Wyatt’s piercing question kept buzzing around Lucy, like a bee around a rosebush. “Has it been such a bad life for Angie?”
Lucy exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. Had it been such a bad life for Angie?
Just the opposite. She’s had quite a lovely life. She couldn’t deny that her sister had been loved, cherished, and well cared for. She held an important place in this family, in this community. Perhaps Angie had been given the greatest of all gifts: she had, to quote Cora’s favorite word, a calling.
Has it been such a bad life for Angie?
Finley James came to mind. Teaching at Little Brushy. There was more loveliness to come.
Lucy looked up at the moon and its neighbor, the first evening star. “If I do this, if I walk away, I will need your strength. I will need your help with peace of mind.”
At that, Jenny blew air out of her nose and gave up waiting for Lucy. The pony sashayed her way to the barn, the rope dragging behind her. A smile tugged at Lucy’s lips, for she realized she’d been given another answer. In the end, it will all turn out.
She wiped her tears from her cheeks, rose to her feet, dusted off her skirt, and followed in the pony’s tracks.
Early the next morning, before Lucy went down the loft stairs, she stood next to the bed where Angie lay sleeping with Mr. Buttons wrapped in her arms. Someday, she might tell Angie the truth, the whole story. She had once been lost, and then found. Someday. But not now, and not for a very long time. She bent over her sleeping sister and whispered, “Goodbye, dear Charlotte.”
There was one thing she wanted to do before she left the Cooper home for good. Arthur, she knew, had left the cabin long ago to feed the animals. He told her last night he would feed Jenny first and get her saddled up so the pony would be ready to go when Lucy came down to the barn.
She tiptoed past the sleeping troublesome twins, who weren’t so very troublesome, and went straight to the Bible that lay on the kitchen table. Taking pains to be quiet, Lucy set her saddlebag on the floor, bent down to unlatch one side, and riffled through until she found the quill pen and ink pot she used to scribe letters for the mountain people. Kneeling on the floor, she opened the Bible to the first page. Alongside Angel Eleanor Cooper’s name on the family tree, she carefully added, born May 12th, 1896.
Every girl should have a birthday.
Twenty-Four
JULY PASSED AND ROLLED INTO AUGUST. Summer bore down hard on Morehead, yet as much as Fin longed for the cooler weather of autumn, he was hanging on tight to each and every day. September loomed large. Terrifyingly large.
As soon as Fin heered someone call out his name, his heart thumped hard. “Comin’,” he shouted, as he wiped his sweaty face and neck with a rag. He even tucked his shirttails into his overalls, hoping the female voice might belong to Angie Cooper, looking to bother him like she’d used to, but heck if it was only the Judge’s hoity-toity wife. That woman had more airs than a duchess. D-U-C-H-E-S-S.
“Boy,” Mrs. Klopp said in that whiny voice o’ hern, “rumor has it that you’re going to be teaching school.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So you finally found some ambition.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Not really. It found Fin. In the size and shape of Miss Cora. That woman could talk the spots off a leopard and sell ’em to a tiger.
Happily, before Mrs. Klopp could start in on him about one thing or another, a fellow arrived to hire a horse. While Fin excused himself from Mrs. Klopp and hurried to the windowless tack room—hot as Maw’s oven—to fetch a saddle and bridle, he cheered himself with the thought that at least it was cooler in the hills. He winced, thinking jest how high up in the hills he’d be livin’ come September. Sky high.
But it lifted his damp spirits to think of the pay he’d be fetchin’ for his troubles. It was good, real good, much more than ol’ Angie Cooper would fetch for teaching Little Brushy. Miss Cora warned him that was going to change. She said female teachers should be paid the same as man teachers. To Fin’s way of thinkin’, it was more than fair to get better wages, seein’ as how he’d be having to board somewhere, plus teach a school that was double the size of Little Brushy. All things considered, he aimed to earn his keep and work hard at teaching, even do a better job at it than ol’ Angie, despite the fact that he didn’t really feel like he got the “call” to teach.
Miss Cora said to keep listenin’ for it.
