Our Jane was a dear, darling doll, but she could wear on your nerves with her caterwauling, and all the food she spat up that smelled sickly sour. I turned to scold her, knowing that she was going to make us late, and that again everyone in the school would mock us for not even knowing how to tell time. Our Jane smiled, stretched out her frail, slender arms, and immediately my chastising words froze unspoken on my tongue. I picked her up and lavished on her pretty face all the kisses she had to have. "Feeling better, Our Jane?"
"Yes," she whispered in the smallest voice possible, "but don't like walkin. Makes my legs hurt."
"Give her to me," said Tom, reaching to take her from my arms. Even Toni, loudmouthed, brash, and tough, proud to be all boy, turned sweet and tender with Our Jane. Definitely my smallest sister was gifted in ways of grabbing your heart and never giving it back.
Tom held her in his arms, staring down at her pretty little face, all screwed up to yell if he dared to put her down. "You're just like a tiny, pretty doll," Tom said to her before he turned to me. "You know, Heavenly, even if Pa can't afford to give you or Fanny dolls for Christmas or birthdays, you have something even better, Our Jane."
I could have disagreed with that. Dolls could be put away and forgotten. No one could ever forget Our Jane. Our Jane saw to it that you didn't forget her.
Keith and Our Jane had a special relationship, as if they, too, were "heartfelt twins." Sturdy and strong, Keith ran beside Tom, staring up at his small sister with adoration, just as he ran at home to wait on his little sister who'd immediately smile through her tears when he turned over to her whatever she wanted. And she wanted whatever he had. Keith, kindly, sweetly, gave in to her demands, never complaining even when too many "wants" Of Our Jane would have had Tom openly rebellious.
"Yer a dope, Tom, an ya too, Keith," stated Fanny. "Durn if I would carry no girl who kin walk as good as I kin."
Our Jane began to wail. "Fanny don't like me . . Fanny don't like me . . . Fanny don't like me . . ." And it might have gone on all the way to school if Fanny hadn't reluctantly reached out and taken Our Jane from Tom's arms. "Aw, ya ain't so bad. But why kin't ya learn t' walk, Our Jane, why kin't ya?"
"Don't wanna walk," said Our Jane, hugging her arms tight around Fanny's neck and kissing Fanny's cheek.
"See," said Fanny proudly, "she loves me best . . not ya, Heaven, nor ya, Tom . . . loves me best, don't ya, Our Jane?"
Disconcerted, Our Jane looked down at Keith, at me, at Tom, then screamed: "Put me down! Down! Down!"
Our Jane was dropped into a mud puddle! She screamed, then started to cry, and Tom chased after Fanny to give her a good wallop. I tried to calm Our Jane and dry her off with a rag I had for a
handkerchief. Keith broke into tears. "Don't cry, Keith. She's not hurt . . are you, darling? And see, now you're all dry, and Fanny will say she's sorry . . . but you really should try to walk. It's good for your legs. Now catch hold of Keith's hand, and we'll all sing as we go to school."
Magic words. If Our Jane didn't like walking, she did like to sing as much as we all did, and together she, Keith, and I sang until we caught up with Tom, who had chased Fanny into the schoolyard. Six boys had formed a line for Fanny to hide behind--and Tom was outclassed by boys much older and taller., Fanny laughed, not at all sorry she'd dropped Our Jane and soiled her best school dress so it clung damply to her thin legs.
With Keith waiting patiently, in the school rest room I again dried Our Jane off; then I saw Keith to his classroom, pried him loose from Our Jane, then led Our Jane to the first grade. Seated at the table with five other little girls her age, she was the smallest there. What a shame all the other girls had nicer clothes, though not one had such pretty hair, or such a sweet smile. "See you later, darling," I called. Her huge scared eyes stared woefully back at me.
Tom was waiting for me outside Miss Deale's classroom. Together we entered. Every student in there turned to stare at our clothes and our feet; whether we were clean or dirty, it didn't matter. They always snickered. Day in and day out, we had to wear the same clothes, and every day they looked us over scornfully. It always hurt, but we both tried to ignore them as we took our seats near the back of the class.
