Appliqued to Death

by Kathleen Suzette

  At the sight of teachers, the boys straightened up and there was a chorus of ‘sorry’, along with chuckling and a few unintelligible whispered words.

  “Josh Bryant,” Peggy said. “No backtalk. Your father isn’t going to enjoy another trip down to the principal’s office.”

  “I wasn’t back talking,” he protested.

  “That, is back talking,” Peggy pointed out.

  The tall boy with slicked back dark brown hair stuck his hands in his front trouser pockets and nodded, looking properly chastened. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Peggy turned to me, eyebrows raised, and grinned. We headed back into my classroom.

  “Darren Peabody is late again,” I said under my breath and shook my head. The art teacher tended to be late most days, and that led to his students cavorting in the hallway. I wasn’t sure how he had a job at this point. There were rumors that he was involved in immoral activities. Darren Peabody was a beatnik, and I wondered if he was involved in something more than immoral, and possibly illegal. Like drugs.

  “You can say that again,” Peggy said. “He’ll show up at 8:15 and Jefferson won’t say a word. You watch.”

  “But my rock and roll habit and driving a convertible is enough to have him running through the parking lot to make sure I understand he has his eye on me,” I said.

  She cackled with laughter, then glanced up at the large clock on the wall. It was two minutes till eight. “I had better get my classroom opened.”

  “I’ll see you at lunchtime,” I said as she went.

  I turned back and sat at my desk as my first period girls began filing in. These were freshman girls, and they had been a handful earlier in the fall. The excitement of high school had finally worn off, and they had done some maturing. It made my job easier.

  “Good morning, girls,” I said and waited for the practiced response. When it came, I went to the front of the class. “Please stand for the pledge.” There was the shuffling of feet, and we began.

  When the pledge was finished, I looked at my girls and smiled. I may not have intended to utilize my education, but I was glad I had. I considered the girls in my sewing classes my girls. If a girl took sewing in her freshman year, she would most likely take sewing throughout all four years of high school and I would get the chance to know each girl well. I missed them when they graduated, and I was always delighted when I ran into my former students at the local grocery store or bank and I got a chance to catch up with them. Many of my former students were now married with children and I thought it wouldn’t be long before I would have some of their children in my classroom. The thought both excited me and made me a little sad. It wasn’t until one got older that the passing of time was so noticeable.

  I ran a relaxed classroom when I could. As long as the girls behaved themselves, I didn’t go in for formality. “Girls, let’s get our projects out,” I said above the chatter. “If you need help with anything, let me know.”

  I returned to my desk and pulled the attendance sheet from the top drawer and went down the line, checking each name off. When I got to Diana Emberson’s name, I looked out over the class full of girls, searching for the dark-haired girl. Some of the students laid fabric out on the long tables and were either pinning their sewing patterns to it or were cutting patterns out. Other girls sat at their assigned sewing machines; the school issued Bernina. Most of the Berninas were more than thirty years old, and every year I petitioned the school board for replacement machines, but so far, I had been turned down every time. Mel Anderson was a regular to the classroom, repairing the sewing machines and doing maintenance. At least Mel would be kept in a job if the school never got around to replacing the old machines.

  “Diana?” I called when I didn’t see her.

  “She has the flu,” Lottie Johnson called, looking up from cutting out a skirt pattern. She had chosen a green floral print fabric that would look nice on her warm skin tone.

  I nodded. “Thank you.” I continued down the list, checking off the rest of the names.

  “Mrs. Taylor?”

  I looked up. It was Margaret. “Yes, Margaret?”

  She stood in front of my desk and licked her lips, her hands clasped in front of herself. “Is there any way you can make an exception for the dress?” Her eyes darted to a spot in the middle of my desk.

  I refrained from sighing. Margaret was a timid soul, and I didn’t want to upset her. “I’m sorry dear, but no. Why don’t you make that lovely gathered skirt you made at the beginning of the year? It would look so nice with the fabric you brought.”

  Her eyes met mine. “I really need to make a dress. My mother insisted that I need another dress for church.”

  I smiled. “The skirt would be lovely. I think there’s a pretty square-neck blouse pattern in the pattern box you could make to go with it,” I suggested. When students graduated, they sometimes left patterns behind for other girls to use. It helped those that didn’t always have the funds to buy new patterns.

  “There’s a pretty dress pattern in there,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

  “I’m sorry, dear. We aren’t making dresses in this class. Would you like me to call your mother and explain that to her?”

  Her eyes got big, and she shook her head. “No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary. I’ll tell her.” She turned and slowly walked back to her cubby, dragging her feet as she walked. I watched her go and wondered if I should call her mother anyway. I didn’t care for Hattie Atkins. I had had her older daughter, Melissa, in classes two years earlier and I didn’t enjoy dealing with her.

  There was a scream from out in the hallway and I jumped to my feet and hurried to my door, looking out. “What’s going on out here?” The four girls from the art class were now surrounded by several of the boys and four books were on the floor at Carrie Bellows’ feet. She looked up at me.

  “Sorry, I dropped my books.”