THE HEAT IN LATE AUGUST WAS OPPRESSIVE. Cora had been working long days to prepare for the start of the school year, late nights to complete the curriculum for the Moonlight School campaign. Lucy did all she could to help, but she could see exhaustion’s toll on Cora. Tired eyes sunk deep in their sockets. Furrows of tension lining her forehead. Lucy could sense she was suffering from headaches, though Cora refused to stop.
Then came a blow: Some teachers had sent word that they were dropping out. They cited different reasons: two wanted to be paid, one said she “feared she might be too tarred to teach at night.” Three more felt sure that no adults would dare come.
When Cora told Lucy and Wyatt about the dropouts, even her voice sounded weary. “What if they’re right? What if no one comes? All this work, all this effort, and what if it’s a complete and total failure?” Leaning on her elbows, she closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
Wyatt’s eyes sought Lucy’s, and though he made no comment, she felt certain the same concern ran through his mind: They’d never known Cora to be discouraged.
“Things will work out, Cora,” Lucy said. “Have a little faith.”
At that Wyatt’s eyebrows shot up, as if surprised by her boldness. Or her declaration. Or maybe she was too acutely aware of him, of the way he had of observing her. It was oddly discomfiting.
“Lucy’s right,” Wyatt said firmly. “It might take time for the campaign to be accepted, but we knew that, going into this. Mountain people need this campaign, Cora. Change comes slowly here. But it does come. It will come. We just need to have patience.”
Lucy marveled at how Wyatt discussed the Moonlight Schools campaign as if it belonged to him as well as Cora, and to Lucy, and to the supportive teachers. Right from the start, he had taken hold of the campaign, offering suggestions or words of support. Crafting wooden slates, and then making them all over again. He never wavered from seeing this through. Lucy wished she were more like him, wished she could do more to help. Suddenly feeling completely useless, she folded her arms across herself to grip her elbows.
What if Cora’s fears were right? What if the schoolhouses were opened and no one showed up? She loved Cora so much—she wanted this campaign to succeed for her sake as much as the sake of the mountain people. She couldn’t bear to see Cora disappointed.
And then the unexpected happened. Thoughts filled Lucy’s mind that came not from a swirl of panic, but from somewhere else entirely. Clear, guided steps, and along with them, a sense of calm and purpose. She stilled. What just happened? Had she prayed? Was this an answer to a prayer she hadn’t even realized, consciously, that she’d asked? Could prayer be as simple as that—lifting up her hands with a cry for help?
Jumping out of her chair, Lucy bolted across the room and flew out the door.
STRIDING TO THE LIVERY to get Jenny, Lucy started a mental to-do list, knowing exactly what she had to do and how to do it.
“Wait,” came Wyatt’s voice, from behind her. “Hold up, Lucy. Where are you off to in such a hurry? You bounded out of Cora’s office like fleeing from a fire.”
She stopped and pivoted to face him. “Wyatt, somehow I want to . . . rally people. To sound the call for the Moonlight Schools campaign. Find volunteers who will visit every home in the hills and hollows. To have them extend a personal invitation to every illiterate adult in Rowan County. Every single one.”
He ran a hand along the back of his head. “Volunteers.”
“Yes. We need all the help we can get. Find every possible volunteer.”
He bit his lower l
ip. “Preachers.”
“What?”
His eyes lit up. “Preachers.” He grabbed Lucy’s shoulders. “They can spread the word from the pulpits. Storekeepers. They can tell their customers. Librarians can tell their patrons.”
“Yes!” Relief—and enthusiasm—filled her as he caught her vision. “There must be others who will help. The Christian Women’s Board of Missions . . . they might be willing to help. The Morehead Women’s Club should be willing. For goodness’ sake, Cora started that club.”
“Lucy, this . . .” Wyatt gazed at her with such intensity that her thoughts started to tumble and roll and she nearly forgot what they were talking about. “This is a wonderful idea.”
She smiled. “If you’ll get started in town, I’ll go talk to those teachers who dropped out.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Are you sure? You could stay here and I’ll go.”
