Josiah sat on an overturned log at the end of the play area. Tousled, light blond hair shimmered in the sunlight. He had hardly spoken a word, even when called upon.
Thomas crouched beside him and drew in the dirt with a stick.
Not to be accepted was the ugliest of feelings that hurt from the inside. Something no one deserved.
Grace’s heart filled with love for her students, every one of them. And with God’s guidance she’d do her best to make sure they’d know that. With every ounce of vigor she could muster, they’d feel her acceptance. And never doubt it. Just as she’d felt her mother’s.
How sad that Josiah and Thomas didn’t have that acceptance already. Perhaps Mr. Green needed a little straightening out.
~*~
Days went by that Grace didn’t have time to sit for a cup of tea after supper. Her chores at the schoolhouse kept her occupied for an hour or two after the children left, but today she had caught up with her lessons and only had the floors to sweep before she could leave. Chamomile with a sprig of peppermint would make a nice ending to her long day. The walk through town on the way home gave her time to contemplate tomorrow.
“Good afternoon, Miss Cantrell.” The store owner stood in front of his haberdasher’s shop, one hand in the pocket of his expensive trousers, the other resting inside the lapel of a double-breasted vest. She had met him once at the general mercantile many weeks ago. A very memorable fellow. He held his posture as if someone should be taking a photograph. She had forgotten his name but heard he was widower after losing his wife and their expected child.
He stepped toward the edge of the boardwalk. “Children behaving for you all right?”
“It’s going well.” Her pace quickened. “Need to get home for dinner.”
His gaze was still on her. The last few Sundays at church he had stared at her. The man did nothing overtly wrong, but his presence made her somehow uncomfortable. She prayed he wouldn’t follow.
Ahead stood the painted white house. And next to it the blacksmith shop. A wood sign in the shape of an anvil hung over the doorframe. A crowd of men stood in the waiting area. The plink of a hammer drifted through one small, opened window.
One man in a tattered and faded cotton shirt smoked a pipe while he rested on a wooden bench. A small child darted from around the corner of the shop, his fingers covered in dirt. He cupped his hands and showed the man on the bench whatever he held. The man leaned forward for a closer look, a puff of smoke released and curled upward. The lad coughed and turned his head to the side. Then he rotated his arm as a black, wooly caterpillar crawled around his wrist. He giggled and his small frame shook.
The caterpillar must’ve fallen, for the boy dropped to his knees and searched through the high clover. He looked up as Grace walked by. Wyatt Darringer, the only other first grader besides Josiah. He saw Grace and ran toward the road. “Miss Cantrell, come see what I found.” He darted back, searched for a moment, and picked up the caterpillar. “Look, it tickles.”
The man behind him pointed to the ground underneath a large, shady oak. “Wyatt.” The boy turned to the man. “Grab you that there stick and put him on that.”
Wyatt twirled the stick with the critter’s movements, so it didn’t fall off but kept rolling around.
“Hello.” Grace readjusted her bonnet as it blew forward with the slight breeze. “I’m Miss Cantrell, the new school teacher. I gather Wyatt is your son?”
The man tilted his head. “You could say that. His father was killed in the war when he was just a little thing.”
Wyatt didn’t flinch but kept his nose glued to the newly found treasure’s movements.
“I got two others girls at home you’ll be schoolin’ in a year or two. Wyatt’s mama is expectin’ another come this spring.”
“Wyatt is a delightful student. Clever. Observant. Very much wants to please.”
The man lifted his eyebrows.
Wyatt placed the stick on a large rock and watched the critter worm its way toward the edge. He turned to his guardian and pointed to Grace. “She used to live in Kansas, Pa. She got to ride on a real train to get here.”
“This boy loves trains. All he talks about. Loves to watch that train come in and hear that whistle.”
“She asked us to bring books to school from home, Pa, so we can read them there.”
“I hope that’s all right. And only if you have some you can spare. The school supply is rather short,” Grace explained.
