Violet smiled when he blushed. It was apparent he hadn’t meant to speak his thoughts.
“Therefore, we will take a few moments right now, and I will answer any questions you might have for me,” she said. “Does that seem like a good start?”
Nods erupted, and Violet thought the children’s faces looked like little pansies nodding in the spring breeze.
“Good!” she giggled. “Now, what questions do you have for me? And raise your hands please.”
One older boy in the back of the room raised a hand. He sat slumped in his seat, a look of daring on his skeptical brow. “How old are ya, and how long you been teachin’?” he asked.
“I’ll be twenty-one in September, I’ve had my certificate for four years, and I’ve been teaching for almost as long,” Violet answered. “And, in return, may I ask your name, sir?”
The boy straightened at being called “sir.” Violet knew older boys struggled with enduring school, yet it was so very important that they received as much education as possible. Therefore, she had learned to appeal to the young male ego often.
The boy grinned and said, “Dayton Fisher. The sheriff’s my brother.”
“Oh!” Violet exclaimed. “I met Sheriff Fisher yesterday. It’s wonderful to meet you, Dayton. You’re far as handsome as your older brother.”
A broad smile spread across Dayton’s face as he said, “Thank ya, ma’am!”
Violet silently congratulated herself: one pupil in her pocket, fourteen more to go. “Another question, please,” she prodded.
A girl of perhaps seven or eight years, looking much in appearance like the small girl on the front row, raised a tentative hand.
“Yes?” Violet asked.
“My mama says you lived here when you were my age,” the girl said. “Is that true? Are you really from Rattler Rock?”
“I am,” Violet answered. “I was born in that little yellow house…the one just north of town. I lived here until I was almost twelve. Then my family moved back east. Perhaps I know your mother.”
“My mama is Ethel Gribbs,” the girl began.
“She’s my mama too!” the small, tawny-haired girl on the front row erupted. The younger girl folded her arms across her chest, frowned, and began to pout.
“So you two girls must be sisters,” Violet said. “We’ll have to talk about that later…for I’m sure you have so much to tell me.” This seemed to soothe the younger girl, and she smiled.
Violet returned her attention to the older girl. “Is…is Roy Gribbs your father then?”
The girl nodded and smiled, entirely delighted that Violet knew her father. A quick memory of Roy Gribbs and his girl, Ethel McCormick, sharing “lickery” kisses under Buddy Chisolm’s old cottonwood tree lingered in Violet’s mind. She giggled a little in her throat, delighted to know Roy and Ethel had wed.
“I remember your father and mother,” Violet said. “And what did they name their two girls?”
“Three!” the younger Gribbs girl corrected.
“Remember to raise your hand before answering a question, all right, sweetie?” Violet taught.
The little girl nodded, wildly agreeable.
Violet nodded to the older sister, encouraging her response.
“I’m Hester, and she’s Susan,” the older Gribbs girl said.
“I’m glad to meet you,” Violet said. “If I had taken a minute to gaze at you both a bit, I might have guessed Ethel was your mother. You both are quite as pretty as I remember her to be. Any other questions?” she asked.
An older girl timidly raised a hand. She had the blackest hair Violet had ever seen and beautiful blue eyes.
“Yes?” Violet urged.
“Have ya ever been married, Miss Fynne?” the girl asked.
“No,” Violet answered. “I haven’t.”
“Why not?” the girl asked.
Violet paused. She laced her fingers, letting her hands hang in front of her. “Hmm. This is when I have to make a decision,” she said aloud. “If I find the courage to tell you the truth, you might heckle me. If I don’t choose to tell you why, you’ll wonder if I’m keeping secrets…and then you might not trust me.”
“Tell us the truth!” a boy on the back row called. “We won’t heckle ya.”
Violet smiled at the dark-haired beauty of a girl who had posed the question. She thought for a moment that this girl looked the way Violet had always dreamt of looking, mesmerizing in her beauty. Girls, or women, who owned great beauty had always intimidated Violet, no matter how hard she tried not to let them.
