Bittersweet Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  What was wrong with her? Why this tension for the school day to come to an end? Where would she go other than home—the farm home where she boarded? Whom would she see other than those she always saw—Lydia and Herbert Bloom, homesteaders having opened their home and their hearts to her? What would the weekend offer more than any other—washing and ironing on Saturday, church on Sunday? Other than it being springtime rather than the unending winter, with the promise of a walk in the woods and the picking of a few flowers, it would be the usual weekend. Wouldn’t it?

  With the children quiet and bent studiously over their desks, Birdie Wharton, on an impulse, pulled a scrap of paper toward her and, with a few strokes of a pencil, figured the boundaries and extent of her days as sounded out, tick by tick, by the Drop Octagonal: Sixty ticks per minute amounted to 3,600 ticks per hour. Multiply by twenty-four amounted to 86,400 ticks per day. Multiply by 365, the number of days in a year: 31,536,000! Was it possible! Totting it up in black and white, seeing it so clearly, so baldly, Miss Wharton’s head whirled while her spirits plunged. Like sand in an egg timer life was trickling away, minute by minute, sounded out by the resolute tick of a clock. In like fashion, twenty-eight years had trickled and ticked away. In no time at all the century would have dribbled away; the new one loomed without the promise of any more satisfaction than the last.

  Snatching up the paper and crumpling it, she turned to fling the grim evidence of the miserable sum total of her life into the face of the clock, only to catch the wide-eyed gazes of eighteen children. Had she gasped to get their attention? Had she groaned?

  Before their questioning eyes, she would spare the Drop Octagonal. With a quick decision she diverted her aim and the wad of paper sailed, true and straight, into the kindling box at the side of the stove. Never in her year’s time as teacher of the Bliss school had Miss Birdie Wharton displayed such wanton disregard for decorum. The children may be excused for gaping soundlessly.

  Birdie turned calmly enough to face the surprised faces of her pupils, biting back the impulse to bark, “Do as I say, not as I do!” But to spout such a thing would confuse them even more than her uncharacteristic paper throw.

  Birdie had taught long enough and was experienced enough to realize that without fail, some child, maybe several of them, would attempt the kindling box shot. And how would she deal with that? She bit her lip, conscious of having slipped in her role as a prime example of what was correct and proper.

  With a sigh Miss Wharton glanced one more time at the clock. Simultaneously every eye in the room swung to the Drop Octagonal, anticipating, Miss Wharton supposed, its Friday winding.

  To date—until the shot at the kindling box—Miss Wharton had been predictable. Every Friday, promptly at two o’clock—right after the second-graders (both of them) took their spelling test and before the three third-graders took theirs—Miss Wharton opened a drawer in her desk, withdrew a brass key, rose from her chair, stepped to the clock on the wall behind her, stretched herself, inserted the key, and, with a flourish, wound it. It was a grand climax to the week.

  In the beginning Miss Wharton had wound the eight-day clock first thing Monday morning. But amid the hubbub of settling down after the weekend, the children were not as attentive as she might have wished, and what should have been a moment of drama turned out to be anticlimactic, leaving Miss Wharton strangely dissatisfied.

  There were lessons to be learned from the clock! And Miss Wharton was alert for every opportunity to implant lofty impressions in the young minds of her pupils. Today she could tell them, with more assurance than ever, that their lives and their opportunities were slowly but surely (oh, so surely!) ticking away. Monday morning had not proved to be conducive to lessons with morals.

  And so a switch to the Friday afternoon winding—and the rapt attention of the children—was made.

  It was two o’clock; the Drop Octagonal was sounding out the hour, muted bong by muted bong. This decorous sound had been a selling point when the “Clock Committee” made its selection from among several in the catalog: “Strikes hours and halves on the cathedral gong bell,” they read, and it sounded good, almost reverent, to the committee. For the clock served not only the school but the church, which met in the same building every Sunday. With a restrained, genteel sound from the clock, a strident interruption of study and worship would be avoided.

  Two o’clock, and every eye in the room waited expectantly for the ritual of the Friday clock-winding. Every pencil was lifted, poised midstroke.

