The Moonlight School

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  As Jenny plodded her way back to town, Lucy thought about all she’d learned today from Miss Mollie. Far more adults were unable to read than she would’ve thought.

  And then there was Miss Mollie’s casual mention of the Wilson clan. Lucy had numerous distant cousins in various hills and hollows, unknown to her, most of whom were illiterate.

  With a jolt, Lucy realized this could have been her life.

  She thought of how important education had been to Father. She appreciated it now with a different view, after seeing the world from which he had come. She understood so much more about him now, especially how he wanted to distance himself from relations, how he hadn’t brought Lucy back to where he’d been raised. She’d always assumed he wanted nothing to do with the poverty of Appalachia. Now she recognized his avoidance as a revulsion of its intellectual poverty.

  She gazed up at the trees that towered above. Not being able to read would feel like being born blind, aware there was a world you were left out of, but completely unaware of how beautiful it was.

  She pulled papers from her pocket and counted up the number of adults in this hollow who couldn’t read, or couldn’t read well. Then she did it a second time. Over fifty. And this was just one hollow. Just one. There were dozens of hollows and coves all over this mountain.

  She blew out a puff of air. She felt as if these mountain people had been hindered from a full life, stymied, thwarted. Robbed.

  Now she understood what Cora meant when she said that illiteracy was a type of social evil. In this modern age of automobiles and radio broadcasting, it was unconscionable.

  And suddenly, Lucy felt a stirring inside her. Something was changing in her, something fundamental, deep down, altering the very core of her being. She cared about these people, she wanted a better life for them, and she knew Cora was so right. So very right. Literacy was the start of that path.

  Sensing they were getting close to town, nearing a supper of hay and oats, Jenny picked up her pace, and in a flash, they were out of the gloomy woods and into the bright sunlight. She seared that moment in her memory, never to be forgotten.

  Lucy Wilson was emerging from a life in the shadows.

  Sixteen

  ANGIE HAD LISTENED CAREFULLY when Miss Lucy told Miss Mollie how she’d been taught to walk at her fancy girls’ school by balancing a book on her head. She had to admit, Miss Lucy walked different than mountain women. Her head was held proud, her shoulders back. So one afternoon, when the boys were in the barn with Paw, she took his Bible and walked around the house with it on her head.

  It wasn’t easy at first, and she dropped it once, twice, thrice . . . which slowed her down because Miss Mollie always said if you dropped a Bible, you had to kiss it one hundred times. She wasn’t sure why the kissing was necessary but figured it would put an end to any curse she might have invoked after dropping a Bible. It took time, but she finally got the hang of it. It required slowing down, which was not an easy thing for Angie to do. She liked the feeling of holding her head high, especially after she caught a glimpse of herself in Maw’s hand mirror and thought she looked downright regal.

  Until those bothersome little boys burst into the house and caught her in the act.

  Wide-eyed, Mikey asked, “What are you doin’ now?”

  She grabbed the Bible off her head and held it to her middle. “Bible study.”

  Gabe, a mite slow, looked confused. “By puttin’ the Bible on top o’ your head?”

  “Never you mind.”

  Mikey jabbed Gabe with his elbow. “Bet it’s got something to do with copying Miss Lucy.” He grinned. “She’s trying to walk straight and fancy, just like Miss Lucy.” He tried to mimic a woman’s walk in an exaggerated way, walking on tiptoes, swinging his arms, hips swaying from side to side.

  Angie moaned. “Why couldn’t the Lord have brung me sisters instead of troublesome little brothers?”

  Mikey lifted a finger in the air and spoke in crisp diction, like Miss Lucy. “I do believe brung ain’t a word.”

  Angie swatted the air like she was shooing a fly. “Go on and git. Both of you.”

  “We be starvin’.”

  “Ya always say yor starving. And you both eat enough for a horse.”

  “Yeah, but this time, it’s true. My tummy’s been growlin’ since breakfast.”

  Gabe sniffed the air. “Is that fresh-baked bread I smell?”

