“Now, is that a fact?”
“Were you ever bothered by noises in the schoolroom, Ellen?” I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
“I can’t say I was, but then I was so tired by the end of the evening that nothing could have awakened me.”
“Maybe I’m overtired.” I shrugged, staring down into my cup and thinking that perhaps my first thoughts on the matter were correct and that my imagination was merely overworking itself.
“Maybe you’re drinking too much coffee at night,” Ellen suggested.
“Maybe it’s that simple.”
“Maybe, maybe, maybe!” she snapped. “Have you been hearing a lot of silly stories around town?” she demanded, and I looked up curiously.
“What kind of stories?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re being very vague, Ellen.”
“So are you,” Ellen snorted. “We don’t usually play these kinds of games, my girl. Now, out with it.”
“All right,” I sighed, giving her a self-deprecating smile. “I believe there’s a ghost living in the schoolhouse.”
Ellen Greer did not seem the least bit surprised. But she was 80 and perhaps past the age of being surprised by anything.
“You don’t think I’m crazy?” I asked with a laugh.
“No. I think someone is playing an elaborate Halloween trick on you.”
“Halloween passed us weeks ago.”
“That doesn’t mean that active little minds aren’t working on some mischief. Schoolteachers are always prime targets, or haven’t you learned that yet?”
“I’ve had the garter-snake-in-the-desk routine, Ellen. It’s not something like that, I’m sure. There really is something there. I can feel it. There’s a cold feeling in the schoolroom sometimes. But never during the day.”
“Of course not,” Ellen said wryly.
“I’m serious,” I said in growing frustration.
“I know you are, and that’s precisely why I choose not to be.”
“Oh, Ellen....”
“Don’t you ‘Oh, Ellen’ me, my dear. You’re letting your imagination run away with you on the evidence of a few unexplained sounds and shadows. I didn’t think it of you.” She shook her head. “I was sure you were a sensible young lady, not some flighty nitwit who sees ghosts and goblins in every shadowed corner.”
Her sharp tone and criticism made my throat ache with restrained tears, and with difficulty I flattened all expression from my face. I had had long practice doing that with the Haversalls, but Ellen could cut deeper than they ever had. She looked at me for a long moment and sighed. “I’ve lived in that schoolhouse,” she added quietly. “I know how eerie it can be sometimes, with the owls hooting and the crickets making their infernal racket out in the tall grass and even inside your very room. Your imagination draws demons out of little nothings, especially when you’re exhausted. When you’re all by yourself, sounds become magnified and distorted.”
I shook my head, meeting her eyes. “No, Ellen. I can hear a woman crying. I know the difference between frogs croaking, mice gnawing and all the rest of the noises my little companions contribute. I can hear a woman crying! And you won’t convince me otherwise with all your—”
“Don’t get yourself so worked up,” Ellen soothed. She leaned forward and rested her gnarled, arthritic hands on the crook of her cane. “There’s an explanation, my dear, but it isn’t a ghost. There’s no such thing. They’re something made up centuries ago by some mother or father wanting to keep their pesky children in bed at night.”
“You go to church, Ellen. You believe in heaven and hell. So why won’t you believe me about this? We have to have some form when we die, don’t we?”
Ellen snorted and leaned back in her chair again. She shook her head, looking at me like a worn but still patient parent. ‘“From ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ as the Good Book says. That’s what I believe in, Abby. What makes man worth any hereafter, if there was such a place, which I heartily doubt. People remember us as we were during our life on this godforsaken earth. That memory, be it good, bad, or indifferent, is about as much as any of us can hope for after we’re dead and buried. God created us perhaps, but I’m inclined to believe he regretted that mistake and wants nothing further to do with us.” She sighed deeply.
“My dear, heaven and hell are right here,” she further explained her views, tapping her cane hard on the floor as emphasis. “Your loneliness is part of your hell. Seeing your students learning is part of your heaven. And as for my attending church like some faithful follower, it’s my only social activity of the week.”
