The Moonlight School

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  He sucked in a deep breath. “You must miss your sister something fierce.”

  “I do remember one specific moment on that fateful day. There was a woman at the train station who had noticed my sister Charlotte. She kept staring at her.” Lucy was clutching her shawl so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms. “I can’t help but wonder if that woman could have been . . . your wife.”

  He stared at her. “Miss Lucy . . . that’s jest crazy talk. My Aria could never, ever do such a thing.”

  “I wonder if you might have a photograph of your wife. I’d like to see for myself if she might be the woman I remember staring at Charlotte.”

  Too much. She’d said too much. Too soon. He was overwhelmed by her accusation. She could see the shock, the denial in his eyes. “Mr. Cooper,” she said softly, “What if I had proof?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

  “A pink sweater. A ring that I remember as once belonging to my mother. I found both of those items in Angie’s cupboard.”

  It was plain as day that he had no idea what she was talking about. “You talking about something you remember . . . as solid proof?”

  Put like that, it did sound dubious. It would end up being Lucy’s word against Aria Cooper’s word . . . a woman who was long dead. “When a mother is grieving, isn’t it possible she might do . . . anything to relieve her pain. Even take someone else’s child.”

  She watched him for a while, twisting and twisting a piece of hay in his hands until it snapped. He was angry.

  “Miss Lucy, I’m sorry ’bout your sister. I’m sorry for what I said, ’bout deserving to lose her. No one deserves such a thing. What I do know is that Angie’s meant for us. Aria got well cuz of Angie, and Angie got a family who watched out for her. She got a maw and a paw who love her, and she’s got brothers. And she got Finley James.” Ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Though the boy don’t know he been got yet.” He started for the door, then flung over his shoulder, “We’ll not speak of this again.”

  “Wait! Please, wait. May I ask you one more question?”

  He stopped, and turned, a pained look on his face as if he was bracing himself for something hard.

  “Who were your wife’s parents? Or are they still living?”

  “Jest one. Judge Klopp’s wife.” His eyebrows lifted at the shock on her face. “I’m surprised you didn’t know. It ain’t no secret.”

  Beulah Klopp? She was the mother of Aria Cooper? That stern, cold woman? Lucy couldn’t have been more stunned if Arthur Cooper had slapped her in the face.

  Lucy walked to the porch and sat in a hardbacked rocking chair, watching Angie hanging more laundry on the clothesline, looking for any resemblance to her own parents. To herself. The long, tapered fingers, though rough from use, reminded Lucy of her own hands. The high forehead, the stern set of her mouth, the cheekbones, all could be rearranged in Lucy’s mind to form a female version of her father’s face. And that long torso, those full lips . . . . . . weren’t they just like Mother’s? Yet, those same features might be formed in other ways too.

  The more Lucy watched, the more she thought of it, the more her hopes rose that indeed, her lost sister was standing only fifty feet away from her. Right here, right now. Flashing dark scowls at her.

  Lucy had to go find Wyatt, who always seemed to have the right answer.

  LUCY KNEW WYATT was somewhere in Morehead, but it took some hunting before she finally found him waiting for a train at the station. It didn’t even occur to ask where he was going or why. Instead, as soon as she drew close, she blurted out, “Do you remember Aria Cooper leaving the hollow and returning with a two-year-old child? A girl?”

  “Well, hello to you too, Lucy,” he said in his patient, deliberate way. “I’m just fine, thank you for asking.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I just have to talk to you.”

  “Let’s sit down. The train is late, anyway.” He led her to a bench and turned to her. “Now then, what’s on your mind that’s so important?”

  She repeated her question about Aria Cooper coming back to town with a two-year-old.

  “I don’t remember.” He shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention to the coming of babies.” He gave her a puzzled look. “What are you getting at?”

  “As I was putting some clothes away in Angie’s cupboard, I found a ruby ring and a baby’s sweater.”

  “Go on.”

  She took a deep breath, cupped her hands on her knees, and fixed her eyes on her hands. “Wyatt, I recognized them. A little pink baby sweater that my mother had knit. A ruby ring that my father had given my mother for an anniversary gift.”

