Bittersweet Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Marfa continued. “When the time comes, Ellie, would you be willing to help? Grandma Jurgenson will come, of course, but you are so good at things like that. It would be such a comfort to have you there—”

  “Even after... I mean, are you sure?” Ellie spoke tersely, tightly.

  “Oh, Ellie! Are you harping back to that childish... that time so long ago?”

  Ellie, who claimed to have no secrets from her friend, bit her lip. “Of course not,” she said. “And of course I’d love to come. Just send George, or maybe one of his little brothers—”

  “There are plenty of Polcheks around, that’s for sure. One of them will be happy to help when the first niece or nephew is about to appear.”

  “Oh, Marfa, I’m so happy for you! You’ve waited so long—”

  “Not any longer than you have, Ellie,” Marfa said abruptly, staring down into her cup. “Tom...”

  Ellie looked searchingly at her friend. “Marfa, is there something you want to, need to talk about? Something you’re not saying, perhaps?”

  “Why, no. I’ve always told you everything, haven’t I?”

  But it wasn’t so, Ellie realized with a little pang. Marfa had never been able to pour out her grief and pain over the loss of her unborn babies; instead, she had exhibited the “stiff upper lip” that so sustained beleaguered homesteaders, always maintaining that “next time” things would go well. Perhaps it was the only way they all made it through times so difficult they would quell weaker spirits.

  And she, Ellie? Had she ever bared, even hinted at, the torment that gnawed at her own spirit?

  “More tea?” she asked brightly.

  Marfa, with relief, held out her Grey Delhi cup.

  The clatter of boots across the oiled floor brought Birdie Wharton’s head up from the papers she had been correcting. Outside, she could hear the receding ruckus of the afternoon departure of the children, always more exuberant on Friday. It would have come as a surprise to them, but Birdie also had a sense of relief when, for the final time of the week, the children departed, leaving her to herself for a couple of days.

  Against the afternoon sun shining in the open door behind him, the unmistakable form of Little Tiny—Nelman—made his trundling way toward her.

  No one could mistake the outline of Little Tiny Kruger. Like his father before him he was oversized; like his father he was fair, cherubic of face; like his father he was good-natured. It was no wonder he was called Little Tiny; no other name would have been appropriate. But there was in Little Tiny a streak of impishness. Not wickedness, still it surfaced wickedly from time to time, a surprising glimpse of liveliness of thought, a rare glimpse of something clever that, if handled correctly, could result in a reflective man of originality and imagination. Was he like his father in this also? Birdie didn’t know, nor did she have any inclination to find out. Big Tiny was not a man given to celerity; rather, he was, or seemed to be, a man of deliberate action, leisurely pace, relaxed mien.

  The possibility of turning up something special, in Little Tiny as in a few others, was the sort of thing that challenged the teacher in Birdie Wharton. It was the same fever, she supposed, that fired prospectors—sent them to the Yukon to burn out or freeze out, to return wealthy or not return at all. Behind it all, there was the possibility of striking gold.

  She was grateful for one thing—Little Tiny was good-natured enough so that he held no rancor against her for his recent chastisement. That experience had in no way dimmed his general air of great good humor. Now, awash in geniality, the picture of a blithe spirit if ever she saw one, he stood before Miss Wharton’s desk.

  “Yes, Nelman?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the envelope the boy clutched. An envelope that closely resembled the unsigned letter in her chiffonier drawer.

  “Mr. Nikolai gave me this to give to you, Miss Wharton.”

  Mr. Nikolai? Birdie’s head whirled. Arvid Nikolai?Arvid Nikolai, father of a host of children, with another perpetually on the way? Several, grown and gone, had been replaced by a new batch; there were always Nikolai children in the Bliss school, it seemed. Soon, perhaps, with the marrying off of the older ones, there would be Nikolai grandchildren. But even Arvid’s children, though better taught than he in the language of their new country, spoke English raggedly, and their writing was even worse; surely the father’s was illegible. And the letter, except for one glaringly misspelled word, had been rather well done.

  “Mr. Nikolai?” she said now, gropingly.