Ellen chuckled. “Hayes is a pompous, ignorant baboon, but he’s entertaining to watch. I relish the way he shouts himself red in the face, making his veins stand out at the temples. He scares the very mischief out of the weakhearted. Did you see Berthamae’s face last Sunday when Hayes howled down at her of the sins of idle gossip? And Howard Donlevy turned white when the good reverend told the congregation that God is listening to our every word. I’ve never heard anyone cuss with the finesse that Howard exhibits. He’s an artist with the way he punctuates his sentences with hells and damns.”
I knew that Ellen was trying to distract me from my thoughts, but her methods were not working and only succeeded in increasing my curiosity about the spirit in the schoolhouse. Her very determination to sidetrack me made me wonder just what she really did believe.
“There is something there in the schoolhouse, Ellen,” I said quietly, dogmatic. Ellen stopped her flow of talk and looked at me. Her mouth tightened.
“There isn’t anything in that schoolhouse now that hasn’t been there since it was built fifty-odd years ago,” she told me firmly. “There’s only a lonely woman who gives up her own dreams to help others have the means of achieving theirs.”
“Did Prudence Townsend leave because of the ghost?” I asked, displaying my own determination to have some answers.
Ellen issued an impatient snort and tapped the fingers of her right hand on the arm of her rocker. “No. Prudence Townsend did not leave because of any ghost,” she retorted indignantly. She did not meet my eyes, however, but looked away from me and out into the garden now turned under and fertilized for spring planting.
“Then why did she leave?” I asked, still pressing the matter.
“Leave be on the subject of Prudence Townsend!” Ellen snapped, her eyes swinging back to me. I saw with surprise that she was really angry, more angry than I had ever seen her.
“That girl was a damn fool, plain and simple! Now, just forget about her!”
I knew I would not do as Ellen so belligerently instructed. However, I would respect her wishes and not bring up the subject of Prudence Townsend with her again. There was no sense in doing so, for I would get no answers to my questions from Ellen Greer. And as for the ghost that inhabited the schoolhouse, I would have to find other sources of information concerning that as well.
Chapter Fourteen
Trouble seemed to roost on my shoulders. As long as my ideas remained in opposition with James Olmstead’s and the Reverend Jonah Hayes’s, there was little I could do to alleviate the growing tension of my life.
Since arriving in town, I had become the hub of controversy. First, I had allowed the children to paint murals on the schoolroom walls, an act in itself that had raised eyebrows, made tongues wag and heads shake. Then I had used physical labor to work out the mischievous energies of my resident miscreants. My teaching methods were next to come into the critical arena. Games and dramatic play had no place in a classroom, according to Olmstead and the goodly Reverend Hayes. I knew that my methods were unorthodox and highly unconventional, but both men had demanded results, and the techniques were working. The children were learning, and they were enjoying themselves in the process. The way they learned seemed of little import.
Most of the parents graciously reserved comment about me. There were some exceptions, of course. Berthamae Poole had been
very indignant when she found her two boys digging the latrine. However, since then, she had forgiven and even praised me when her sons showed marked improvement in their basic skills. They surprised her even more by reading during the evening rather than playing poker.
I had earned Reverend Hayes’s eternal ire by refusing to teach the stories he selected for Sunday School. He had suggested Adam and Eve being cast from Eden, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Job, and the great flood to start with during the first month. However, I had put those aside and taught the stories of Ruth, the raising of Lazarus, the blind man who was given sight, and the meeting of Jesus and the woman beside Jacob’s well.
Angry and frustrated, Reverend Hayes had said that the children were not getting the proper attitude about God’s power. They should fear His wrath, he’d said. I had argued that everyone should live with the knowledge of His love and forgiveness. He cited passages from the Bible, and I did likewise, which only increased his distrust and dislike of me.
With the antagonism between me and Olmstead and Hayes, I knew it would be difficult to have Diego Gutierrez reinstated in school. However, I intended to try as much for his sake as for Matthew Hayes’s, since the latter was still in disgrace with his classmates.