  He still seemed confused. “Why would Angie take them from you?”

  Lucy took a breath, in and out, trying to stay calm, and kept her eyes fastened on her hands. “No, no. She didn’t. The pink sweater was . . . it was what Charlotte had been wearing the day she went missing. And she’d been playing with the ruby ring the day before. In Mother’s writing room.”

  She paused, chancing a glance at him. Though his gray eyes were looking at her unwaveringly as ever, she hoped for some kind of reassurance, but none came. But he remained quiet, which was good in a way. She couldn’t handle hearing doubt voiced aloud. She was struggling enough with disbelief, and trying very hard not to cry, trying to keep her voice from not sounding as shaky as she felt. “If you remember, I’d already noticed that Angie didn’t have a birth date entered in the Cooper family Bible—”

  “I remember.”

  “So I asked Arthur about it. He said that Angie had been adopted. Aria Cooper had lost their first child, a stillborn, and was unable to have more children. She suffered greatly, and her parents sent her to a sanitarium. And when Aria returned home, she brought a little girl with her.”

  She rose from the bench and took a few steps toward the train platform, then pivoted. “I know it seems incredulous, it does to me as well. But I tracked down the timing of these events. The gravestone of Aria and Arthur’s baby indicates the baby died in the summer of 1898. Arthur said Aria returned home with the child in January, which was exactly when Charlotte went missing. Exactly.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “So you told Arthur about your suspicion?”

  “I did. He refused to believe that Aria would—or could—steal someone’s child.”

  “Lucy, I would trust my life on Arthur’s word.”

  “I’m not saying he lied. I think he felt protective of Aria and chose to accept her explanation about Angie.”

  “So what did she tell him?”

  “That Angie was a child in need of their love. He said he trusted Aria. And he also said that she returned home happy. He didn’t want to risk her happiness. He said that after she lost her own baby, she was overwhelmed by despair. I got the impression that her sorrow was so great that he feared she might take her own life.”

  Wyatt reached out and put a hand on Lucy’s arm, and his touch calmed her. “Lucy, the chance of Angie Cooper being your lost sister Charlotte, well, the chance is highly unlikely.”

  She nodded. “I agree. Highly unlikely.”

  “It would be an odd chain of circumstances. You coming here, staying at the Coopers’, putting away things in a cupboard that held those particular pieces.”

  “Yes. Very odd.” She nodded again. “Improbable coincidences.”

  He inhaled a deep breath. “But then again, I’ve seen some strange coincidences in my life.”

  “Surely not as strange as this?”

  “Even more so. After all, is anything too impossible for God? Not one sparrow falls without his noticing, the Bible tells us.”

  Lucy darted a glance at him. She envied Wyatt’s bold faith, absent of doubts. She was forever plagued by doubts. There were times when she even suspected that, depending on how you read the Bible, you could make it say anything you wanted it to say. Verses could be twisted and turned to suit the speaker’s intent. Not Wyatt, but ple
nty of others seemed to pluck verses out of thin air and jam them onto circumstances.

  Wyatt watched her with a concerned expression. “You told me once that God had not listened to your prayers for Charlotte. Could it be possible that your prayers were being answered?”

  “How so?”

  “Perhaps Charlotte was receiving love and care.”

  Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “Receiving love and care? By whom? Not by her family! Not by her father and her sister.”

  “Prayers aren’t always answered the way we want them to be. God’s timing . . . and his ways . . . they’re a mystery. But I do believe that God cares about your sister, wherever she may be now. Whoever she may be now.”

  Lucy allowed a sigh. When Hazel had the tombstone set in place for Charlotte, she thought she had finally come to terms with the realization that her sister was long gone. Presumed dead. Until today.

  And here Charlotte was. Or was she?

  It was not outside of the realm of possibilities, but even Wyatt called it an odd chain of circumstances.

  What if there was never anything to confirm or deny that Angie Cooper was Charlotte Wilson? What if there could never be proof beyond any doubt? What would happen then? It was too much to think, to ponder. To hope for. “Charlotte is dead,” Lucy said at last. “It’s best to accept that as a fact.”