Seated in front of our classroom was the most wonderful woman in the entire world--the very kind of beautiful lady I hoped and prayed I would be when I grew up. While all her students turned to mock us, Miss Marianne Deale lifted her head to smile her welcome. Her smile couldn't have been warmer if we'd come adorned in the best clothes the world had to offer. She knew we had to walk farther than any of the others, and that Tom and I were responsible for seeing that Keith and Our Jane made it safely to school. She said a million nice things with her eyes. With some other teacher perhaps Tom and I wouldn't have developed such a love for school. She was the one who made our school days a real adventure, a quest for knowledge that would take us, eventually, out of the mountains, out of a poverty-ridden shack, into the bigger, richer world.
Tom and I met eyes, both of us thrilled to be again in the presence of our radiant teacher who had already given us a bit of the world when she inspired in us the love of reading. I was nearer the window than Tom, since looking outside always gave Tom compelling itches to play hooky despite his desire to finish high school and earn a scholarship that would take him through college. If we couldn't win our way to college with good grades, we'd work our way through. We had it all planned. I sighed as I sat. Each day we managed to go to school was another small battle won, taking us closer to our goals. Mine was to be a teacher just like Miss Deale.
My idol's hair was very much the texture and color of Our Jane's, pale reddish blond; her eyes were light blue, her figure slim and curvy. Miss Deale was from Baltimore and spoke with a different accent than any of her students. Truthfully, I thought Miss Deale was absolutely perfect.
Miss Deale glanced at a few empty seats before she looked again at the clock, sighing as she stood up and made the roll call. "Let us all stand and salute the flag," she said, "and before we sit again, we will all say silent prayers of gratitude to be alive and healthy and young, with all the world waiting for us to discover, and to improve."
Boy, if she didn't know how to start the day off right no one did. Just to see her, to be with her, gave both Tom and me reason to feel the future did hold something special for both of us. She had respect for her students, even us in our shabby clothes, but she never gave an inch when it came to order, neatness, politeness.
First we had to hand in our homework. Since our parents couldn't afford to buy our books, we had to use the schoolbooks to complete our homework during school hours. Sometimes this was just too much, especially when the days grew shorter and darkness fell before we reached home.
I was scribbling like mad from the chalkboard when Miss Deale stopped at my desk and whispered, "Heaven, you and Tom please stay after class. I have something to discuss with the two of you."
"Have we done something wrong?" I asked worriedly.
"No, of course not. You always ask that. Heaven, just because I single out you and Tom does not always mean I plan to reprimand you."
The only times Miss Deale seemed to be disappointed in either Tom or me was when we turned sullen and quiet from her questioning about how we lived. We became defensive of both Ma and Pa, not wanting her to know how poorly we were housed, and how pitiful were our meals compared to what we heard the city kids describing.
Lunchtimes in school were the worst. Half the valley kids brought brown lunch bags, and the other half ate in the cafeteria. Only we from the hills brought nothing, not even the change it took to buy a hot dog and a cola drink. In our high mountain home we ate breakfast at dawn, a second meal before darkness drove us into bed. Never lunch.
"What ya think she wants?" Tom asked as we met briefly during the lunch hour, before he went to play ball and I went to skip rope.
"Don't know."
Miss Deale was busy checking papers as Tom and I hung back after school, wo
rried about Keith and Our Jane, who wouldn't know what to do if we weren't there when they were dismissed from their classrooms. "You explain," Tom whispered, and then dashed off to collect Keith and Our Jane. We couldn't depend on Fanny to look .out for them.
Suddenly Miss Deale looked up. "Oh, I'm sorry, Heaven . . . have you been standing there long?"
"Only a few seconds," I lied, for it had been more than that. "Tom ran to fetch Our Jane and Keith and bring them here. They'll be afraid if one or the other of us doesn't show up to walk them home."
"What about Fanny? Doesn't she do her share?"
"Well," I began falteringly, trying to be protective of Fanny just because she was my sister, "sometimes Fanny gets distracted and forgets."