My first attempts to discuss the matter with James Olmstead and the goodly reverend met with dismal failure. Once, Olmstead simply turned on his heel and stormed from the storefront into the back room, where he had remained so long, I had little choice but to leave in frustration. Reverend Hayes proved even more illusive. He was always on his way out to visit some member of the congregation who was in dire need of his spiritual guidance. The reverend seemed oblivious of his eldest son’s dilemma. It was when Matthew came to me in tears that I decided I would have to press until the matter was resolved.
My opportunity came sooner than I expected. I needed a few sundries and went to the store following school on Friday afternoon. When I entered, I spotted James Olmstead perched precariously on a tall ladder, rearranging some canned goods. Below him, arms crossed and talking leisurely, stood Reverend Hayes. I smiled slightly, wove my way among the tables and positioned myself at the base of the roost and in front of Reverend Hayes. The latter eyed me with the same imperious gaze that terrified most of his parishioners. Then he looked up at James Olmstead, who had not yet noticed my daunting presence.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said pleasantly enough. Hayes’s quelling look was not going to veer me off my purpose. Olmstead looked down and mumbled some disgruntled greeting. He continued to work, obviously hoping I would take the hint and go away.
“I wish to speak with both of you about the reinstatement of Diego Gutierrez in school,” I opened bluntly. They knew very well what was on my mind, and I might as well jump right into the fire with both feet as to roast on the edges.
Reverend Hayes’s thick brows rose with a shot, and those frightening eyes chilled. His facial muscles became set. Olmstead merely issued an impatient snort.
“When are you going to leave that alone, Miss McFarland?” the reverend asked tiredly. I saw Emily standing silently behind the counter. She looked up once and then quickly lowered her head to pretend concentration on a grocery list handed to her by Berthamae Poole. I could expect no assistance from them, Emily was cowed by her bullying husband, and Berthamae Poole shook with fear of the reverend.
“I’m afraid I cannot do that. Diego was expelled more than a month ago for a minor incident—”
“Minor incident!” Reverend Hayes boomed. “You call my son’s bloody nose a minor incident?”
“Diego Gutierrez suffered a blackened eye that swelled shut, Reverend Hayes,” I said quietly, managing to keep my voice steady and reasonably calm in the face of Hayes’s quite alarming anger.
“He deserved it,” he stated, still in a loud voice, not caring who heard him. The two women at the counter were frozen, but if ears could grow to indicate interest, there would be two sets as tall as a jack rabbit’s.
“That little Mexican devil was beating up my son for no reason. He deserved to get a black eye. He deserved a good hiding as well, and if you were doing your job properly, Miss McFarland, you would have used the switch on him in front of the children so that they would all know what happens to bullies.”
“Diego did not beat up your son,” I said coolly.
“That’s not what I was told!” he stormed.
“I know that,” I said in an attempt to be soothing, but knowing it was like throwing sand in the face of an angry bear.
“You said you were not even there when the fight started,” Olmstead reminded me, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
“I was in the schoolroom tutoring one of the children,” I agreed. “However, I was informed by several of the children who witnessed the entire affair that it was Matthew who hit Diego first and not the other way around.”
“My son said Diego Gutierrez started the fight,” Hayes insisted stiffly.
“And if you discussed the episode with him now, I believe you would find his story different.”
“Why should his story be any different now than it was then?” Olmstead asked, coming down from his perch aggressively. I stepped back out of his way. “Have you threatened the boy to make him change his mind?” he continued. “Your favoritism for the Mexican is well-known, Miss McFarland.”
I wondered if he was deliberately trying to incite my anger. If that was his intention, he was succeeding remarkably well. I drew a deep breath, striving for some control over my anger.
“I do not threaten children, Mr. Olmstead,” I said indignantly. “And I find such a question highly insulting.”