  A whistle pierced the quiet, announcing the arrival of Wyatt’s train. “Seek the Lord on this matter, Lucy,” he said, with a squeeze of her hand. “Don’t do or say anything to anyone until you hear clear guidance from him.” And then he left her to catch the train.

  She felt let down. Even more muddled, as if she were stuck in a thick fog and didn’t even know which way to go. She had hoped for clarity from Wyatt. She wanted a plan of action. But waiting? Expecting God to provide clear guidance? Answer a prayer? That was the last thing she wanted to do.

  As the train pulled away, she saw Wyatt wave from the window, a concerned look on his face, and she lifted her hand in return, wondering where he was going. And when he would be back.

  THE VERY NEXT AFTERNOON, Cora paid a visit to Little Brushy School. The children cheered when they heard her familiar yoo-hoo at the door. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. Whenever Cora arrived, she’d step in as teacher, or help a child who was struggling, or create a game that drove home a difficult lesson.

  On this day, Cora asked Angie to teach long division to the fourth graders. Angie couldn’t have been more pleased and bolted to the chalkboard to grab the chalk. Cora made a suggestion or two, but let Angie carry the lesson to completion.

  While Angie taught, Cora walked around the room, desk by desk, to check on each child’s work. Always, she left them with an encouraging word, a pat on the shoulder. Fin, who was sailing through fifth grade curriculum, received a warm hug. Lucy waited on a bench at the back of the room, correcting papers, observing Cora’s affirming way with the children, of the way they looked up at her with expressions of respect. It was like watching a master at work.

  Cora came to the back of the room and sat down next to her. “I do believe Little Brushy is my favorite school,” she said with a satisfied smile. Lucy had a sneaking suspicion she said the same thing at every school. And sincerely meant it.

  As they listened to Angie explain how to carry over figures, Lucy decided to stick a toe in the water. “I learned recently that Mrs. Klopp is . . . was . . . Aria Cooper’s mother? That they were estranged.”

  Cora nodded. “She wasn’t in favor of Aria marrying Arthur.”

  “Why? Arthur Cooper has the livery business, and a farm.”

  “The Klopps are town folk. Learned. And they’re . . . German. Arthur is Scotch-Irish.” As if that explained everything.

  “Why would that matter?”

  “The Germans look down on the Scotch-Irish. They assume they’re not as intelligent, not as hardworking, not as religious. People oppress people. It’s their nature.” She lifted her palms. “And you know how folks love their grudges. Nurse them like they’re babies.” She shifted her attention to the class, letting out a deep sigh. “My goodness. Just look at her. Angie’s a natural. This, this is where she belongs. Just think of the impact she’ll have when she finally gets her own schoolhouse.”

  Lucy turned her head. Angie was helping a boy at the chalkboard who was making a mess of a math problem. In a surprisingly gentle way, she corrected the boy by straightening his column of figures from a sloppy zigzag. The look of sudden understanding on his face was priceless.

  Yes. Yes, Lucy could see it. Angie was born to teach.

  Lucy swallowed once, then twice, and decided to stick a whole foot in the water. “Cora, does Angie remind you of my mother?”

  “Your mother?”

  “As a young woman, I mean.”

  She squinted her eyes, focused on Angie. “Perhaps a bit, in the face. The eyes, maybe. But then, I didn’t know your mother very well. Now, your father’s stubborn determination, that I see in Angie.” She looked at Lucy with a smile, then it faded. “Why do you ask about your mother?”

  Lucy smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt, her heart pounding. “I suppose . . . so much time has passed that I can’t always recall her appearance.”

  Cora sighed. “Time is like a fast-moving river. Moves along whether you want it to or not.”

  What if it could be stopped? What if time could roll back? What if Charlotte could be brought home to Lexington, brought back to the family fold where she belonged? Assuming, of course, that Angie was indeed Charlotte.