  “He just came from the post office. So since he was stoppin’ at the school to pick up Helma and Velma and—”

  “I’m well aware of the Nikolai children’s names, Nelman,” Miss Wharton interrupted, feeling considerable relief.

  “Anyway, he thought he’d drop this off for you,” Little Tiny continued, “and he asked me to bring it in. Velma and Helma... well, all them,” he finished hastily, “were busy climbin’ into the wagon.”

  “Thank you, Nelman,” she said and gave him a rare smile, so relieved was she over his explanation.

  Little Tiny’s face, always fixed in cheerful lines, lit even more than was usual. He blushed, he scuffed his feet, he squirmed, he grinned and escaped.

  Behind him, Miss Wharton watched him go, her rather stern face softened and her mouth touched with a suspiciously tender look. Little Tiny was motherless, his mother having died a couple of years before in childbirth. Perhaps that knowledge accounted for the teacher’s changed countenance.

  “And please,” Birdie added, calling after him, “if Mr. Nikolai is still out there, thank him for me.”

  Little Tiny stamped out of the room, and Birdie’s attention turned to, riveted on, the item she had received from him. Letters, in the Saskatchewan bush, were few and far between, items of great interest. With no immediate family nearby—her parents dead and her one brother writing only occasionally—it was a moment of supreme interest to Birdie Wharton.

  Turning it over in her hand, there was no clue as to the sender. Still, it was enough like the other one to give her pause. With chatter going on outside to indicate that the children had not all dispersed as yet, and with the possibility that one of them might come inside—for a book or for a lunch pail—she laid the envelope aside. She would need privacy....

  Birdie Wharton had mixed feelings about the school year coming to an end in a couple of weeks. On the one hand, it would give her a much-needed rest. Was she ever and always to be giving out, with never anything to feed her hungry heart?

  On the other hand, thinking of ten weeks or so with nothing but herself and her pointless existence to fill her days, she dreaded the summer hiatus.

  In that unguarded moment, with no one to see or care, Birdie’s eyes were achingly empty. Her face, usually without expression, neither smiling nor frowning but cool and “in charge,” now collapsed and sagged, revealing a vulnerability that would have astonished those who knew her best. Or most of them. The Blooms, with whom she boarded, suspected, even felt quite sure, that the “iron lady” was really a far different person at heart. With Lydia and Herbert Bloom, Birdie was cautiously opening up a little, giving glimpses of a self no one else in Bliss had ever seen. With the Blooms, Birdie was daring to be herself.

  And “herself”—to Herb and Lydia, dear Christian people that they were—was just fine, even lovable. When she went home each day from school to the simple two-story frame house that the Blooms had built when they came as homesteaders to Canada’s vast Northwest, it was as a castaway to an island in a wide, dreary sea, and Birdie refuged there.

  Reaching the house, shutting the door behind her, laying aside her books and papers, Birdie would turn, almost apprehensively, rather like an abused puppy, to find Lydia waiting with a cup of tea and always, always with an open smile of acceptance. Birdie was beginning to expect it; she was starting to rely on it.

  In this snug farm home enveloped in the arms of the bush, Birdie Wharton had found a nest, a resting place, a security that had evaded h
er all her life and that she had expected never to know. Oh, she thought she knew it, once....That time and that place were snuffed out of her mind as soon as they intruded. But out of her memory? Her heart?

  This relationship with the Blooms was the chief reason she had agreed to accept the Bliss school for another year. This relationship and the envelope once again cradled in her hand. This envelope, and the one in her chiffonier drawer. Abruptly, once again, she laid it down.

  Was she such a fool, after all, as to imagine that any man would find her desirable?

  Last fall, when she arrived, there had been the expected tentative overtures from various males of the community and surrounding districts. The news of an available woman passed quickly from mouth to mouth in this land of bachelors. One man had come from as far away as Nipawin, having heard there was a single woman in Bliss. These single men—bachelors and widowers—had received short shrift from Birdie Wharton, being sent on their way summarily, even brusquely, before they had a chance to look her over, to inflict the wound of rejection.

