasonable.”

  “If Valley View is so despicable in your eyes, then why don’t you read through all the contracts? Isn’t that why you’re there? To be Cora’s personal assistant?”

  “I never said despicable. I said that these people don’t know what they’re signing their names to.”

  “Their X, you mean.” He crossed his hand in the air in an exaggerated gesture. “And I suppose you’re accusing my sales agent of intentionally wronging them.”

  This was not going well. She had never assumed that Andrew Spencer was to blame. But wasn’t he? “I . . . I’m not accusing anyone.”

  “Well, if you’re going to judge, don’t forget Cora. She isn’t blameless here.”

  “Cora?”

  “She’s the county superintendent. It’s her job to educate these people.”

  “To educate the children. Her campaign slogan to become superintendent was ‘the children’s friend.’ And she’s doing all she can to see that every child is in school.”

  He closed his eyes tiredly, inhaled deeply, and when his eyes opened she could see his fight was gone. “See here, it’s been a long day. A hard day. I don’t want to end it on a sour note. If you know of young men who are willing to live in the city to work at the lumberyard, then I’ll give them jobs.” He pointed a finger at her. “Assuming they’re able workers.”

  Lucy barely held back from an eye roll. As if they weren’t able workers! Why, she’d never seen men and women work so hard to scrape out a living.

  Her father rose and went to the door, then paused to turn back. “You never used to be truculent, Lucy. Cora’s influence, no doubt. This was a bad idea.”

  Interesting word choice, Lucy mulled, as she heard her father’s footfalls down the hall. Truculent originated out of the Latin word trux, meaning “fierce.”

  She felt fierce. It infuriated Lucy that her father’s answer to educate the mountain people was to leave the mountain. To leave their home, their families, the very place that made them who they were.

  Lucy sat back in her mother’s chair. A little smile tugged at her lips. Today she’d had a brutally honest conversation with her father and also shared a raw moment in Charlotte’s room—the most vulnerable they’d ever been with each other. She would never have imagined someone, especially her father, calling her truculent. Other labels given to her by teachers came to mind: meek, mild, passive, compliant, deferential, docile. But truculent? Never!

  She rather liked it.

  Fourteen

  FIRST THING ON MONDAY MORNING, Lucy told Cora everything about the weekend, including the uncomfortable conversation with her father. He’d been cool and distant when she said goodbye at the train station the next day. Still, she didn’t regret bringing the topic of those dishonorable lumber contracts to his attention.

  “Tell me what he said again?”

  “He said that you’re partly to blame. That it’s your job to educate these people.”

  Cora frowned. “He can’t expect me to wave a magic wand so that everyone is suddenly able to read. It will take a generation to change that.” She stood and walked toward the window.

  “What bothers me most is the way Father lumps mountain people together, as if they’re all dumb and lazy and deserve what they get.”

  Cora turned to Lucy. “Don’t be too hard on your father. He’s a tough businessman, but he’s not a dishonest one. And as much as he tries to hide it, he has a soft heart.”

  “Does he? I’m not always so sure.”

  “Trust me on that. I think your conversation with him will nettle him. Good will come out of it. Eventually.” She sat down at her desk. “So Wyatt came to the cemetery during the service for Charlotte?”

  “How did you hear that?”

  “I was able to attend the singing school yesterday afternoon. He told me he’d been in Lexington.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t say why, only that he had a meeting.” She hoped Cora might elaborate, but she volunteered nothing more. Lucy felt again that nagging suspicion that Wyatt had come to Lexington only because he was concerned about her. Pity was not what she wanted from him. Not from anyone.

  Cora studied her for a moment, then said, “Wyatt is a fine man. None finer, in my opinion.” She said it with the emphasis on fine, as if comparing him to someone else.

  Lucy knew little of Cora’s ex-husbands, but she did know that the first one was an alcoholic, and the second one—whom Cora remarried and divorced again the following month—was abusive.

  “Five, six years ago, when I returned to Rowan County, I was at a school function, and a tall mountain lad stepped up to sing one of the most beautiful pieces of mountain music I’ve ever heard. It was astonishing. His deep voice, the lyrical words. Afterward, I went up to the young man and asked for a copy of the song. I told him it was worth publishing. He said he’d had hundreds of such songs, all in his head, but was unable to write down a single one because he could neither write nor read.”

  “How old was he? Why hadn’t he gone to school?”

  “He was probably about Finley James’s age. Fifteen or sixteen. And his story was not unique, Lucy. Getting to school just wasn’t possible for a boy needed on the farm.” She leaned back in her chair. “So I found a sponsor to provide schooling for him at a boarding school in Louisville. One in which music was encouraged.”

  Puzzle pieces started floating into place. Lucy’s eyes went wide. Oh my stars and garters. “Brother Wyatt?”

  Cora nodded. “And the sponsor, Lucy, was your own father.”

  AT THE LIVERY, Fin gave a carrot to Sheila, who nickered with pleasure. He saw Miss Cora and Miss Lucy walk past, with hardly a notice of him other than asking why he weren’t in school. Miss Norah had gone ailing again, he explained, so Little Brushy School was shut down and Fin was jest fine with that. Though it did pain his heart some that Miss Lucy did not linger at the livery but hurried after Miss Cora along to the meeting. Women.

  Fin hadn’t seen Angie Coo
per for days and days. That suited him jest fine. But then, he did wonder where she was keeping herself. Most likely, she was up at Little Brushy right now, standing at the chalkboard, trying to jam knowledge into them poor little uns who couldn’t read the NO SCHOOL TODAY sign.

  Not having school suited Fin jest fine, too, especially because he could work at the livery for Arthur Cooper, who needed to get his crops planted after last week’s rain. Fin settled down against the building, on its shady side, scratched his back against the wooden building, folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, drifting off.

  “Son, don’t you want to do something with yourself?” A jab poked him in the side.

  Fin startled awake, blinking, then jumped to his feet. “Hello, Mrs. Klopp.” Miss Cora might scare him, but Mrs. Klopp terrified him. She had a way of pinning a man to the wall with her piercing stare. He rubbed his side where she’d poked him with her cane. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”

  “Yes. You can join the United States Army.”

  “Huh? We gone to war?” How long had he been asleep?

  “You’re going to waste away up in those hills, live a life that amounts to nothing. Just like everybody else up there.”

  Fin stiffened.

  “The only option for a mountain boy like you is to join the military.” Then she started reading from a brochure and showed him the uniform he could wear, boots included. Dapper, she called them. And then she pointed out the big rifle he’d be carrying, and the fine horse he’d be given. By the end of Mrs. Klopp’s recruitment lecture, Fin was giving some serious thinking to joining the army. He wondered what Miss Lucy might think about that.

  Would she miss him? Pine for him? Beg him not to go? He smiled, thinking she shorely would.

  THE LAST WEEK OF APRIL brought nothing but fast-moving storms. Gully washers, to quote Fin. Today was a rainy morning, a tranquil moment in Cora’s office. Lucy was organizing files while Cora worked at her desk. These quiet moments, working side by side, were Lucy’s favorites. Teatime was even better. Lucy would serve tea and the two would sit and talk about all kinds of things. Important things, mundane things.