by Linda Byler
“I know.”
“Is he single?”
“No. He’s dating Rose.”
“Matthew’s Rose?”
Sarah nodded, finished the pumpkin whoopie pie, balled the Saran Wrap tightly, and threw it in the air.
“Yep! She always gets them!”
Lydia giggled.
There was a knock on the door, and Melvin appeared, dressed in one of the bright-colored shirts he favored, his eyes luminous, soft, his face quiet, relaxed.
“Hey!” Sarah said, glad to see him, hoping Dat had gone easy on him.
“Sarah! Why aren’t you at home? You aren’t even ready. Hi, Lydia,” he added, turning to give her his full attention.
“Hello!”
Lydia looked up at Melvin, her smile wide and genuine, and Sarah told them both she did not want to go anywhere—not even to the Sunday youth supper. The air was cold and damp, and she was tired out from working at Enos Miller’s. Besides, the following day was her first day of school, and she did not want to lose any sleep if she could help it.
Melvin nodded, then reached for little Aaron, who seemed completely at ease, being lifted from Lydia’s lap and placed on Melvin’s.
Melvin pulled on his hair, teasing him, and Aaron howled with delight.
The evening disappeared magically, the three of them talking, sharing thoughts, feelings, discussing the barn fires, Melvin showing a type of humility Sarah had never seen.
“All I can say is that if as much good comes to Enos Millers as I have experienced, I think they can honestly say the Lord has delivered them with a mighty hand,” Lydia said shyly, her eyes averted.
“Yeah,” Melvin said slowly. “I guess I have to keep my mouth shut. Davey really raked me across the coals. He’s the only guy I know who can do that and make it appear as if he’s not hurting you. That guy just has a way about him, he does. He sure did show me the error of my ways, got me back on the straight and narrow.”
Lydia’s eyes were a revelation to Sarah, the look she gave Melvin bordering on worship. “Oh, what I would have given, years ago, to hear Aaron say those exact words. He just…he couldn’t see it.”
“You’ve been through so much, Lydia,” Melvin said, the emotion in his words thick, as if tears were pressing against the back of his throat.
“I have. But God has been more than good. I have so much. And I’m learning to say I am blessed and stop thinking I don’t deserve any of it, as the counselors say.”
Melvin watched Lydia, and when she met his eyes, there was so much tenderness in them, Sarah had to look away. She suddenly felt like an intruder and pondered the power of attraction for some people, but just not for her.
She and Melvin had helped Lydia clean up the kitchen after the children were in bed. Sarah watched as she hovered about him, two bright spots of pink on each cheek, her eyes dancing, laughing easily, even touching Melvin’s arm when she needed his attention.
Oh, how Sarah longed for something that remained elusively out of her grasp. She knew it but was helpless to change the path she had made for herself. Her own stubborn refusal to let go of Matthew, when everyone she knew had tried to warn her, had broken her heart. Now he was gone, and when Sarah ignored Lee, he had started dating Rose.
Miserably, she shared this new insight with Melvin and Lydia, who both nodded wisely, agreed. They said they supposed the right one would step out of the woodwork one of these days.
But Sarah was sure now that the right one would never come, or come again. Lee had told her that he was in awe of Rose. Everyone was in awe of Rose, she’d wailed to herself later in the privacy of her room. She was just too awesome, apparently.
Now she spoke of it, of that insecurity, to her two dear friends, and was encouraged, lifted up. She ate another whoopie pie and drank way too much coffee and could not go to sleep when she wanted to, the caffeine, the conversation with her friends, and her anxiety about teaching keeping her awake long after she had intended.
She longed for a life companion but felt she needed to accept that it wasn’t for her. And that was alright for now. She was on her way to making a giant leap right into spinsterhood anyway, embarking on her teaching career in less than eight hours.
Sarah had never experienced the word inadequate before, but that was the only true description she could think of as she stood behind the teacher’s desk the next morning, stoked on more caffeine and false bravado.
The classroom was damp and cold, the colorless artwork peeling away from the walls, the gas heater stubbornly refusing to ignite.
She’d punched the igniter button so often, it was only a matter of time until the whole stove exploded in her face.
She didn’t know who the caretaker was, vaguely remembering Lee mentioning Ben Zook. Well, she wasn’t traipsing through the cold to fetch Mr. Zook, as she was pretty sure Lee would be in the barn and find her very un-awesome, unable, and stupid, not being able to light the gas heater on her first morning.
She jumped when the door latch rattled and was yanked open by a very small, very fat little girl, her round face red from exertion and protruding from her tightly-tied head scarf like a beet.
“Good morning!” Sarah trilled, too high, too loud, and a little too quickly.
When no answer was given, Sarah cleared her throat and tried again, thinking perhaps she hadn’t heard.
“Good morning!”
The little girl yanked on her head scarf, jutted out her chin, and said loudly, “It’s cold in here!”
“I’m sorry. I can’t get the heater started.”
“Martha could.”
“Well, I don’t know how.”
Instead of giving Sarah the satisfaction of an answer, the little girl placed both hands on her desk and glared at her, a belligerent little beet topped with unruly red hair.