  And why should she, like a horse at auction, be reviewed for possible acceptance or rejection? Independence—it was what kept her at teaching. The independence the small salary made possible, the ability to stand on her own feet, make her own way. In a time when there were few options for women, Birdie knew herself fortunate to be a teacher. And Bliss was as good a place as any to be, better perhaps, because of Herb and Lydia. Because of them and her job, she didn’t need to fear the pain of rejection quite so much.

  Birdie Wharton didn’t need a mirror to tell her she was plain. Not ugly, which might have been an excuse, but plain. Good features, abundant hair, fine skin, all combined to be plain. Even so, there might have been a redeeming beauty if the eyes had come alive, if the lips had smiled, if the hair had loosened. Never did the hair loosen, but occasionally, in Herb’s and Lydia’s presence, the lips curved sweetly and the eyes lit and warmed. It was worth waiting for. Lydia Bloom had actually caught her breath the first time she saw it happen—when her boarder’s gray eyes had filled with laughter as she was caught unawares by the antics of a small kitten in her lap.

  “Birdie,” she had said before she could stop herself, “Birdie, did you ever... I mean, have you ever worn...that is, Birdie, why don’t you loosen your hair? It’s so pretty, so dark and thick. Look—”

  And Lydia, taking advantage of their friendship, tugged at the hair so tightly bound back, pulling curling tendrils free around the severe face. Even that small change brought about a transformation, along with a startled, wide-eyed look on the younger woman’s face. Lydia studied the effect of the tumbled strands of hair, the flushed face, the widened eyes suddenly seeming softer, strangely appealing—and almost gasped aloud.

  It was all there, as it should be—proper-shaped face, eyes, nose, mouth. All there but disguised by stiffness and an inner control that had never been seen to waver. All there, everything a woman needed to be womanly. A woman’s slim body—draped in shapeless folds of a dress too large, too colorless. Small feet—encased in sturdy, buttoned shoes, shoes not found in the up-to-date goods listed in the catalog from which Birdie had bought them. How she would replace them was a mystery. Her hands were shapely, her ankles neat, her neck slender, the graceful line of her bosom lost in the gown’s ill fit. Yes, the equipment was all there. Never seen for what it could be; the possibilities for beauty to the watching Lydia were astonishing.

  Birdie had quickly gathered up her loose hair, pinning it back into its accustomed bun, biting her lip, as flustered as Birdie Wharton ever allowed herself to be.

  From that moment, Lydia Bloom saw Birdie as though she were disguised in a costume, an actor in a drama, wearing a mask. Sometimes she wondered if the real Birdie Wharton would ever expose her true self. Occasionally she caught glimpses of her.

  All in all, Lydia thought sadly, it was like taking a choice porcelain vase, bundling it in newspaper, and setting it out for all to view, even use.

  Though it wasn’t always evident to others, Birdie Wharton had a love for her pupils. Not just a concern, a love. At least for some of them, she thought honestly, and she strove to find something about the most unlovely to appreciate. All of them, she insisted on believing, had some worthiness, like buried treasure, and she worked to unearth it, feeling gratified when a rare flash of beauty or originality shone from some child’s heretofore barren personality. Their minds, she was aware constantly, were like blank slates waiting for what she, their teacher, would write upon them.

  Birdie understood that the preceding teacher had walked the room, from the opening of the school day until dismissal, with a strap in her hand, quite successfully keeping order. But along with an orderly room, she had all but withered any spontaneity. Her sternness had also engendered a fear, a distrust, that made the children wary, suspicious, hesitant of opening up or speaking up, even when a new teacher had come along.

  Slowly yet surely under Birdie Wharton’s quiet and firm but approachable demeanor, the atmosphere was changing: Vigor and creativity were springing to life again in the Bliss school. She would rather deal with the rambunctious actions, the daring opinions that surfaced from time to time, than to prod sheeplike little human beings to dare to open their mouths.

  Little Tiny, perhaps first of all, showed signs of being liberated when he lifted his hand and made his request to wind the clock. She should have recognized that moment for what it was; she should have found some way to encourage his venture into liberation. But fearing a wave of such requests, she had, without consideration, refused him. Little Tiny, rather than being daunted, had then urged the winding of the clock on first-grader Ernie Battlesea. Recognizing another bid for self-expression, Birdie should have... the truth was, she hadn’t known what to do. And under the speculative eyes of the other pupils, she had punished—halfheartedly, it’s true—the offender.