  She imagined the moment of bringing Charlotte home to Father in Lexington, walking into the grand house, sitting in the parlor together the way they used to. Father would be in his high-backed chair near the fire, Lucy and Charlotte would sit on the settee. Slowly, carefully, Lucy would unveil the astonishing discovery, savoring the look of wonder and amazement and relief on Father’s face. The lost had been found! Would he pick Charlotte up and twirl her the way he did when she was two years old? Would he reach an arm out to pull Lucy close, into the warm circle, as he used to?

  Dreamlike, her gaze shifted to Hazel, standing at a distance, a puzzled look on her face, one hand protectively holding the top of her rounded belly. Hazel’s attention wasn’t on Father, nor Lucy, but on Charlotte. Lucy’s musing took another unbidden turn and she peered at her sister’s face, expecting to find the same happy emotions as Father. But her sister seemed bewildered, distressed, confused. She looked frightened.

  And then a startling thought broke through this reverie. Would Charlotte even want to come home again?

  COME SATURDAY MORNING, Lucy went to town. She had taken Wyatt’s advice and prayed about what to do next, and still felt confused, off-kilter. There was no way that Angie Cooper was Charlotte Wilson. It was too farfetched to be probable. And yet . . . and yet . . . what if she was?

  Stuffed in Lucy’s saddlebags were clothes that needed washing. She was conscious of not creating additional work for Angie, so she brought her worn clothing to Miss Maude’s and paid a hired girl to launder them. Avoiding Angie’s longsuffering sighs was only part of the reason. It embarrassed Lucy to have so many clothes when Angie had but a few dresses. More than once, Lucy had caught Angie trying on her riding gloves or touching her clothing that hung on the wall pegs, running a hand gently down the fabric as if made of silk. Hardly that, but a much finer, more tightly woven cloth than Angie’s worn calicos.

  Lucy opened the door to her room at the boarding house and stopped for a moment, watching dust motes float in the sunlight streaming through the window. She dropped her saddlebags on the floor and emptied each side, tossing her clothing on the bed for Miss Maude. Then she bent down to pull her trunk out from under the bed and knelt, opening the lid. It was full of skirts and shirtwaists. She pulled out two skirts and two shirtwaists, and noticed the Mr. Buttons bear, tucked in a corner. On an impulse, she pulled him out and stuffed him in the saddlebag.

  Heading down the stairs, she saw Miss Viola and Miss
Lettie in the sitting room. Stopping for a moment to say hello and exchange pleasantries and hear the latest news, she left feeling anything but pleasant. She marched past Jenny at the livery, who watched her with mild curiosity, and went straight to Cora’s office, where she knew she’d be. Sitting at her desk, Cora lifted her finger in that now familiar hold-on-and-wait-a-minute gesture.

  She finished what she was doing and set the quill in the holder. “Dear girl, how good it is to see you!”

  “Cora, there’s talk of a town meeting to discuss the Moonlight Schools campaign.”

  Cora sighed. “So I’ve heard.”

  Lucy sat down on her chair, facing Cora. “What could anyone object to? You’re only trying to help people learn to read.”

  “Oh, I can think of many objections. Starting with”—she pointed her thumbs at herself—“me.”

  “You? Why, you’ve always had the best interest of others at heart.” Cora was beloved. Her warm personality and concern for others had endeared her to the community.

  “That’s very loyal, Lucy, but keep your eyes wide open. A female in a man’s traditional role is an uphill battle. In Kentucky, women are expected to stay home and tend the hearth.”

  Lucy could hear her father’s voice in Cora’s words. A disdain for women in the workforce wasn’t unique to Kentucky. “Father has a saying. ‘All ships rise when the tide comes in.’ It seems as if everyone in Rowan County would benefit if the mountain people were literate.”

  “I agree, it seems so. Unless it’s to someone’s advantage to keep people ignorant. That way, all power remains in their hands.”

  Into Lucy’s mind popped an image of the sheriff, huddled in conversations with Judge Klopp’s wife. And then . . . she thought of Andy.

  “Don’t give that silly town meeting a second thought. I certainly don’t. I have no patience with those who spend their time drumming up problems, discussing them ad nauseum, and ultimately doing nothing about them.” She clapped her hands together. “Let me show you what I’ve been working on for the Moonlight Schools curriculum.”