  Miss Wharton could almost see the speculation in their eyes. Was it possible that one of them, having done so magnificently at lessons, having behaved in such an exemplary fashion, might have the distinction of winding the Drop Octagonal?

  Miss Wharton had never promised outright that this honor would be given to some fortunate achiever, but she had hinted at it. Not really meaning to, she had planted a seed of hope in their hearts. To tell the truth, she was more than a little dismayed at the passion of expectation that resulted. Some day, she supposed, sorry she’d ever brought it up, she’d have to find a reason, a remarkable reason, for someone to wind the clock.

  She knew the exact moment when their dreams took root. It was the unhappy occasion when Little Tiny Kruger (so called to distinguish him from Big Tiny, his father, each so named because of their excessive size), had boldly and unexpectedly raised his hand at clock-winding time and asked, “Miss Wharton, can I wind the clock?”

  Being first and foremost a teacher, she had answered automatically, “May I wind the clock?”

  “Yeah,” Little Tiny said, eager now, thinking success was in sight. “May I?”

  A vast silence had fallen on the schoolroom. Not only had every head in the room swiveled to look at Little Tiny, but all breathing was suspended in surprise at the audacity of the question and in anticipation of the answer. Miss Wharton could read their thoughts: If only I’d thought of asking!

  Should Little Tiny, as troublesome as he was, be given the privilege of winding the clock, the children could foresee a future bright with possibilities for each of them, who generally were much better behaved. Perhaps, like the water monitor or the eraser monitor, the clock-winding task could be assigned week by week until everyone had taken a turn. Pity the final child—Letty Zimwalt, if the choice was alphabetical—who would have to wait eighteen weeks. But half the fun in anything was the expectation. Shivers of anticipation ran down seventeen bony spines—Little Tiny’s well-padded spine being the exception—as Miss Wharton’s answer was awaited.

  Such a glorious arrangement was not to be. At least not immediately. Miss Wharton had raised her brows in the manner they all knew meant disapproval of childish misbehavior and said in surprised tones, “Wind the clock? Have you done something that should be so rewarded, Nelman?”

  Little Tiny—Nelman—was not to be abashed that easily.“I finished my ’rithmetic,” he offered.

  “And so you should have,” Miss Wharton responded properly. “What special accomplishment would we be celebrating by your winding the clock?”

  Yes, what? questioned seventeen pairs of accusing eyes.

  Totally unable to come up with a reason, Little Tiny, on that occasion, sighed and gave up, settling back after sticking out his tongue at several of his peers. But the idea had been planted that perfect performance, ideal behavior for a week, might, just might, result in being granted the giddy reward of winding the clock.

  Thus far no one had attained that level of perfection.

  But they found satisfaction in watching Miss Wharton as she performed the weekly ritual, though they knew it by heart, some having performed it in their dreams. And even the most unimaginative among them could picture standing on a chair beneath the clock and, filled almost to bursting with pride, fitting the key in the keyhole and winding. Wind exactly twelve times (everyone counted, silently, each time Miss Wharton performed the task; never once had she miscounted, though they waited with bated breath, anticipating an eleven
or a thirteen), until sweat beaded the upper lip, the fingers cramped, the back of the neck grew tense, and the tongue was almost chewed through from the concentration required. Wind twelve times and turn, flushed with victory, to find the eyes of every child in the room fixed in envy upon the blessed and favored winder of the clock.

  But could it be done with the precision, the neatness, the aplomb with which Miss Wharton did it? Could they give a small flick of the wrist as they withdrew the key and closed the door? Would they remember to turn, chin up, shoulders erect, breathe deeply one time, nodding slightly to all those watching? Could they do it all without grinning foolishly and spoiling the solemnity of the moment? Could they deposit the key in the proper drawer at last without dropping it?