Olmstead flushed as I stared at him. I knew that my expression said more than was politic, but I could not help but feel he was contemptible.
“Matthew’s grades have dropped since the boy was expelled,” Hayes told Olmstead, obviously implying there was a connection.
“Matthew’s grades have fallen,” I agreed frankly. “His work has suffered greatly since the incident with Diego. He is under a great deal of strain.”
“Strain you have put on him, no doubt,” the reverend was quick to say.
“The strain of a guilty conscience and social pressure,” I said calmly. “Since Matthew used you and Mr. Olmstead to finish a fight he started and could not finish successfully, the children have ostracized him. They liked Diego Gutierrez, and they refuse to forgive Matthew his deceit and method of revenge.”
“And you encourage their behavior?” he demanded, outraged that the children should so despise his son.
“Indeed, I do not. But it changes nothing in the way they feel. Children understand justice, and they know that Diego did not receive it.”
“You are impertinent!” Hayes said with a whitening around his mouth.
I did not speak for a minute. “I understand that you did not have all the facts,” I said slowly, wanting only to accomplish my goal and not further antagonize these two men.
“I have the facts. My son gave them to me.”
“I suggest you speak with him about the incident again,” I said and then looked at Olmstead. “You should speak with your son as well, Mr. Olmstead. He witnessed the incident as did Margaret Hudson, Sherman Poole and Toby Carmichael.”
James Olmstead looked uncertain for the first time. Reverend Hayes’s expression remained unchanged. I began to suspect that there was more than his son’s bloodied nose behind his dislike of Diego Gutierrez. I was afraid I knew what it was, and it would be very difficult to fight.
“Whatever happened that day, the boy doesn’t belong in our town’s school. He shouldn’t be allowed to mix with good children,” Reverend Hayes began.
James Olmstead looked at Hayes with an admiration I found impossible to understand.
“Would you please explain?”
“I shouldn’t think that would be necessary,” Hayes sniffed.
“I’m afraid it is!”
“The boy is Mexican, and he i
s born out of wedlock. He does not belong with decent people.”
I was shaking and hoped it did not show. “You deny the boy his rights because of two things over which he has no control?”
“That boy has no rights as I see it, Miss McFarland. And I won’t allow him to be reinstated into the school so that he can further blight our good children with the sin of his birth.”
I stared speechlessly at Hayes, the anger blooming inside me until I trembled with it. “Your Christian understanding shows no bounds, does it?” I managed, but my sarcasm eluded him.
“I’m glad you finally understand our position, and agree,” he said, obviously satisfied with the conversation’s outcome. My mouth dropped open and then clamped shut.
“You completely misunderstand me, Reverend Hayes,” I said through my teeth. “I meant that you and Mr. Olmstead here are—”
“I told you once before that Diego was no concern of yours, Miss McFarland,” interrupted a harsh and all-too-familiar voice. I swung around and saw Jordan Bennett standing well inside the general store, legs astride and arms akimbo. I wondered how long he had been there and how much he had heard. I cast an accusing glare at Hayes and Olmstead, who were staring fixedly at the tall, broad-shouldered man dominating the room. I hoped Jordan had heard everything and would now do something about Diego’s plight.
Jordan’s blue eyes glittered dangerously, and I could feel the anger coiled inside him, ready to spring out. But he was not looking at James Olmstead nor at the Reverend Jonah Hayes. He was looking directly at me as if I were some despised rodent he’d just caught in a trap. I looked back at him, feeling confused and not just a little frightened by the intensity of his silent accusation. What was he accusing me of now? I wondered. I felt a tinge of irritation mingled into my emotional upheaval that the sight of him always caused.
“Why don’t you carry on with your own business and leave Diego to me?” he asked in a voice that was not in the least polite. My eyes widened, and then I felt myself bristling like a hedgehog.
“I could do that, Mr. Bennett, if I knew that you planned to do something about this whole, unforgivable situation,” I said in a scarcely controlled voice.
Sycamore Hill Page 18