“Very well,” Violet began, “I will tell you the truth.” She inwardly smiled as she saw all fifteen sets of eyes widen with anticipation. “Though it’s not a very interesting reason.” She inhaled a deep breath of truth-telling resolve and answered, “I suppose it’s not simply because I haven’t found the right man. It’s more likely for the fact I’m haunted by a love my heart cannot seem to release…for whatever reason. At least, not yet. I have had the opportunity to marry…but not the desire to wed those who have presented themselves, worthy though they may have been. Is that a good enough answer for you?”
The dark-haired girl nodded, smiled, and said, “I’m Maya Asbury, Miss Fynne. And thank you for being honest with me.”
“You’re welcome,” Violet said. “I find that honesty is usually the best road to travel.”
“Usually?” Dayton Fisher asked.
“Yes…usually. Another honest answer.”
Another older boy, sitting in the back and next to Dayton, raised a callused hand.
Violet smiled and nodded at the young man. “Yes?”
“Is it true you knew Stoney Wrenn before he was a womanizin’ ol’ crank?” the boy asked.
“He ain’t a womanizer!” Maya Asbury exclaimed. Turning around to glare at the boy, she added, “And he ain’t an ol’ crank!”
“He is too!” Dayton argued.
“No, he ain’t!” another young woman said. “Yer just jealous ’cause yer sweet on Maya’s sister and she’s sweet on Stoney Wrenn instead of you!”
“That ain’t true!” Dayton shouted. “Stoney Wrenn’s a womanizin’ ol’ bastard, and you know it, Maya!”
A general gasp echoed through the room.
“Now…now children,” Violet began—but the battling ranks were closing, boys on one side of the argument, girls on the other.
“Stoney Wrenn is the only true gentleman left in this town,” Maya said. “And if that ain’t obvious right this minute, I don’t know what else is. He’s a gentleman!”
“Like hell he is!” the older boy sitting next to Dayton hollered.
Violet put a thumb and an index finger to her mouth, her shrill whistle silencing the argument as all eyes turned to her once again.
“Now…boys,” she began, “let’s not use ‘hell’ in our schoolhouse…unless we’re reading from the Bible, of course. Let’s save that for other times. And…as far as Stoney Wrenn being a bastard…well, that’s a very derogatory term cruelly used to describe those innocent children who are born into this world of a father who was not wed to the innocent child’s mother at the time of the child’s birth. I happen to know that Stoney Wrenn was born to a mother and a father who were married. Therefore, he is not a bastard—a term I do not approve of even when the circumstances may warrant it as fact. So I do not want to hear that word in our schoolhouse again either. Very well?”
“Yes, Miss Fynne,” Dayton and his counterpart mumbled.
“Now, as for your question concerning my knowledge of Stoney Wrenn, I will be happy to answer it—as long as everyone agrees to keep their opinions and thoughts to themselves. All right?”
“Yes, Miss Fynne,” the students chimed.
Violet’s heart was hammering so hard within her bosom it was causing her ears to ring. Stoney Wrenn was alive! The knowledge caused a sensation of elation to well within her. Yet the argument—the boys hating the man Stoney Wrenn, the girls defending him—it was far
more than merely disturbing.
She looked out to the waiting faces, the children waiting for her answer. She could not let her thoughts linger, nor lose her composure in front of her pupils. “I did know Stoney Wrenn when I lived here as a child,” she began. “In truth, we were fast friends. He was a good, kind boy…and I sorely missed him when I was forced to leave Rattler Rock.”
“I heard his pa beat on him somethin’ terrible,” Dayton said.
“Well, maybe he was all right as a boy…but he’s a mean ol’ thing now!” Dayton’s friend said. “He’d as soon shoot ya for settin’ foot on his property as look at ya.”