“No. No, I’ll go.”
“You want to go into the hollers?”
She felt the heat of his hands on her shoulders, and sensed her face starting to color. “I need to go,” she said, plucking up her courage. She needed to start with the teachers. If they remained unwilling, she feared the entire campaign could start unraveling at the seams. Their damper would infect other teachers.
Up in the hills, accompanied only by Jenny, birdsong, and the dappled morning light of the forest, Lucy made her way to six schoolhouses, one by one, to call on those teachers who had dropped out. She asked each one to support Cora’s campaign. “At the very least, give it a week. Monday through Thursday night. Just to see if some people might come to the schoolhouse. Most likely, only three or four will come.” That was Cora’s goal, anyway.
“And if they don’t?” Each one voiced the same objection. One thing Lucy discovered today—the six reluctant teachers were kin to each other, as well as to Norah. These rural schools, her father often complained, were “cousined to death.” Trustees preferred to hire kin as teachers, even if unqualified, over any qualified outsiders.
Lucy refused to give up. “If no one comes on the first night, then close up the schoolhouse and go home.” She paused. “But what if they do come? And no one is there to help them in their quest?”
And then she delivered the pièce de résistance. “Give it a valiant try, for Cora’s sake if for no other reason.” Not a single teacher could deny that Cora deserved that effort. She was beloved.
Lucy left each teacher fired up. Maybe not fired up, not the way Cora could rally the troops. But these six teachers were committed and she prayed their enthusiasm wouldn’t cool off before September 5. That was the night Cora had chosen to kick off the campaign because the Farmer’s Almanac had promised a full moon.
She had grown familiar with the winding trails in the hollows, and even had a rough idea of a few cut-throughs. One led fairly close to Miss Mollie’s, and Jenny stopped at the fork in the trail that led to her cabin. “You’re in the mood to visit Miss Mollie?”
The pony flicked her ears back and forth, which Lucy took as a yes. She was getting used to Jenny’s moods. So off they went to pay a call on the dear old woman, and Lucy smiled, pleased with herself. Not six months ago, had she been told she’d be riding a pony into the hollows to visit an old toothless woman who kept chickens in her house—a visit that was not requested of her by Cora—she would have said she must have lost her mind. Yet here she was, eager to see Miss Mollie, hoping to be entertained by a story or two, with hardly a worry for the pungent fug that filled her cabin. Today the stink came from a cast-iron pot hanging over the hearth, simmering with wild leeks and ramps. Miss Mollie offered her a bowlful, which Lucy declined, insisting she’d just eaten. She could never take food from a mountain home, but if offered stories, that she freely indulged in. A feast for the ears!
Two hours later, Jenny plodded down the trail, Lucy mulling over Mollie’s recollections. They’d sat on rockers on the porch, and Lucy, just because she was in a celebratory mood after visiting those teachers, accepted a cup of Mollie’s moonshine. Her entire mouth went numb, and for a moment or two, she thought she saw two Mollies. Apart from declining a refilling of shine, they’d had a fine time of it, and Lucy had learned more stories about Rowan County’s mountain people than she imagined was possible.
Mollie’s tales, she realized, were historical composites, re-creating life as it had been lived from one century to the next. In a region where there were few books and even fewer people able to read, accounts were handed down from generation to generation. Those tales revealed the heart and spirit of the mountain people.
If her father was right, those lives would soon be changing. The muddy, rustic logging roads that trickled throughout Rowan County would one day be full of automobiles. The roads would be laced with poles, stringing telephone and electric wires. Modernization was coming to the county, like it or not.
She looked up at the canopy of trees, aware of the deepening shadows cast over the forest floor. Cognizant, by shadows’ slant, of what time it was. Her breath caught, overcome by an unconscious awareness that swirled up from somewhere deep inside her and filled her conscious mind. She loved this place. Loved the hills and the hollows and the people who lived there. She loved knowing she had a purpose to fulfill here. And for the first time in her life, she knew what it was.