  Angie frowned. “Go git yourselves a hunk of bread, and take one to Paw too. But don’t make a gaum of it.”

  Both boys walked tiptoe first to the little stovetop, arms swinging, hips wiggling. Then they bent over in laughter, and even Angie had to laugh at their silly antics. Them boys! She corrected herself. Those boys.

  FINLEY JAMES was on his way home from town and decided to go the long way. After all, it was spring in the mountains. Birdsong filled the forest, and the rhododendrons were in full bloom with blossoms as big as dinner plates. There weren’t no place more beautiful on earth than this mountain in the springtime. It was like the Lord God was showing off, letting folks in on a hint of what’s to come in heaven. That’s what his maw said, and he believed her.

  He heard someone call his name and hoped it might be Miss Lucy, but heck if it was only Angie Cooper. He shoulda known not to go so close to the Cooper cabin. She could sniff him out like a hound after a fox. He reined Sheila to a stop and waited as she splashed across the creek, one hand holding onto the hem of her dress so it wouldn’t get wet. In the other hand was a wrapped bundle.

  “What do you want?”

  “I made an extra loaf of bread. Thought you might like some.” She held it up to him.

  It did look good, and he was mighty hungry. But first, he had a bone to pick with her. “How did fishin’ work out with Bobby McLean?” He fixed his eyes on her, delighted to see her squirm after he caught her in a lie.

  “Fine. Jest fine.”

  “Mebbe ya told a bold-faced lie and yor goin’ to burn in hell for it.”

  Her eyebrows almost met in the middle.

  “Jest saw Bobby get off the train, not an ahr ago. Said he’d been at his mamaw’s funeral. Said he’d been gone over a week.”

  “You sound mad.” She looked hopeful. “Were you jealous?”

  “Nope. Besides, women are nothing but a nuisance.” As far as Fin was concerned, Angie could play her games with somebody else.

  “I only lied to you because you said I wasn’t pretty.”

  “I didn’t say nothing o’ the sort.”

  She grinned. “So then . . . you think I’m pretty?”

  “Mebbe,” Fin snapped, “but ya also make me crazy.”

  “Well, you make me crazy too!” Angie smiled. “Do ya really think I’m pretty?”

  He gave her a serious looking over. Her bonnet had slipped off and hung loose down her back, showing off her feeble attempts at pinning up her hair. Blonde curls escaped every which way, and if she hadn’t vexed him so, he might admit she looked a mite fetching. “Well, I’ll be. I hadn’t noticed. I shorely hadn’t. But you ain’t nigh as ugly as ya used to be.”

  Furious, she waded back across the creek, feet teetering carefully across the slick rocks.

  “Hey! What about the bread? I’m hungry!” He wasn’t sure he heered her exactly right, cuz it sounded like something that might peel the paint right off the walls.

  ON SUNDAY MORNING, Lucy sat in church next to Andrew Spencer and thought he looked unreasonably handsome, even for Andrew. He wore a trimly tailored suit, a new style of cut that Lucy had seen in Lexington, with a freshly starched shirt and collar. He was a smart dresser, standing out in sharp contrast to any other man in Rowan County. Especially Brother Wyatt.

  Standing on the dais, hymnal in hand, Wyatt opened the church service. As he gave a warm welcome, she appraised him objectively. His face was lean and angular, such high cheekbones that gave him an almost severe look. He wore his black hair, which had a tinge of auburn to it in the right light, far too long. He
wasn’t particularly tall nor small, he wasn’t particularly handsome. Frankly, his appearance wasn’t notable. Certainly nothing like Andrew. But there was something about Wyatt that made him quite memorable.

  Wyatt said a prayer and Lucy bowed her head, offering prayers for Charlotte as she always did. At the amen, she lifted her head and her eyes caught with Wyatt’s. She saw something light in his eyes—warmth? tenderness?—but it vanished before she could put a name to it. When his eyes traveled to Andrew beside her, it left her mildly unsettled. Where in the world had that come from? She had nothing to feel guilty about.