  The guilty look on her face told me she didn’t drop them. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:20, late even for Darren Peabody. “I don’t want to hear one more sound from any of you,” I said sternly. “I’ll call the office and see what can be done about your missing teacher. Not one more sound out of any of you.”

  I headed to the beige phone on the wall and picked it up, dialing one for the administrative office. “Hi, Ann,” I said when Ann Farris answered. “Darren Peabody is late for class. Again. Can you send someone to let his students in and keep an eye on them until he gets here?”

  There was a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Ann was nearing retirement age and asking her to do something sometimes took an act of congress. “Can’t they just wait for him in front of the classroom?”

  “No, that’s what they’re doing now and they’re becoming a nuisance. Someone needs to come and let them in, so they don’t disturb my class.”

  There was another deep sigh. “I’ll see if I can find someone.”

  “Great. Thanks, Ann—.” The click in my ear cut me off. I hung up the phone and turned back to my class. Most of the girls were looking at me expectantly. I smiled. “Let’s get to work, girls.”

  I headed back to my classroom door and looked out. “Someone is coming from the office to let you all into your classroom. I’m sure Mr. Peabody will be here at any moment.”

  There were some nods and a couple of snickers. The art students tended to be nonconformists, as they liked to call themselves. Some of the boys tried to dress like Mr. Peabody with black berets and turtleneck sweaters, but Principal Jefferson put the kibosh on that every time it reared its ugly head. I turned back to my classroom. We had sewing projects to work on.

  “Mrs. Taylor, can you help me?” Elaine Jones called from the sewing machine nearest the front door.

  I headed over to her. “What is it?”

  “I can’t get my machine to wind this bobbin.” She held out the metal bobbin to me.

  I sighed. I would probably need to call Mel in to look at the machine. It had been giving students in my
other classes problems for the past three days. “Why don’t you switch to another machine? This one isn’t working very well.”

  “Okay,” she said and gathered her things.

  “All right. I want you all to shut your traps.” This came from the hallway. It was Ann. I didn’t even need to go out to check, but I thought I might as well. “I’ll let you in the classroom, but you need to get to work, and no talking.”

  She put the key into the locked doorknob and turned it, then pushed the door open. She saw me standing at my door. “There’s no one else to do it,” she said, sounding accusatory.

  “Well, I appreciate you coming over to help.” I left out the part that I was shocked she had arrived so quickly. I didn’t want to make her angry. She might leave the kids for me to attend to.

  “Yeah, sure,” she said with a wave of her hand and followed the students into the classroom, letting the door close on its hinges behind her.

  I turned back to my own classroom. I had my own students to attend to.

  Chapter Three

  Margaret was carefully laying her fabric out on one of the tables, smoothing the wrinkles from it as I had taught the class. Occasionally her eyes went to the pattern box on the shelf along the wall. I hoped she wouldn’t have trouble from her mother over the dress. I couldn’t change my mind about the curriculum for one student. I moved over to her table.

  “Do you need some help, Margaret?”

  She shook her head without looking at me. “No, thank you. I can do it.”

  “That really is lovely fabric,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said, still not looking at me. She had a small tomato pin cushion filled with silver straight pins on the table. The skirt pattern she had used earlier in the year was next to it, its pattern pieces having been folded haphazardly when put away made the envelope bulge.

  “Well, let me know if I can help you,” I said and moved toward the sewing machine where Leslie Moore sat. She was putting gentle pressure on the foot pedal so that the machine’s needle moved with painstaking slowness, up and down, up and down, through the heavy yellow cotton fabric of the apron she was making. It was to be a Mother’s Day gift.

  Leslie’s eyes teared up as she stopped and lifted the fabric edge, the machine’s needle still inserted into the fabric. She sighed loudly and her face scrunched in anger.

  “Is everything all right, Leslie?” I asked as her face turned red.

  She looked up at me, eyes wide. “I did it again. I can’t make the seam straight!” She breathed heavily in frustration.

  “Follow the seam guide on the machine and go slowly,” I reminded her. “It just takes practice.” I wasn’t sure Leslie was cut out to be a seamstress. Try as she might, she struggled with everything she made. Seams were crooked, hems twisted, and buttons fell off. If she continued to take sewing classes the rest of her high school career, I would have my work cut out for me. “Let me see.”

  She turned the sewing machine’s hand wheel, drawing the needle out of the fabric and raised the presser foot. Lifting the apron away from the machine, she cut the threads and held the apron up to me. “See? It’s ruined. I can’t sew.”

  The seam went from 5/8” to 1/4”, and then to nearly an inch in width. I smiled. “Sewing is just practice. Sometimes it takes time to improve. Remove the stitches carefully and try again. Place your straight pins closer together to hold the fabric edges and keep your eye on the seam guide on the machine. I’ll come over and help you once you get the stitches out.”

  She nodded and swallowed, avoiding my gaze. “Thank you.”

  I moved around the room, observing and offering help when needed. Sewing was a craft that was easily learned by most, but occasionally there were girls that struggled beyond what I thought was reasonable. Maybe it was that it had come so easily to me, but I often wondered why it was so difficult for some. I hoped they married men with good jobs so they could afford to buy their clothes instead of making them. But every wife should be able to mend torn clothing, affix buttons, and hem her husband’s too long trousers. It was the least they should master before marrying.