Violet could see the fury in Maya Asbury’s eyes, so she smiled at the girl—a smile of calming reassurance. “I believe I’ve answered your question, sir,” Violet said to the boy next to Dayton. “Would you be so kind as to let me know your name in return?”
“Hagen Webster,” the boy said.
“Thank you, Hagen,” she said. Violet did not want to begin the lessons with her students at odds. Therefore, she knew other questions must be posed, questions that would settle the ruffled tempers of the older boys and girls.
“Another question, please,” she offered, smiling as if nothing at all had ruffled her own emotions.
A younger boy, sitting near Maya, raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“If’n you was born in Rattler Rock,” the boy began, “did ya ever see the light?”
“I beg your pardon?” Violet asked, though her soul whispered that she already knew what he referred to.
“The light of the lovers’ moon, out at the ol’ Chisolm place, the one out there on Stoney Wrenn’s property,” the boy explained. “Did ya ever see that ghost light?”
Violet’s mind was whirling! The old Chisolm place? Stoney Wrenn’s property? The light? Inwardly she scolded herself for vowing to be so honest in answering the questions the children posed. Yet the lure of learning more about Stoney was too great to refuse.
“The old Chisolm property?” she asked. “Do…do you mean the fancy old house Mr. Buddy Chisolm owned? The one that was supposed to be haunted? Does Stoney Wrenn own that house now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy answered. “He owns all that property that old man used to own. That includes the ol’ Chisolm place with the ghosts. Did ya ever see the light?”
Violet’s thoughts were cast to the day before—to the moment she’d been kneeling under the old cottonwood tree on Buddy Chisolm’s property. In her mind, she heard the click of the rifle hammer, heard the angry voice informing her she was trespassing. Had it been Stoney Wrenn himself who had thrown her off the place? Had she truly come so close to him—and not even known it?
“Well, did ya?” The young boy’s question brought Violet’s attention back to the schoolroom.
“Yes,” she answered. “I did.” The honest answer had escaped her mouth before she’d had time to stop it.
“You did?” the children gasped. Immediately Violet’s pupils began whispering among themselves.
Violet sighed, knowing there would certainly be a price to pay for telling the truth this time. “Yes, I did,” Violet repeated. “And now it’s my turn, I believe. What is your name, young man?”
The boy who had asked the question about the light in the old Chisolm house sat mouth gaping open in astonishment. “Uh…Phelps Pierson, Miss Fynne,” the boy answered.
“Phelps, is it?” Violet said, forcing a smile. “I like that name. I’ve never heard it as a first name before.”
The boy smiled, and three more hands shot up.
“Before we continue,” Violet began, “might I ask a question or two? I promise to answer yours again. But might you let me ask a few concerning Rattler Rock—the way it may have changed since I lived here so long ago?”
The children nodded.
Violet inhaled deeply. She must be wary—ask questions that might glean information about Stoney without being obvious as to where her interest truly lay. “I had an old friend who lived here, someone I adored,” she said. “From what I gather, I think he has passed on. Can anyone tell me exactly what happened to Mr. Chisolm?”
Dayton Fisher’s hand was the first one up.
“Yes, Dayton?”
“He died. About four years ago,” Dayton said. “That’s why Stoney Wrenn owns all that property now. Old Buddy Chisolm left everything he owned in the world to Stoney Wrenn…for helpin’ him out for so long, I guess.”
Maya’s hand rose.
“Maya?” Violet urged.
“Stoney Wrenn took care of Buddy Chisolm for a few years before Mr. Chisolm died,” she explained. “He took care of his property and stock and the old man himself. That’s why Mr. Chisolm left everything to Stoney. He didn’t have any children of his own…just Stoney Wrenn.”
“Thank you, Maya…Dayton,” Violet said. Yet she wasn’t finished—she wasn’t finished in keeping the children’s thoughts away from Stoney Wrenn. “Do any of you know how Mr. Chisolm died?”
Hagen raised his hand.
