“All right, class. Quiet down,” Mr. Clinton said loudly and unnecessarily one day in class.
No one was really talking, but the English teacher was afraid that someone would take advantage of him. Therefore, he adopted a rather abusive fashion toward the students. He did know his subject matter well, especially grammar. Emily had always been good at grammar, diagramming sentences, and punctuation, and she found no fault with that. She did feel, however, that he was much too harsh on those who were not so gifted in this aspect of English.
Emily’s big disappointment in the man came when he handed her first theme back. It had been so marked up in red that she had suffered quite a shock. Mr. Laurence had also marked up her papers, but she seemed better able to accept his critiques of her writing. Mr. Clinton did not need to correct her spelling or punctuation, but he freely commented on issues such as style and content. Those, Emily was confident, had always been her strong suit, so she bristled at his criticisms. She began to read the comments while Mr. Clinton was passing out the rest of the papers, aware that muted groans were going up from the whole class. As far as she knew, no one had ever gotten an A on one of his assignments.
The more she read, the angrier she became. She waited until he had passed out all the papers and shot the usual challenge: “Are there any questions about your grade?”
Emily looked at the C+ pressed into her paper and raised her hand. “I have a question, Mr. Clinton.”
“What is it, Emily?”
“I don’t understand why I got a C+. This same paper would have gotten an A under Mr. Laurence.”
A rich crimson suffused Mr. Clinton’s face. He had never met Ryan Laurence, but everyone in the school revered the Englishman, not only for his heroism in joining the army, but for his teaching ability. Mr. Clinton knew better than to say anything detrimental about his predecessor, especially since the man had been killed so tragically. He pursed his lips and stroked his mustache, then said, “That may have been, Emily, but I felt there were some things in your paper that needed correction.”
“You say here that I used too many concrete expressions.” Emily looked up, and her eyes locked with those of the teacher. “The writing I like best is always full of concrete expression. I’ve always felt it was better to show someone something than simply to tell them. I say here that the Ford was painted a gruesome, sickening apple green, much like a birdhouse.”
“That’s overdone!” Mr. Clinton snapped.
“Well, what would you say, then?”
“I would simply say the car was green.”
Emily stared at the short man and then proceeded to go down the paper point by point. She had not gotten halfway through when Mr. Clinton suddenly realized he was getting the worst of the exchange. “That’ll be enough out of you, Emily!”
“But you asked if there were questions about our grade. That’s what I’m doing. I don’t think the grade was fair.”
“You’ll take the grade I gave you, and that’s all there is to it!”
Emily had a reputation for being hot-tempered at times, and her red hair accentuated the accusation, even when it was unfounded. Now, however, a rage seemed to explode in her. She got up, gathered her books, and blurted, “I won’t stay in a class with a teacher like you! You’re not fair!”
“You sit down in that chair, Emily Winslow!”
“I will not!” Emily turned and walked out, ignoring the sputtering and threats that Mr. Clinton sent after her. She closed the door to the classroom more forcefully than necessary and stomped down the hall. She did not even stop at her locker but turned and walked out of the building, angry to the bone. When she stepped outside, she took a deep breath of the fresh air and headed down the sidewalk toward home. She hadn’t gone five steps when she heard a window open behind her.
Mr. Clinton’s voice shrilled out, “You’d better come back, young lady, or you’ll be expelled!”
Emily turned and said, “Go ahead and expel me, then! See if I care!” And then she began to run. She ignored his continuing threats as they faded and found she did not care in the least what repercussions would follow her rebellion.
****
Aaron stepped outside the house and paused for a moment. Emily was sitting in one of the lawn chairs, looking down at the goldfish in the pond he had made. He pulled up another lawn chair beside her and sat down. Leaning forward, he watched a huge goldfish slowly waving his tattered, filmy fins. After watching the fish silently for a while, Aaron said, “Look. He’s making an O with his mouth. I guess that’s all a goldfish can say—O.”
Emily looked at the goldfish, then toward her father. “You didn’t come out here to talk about goldfish, Daddy.”
“I just thought I’d come out and sit with you for a while.”
“I guess Mom told you what happened at school today, huh?”
“She didn’t have to. Your principal called me.”
“Oh? And what did Mr. Hilliard have to say?” Emily asked.
“He said you got pretty upset and walked out of Mr. Clinton’s classroom.”
“Did he tell you what I yelled back at him?”
Aaron suddenly laughed. “Yes, he did. Is it true?”
“Yes, it is,” Emily affirmed. She had always been a truth-teller, and she was still upset, even though hours had passed since she had staged her rebellion. “He was wrong, Daddy. I’ll show you my paper. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“That’s possible. We all get a teacher like that from time to time. More than one usually.”
“Why doesn’t he go do something else? Why would he want to teach?”
“Maybe he can’t do anything else.”
“Well, he’s icky!”
“Icky? What does that mean? I don’t recall ever hearing such a word.”
Emily turned to stare at her father reproachfully. “You know what ‘icky’ means.”
“I can guess. It means you don’t like him.”
“That’s not fair, Daddy.”