Wyatt ran his finger along the caterpillar’s fuzzy hairs. “Can I take that one book Uncle Gilbert used to read us?”
“Might as well. Gilbert don’t read much anymore. Eyes are too bad. But I bet you couldn’t read it.”
Wyatt straightened. “Well, not now. But I know my letters and most of the sounds. Miss Cantrell said she’s gonna teach me to read.”
“Schoolin’ is nonsense. Me and his ma can’t read, and we get along all right. But she thinks the kids need a few years of grammar school in them first.”
Although Wyatt’s father’s opinion wasn’t uncommon, Grace believed education would provide opportunities for children.
“Chester Darringer.” A stern voice resounded from inside the shop.
Wyatt’s father used a cane to pull himself up. An older lad exited from the door in the back of the shop, holding a wide scoop shovel and a pitch fork. He rested the tools on the ground, still holding one in each hand. “That’ll be a dollar twenty-five.” The worker wore a felted tan hat that concealed the top of his face. When he angled his head, she recognized him as Griffin—the older boy she’d met at church last Sunday.
Mr. Darringer reached for the handle of the pitchfork.
Griffin pulled the tools back. “I said that’d be a buck twenty-five.”
He opened his hands. “Tell Big Jed I’ll meet up with him one day next week.”
Griffin shook his head. “Can’t do that. This here is a business this man’s runnin’. We can’t be doing hard labor for free. Surely you can understand that. You don’t look like the type of man to do something for someone for nothin’. So don’t be asking us to do the same.”
Mr. Darringer lifted his hand toward Griffin, his finger crooked like it had been injured in an accident. “I don’t know you, boy. You must be new around here.”
“Do you have the money or not?”
Wyatt’s face paled.
Mr. Green stepped out the same back door Griffin had exited from. A heavy apron covered his rust-colored shirt and beige trousers. He walked toward them. Two other men waiting inside emerged as well. Most likely they were concerned about the ruckus taking place.
“Well, good afternoon, Jed.” Mr. Darringer placed his hands on his hips. “This boy workin’ for you? Because I’ve never been spoken to so rudely.”
Griffin turned his head and spat on the ground.
“What’s the problem?” Jed asked.
Mr. Darringer opened his mouth to speak but Griffin’s voice silenced him. “This man ain’t got no money, so I don’t see fit to give him his tools back.”
“Jed, I’ll pay you. I always do. Once I make another delivery or two. Corn crops been light this year with the lack of rain we’ve had.”
“That’ll be all right.” Griffin nodded smugly. “I’ll keep your tools in a safe place until you get back.”
“Griffin.” Jed spoke calmly but with authority. “Hand him the tools.”
Griffin’s head jerked toward Mr. Green. His jaw visibly tightened. He looked back at Mr. Darringer, paused, and then turned the wooden handles in his hands.
Wyatt inched closer and put his hand in the crook of his father’s elbow.
The other men watched without speaking.
Griffin let the tools fall to the ground.
Jed gestured toward his house. “Go home and take the two others with you.”
Wyatt picked up both tools and handed them to his father.
Mr. Darringer dragged them as he and Wyatt hobbled down the di
rt path.
Griffin jerked his hat off and walked away.
Thomas grabbed Josiah’s hand. “Mr. Green doesn’t like us in there.” Both of them followed Griffin toward the house. Josiah stopped abruptly, turned around, and waved at Grace.
Grace smiled, even as his acknowledgment tickled her heart. She hadn’t taken more than a step when she halted and looked back.
Mr. Green stood in the same spot. His eyes rested on her face.
She lifted her chin and made sure there was no trace of a smile on her lips.
Mr. Green tugged on the brim of his hat, then returned to his shop.
His two other customers trailed behind him asking him about the chaos.
Mr. Jed Green was the caretaker of two of her precious students, so the first chance she got, Grace would make sure to find out about him.