Mollie’s stories should be recorded for posterity. And others too. How had Lucy nearly missed realizing what a treasure she’d been handed? Gratitude bubbled up, and she found herself whispering over and over, “Thank you, Lord, thank you.”
When she reached town, she handed the pony’s reins to Fin at the livery and told him to add a little sorghum to Jenny’s supper. He grinned, and she knew why. A few months ago, she didn’t even know what sorghum was. Now she ate it nearly every day at Miss Maude’s. Cane sugar didn’t grow well up in the mountains, so the only way to sweeten food was with sorghum, honey, or maple syrup.
As Lucy walked into the boarding house, she started up the stairs, then stopped. There was one more task she wanted to complete before this day came to an end.
She went to the back of the house to Mrs. Klopp’s room. She knocked on the door and waited. Mrs. Klopp opened it, surprised to find Lucy. Surprise turned to shock when Lucy asked her if she could see a picture of her daughter.
“Aria?”
“Yes, please.”
“Whatever for?”
“I’ve heard so much about your daughter while staying at the Coopers. They loved her very much.” With that, ever so slightly, Lucy could see Mrs. Klopp’s countenance soften. “I would like to know what Aria looked like.”
The door opened wider, and there, on the night table, was a picture of Judge Klopp in his black robes. Seated next to him was his wife; they both sat stiff backed, stern faced. Behind them was a young girl about Angie’s age, her face was slightly turned in a different direction than her parents, as if she were looking elsewhere. As if she belonged elsewhere. That look in her eyes . . . that, Lucy recalled. Vividly. She held the picture in her hands. “How did you choose the name Aria?”
“The judge named her.” Mrs. Klopp gave up a rare smile. “It means air. When she was born, she was such a tiny girl. Holding her, he said, felt like holding air.” Her smile disappeared. “And then, it seemed to come true.” Her eyes grew shiny. “We tried and tried, but we couldn’t hold on to her.” She took the framed picture from Lucy and set it back on the nightstand. A signal that this moment was over.
But not for Lucy. “Mrs. Klopp, you have a beautiful granddaughter up in those mountains. Angie is smart as a whip, funny and clever and bighearted. And you also have two fine little grandsons.”
Mrs. Klopp looked away. “They’re not my blood kin, after all.”
“No, but . . . after all . . . your daughter loved them like they were her own. They need you. They need you more than you can imagine.”
The judge’s wife stared at her for a long while, her mouth opening and shutting and opening again like a fish out of wa
ter. At last she said, “What do they need me for?”
“Different reasons. Arthur does his best, but those boys need to be taught good manners, and Angie needs help to become a lady. They all need a woman’s touch.” She walked to the door. “One thing I know for sure, Mrs. Klopp. As much as they need you—and they do, they truly do—you need them even more.”
Her voice trembled as she said, “It’s too late.”
“You’re wrong,” Lucy said with firm shake of her head. “It’s never too late.”
She left Mrs. Klopp to chew on that and walked slowly up the stairs. No one at the Townsend School for Girls would even recognize her as the same meek, passive, shrinking, nearly invisible Lucy Wilson. Was this really her? Had she changed that much? Yes, yes she had. A wide smile wreathed her face, without meaning to. She felt suddenly, unexpectedly happy. Truly happy.
IN THE MORNING, Cora welcomed Lucy back to the office with a surprise. She stood beside her desk, hunched over a Victrola phonograph, similar to the one Hazel bought but smaller, more compact.
Curious, Lucy tipped her head. “Where in the world did you find that?”
“Borrowed!” Cora said. “They’re finally making an affordable version.” She turned to Lucy with a triumphant smile. “There’s something I want you to hear. A small thank-you for all you’ve done for me.” Carefully, she set the needle onto the record and turned the crank. From the large trumpet came a man’s deep baritone voice, singing a ballad.
Lucy walked closer to the Victrola, listening carefully. The song wasn’t familiar to her, but that voice . . . That voice! She would know that beautiful baritone voice anywhere, she realized with a jolt. It belongs to Wyatt. Eyes wide, she looked at Cora.
The Moonlight School Page 27