“I know it’s not, sweetheart.” Aaron reached over and took her hand and held it. “You know,” he said suddenly, “I remember the first time I ever held your hand. You were just a few minutes old, and you were in your mother’s arms. I reached out and took your hand. It was so small, but I stared at it, and I remember saying to your mother, ‘Look, she’s got fingernails just like a real person.’ ” Aaron laughed. “Your mother got upset with me. She said, ‘She is a real person, you idiot!’ ”
“Did she really say that? I mean, did she really call you an idiot?”
“She sure did, and she was right.” Aaron looked down and said, “Look at that hand now. I’ve held it all the way through childhood and grade school, and now it’s a woman’s hand, and I’m so proud of my girl.”
Tears came to Emily’s eyes, and she said, “Oh, Daddy, I’m so terrible!”
“You’re not terrible at all. Your temper’s just a little bit on the warm side.”
“I know it, and I’m trying to change.”
“Did you know that Mr. Clinton has a little girl?”
“No, I don’t know anything about his family.”
“It’s not a very happy story. She was born with Down’s syndrome.”
“Oh, Daddy, I didn’t know that!”
“He loves that little girl. I think she’s three now, and from what I hear, he pours his life into her. But I guess he brings some of his frustrations to class, which he shouldn’t do.”
Emily sat without speaking, and when Aaron turned to face her, he saw tears running down her cheeks. “Sometimes it helps to know what others are going through before we make a hasty judgment.”
“I’ll apologize to him tomorrow. I promise,” Emily said as she wiped her tears away.
“I think that might be a good thing. And try to say something nice about him so that the class can hear it.”
“I will. The Bible says that being kind to our enemies is like pouring hot coals on their head. I’ll do jus
t that and burn his brains out!”
Aaron suddenly reached out and grabbed her, laughing as he said, “You would say a thing like that! I hope you truly can say something kind to him tomorrow. We need to learn to be understanding of others.”
“I will, Daddy. I promise.”
****
The next day at school, Mr. Clyde Clinton was shocked when Emily walked into his classroom and apologized before the entire class. She said, “It was all my fault, Mr. Clinton. I should never have challenged you, and I never will again. Whatever grade you put on my papers, that’s what it will be. So please forgive me. I know I’m immature and haven’t learned to control my temper. If you could help me with this, I would appreciate it.”
It proved to be a turning point not only for Emily, but for her classmates as well, who became much more cooperative with their English teacher after her example.
Several days later, Wes was raking leaves after school, a job he did not particularly care for. He would much rather be developing pictures or taking them. Photography had become such a big interest in his life that he had been lectured sternly by both of his parents. It was true enough that he had let his grades slide, but now as he raked the leaves, he muttered, “I don’t see why it does any good for a fellow to know algebra. Who says x + y equals z? Doesn’t make any sense.”
Looking up, he saw a peculiar-shaped cloud drift across the horizon, and he at once dropped the rake. He raced into the house, ran up the stairs, and dashed into his room. Grabbing up his camera, he ran outside again and opened a small leather case. He selected a filter, put it over the lens, and grunted with satisfaction. “That’ll bring that cloud out.” He moved around, trying to find the right angle, for he had long since learned not just to point and shoot. His pictures had to be framed, composed, as a painter would compose a painting. Finding a bare tree that he could put at the side of the picture to give it balance, he held the camera still and, moving only his forefinger, pushed the shutter. He nodded at the satisfying click. “I bet that’ll be a good one. Maybe win a prize.”
“Hello, Wes.” Mr. Jennings, the mailman, had approached and stood smiling while Wes took the picture.
“Hello, Mr. Jennings. You got some mail?”
“Sure do.” Mr. Jennings was a tall, lanky man, who constantly complained about his feet. He did so now as he said, “My dogs are killin’ me. Make sure you don’t wind up being a postman.”
“I’m going to be a photographer.”
“I’ll bet you are.” Mr. Jennings sorted through his mail, and his mouth twisted in a grimace as he looked up. “Got a letter here from France, but it’s not from Jared.”
“How do you know? We don’t know anybody else in France.”
“Got Jared’s name on the return, but it’s not his writing. See?”
Wes went over and took the four letters Mr. Jennings held out. Quickly he studied the one on top and said, “I never saw that writing before. Maybe it’s from one of Jared’s friends over there.”
“Hope so. Hope it’s not bad news.”
Wes looked up startled and shook his head but could not answer. “Thanks, Mr. Jennings,” he said, then turned and ran toward the house.
He took the letter at once to his father, who was working in the study. “There’s a letter here from France, but it’s not from Jared—at least, it’s not in his handwriting.”
Instantly Aaron rose and said, “Let me see it.” He took the letter, studied it carefully, then said, “Go get your mother and sister in here. We’ll read it together.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Aaron stood staring at the envelope and felt a trace of fear. Ever since his son had left for Europe, he had not spoken of it, but every day he had to fight the fear down. He knew he must not show his grave concerns in front of the family. When they came in, Wes was explaining about the strange handwriting on the letter, and Aaron waited until he was finished.