  Wyatt led the choir in a hymn Lucy didn’t recognize, but she knew the second one. The entire church rose, with the sound of rustling pages in open hymnals, to sing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Andrew sang along, woefully off-key, as if he didn’t care. Lucy glanced at him sideways, slightly mortified.

  He caught her look and grinned, then leaned toward her to whisper, “I used to be called the jailhouse singer. Always behind bars and missing a key.” He nudged her with his elbow. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m tone deaf.”

  Lucy clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  The sermon that followed expanded on the piece that Lucy had heard earlier in the week, when Wyatt was practicing in an empty church. “Seek and ye shall find,” he quoted from the Bible, in a voice firm with promise.

  What happened when you sought and didn’t find?

  After Charlotte went missing, after hope for her return grew dim, Lucy’s trust in God had also faded. She had a vague belief in the Almighty, but it made her uncomfortable to hear those kinds of promises flung from the pulpit.

  Wyatt always pronounced Almighty as two words. All Mighty. He said it made a difference.

  She looked down at her hands in her lap to avoid Wyatt’s gaze, which she felt was directed at her, though it probably wasn’t. It reminded her of being at the brush arbor.

  What had made that moment of worship at the brush arbor so different than anything she’d ever known? Or felt? For a short time, her entire being—mind, body, and soul—had been caught up in something she couldn’t explain. Something that felt much bigger than herself. Was it just a result of the lively toe-tapping music, the unbridled enthusiasm of those around her? Or maybe it came from a church service held out in a breathtaking slice of nature. Such a different experience than in a staid church building.

  She exhaled. Who knew? Maybe that moment was just her imagination. Maybe it was one of those experiences that Father had warned her about when she came to Morehead. After all, he had probably seen a good number of brush arbors. Perhaps those hard-to-explain experiences were why he found it best to keep his thoughts unencumbered of religious philosophy.

  Or maybe it was her soul, reaching out to God, in spite of everything. A buried part of her that longed for God, even though she didn’t know him or even trust his goodness.

  She shook that thought off and shifted in the pew. Andrew, misinterpreting her squirm as an effort to draw close to him, reached over and took her hand in his. She looked down at his hand covering hers, and her first thought was that her hand all but disappeared in his larger one.

  An hour later, Andrew was still holding her hand as they made their way to a grassy niche off Triplett Creek. She let herself be led by this strong, bold man and listened to him as he told her about funny things that had happened during his week. She had been with him enough times now to expect his accountings of the week, and she looked forward to them. Or maybe it was the way he had of telling stories that she enjoyed so much, for he had a gift for mimicry. “A treeman fell thirty feet but somehow landed in a soft bed of thick branches. Got up and brushed himself off.” Andrew slipped into the mountain accent. “‘Not heardly a scratch,’ he said, and then he climbed right back up the tree. Like a boomer, he was!”

  And then there was the granny who sold jugs of mountain dew to the crew cutting her timber, and when the foremen went to check on the work, he found the men in a drunken stupor. “That was less funny,” Andrew said, though his eyes danced his with amusement. “To the foreman, anyway. He was going to get a bonus if he delivered on time.” He chuckled and added, “I think the granny was the only one who got a bonus on that job.”

  Happy. Andrew was a happy man. Lucy kept thinking about the emotion, about getting used to it. I feel happy when I’m around Andrew. She wondered if this might be what it felt like to fall in love. Was it possible to always be this happy? Is this what it would be like to be married to him? What a silly thought! She’d known him for only a month or so. She decided to change the subject, at least from the one circling in her head.

  “Andrew,” she said, as they spread the blanket. “Cora wanted me to ask if you’d consider donating to her adult literacy campaign.”

  He stilled. “The what?”

  She explained Cora’s concept of opening the schools to adults on moonlit nights. Half listening, occupied with emptying the contents of the picnic basket, Andrew passed her a napkin.

  “So would you?”

  He found what he was after—deviled eggs, wrapped snugly in a container. “Would I what?” He held the container out to Lucy to offer her an egg.

  “Donate to the Moonlight Schools campaign.” She declined a deviled egg, needing to get this topic off her chest before she could eat. “Cora felt that you’ve gained such success from those mountain people, that naturally you’d want to give back.”