  Then and only then—with the dropped key’s small plink—would pencils return to pages of half-rubbed-out sums. Only then were history lessons resumed, perhaps the reading of the account of missionary Father Le Caron when he reported on the mosquitoes, bad in the 1600s and no better in the 1890s: “I confess that this is the worst martyrdom I suffered in this country; hunger, thirst, weariness, and fever are nothing to it. These little beasts not only persecute you all day but at night they get into your eyes and mouth, crawl under your clothes and stick their long stings through them and make such a noise that it distracts your attention and prevents you from saying your prayers.”

  Recitation time, story time, recess, lunch, all were inextricably bound up in the unrelenting movement of the Drop Octagonal. It ticked off their days like a metronome, unceasing, persistent. It ticked off the long days and, everyone supposed, the lonesome nights, pressing onward through the dark until it ticked in the sunrise and another day.

  The Drop Octagonal was unique; no home in the district of Bliss had one like it. In fact, most homes in the Saskatchewan bush were devoid of niceties or items of beauty, even many necessities having been left behind when the trek west was undertaken, and never replaced. The clock, indeed, was matchless and marvelous.

  Its name, however, was a puzzle and a never-ending source of discussion. “It’s because of that little window below the clock, that little place where you wind it,” some child said thoughtfully, and it was the explanation most accepted. From this glassed-in section the keyhole stared, unwinking, tantalizing the fascinated daydreamer to insert the key.

  Once and only once had it been attempted.

  One lunch hour, when Miss Wharton was out of the room, Little Tiny had succeeded in persuading Ernie Battlesea, small and easily intimidated, to climb upon a chair, take the key that Little Tiny boldly lifted from the drawer, and prod for the keyhole some distance above his head. With every eye in the room fixed on Ernie and every breath suspended, Miss Wharton was in their midst before they knew it.

  The circle of children disappeared as quickly as smoke in a high wind; even Little Tiny deserted his post, leaving Ernie, key in hand, eyes as large as two-bit pieces, to face the dragon as in some fairy tale come alive. He knew his doom had come.

  But Miss Wharton, lifting him down and removing the key from his hand, had turned her accusing eyes on the others and said, “Now, will the one responsible please step forward?”

  Silence. Profound silence, thick silence. The clock’s ticking, in no way deterred by the attempted invasion of its inner workings, was somehow accusing in the awful silence.

  “Well, then, Ernie will bear the punishment.” And Miss Wharton took her ruler from the desk and turned toward the cringing boy.

  It was not to be borne! Little Tiny might be naughty, but he was not a coward. As white-faced as the smaller boy, the guilty culprit stepped forward and took the blame and the punishment. Which, in all truth, could have been much more severe than it was. Slap, slap, slap—three halfhearted whacks and Miss Wharton, unaccustomedly white-faced herself, tossed the ruler onto the desk and said, “Go back to your desk, Nelman. And all of you—remember that it’s from such small rebellions that uprisings of nations have come.”

  It was a dreadful thought. Little Tiny, somewhat lightheaded—from the punishment and the importance attached to his “uprising”—went to his desk with his fist closed around the bright marks of his daring, shivering at the possible consequences of his act and determined to be an upholder of justice all his livelong days.

  No one since that moment had dared touch the Drop Octagonal or its key.

  Just now, it was chiming out the two o’clock hour and the time of winding for the week. With one accord the children’s eyes lifted from book and scribbler, ready for the important break when the little ritual should be undertaken once again.

  Perhaps it was on a whim, but Miss Wharton—so lately having expressed her impatience with protocol by the tossing of a paper wad halfway across the room—stood to her feet and announced, “This afternoon, before the winding of the clock, I’ll share with you a legend that has recently come to my attention, which you will all find of interest, I’m sure.”

  Pencils were laid in the slot provided on the desktop, eyes blinked in surprise, and faces turned toward their teacher while minds scurried to absorb this amazing break from the usual. What in the world had gotten into their Miss Wharton?

  Standing before them in her shapeless gown, her hair pinned back with stern discipline, only her eyes lovely in the intensity of the moment, Miss Wharton had the attention of everyone, from little Ernie Battlesea to Harold “Buck” Buckley, who, at fifteen, was too old, too wise, and too disinterested to be in school but would finish out the year.