The doorknob turned again, revealing a horde of head scarves, navy blue bonnets, straw hats, and multi-colored beanies, every last child wearing a black, homemade coat.
“Good morning!”
No one bothered answering, so she repeated her greeting, and was ignored again. Sarah immediately thought of the man in the Bible who sowed his seed and some fell by the wayside and withered in the hot sun.
“It’s cold in here.”
“That is because I can’t get the heater going.”
“Martha could.”
Irked, Sarah said forcefully, “Yes, well, I’m not Martha. This is my first day, so how can you expect me to know how?”
A boy of about twelve gave her a look of surprise, turned to his classmates, and snickered, which started a wave of snorts and mocking sounds, which Sarah chose to ignore.
Two more boys entered, the one taller than Sarah, his face pocked with angry, red pimples, his glasses riding low on his prominent nose.
“What’s wrong with the heater?” he growled, before Sarah had a chance to say good morning.
“I can’t get it started.”
Saying nothing, the boy padded to the stubborn heating unit, turned a dial, punched the igniter button repeatedly, and was rewarded by a low whoosh of flame.
“Oh, that’s great! Awesome! Thank you!” Sarah said, meaning every word she said.
The boy blushed furiously, ducked his head, and shuffled back to the cloakroom, his hands stuffed nonchalantly in his pockets. His companions taunted him as he passed them.
The fourth time the door opened, the upper grade girls entered, and trouble walked solidly into Sarah’s life.
Tall, pretty, wearing flashy colors, their arrogance showed immediately. Their postures spoke loudly of their possession of the entire school. All four of them.
Sarah felt the color recede from her face, and she swallowed as her mouth turned into sandpaper.
“Good morning!”
The girls looked at one another, raised their eyebrows, hissed behind the barricade of their palms, and snickered in a manner so annoying it set Sarah’s teeth on edge.
“Good morning!” she said again
.
“We don’t say that at Ivy Run,” the heavy-set blonde girl said, her voice commanding everyone’s attention.
Sarah considered this statement for a few seconds, then asked how they did greet each other.
“We don’t greet.”
That brought hysterical giggles from her three companions and a braying from the older boys.
Wildly, Sarah looked at the clock, her courage slipping away by the minute. Time for the bell.
Would they go to their seats as expected, or would they say they don’t sit down at Ivy Run?
Help me, please, she begged her Lord.
She stalked very firmly to the rope in the back of the room and gave it a hard yank, adjusted her cape and stalked back, placing her feet firmly on the tile floor.
Reaching her desk, she tapped the small bell repeatedly. Nothing happened, the laughing and talking and milling about continued as if they hadn’t heard any bell at all. What would she do if no one sat down? Scream and cry and grab her new lunch box and book bag and go running down the road, toward home, blatantly admitting defeat?
Slowly, one after another, the children folded themselves reluctantly into their desks, eyeing her with different levels of curiosity or rebellion, depending where she looked.
“Good morning, boys and girls!”
Only the lower graders mumbled in response. The upper graders refused to greet her, sitting obstinately in their desks, all eyes watching this new teacher.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah opened the worn Bible to the ninth chapter of Luke, stood, and began to read, her voice low, carrying well, resonant, the shaking subdued by sheer force of will.
As she read, her voice gained more strength, and she looked around the classroom, her eyes catching the upper grade boys raising their eyebrows, followed by exaggerated eye-rolling.
Tap. Tap-tap. Paper crinkling. Rustling. Feet scraping. A book hit the floor with a loud bang.
Sarah stopped reading, said nothing.
Slowly, children sat up, their eyes questioning, watching, waiting.
“As soon as everyone quiets down, I’ll resume reading from the Bible.”
Nervous giggles were accompanied by more feet scraping, more crumpling of paper. A small boy flipped a book closed with a loud bang, his eyes challenging Sarah to do something about it.
She stood, relaxed, and said nothing.
Someone coughed. Another pupil dropped a pencil, then looked around for smiles of approval he was sure to gain by his lack of obedience.
The heavyset girl raised her hand, clearly intending to fix this new teacher with words of rebuke.
“Yes?” Sarah said.
“You can’t expect the room to be quiet. Duh!”
It was the duh that provoked Sarah to the point that she spoke firmly, her nostril flared, her gaze withering.
“I certainly can expect the room to be quiet. When the Bible is being read, it is only respectful to ask for quiet.”
There was no answer, only a shocked silence.
“Now, I have to ask you to place both hands on your desks, and keep them there until I’m finished reading this chapter in Luke.”
The children looked around, checking with their peers to see if it was acceptable to obey this new teacher who spoke so clearly and forcefully.
A few lower grade students put their hands on their desks, hesitantly, their expressions bordering on fright.
The upper grade boys shifted from left to right, sat on their hands, smiling widely, their eyes challenging her.
The upper grade girls giggled dutifully.
The middle grade students copied the maneuvers of the older ones.
Slowly, Sarah closed the Bible, took a deep, steadying breath, and announced her intention in a clear, careful tone.
“Alright, then. We’ll close for the day. You may put your things in your desks and prepare to go home to your parents.”