Miss Deale smiled. "I realize you have a long walk home, so I won't wait for Tom to return. I've spoken to the school-board members about the two of you, hoping to convince them to allow you to take books home to study, but they are adamant, and said if they give you two special privileges, they will have to give all the students free books. So I am going to allow you to use my books."
I stared at her in surprise. "But won't you need them?"
"No . . . there are others I can use. From now on, you can use them, and please take as many books from the library as you care to read in one week. Of course you'll have to respect those books and keep them clean, and return them when they're due."
I was so thrilled I could have shouted. "All the books we can read in a week? Miss Deale, we won't have arms strong enough to carry so many!"
She laughed, and, strangely, tears came to her eyes. "I could have guessed you'd say something like that." She beamed at Tom as he came in carrying Our Jane, who appeared exhausted, and leading Keith by the hand. "Tom, I think you already have your arms full, and won't be able to carry home books."
Dazed-looking, he stared at her. "Ya mean we kin take home books? Not have to pay for them?"
"That's right, Tom. And pick up a few for Our Jane and Keith, and even Fanny."
"Fanny won't read em," said Tom, his eyes lighting up, "but Heavenly and I sure will!"
We went home that day with five books to read, and four to study. Keith did his bit by carrying two books so neither Tom nor I would refuse to carry Our Jane when she grew tired. It worried me to see how white she grew after only a few steps uphill.
Tagging along behind came Fanny with her boyfriends swarming like bees around the sweetest flower. I had only a devoted brother. Keith lagged about twenty yards behind Fanny and her friends, reluctant to stay with us, but not for the same reasons as Fanny. Keith was in love with nature, with the sights, sounds, and smells of earth, wind, forest, and, most of all, animals. I glanced behind to check, and saw he was so absorbed in studying the bark of a tree he didn't hear me calling his name. "Keith, hurry up!"
He ran a short way before he stopped to pick up a dead bird, examining it with careful hands and observant eyes. If we didn't constantly remind him where he was, he would be left far behind, and never find his way home. Strange how absentminded Keith was, never noticing where he was, only where the objects of his interest grew, lived, or visited.
"Which is heavier, Tom, the books or Our Jane?" I asked, lugging along six.
"The books," he said quickly, setting down our frail sister so I could empty my arms of books and pick up Our Jane.
"What are we gonna do, Ma?" Tom asked when we reached our cabin, where the smoke belched out and reddened our eyes immediately. "She gets so tired, yet she needs to go to school."
Sarah looked deep into Our Jane's tired eyes, touched her pale face, then gently picked up her youngest and carried her into the big bed and laid her down. "What she needs is a doctor, but we kin't afford it. That's what makes me so damned mad with yer pa. He's got money fer booze, an money fer women .. . but none fer doctors to heal his own."
How bitter she sounded.
.
Every Sunday night I had nightmares. The same one repeated over and over, until I grew to hate Sunday nights. I dreamed I was all alone in the cabin, snowed in and alone. Every time the dream came I woke up crying.
"It's all right," comforted Tom, crawling over from his place on the floor near the stove and throwing his arms about me after one of my worst nightmares. "I get those bad dreams, too, once in a while. Don't cry, we're all here. Ain't no place for us to go but to school and back, and to church and back. Wouldn't it be nice if we never had to come back?"
"Pa doesn't love me like he loves you, Fanny, Keith, and Our Jane," I sobbed, and even that made me feel weak and ashamed. "Am I so ugly and unbearable, Tom? Is that why Pa hates me so?"
"Naw," scoffed Tom, looking embarrassed, "it's somethin about yer hair he dislikes. Heard him tell Sarah that once. But I think yer hair is beautiful, really do. Not so hatefully red as mine, nor so pale as Our Jane's. Or so black and straight as Fanny's. You've got an angel look, even if it is black. I think you are, no doubt, the prettiest girl in all the hills, and Winnerrow as well."
There were many pretty girls in the hills and in the valley. I hugged Tom and turned away. What did Tom know about judging beautiful girls? Already I knew there was a world beyond the hills--a huge, wonderful world I was going to know one day.
"I'm sure glad I'm not a girl," shouted Tom the next day, shaking his head in wonder at a sister who went so easily from frowns to laughter, "made happy by silly compliments!"