  “We know that King Francis was dreaming of a New World empire that would match that of France’s rival, Spain,” Miss Wharton began in a conspiratorial tone, much as if she were sharing a thrilling secret, capturing their attention and their imagination at the same time. “We know he sent out an expedition to survey the American coast, to discover treasure, to claim land, and to look for the true Northwest Passage. But do we know who was chosen as leader of this expedition?”

  Numerous voices, having been in school longer than others, piped, “Jacques Cartier!”

  “Right. Cartier was a hard-bitten Breton.”

  Miss Wharton, when animated, was a master storyteller. Today, spurred by some inspiration—or aggravation—she was at her best.

  “Cartier sailed into the broad Gulf of St. Lawrence and pushed on, beyond where only fishermen had gone before. He reached the Gaspé peninsula at the tip of the present province of Quebec on a July day, no doubt a hot July day. Imagine with me the wild roses blooming all around him in abundance; savor with me the delicious little strawberries.”

  “Um-m-m-m.” Eighteen voices crooned, and eighteen mouths watered. Winter had been long and hard in Bliss, and summer had not yet revealed all her delights.

  “There he erected a thirty-foot cross and claimed the land for France.” Miss Wharton, in pantomime, thunked a cross into the ground at her side.

  “But he had accomplished more than that—he had shown that behind the rocks and the fog of the Atlantic coast lay a wonderful land of grassy meadows with flowers rampant and green trees in abundance.

  “The next year,” she said after a pause, and with altered voice depicting a rising tide of excitement, “he went even farther, entering the mouth of the St. Lawrence. Traveling along its mighty length, he might well have thought he had found the passage to... where?”

  “India!”

  “He stopped to visit the Indian village of... what?”

  Silence. A couple of coughs, a few scuffed feet, but silence.

  “Stadacona. That much we know. But now—”

  Flagging interest brightened. Now—what?

  “Now comes the legend part. Do you understand what legend means?”

  A few nodded heads. Uncertainty written on the faces of the smaller children. It wasn’t always easy to teach six-year-olds and fifteen-year-olds at the same time.

  “A legend is a story from the past,” the teacher explained. “It’s usually regarded as historical but not verifiable. That is,”
Miss Wharton searched for simpler words, “it could be history but hasn’t been proved as such. Understand?”

  Nodded heads.

  “Legend has it that Cartier, while with the Indians and trying to talk to them, pointed to the ground and asked them what the place was called. They replied, ‘Kanata.’”

  “Kanata,” they breathed, savoring the new word.

  Miss Wharton turned to the blackboard and in large letters spelled out the word: K a n a t a.

  “Kanata was their word for village, but Cartier didn’t understand that. And so he called the new land Canada.”

  Amazed looks, some pleased grins greeted the completion of the legend.

  “I suggest that each of you go home and repeat this legend, perhaps at the supper table when the family is all together. That way you will be a teacher as well as a pupil. And repeating it will help you remember it; exams are coming, you know.” And with that warning to offset the unaccustomed storytelling, Miss Wharton completed her assignment, hoping guiltily at the same time that the paper-wad-throwing incident might be forgotten.

  “And now, children, we’ll call it a day. And a week. See you next Monday.”

  “But, Miss Wharton, the clock!” Mystified by the upheaval of their schedule, the children inquired concerning the overlooked winding of the Drop Octagonal.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But, Miss Wharton, the blackboard, the erasers!” This from the scandalized eraser monitor.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can come early Monday and clean them.”

  And with that the children gathered up their books, their lunch pails, whatever wraps they might have brought in this period between cool spring and warming summer, and slipped, one by one, out the door.

  Alone, Birdie sat at her desk, her animation gone, her thin face an unreadable mask. But her head was accusing her heart, asking what this was all about. Why the impulsive toss of crumpled paper toward the kindling box? Why the change in schedule, the abrupt decision to delay the winding of the clock? Why the telling of a story, a legend after all and not history, when the children hadn’t yet learned the date of the selfsame expedition? Why the casual excusing of their chores?