5
Jed snapped off a hunk of cinnamon stick and dropped it into the mug of hot water. Breaking something felt good. He fumed inwardly about not thinking of something to say to Miss Cantrell. She was a single lady who couldn’t be courted, but he should’ve formed words to tell her good afternoon.
Josiah gave another deep cough from the bedroom. He hadn’t stopped for an hour.
Griffin sat in a rocker next to the hearth and stared at the few glowing embers in the dying fire. That had always been Jed’s spot between supper and bedtime. “You gonna find a way to make that kid shut up?” Griffin grumbled. “Or is none of us gonna get any sleep?”
Jed spooned a dollop of honey into one of dinner’s leftover bowls. He added a drop of vinegar, a crushed garlic clove, and a few sprigs of lemon balm. “You said you slept on the streets. Surely it was noisy there at times.”
Griffin jerked his head. “Well, I ain’t there now.”
Thomas tapped on Jed’s arm. “He’s coughed like this before.”
Jed stirred the concoction. “If he’s not better in the morning, he’ll stay home from school and you’ll stay with him.”
Thomas’s shoulders slumped. “If I get up first thing, can I go get a book to read from Miss Cantrell? I’ll hurry back. She says she gets there early if we ever want to practice our handwriting or spelling.”
“Let’s see how the morning goes. We got a lot to do.” Jed dipped his little finger in the mixture and took a taste. Didn’t seem as bad as he remembered.
“What’s that?” Thomas’s nose wrinkled. “Looks funny.”
Griffin stood and peeked over Jed’s shoulder. “Looks disgusting.”
“Something my grandmother used to make. Coats the throat; soothes the roughness. Worked for me every time.”
“Josiah likes honey,” said Thomas. “Is that grass?”
Jed scooped a small heap onto a spoon. “Not exactly. Some kind of plant or herb, although my mother might’ve called it a flower.”
“My ma fed me broth from a little salt pork one time when I got sick,” said Thomas. It was the first time the child had spoken of his family. The lantern cast a light on his profile. The boy’s face looked longer and his expression seemed to fade away to a painful memory from long ago.
Jed carried the mug and the spoon into the bedroom.
Thomas followed.
Josiah sat up when they entered. His blond hair had matted down. He drank some of the cinnamon tea Jed held out. Jed moved the spoonful of honey closer. The lad opened his mouth again and then plopped his head back onto the pillow.
“Does it hurt when you cough?” Jed asked him.
Josiah mumbled that it didn’t and then rolled onto his side.
“Well, let that coat your throat for a minute.”
Thomas laid down next to him and pulled a thin cotton sheet over Josiah’s shoulders.
“Make sure he drinks the tea. The cinnamon helps fight a sore throat.”
Jed returned to the parlor to tell Griffin to douse what was left of the fire and crawl into bed, but he stopped at the threshold. Griffin’s head had fallen to the side, and his chair no longer rocked. Normally by now they would’ve all been fast asleep. Jed shoved his hands in the front of his trousers. The list of fixings at the shop would pile onto the next day if he didn’t get an early start. But he felt drawn to do something he hadn’t done for years.
From the top shelf of his wardrobe he pulled down a wooden box that held the leather-bound journal he had been given years ago. He brushed the cover and smoothed off the dust.
Jed remembered the day he got the journal. The evening before he was to board the stagecoach, his father called him into the parlor after his siblings had gone to bed and told him he had something special to give him. Jed opened it with great anticipation. With seven children and a fruitless business, gifts from his father didn’t come often, if at all. His mind whirled with what lay inside. A new slingshot to replace his broken one. Perhaps a sharper pocketknife or maybe even a razor for when he started to shave.
The crackle from the fire was the only sound as Jed thrust open the lid. His chest tightened as he recalled his response to what lay inside.
A leftover from his father’s store. Most likely something he couldn’t sell. A leather-bound artist’s pad of paper. Men wanted whiskey and guns, pocket watches and new wagon wheels. Women spent their time in the milliner’s store next door. Customers looking for stationery and quilled pens had dwindled considerably since the war.