  Little Tiny’s sin, if he had committed one, had been, in Miss Wharton’s eyes, to urge the daring act on a smaller child; she might have applauded, inwardly, if Little Tiny had shown a spark of gumption and had himself attempted to wind the Drop Octagonal. Still, she regretted her punishment of the miscreant, wondering if it would forever crush any spark of individuality in the boy. But she hadn’t reckoned on Little Tiny’s ebullient spirit. Thankfully, he seemed none the worse for the correction, stern though it had been.

  And Ernie’s tendency to allow others do his thinking for him was challenged; Ernie would think twice before he was so easily led into trouble again. Miss Wharton meant for each child to be a thinker, not a mindless follower.

  She had come to know them all so well during the year: the Nikolai children from the Old Country, Hungary in this instance—the twins Helma and Velma, Karl, close pal of Little Tiny, Frankie, the smallest; several Nikolais had finished school and were gone, but there were two or three more at home, and Miss Wharton could envision a continuing parade of Nikolais attending school in the years ahead. Then there was Ernie, with the big, innocent eyes and the endearing grin, and Harold Buckley, “Buck,” the oldest in the classroom and soon to be gone, given to tormenting and teasing, full of smirks and silliness. If there was one pupil Birdie found hard to love, it was Buck. As large as he was, he was difficult, very difficult indeed, to control. More than once she had faced him down, unrelenting, until he had given in, either obeying or backing down, though always reluctantly.

  But then there was Little Tiny. Little Tiny had wiggled his way into Miss Wharton’s heart in a way that no child had since—

  There were some things that didn’t bear thinking about if one were to keep one’s equilibrium, one’s peace of mind, one’s sanity.

  Abruptly, Miss Wharton checked her thoughts of the group that claimed her attention all week, Little Tiny in particular, and turned to the letter lying before her on the desk.

  Like the one before it, received a week ago, it was simply addressed to Miss Bernadine Wharton, Bliss, Saskachewan (without the t) Territory. Like the one be
fore it, it had no return address. Would it, like the one before it, be an astonishing revelation of some stranger’s interest in her—not as a teacher but as a woman?

  Silence at last, inside and out. There was only the everlasting ticking of the Drop Octagonal. After the events of the last hour or so, Birdie was inclined to view the clock balefully: It certainly hadn’t proved to brighten her day; rather, it had pointed out as never before, tick by dogged tick, the relentless passing of time.

  Every child, every horse, every rig, was gone. Now was the time to read the letter. Hand outstretched, Birdie hesitated.

  Should she wait until she got home? She studied the idea for a moment, then reproached herself for her foolishness. Why was she hesitant? Why couldn’t she open the envelope, remove the letter, and read its contents? Was her life so empty, so void, as to find some small sense of anticipation and excitement in the waiting missive? In light of the Drop Octagonal’s revelation, possibly.

  Considering, full of an unaccustomed self-evaluation, she wavered, drumming her fingers on the desk, studying the envelope. Being a teacher and accustomed to looking for errors, she noticed, on this envelope as on the last one, the word Saskatchewan had been misspelled—the t had been omitted, making it Saskachewan. Not an unusual mistake; many folks had trouble not only in writing the word but in saying it without getting their tongue tangled until practice made the word flow more readily, even as the river itself—from which the province took its name—flowed from its sources along the Rocky Mountains, on and on, its deep channel splicing through the land, a sprawling, giant Y.

  Birdie, caught up momentarily in musing on the river and its glorious history, rose and turned to the wall and the map case, a new addition to the schoolroom this year, due primarily to her appeal to the school board. Second to the Drop Octagonal in importance in the minds of the children but first in importance in the mind of the teacher, the maps—six of them: Canada, the United States and Mexico, Asia, Africa, South America, and Europe, each “oil colored and backed with heavy cloth”—opened the world to those who were settled, probably forever, in one small, obscure corner of it. Impulsively she pulled down the map of Canada.