A small, dark-haired boy raised his hand.
“I can’t,” he quavered, and then a heart-rending sob filled the air. “My…my….” His sobs cut off the words he wanted to say.
Waiting, Sarah watched the school’s reaction. The sneers and raised eyebrows melted into uncertainty, leaving mixed expressions of half-hearted attempts at mockery. They were unsure how to handle this.
Going to the small boy, whose huge brown eyes filled with anxiety and the weight of being sent home to an empty house, Sarah put an arm about his shoulders, saying it was alright.
Sniffing, he put his hands on his desk. The lower graders followed suit, followed by a few of the older pupils.
“Thank you to those of you who are obeying. The remaining ones are dismissed.”
A few more hands were placed on tops of the desks.
The older pupils remained in their seats, sitting on their hands, but they made no move to leave.
Sarah returned to her desk and stood behind it, still waiting. Again, the heavyset blonde raised her hand.
“We can’t go home.”
“Why not?”
“Well, just because. It’s a school day.”
“Will you place your hands on your desk then?”
“No.”
One of the upper grade boys raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Martha never made us do this.”
“Martha isn’t here. I am your teacher now.”
“Really?”
The word was spoken with one intent—to make fun of her, and Sarah knew it. The blatant disobedience was far worse than she could have anticipated, and her heart pounded with fear. Was she taking this too far? Was it only a power struggle, her determination to prove her own superiority? She couldn’t go back on her word now.
“It’s up to you. If you will please obey, just this one small thing, I’ll resume reading, okay? Then we’ll go from there.”
Her heart sank to a miserable depth as six upper grade pupils got up and went to the rear of the classroom. They noisily got down their outer wear, banged their lunch boxes in anger, slammed the door till the schoolhouse seemed to vibrate, and huddled in a dark group of rebellion in the schoolyard.
Steadying herself, Sarah finished reading the chapter, then stood with the now reduced number of children, steadily repeating the Lord’s Prayer with very little help from any of them.
Sarah was no longer accustomed to saying this prayer out loud, so she stumbled over “Give us this day our daily bread,” but she moved on, grateful to be able to remember just in time.
She passed out the homemade songbooks, brilliant plastic covers on sturdy binders, the pages encased in plastic, the songs typed neatly on the pages.
Someone had worked hard to supply the school with these good, strong songbooks. Perhaps it had been Martha, enthused, anticipating a successful year, only to fail so pitifully. Sympathy welled up in Sarah, and she realized she was as vulnerable, as unable to carry on successfully as Martha had been.
Sarah smiled now, as the pupils seemed hesitant, the singing class punctuated by empty spaces, leaving the class incomplete, little rows of strong white teeth with too many missing.
“Please stand together, share a songbook with the one nearest you, and let’s sing page 47. I remember that song from my own school years.”
The singing was pathetic, Sarah finally admitted to herself, after starting a clear rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” She sang alone with only a few quavering, half-hearted attempts made by the lower grade girls.
Mostly, the pupils stood like angry little bees, their eyes bold, alert, watching her as warily as hornets protecting their nests and as ready to sting. The songbooks flopped in colorful disarray, some of them unopened, held belligerently to chests, clearly showing the students’ unwillingness to participate in any form of song.
Well, she couldn’t fix everything the first morning. She’d stood her ground about the Bible reading, so she’d pretend the singing class was not out of the ordinary.
After the children were seated back at th
eir desks, Sarah introduced herself, then asked the children to wear the colorful name tags she had made with the number of each student’s grade written in bold black beside their names, to make it easier to remember this first day.
No one seemed to mind, so Sarah pressed them to small shirtfronts and black pinafores, colorful dress fronts for the little girls who wore belt aprons pinned around their waists with sturdy silver safety pins.
“There!” she announced, smiling.
Ben Zook had two children in school, a little boy in third grade named Marlin, and Marianne in second grade. Sarah smiled to herself. Marianne resembled a much smaller version of Anna, her energetic little body as round as a barrel, propelled on two very small feet that were perfectly capable of carrying her swiftly wherever she needed to go.
Standing behind her desk, she told the children her name was Sarah Beiler, and she would be their teacher the remainder of the year, hopefully, if everyone would be willing to work together with her. There would be new rules, new ways, and she proceeded to read the twelve rules she’d set for the school.
A hand was raised, then another.
“Yes?”
“That’s a stupid rule, about putting our hands on our desk when you read the Bible.”
“You think so? Why?”
“It just is.”
“Why?”
“We didn’t used to have to do it.”
The speaker was a fifth-grade boy named Chester, his hair as brilliantly inclined to a fiery, golden red as that of his sister Elizabeth—Liz for short—the fat, belligerent first arrival.
“I know. But it’s very distracting to read from the Bible when all that noise is going on. It’s unnecessary, annoying, and so I won’t allow it.”
“We gotta do it every morning?”
“Every morning.”
Another hand was raised.
Roy, a sixth-grader, his straight brown hair hanging all the way into his eyes, shook his head as if to rid himself of the offending curtain of hair before telling Sarah that was when he learned his memory verse, when Martha read the Bible.