“Yes, Hagen,” Violet said, nodding to the boy.
“Peaceful, in his sleep,” Hagen answered. “My pa was out at the ol’ Chisolm place helpin’ Stoney Wrenn with some fencin’. They went into the ol’ shack Buddy Chisolm lived in, and he was dead. He’d just gone to sleep and never woke up.”
“That soothes my heart, Hagen. Thank you,” Violet said, tears welling in her eyes.
Another girl—seated next to Maya—raised her hand.
“Yes,” Violet said, nodding.
“So…you knew Buddy Chisolm?” the girl asked.
“I did,” Violet answered. “He was a great friend to me. He used to buy pieces of hard butterscotch candy at Mr. Deavers’s store—kept them in his pocket—and gave them to me whenever he saw me.” The children giggled, and Violet decided they should know—know that Buddy Chisolm was a great man. She sighed and continued, “Mr. Chisolm used to tell the best stories I’ve ever heard—stories about the war, about battle…” She paused as the boys smiled. “And about love,” she added and smiled as the girls all smiled. “He even told me the story of the light in the house on his property.”
“He told you himself?” a little girl on the front row next to Susan Gribbs asked.
Violet nodded. “He did. And maybe I’ll tell it to you one day…just the way he told it to me. Would you like that?”
The little girl nodded with delighted anticipation.
Violet turned her attention back to the girl who had originally asked her about Buddy. “And now…will you tell me your name? Now that I’ve told you about Buddy Chisolm?” she asked.
“Beth Deavers,” the girl said, smiling. “That’s my sister, Nina,” she added, pointing to the little girl on the front row next to Susan. “Our grandpa owns the store, the one where Mr. Chisolm used to buy butterscotch!”
“How wonderful!” Violet exclaimed. “I feel I know you already.”
Susan Gribbs raised her hand.
“Yes, Susan?” Violet couldn’t help but smile at the little girl. She looked exactly like an angel.
“We ain’t doin’ no letters or numbers, Miss Fynne,” Susan said.
“That’s right, Susan,” Violet said. “But I still have six more pupils who get to ask a question of me. So let’s allow them their turn, and then we’ll get to our lessons. Is that all right?”
Susan nodded, obviously delighted with Violet’s answer.
A boy perhaps nine or ten years old raised his hand.
“Yes?” Violet smiled. The children were responding to her as she’d only dreamt they would.
“When will ya tell us about the time you seen the light of the lovers’ moon?” he asked.
“Is that what they call the light at the old Chisolm place now?” Violet asked.
The boy nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am. And I’m Nate McGrath.”
“Well, Nate,” Violet said, “I’ll tell you what—after we’re done with questions, if we get our arithm
etic finished before lunch, we’ll go down to the creek, and I’ll tell you all the story. Would that be all right?”
She giggled when the children nodded, again looking like a garden of pansy faces ruffled by the breeze. Violet found her heart felt light—yet heavy in the same moment. The children were wonderful! So many different personalities—such young, inquisitive, imaginative minds. Yet her thoughts lingered on what she’d learned of Stoney. A womanizing old crank? Surely not! Still, she remembered the angry man who told her to get off his property—the angry man who had held a Winchester rifle aimed at her head. From what the children had revealed, that man had been Stoney Wrenn himself, and that man was certainly not the boy she remembered. But how could it have been? Ten years could change anything—especially people.
Another girl raised her hand, and Violet nodded to her.
“Where did you live?” the girl asked. “After you left Rattler Rock?”
“Albany, New York,” Violet said. “We moved to Albany. It’s very far away.” She frowned a moment. “Very far.”
❦
There had barely been enough time for the arithmetic lesson before lunch. In fact, Violet had shortened her planned lesson. She loathed arithmetic, and knowing she would have to see the lesson into the afternoon were she to present it in fullness, she shortened it rather than prolonging her own misery—and that of her pupils.
The Light of the Lovers' Moon Page 3