Jed’s father explained that although Jed couldn’t read or write, he loved to draw. Like his mother, he never got the hang of how letters formed sounds and the sounds made words. It puzzled him how others could figure it out so easily. He hated school. The reading. The handwriting. The elocution drills. More than one teacher shook her head in frustration trying to get Jed to read. So, the first time his mother said he could stay home with her and work, he did.
His mother and father asked that he send pictures about his new journey and where God led him. As tears welled, his mother asked that he send a drawing home every week. She forced a smile and told him maybe he could return for a visit every now and again, although she knew that may never happen.
Jed’s first inclination was to chuck it into the fire. But the thought of a lashing or two across his bottom stifled that notion. But he didn’t attempt to feign a polite response either. Without opening the journal, he pushed the box toward his father.
Disappointment showed in his father’s face before his eyes cast to the floor. Conrad Green looked to have aged ten years in that moment.
His mother leaned forward and placed her hand on Jed’s wrist, but he brushed her arm away. Although his heart could be unappreciative and resentful, that was the only overtly unkind act he ever showed to either of his parents.
The memory wouldn’t be so painful if that wasn’t the last evening he spent with his father. Jed didn’t speak to either one of them the next morning, purposefully biting his tongue to punish them for sending him away. And for the lousy gift.
Jed received a telegram less than a year later. His father had died. His mother never knew the cause, just that he had chest pains in the middle of the night. Jed never sent any drawings to his parents, although he thought of them and his siblings every day.
But his father had written, expecting him to find someone to read the letters to him. Although illiterate, Jed stubbornly refused to do that. He also hadn’t been bitter enough to throw them away. He leafed through those envelopes, now tinged with yellow. Despite the faded ink, he was observant enough to identify his father’s neat and precise penmanship.
His father loved to write and talk. He had told Jed that words held power to unlock the soul. But Jed had always viewed his father as a lazy man. He and his brothers made trips to the well and cut and stacked the firewood. Mother and the girls worked the herb and vegetable garden, did the mending and the laundry, and cooked the meals. Father worked at a store selling papers and gabbing with townsfolk. Too bad he couldn’t earn a better living with his storytelling.
Jed picked up the leather artist pad and ran his fingers along the e
dge. He had never noticed the whip stitching detail or the embossing on the cover. He wondered if his father pulled the item off the shelf or had placed a special order. Jed would never know the answer. But he did know that his father was a decent man who loved God with all his heart. And he had loved Jed.
He and his mother never spoke about that last night before his departure. And when he hurried home after his father’s death she didn’t pester him about not sending pictures or some kind of word that he was doing all right. Jed was full of regret at the funeral. Clusters of mourners gathered at the gravesite. He was a memorable man, funny, witty and charming. Quite the opposite of Jed.
But Jed began correspondence with his mother after that. He asked a neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, to write for him. His life was so routine and dull he couldn’t think of anything worthy enough to put on paper. Sometimes he’d catch Mrs. Jenkins smile, and he wondered if she took liberty to add a few nice words that Jed never conjured up on his own.
Years later, his older sister found those envelopes in the bottom of a trinket tin on their mother’s dresser after she’d passed. Their mother had loved getting letters. And then, his sister returned the pages to him.
He picked up the lantern and moved it to the kitchen table. The chair squeaked as he pulled it back to sit down. Griffin moved his head but fell back asleep. With a rush of anxiety, Jed opened the journal. The pages creaked with the stiff binding. He fingered the crisp sheets.
Traces of color caught his attention. He flipped back until he found it. His father’s handwriting sprawled the length of the inside cover. His arms grew weak from the guilt that coursed through him. Jed would’ve looked at that thirteen years ago had he bothered to look.
His heartbeat slowed. He examined each word carefully and swallowed hard. He made out some of the letters. Except for the last two words. Those were easy. And they matched those inscribed in Thomas’s book from his mother.
Grace like a Whisper Page 4