"You didn't mean what you said last night?" I asked, crestfallen. "You're not gonna like me either?"
He whirled about and made an ugly face. "See--yer almost as pretty as this face of mine--and I'd marry ya when I grow up--if I could."
"You've been saying that since you learned how to talk."
"How would ya know?" he shouted back.
"Tom, you know Miss Deale doesn't want you to say yer or ya. You must remember your diction and your grammar. Say instead you are or you. You must learn to speak properly, Tom."
"Why?" he asked, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. He tugged the red ribbon from my ponytail and set my hair free to blow in the wind. "Nobody round here cares about grammar and diction, not Ma, not Pa, not anybody but ya and Miss Deale."
"And who do you love most in the whole wide world?" I asked.
"Love you first, Miss Deale second," Tom said with a laugh. "Can't have you, so settle for Miss Deale. I'm gonna order God t'stop her from growing old and ugly. Then I can catch up and marry her, and she'll read to me every book in the whole wide world."
"You'll read your own books, Thomas Luke Casteel!"
"Heavenly," (he was the only one to combine my two names in this flattering way) "the others in the school whisper about you, thinking you know more than you should at your age, and that's my age too. I don't know as much. How come?"
"I get the A's, and you get the B's and C's because you play hooky too much--and I don't play hooky at all." Tom was as thirsty for knowledge as I was, but he had to be like others of his sex once in a while, or fight them each day so they wouldn't call him teacher's pet. When he came back to the cabin from his wild days of fun in the woods or on the river, he'd spend twice as much of his free time poring over the books Miss Deale allowed us to bring home.
Other words Miss Deale had said to Tom and me lingered in my head, to comfort me when my pride was injured, my self-confidence wounded. "Look," she'd said, her pretty face smiling, "you and Tom are my very best students. The very kind every teacher hopes for."
The day Miss Deale gave us permission to take books home, she gave us the world and all it contained.
She gave us treasures beyond belief when she put in our hands her favorite classics. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, Moby Dick, A Tale of Two Cities, and three Jane Austen novels and they were all for me. On the days that followed Tom had his own selection, boy books, the Hardy Boys series, seven of them, and just when I'd begun to think he'd select nothing but fun books, he picked up a thick volume of Shakespeare, and that made Miss Deale's
blue eyes glow.
"You don't, perchance, hope to be a writer one day, do you, Tom?" she asked.
"Don't know yet what I want to be," he said in his most careful diction, nervous as he always was around someone as educated and pretty as Miss Marianne Deale. "Get all kinds of notions about being a pilot; then next day I want to be a lawyer so I can get to be president one day."
"President of our country, or of a corporation?"
He blushed and looked down at his large feet that kept shuffling about. How awful his shoes looked. They were too big, too old and worn. "I guess President Casteel would sound kinda stupid, wouldn't it?"
"No," she said seriously, "I think it sounds fine. You just set your mind on what you want to be, and take your time about it. If you work to obtain your goal, and realize from the very beginning that nothing valuable comes easily, and still forge ahead, without a doubt you'll reach your goal, whatever it is."
Because of Miss Marianne Deale's generosity (we learned later she put down her own money as deposit so we could take those books home), in books we had the chance to look at pictures of the ancient world, and in books we traveled together to Egypt and India. In books we lived in palaces and strode the narrow crooked lanes in London. Why, we both felt that when we got there eventually, we wouldn't even feel strange in a foreign land, because we'd been there before.
I loved historical novels that brought the past to life much better than history books did. Until I read a novel about George Washington I thought him a dull, stodgy sort of president . . . and to think he'd once been young and handsome enough to cause girls to think he was charming and sexy.
We read books by Victor Hugo, by Alexandre Dumas, and thrilled to know adventures like that were possible, even if they were horrible. We read classics, and we read junk; we read everything, anything that would take us out of that godforsaken cabin in the hills. Maybe if we'd had movies, our own TV set, and other forms of entertainment, we wouldn't have grown so fond of those books Miss Deale allowed us to take home. Or maybe it was only Miss Deale, being clever when she "allowed" only us to take home precious, expensive books that she said others wouldn't respect as much as we did.
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