  With one bite, Andrew finished off an egg. Then another. Taking his time to chew and swallow, he finally said, “Valley View Lumber has benefited from Rowan County.” He took another egg. “Ask your father for the charity.”

  “It’s not really charity, Andrew. It’s a campaign to help the mountain people help themselves.”

  “I wish I could help, Lucy. Really I do, but I have a lot of expenses to cover. One or two debts. You understand, I’m sure.” And he polished off the last deviled egg.

  As he lifted his arm, she noticed again his suit. The cloth, the tailoring, the crisp white shirt, it all looked new. Expensive. Flashing through her mind was an image of Brother Wyatt’s threadbare shirt cuffs. “Of course I understand,” she said, nodding. She didn’t, though.

  “You have to remember, Lucy, that I’m just like those mountain folks.”

  “How so?”

  He grinned. “Like them, I don’t have a trust fund to dip into.”

  She stiffened. A dig at her upbringing? Even more nettling was that he had guessed correctly. She was provided a generous monthly allowance, and she’d never wanted for anything. Never had gone to bed hungry. She crossed her arms and rubbed her elbows, suddenly cold.

  He noticed. He picked up a small blanket and placed it around her shoulders. “It’s turned chilly out there.”

  Yes, it had.

  He sensed her withdrawal. “Luce,” he said in a soft, coaxing voice as he wiggled close to her. “You’re so serious . . . about being so serious.”

  A variation on a theme she’d heard most of her life. And it was true.

  “Just ask your father for a donation. He’ll give it to you.” He gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow, first one, then another, until she smiled, in spite of herself. And then he wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her on the lips, once, then twice more. “I seem to be falling head over heels in love with you, Lucy Wilson.”

  She enjoyed his kisses, and he didn’t seem to expect a declaration of love from her, which was a relief. Love? Andrew loved her?

  It was too soon for that.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON was the one time when Fin allowed himself some time off. His maw took a long nap, and he would wait till he knew she was out cold, and then he’d grab his pole and hop on Sheila, and off they’d go to a favorite fishing spot, of which Fin had plenty. If’n he got lucky today, he might bring home an eel or two. His maw loved the taste of cooked eel, said it had a hint of sweetness to it. Fin didn’t much care for it. His maw said you had to dev
elop a taste for it.

  He remembered his paw’s rules about how to catch an eel. “At night, catch ’em feedin’,” his paw had said. “At day, catch ’em hidin’.” Eels fed by scent, so it required a stinky bait. Nightcrawlers or herrings. They’d go after bait tied to a string, and once they latched on, they could be dragged right out. It occurred to Fin that he hadn’t brought a bucket to hold them, nor salt to douse them. The salt gave two gifts: a quick death to the eel and it got rid of their slime. He would have to make do and keep ’em in his net. It would be a slower death for the eels, and for that he was sorry. He wondered if they felt any pain, if they suffered, and he hoped not.

  Wading along the creek, pondering all that he knew about eels and their hiding places, he found one, then another. He was hoping to come across a third eel, one his maw could cook real soft for Miss Mollie’s gums, when Sheila nickered a warning. He straightened and spun around to find Angie Cooper, sitting on one of her paw’s spare ponies, looking down on him from the top of the creek.

  Fin groaned. That girl. Always looking down on him.

  ANGIE RODE ALONG, stealing an occasional glance at Finley James, jest to prove to herself that he was really there, that they were racing horses together like they used to when they were children.

  Angie’s pony broke into a fast trot and Sheila paced her easily. “I’m givin’ ya fair warning,” she said. “This pony may be old, but she can surprise ya.”

  “Not as fast as Sheila,” Finley James said. “Only horse that can beat her is Brother Wyatt’s Lyric.”

  “Let’s have a bet!” The way we used to.

  “Depends,” Finley James said, looking over his shoulder. “What’s the bet?”

  “I’ll tell you after I’ve won!” Angie touched her heels to her pony, clucking, to get her into a canter.