  “There’s a class going on in there,” I heard Principal Jefferson say out in the hall. “I don’t think we should disturb the class.” His tone wasn’t the authoritarian voice he used with students and staff. It almost sounded meek. I turned toward the open door.

  “I’m sorry, but we have to have a look at the room,” a familiar voice said.

  I went to the open door. Principal Jefferson stood in front of the closed art room door with three police officers. Two were uniformed officers and the third was a detective. I knew this because that detective was my brother, Robert Williams. I leaned against my doorframe, watching. He didn’t look in my direction as he spoke to Principal Jefferson.

  “But, what will the students think?” Principal Jefferson asked, lowering his voice. “We can’t have rumors and innuendo spread around this campus. This is a respectable school and we intend to keep it that way.”

  Robert squared his shoulders. “We understand, but we need to get into that classroom.”

  Principal Jefferson rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. He glanced at the closed door. “Perhaps you could come back later today? After school has let out. It would spare the children the trauma of having the police on campus.”

  Robert stood up straighter. “Mr. Jefferson, we can’t have people wandering around that room when we haven’t had a chance to look through it. I’m sure the children will survive the trauma of having police officers on campus.” The other officers stood silently by, letting Robert deal with this.

  “I can assure you that things will be left the way they are,” Principal Jefferson pleaded. “The students have their own desks, and they have art projects to work on. They have no interest in anything else in that room.”

  “Are you refusing to allow us entrance to the classroom, sir?” Robert asked. There was an authoritative tone in his voice, and I wondered what Jefferson would do next.

  “What? No, no, I’m not refusing you entry. I’m just concerned about the students.”

  “I promise you that we won’t disturb the class. They’ll need to leave the room and when we’re done looking it over, they can return.” Robert was normally soft-spoken, but I could tell he was getting tired of Principal Jefferson’s delay tactics.

  Principal Jefferson gave a curt nod of his head. “All right, then,” he said slowly and stepped toward the door. He hesitated, then reached for the doorknob and slowly pushed open the door.

  Robert glanced in my direction and rolled his eyes. I smiled, wondering what was going on.

  Principal Jefferson had only opened the door a few inches when he caught sight of me. He scrunched up his face in annoyance. “Mrs. Taylor, is there something you needed?” He was being forced to do something he didn’t want to do, and he had just spotted someone he could take out his frustrations on.

  “Hello, Sis,” Robert said, rescuing me. “How are you this morning?”

  I smiled again. “I’m fine, Robert. It’s a beautiful morning. I hope everything’s okay.”

  He nodded. “We’re about to find out.”

  Principal Jefferson looked at me, surprise showing on his face. He glanced at Robert, then forced himself to smile and swung the door open harder than was necessary. “Officers, why don’t we go inside and have a look around?”

  The officers followed him into the classroom. Robert turned and winked at me before following the others in. I spotted Peggy at her door and she looked at me, eyebrows raised in question. I gave her a slight shrug of my shoulders. I didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, it couldn’t be good if the police had been called out.

  Peggy glanced over her shoulder at her class, then hurried over to me. “What’s going on with Principal Jefferson?” she whispered.

  “You know as much as I do. I’ll have to wait until later to ask Robert.”

  There was muffled conversation from
the art class when Principal Jefferson appeared at the door. “Mrs. Wilkes, don’t you have a class to attend to?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes sir, Principal Jefferson,” she said and went back to her class without looking back at me.

  His eyes landed on me. “And you?”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  I went back inside. In less than two minutes, he followed me into my classroom. “Mrs. Taylor, I need a word with you.”

  I turned back to him. “Yes?”

  He crossed the short distance between us. “It seems there’s been a delay with Darren Peabody arriving to class. We’ll need you to take some of his students for a while.”

  Annoyance rose inside of me, but I tamped it down. “Some of his students?” I glanced at my class. All eyes were on us. “I can take the girls.”

  Principal Jefferson glanced around at the class. “Don’t you all have something to sew?”

  The girls quickly looked away, putting their eyes on their projects, but I was certain their ears were still trained on us.

  He turned back to me and stepped back toward the open door, motioning with his head for me to follow. “Mrs. Taylor, I’ll need you to take more than the four girls.”

  “I can’t bring those boys in here. We won’t be able to get any work done.”

  His eyes cut back to the class, and then back to me. “I need you to take half the class.”

  “Principal Jefferson, I cannot take half the class. I have my own class to conduct. We have projects we need to be finished for their grades.”

  “Mrs. Wilkes will take the other half.” He looked at me and slowly smiled. “I’m sure you both will do your best to ensure the education of the students continues uninterrupted.”

  I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “Why can’t other classes take some of them? If they were divided up between ten classes, each would only have to take three students. I’ll take all four girls.”

  “And disturb other classes? It’s important for students to have their full concentration in classes like English, math, and chemistry. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t agree that his class should be interrupted.”