“Well, we’ll see who it’s from.” Using a letter opener, he slit the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. He looked down and said, “It’s signed by Jared, but it’s not his handwriting.”
“Read it, Daddy,” Emily urged, her face somewhat pale, and her fists clenched tightly together.
“Dear Folks,
I know you will be surprised to get this letter not in my hand. This will be a short one. I will write more later. We went over the top a few days ago, and I took a bullet. More than one, really. One hit my right hand, so I can’t write, but James Parker is writing for me as I dictate.”
“How badly was he wounded? Does he say?” Emily broke in.
“Let him read, dear,” Gail said quickly.
Aaron continued.
“It was a big push, and I made it all right for most of the way. But finally I was wounded. I couldn’t walk, but I’ll have to tell you how much James Parker has done for me. We were pinned down, and the call came to retreat, but I couldn’t do it. James came and got me up on his back, and he carried me back with bullets flying all around. When we were just five yards away from the trench, he took a bullet, too, and both of us fell in.
We’re in the hospital together. His bed’s next to mine. He’s protesting right now, telling me not to say these things, but I must tell you, I think I owe my life to James.
I will write later. The doctor is coming by again, and I’ll know more about how serious he thinks my wound is. Keep on praying for me, and keep James in your prayers, too.
Love, Jared”
Aaron handed the letter to Gail, who read through it again.
“Thank God it wasn’t worse,” she said.
“I wish he had told us more,” Wes said with a troubled expression. “He didn’t even say where he got shot.”
“I’m sure he’ll say in the next letter,” Aaron offered hopefully.
Gail handed the letter over to Emily, who also read it carefully. The handwriting was quite different from that of her brother’s. It was legible enough but not nearly so carefully done. She mentioned this but said, “James was wounded, too, so I shouldn’t fuss about his handwriting.”
“We owe James Parker a lot. I think we all ought to write to Jared and include a letter to this friend of his.”
“That’s a good idea,” Gail said. “Let’s do it right now and get them in the mail as quick as we can.”
Emily went to her bedroom to write her letter, and Wes did the same. Emily filled up one page, front and back, to Jared and then wrote a briefer note to James Parker. She did not know exactly how to address him, but she said,
Dear James,
My name is Emily. I suppose Jared has told you about me. I’m his sister, and we were always best friends.
I can’t tell you how deeply grateful we are to you for saving my brother. I’m sure not many men would have done such a brave act, so we all feel a deep debt of gratitude. I wish I could say this in person, but since that is impossible, I will just tell you that as long as I live, James, I will be grateful to you. If you’d like, I will write to you again.
She hesitated, not knowing how to end the letter. Finally she decided on “With warm regards.” It seemed rather formal, but she could think of no other closing. She signed her name and then read what she had written again. It was not entirely what she wanted to say, for aside from her fear over Jared’s welfare, she was also conscious of a depth of gratitude she had never known.
She did very poorly at school the next day, not able to concentrate in any of her subjects. When she got to English class, she smiled and said to her teacher politely, “Hello, Mr. Clinton. How are you today?”
At Emily’s greeting, he gave her a shy smile. “I’m fine, Emily. And how are you?”
“I’m fine.” She was the first one in the room, and somehow she felt compelled to say, “We got a letter yesterday. My brother’s been wounded over in France.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mr. Clinton said, and indeed he was. “I hope it’s not serious.”
“He couldn’t write t
he letter himself, but a friend of his wrote it.”
“So sad! I didn’t know your brother for very long, but he seems to be a fine young man.”
“Yes, he is. The best I know. How’s your little girl?”
“She’s fine.”
“I’d like to meet her sometime. Perhaps I could take her for an ice cream cone.”
Mr. Clinton swallowed hard. “That . . . that would be very nice, Emily. She would like it a lot.”
“We’ll do it, then. You let me know when, and I’ll be there.”
Emily took her seat, and the class began shortly. It amazed her how much Clyde Clinton had changed. She knew it had something to do with her rebellious behavior, but even more with her apology. Now as she sat there listening, she found herself ashamed of the opinions she had once held of the man. I’ll never judge anybody again, she vowed. Never.
CHAPTER SIX
Buck Leatherwood
Emily threw herself into the war effort with a grim ferocity. She always tended to go overboard with any new hobby or fad, but supporting the war any way she could was more important than collecting butterflies—an activity she had once done with a passion. Now she joined every drive to collect scrap material that would be used in the war, and she supported the Victory Bond Drive with every penny she could get and urged others to do so as well.
She also spearheaded a special assembly to encourage patriotism and to keep the boys in the trenches in everyone’s minds. The school band played George M. Cohan’s “Over There,” a song the composer had written as soon as he’d read the newspaper headline that the United States had entered the fray. The thrilling melody and words held out the promise that the Yanks would soon put an end to the war, and it quickly became the nation’s victory hymn.
The assembly was a rousing success with the Boy Scouts marching in with dozens of American flags flying, and the entire school belting out,
The Amazon Quest (House of Winslow Book #25) Page 6
