He inserted them again—success! Someone rapped on the door.
Mary Anne—a new, improved Mary Anne—waited on his doorstep.
* * *
The door opened, and Wallace peeked out. Bleary-eyed, with dark circles under his eyes, stubble growing into a thin beard on his chin...all Mary Anne’s nervousness about seeing him again disappeared upon first sight.
Without waiting for his invitation, she bustled into the cabin. The single neat spot, three stacks of paper on the low-lying bookshelf, only emphasized the chaos he had made of the cabin. Dishes were stacked by the sink, and his clothes littered the floor. His bed was rumpled, as if he wasn’t sleeping well. She decided to ignore the mess.
Instead she set the shopping bags on the table. “Here are the items you needed. Clarinda was busy, and asked me to bring them over.”
He lifted those tired eyebrows in question but didn’t say anything.
“So where do you want me to put the food?” Her voice trailed away as she looked at the items filling the single shelf devoted to food storage. She’d had enough. She’d clean the dishes and organize the space before she did anything else.
Of course the stove wasn’t lit. During summer heat, who would light it except for cooking? Sighing, she stepped outside to gather some kindling and started the fire so she could heat dishwater.
“You don’t have to do that.” Wallace’s voice sounded muffled as he checked out the food bags. “Mmm, these muffins are good.”
Mary Anne smiled. She had baked the muffins herself. “There’s fresh butter in there, too. Go ahead, eat what you want. The dishes shouldn’t take too long.” I hope.
He ate the muffin and munched on cantaloupe. “As long as you’re here.” He coughed, as if a seed had gone done his throat, and, after a deep breath, coughed again. Mary Anne poured him a cup of water, and he drank it deeply.
More than a seed was causing the cough. “Spit it out.”
“I would love for you to look at the manuscript.” The words rushed from his mouth. Having gotten out that much, he slowed down. “I need someone to proofread it for me. You know the material better than anyone else. You’re the perfect one to help me, if you’re willing...”
Mary Anne froze behind the sink as the meaning of his words sank in. Act natural. Her mouth hurt as she forced it into a smile. Instead of answering, she took her time stacking the dishes.
“Well, what do you say?”
More than anything, Mary Anne wanted to give him the answer he wanted. “Doesn’t the publisher do that for you?” The shriveled skin on her dishwater hands only reflected what she felt on the inside.
“Not exactly. But don’t worry. I can go over it myself.”
She turned around, but he had buried his nose in the shopping bags again.
“What are these doing here?” Wallace pulled out the colored pencils she had chosen with such care. “Where are my regular pencils?” He emptied the bag, but she knew he wouldn’t find what he wanted. “These colors are great, but the editor told me he couldn’t use colored sketches in the book. He asked me to redo them in pencil. I’m sure I told Clarinda that.” Rifling through the bag again, he found the shopping list where it rested on the bottom.
Mary Anne grabbed the edge of the sink, willing her wilting legs to keep her upright.
“No, she wrote down No. 2 pencils. Why did you buy me colored pencils instead?” He sounded more curious than annoyed.
Her legs gave up the battle, and she started to collapse.
* * *
Wallace hurried around the table to prevent Mary Anne from falling and helped her to the chair. “Darling, what’s wrong?” The endearment slipped out, but he didn’t care.
She opened her eyes, blue darkened almost to midnight with confusion, and her mouth opened in a small O. “I....fainted?”
He nodded. “Do you want to lie down while I fetch Dr. Landrum? You shouldn’t have come out here if you’re feeling sick.”
A grimace crossed her face. “I’m not sick.”
Wallace didn’t believe her. “At least let me fix you some tea.” The water in the kettle came to a quick boil. She sat without speaking, hardly moving.
“A muffin, maybe?” He handed one to her before stirring sugar into the tea.
She ate the muffin one slow bite at a time. Color returned to her face but the haunted look stayed firmly in place.
“What is troubling you? Don’t worry about the pencils. I’ll get some the next time I go to town.” He smiled. “The colors you chose were a perfect match.”
“Oh, Wallace.” Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand.” She took the shopping list and held it, upside down.
An improbable suspicion forced itself into Wallace’s mind. It couldn’t be. But it explained her strange behavior today. He settled into his chair, examining his hypothesis from different angles. Mary Anne’s intelligence had made itself clear. But this other...was it possible?
The possibilities running through Wallace’s mind kept him rooted to his chair for long minutes. Every one of the endangered birds they had observed could have flown through the windows without him noticing. Noises, sights, smells, all sank from his consciousness as he sat lost in thought.
Until one unexpected, unwanted sound intruded. A soft voice said, “I’m so sorry.” The door whispered open and closed. As soon as Mary Anne left, Wallace felt her absence, and he came to full alert.
She had brought him food and washed his dishes, taking care of his needs. In return, he had ignored her pain, her embarrassment. He hadn’t even thanked her for coming to the cabin with food and supplies. He stared at the paper ready for him to slip into the typewriter, ready for a start on the next page. The book would have to wait.
Whether he should seek out Aunt Flo or Mary Anne, he couldn’t decide. After packing a few things in an overnight bag, he headed out the door. When he reached the road, God would have to guide him to town or to the farm.
As he neared the cemetery, he heard the sound of soft weeping, and his decision was made. He sped up his steps and jumped over the fence into the graveyard.
Mary Anne huddled in front of a granite stone. Her fingers ran over the letters etched into the face of the marker. She traced it, twice, without looking at him. “I think that’s a C.”
“It is.” Wallace perched beside her. “My grandmother, Clara Farley Tuttle. Born March 1, 1840. Died September 18, 1924. She was a feisty lady to the very end.”
She twisted around, pulling her knees toward her chest. “I should have told you before. That I can’t read.”
Wallace shook his head. “Why should you? I made assumptions, that’s all.”
She dug her fingers into the grass, as if ready to rip it up by the roots. Tension screamed from her bunched fingers, the way she held on to the slender blades as if they held the key to her continued existence.
Her head still bent toward the ground, she said, “You don’t realize how lucky you have it. Your grandmother started a school. All of you are teachers or went to college or read the latest books...You’re all so much smarter than I am.”
“Absolutely not.” The words burst from Wallace. “It’s true, our family treasures book learning. But I have watched you all this summer. You absorb information like a sponge, turning into an encyclopedia of knowledge. I don’t know anyone who can quote scripture the way you can, not even our pastor. And the way you understand the birds.” He pointed to a V of geese heading south overhead. “I thought you were taking books home and studying up on birds at night.”
“You’re a good teacher.”
He snorted. “It has little to do with me and everything to do with what you taught yourself, just by observing the birds and their habits. You noticed everything—what they eat, where they live, even which parent does what with the e
ggs. A lot of what I’m putting in the book are things you showed me.”
She hugged her knees to her chest and lowered her head into the circle of her arms. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” The words came out muffled.
Wallace had spent enough time around women to know there were some arguments no amount of logic could win. This was one of them. Help, Lord. The Holy Ghost understood the things her heart couldn’t put into words. Maybe He’d give Wallace some insight.
Wallace couldn’t imagine a child growing up without learning how to read. If she couldn’t go to school, why didn’t her father teach her at home? Maybe he couldn’t read, either. The opposite was true in his family. The family Bible held a century and a half of births, marriages and deaths, testifying to literacy back to his earliest American ancestors. “I’m sorry.” That seemed like a safe place to start.
“It’s too late for me now.” Tears robbed her words of clarity. “I won’t go and sit with a class of children Arthur’s age.”
“I wouldn’t either, if that was the only choice. But I have an idea. You know about the seminary, of course.”
Her laughter was forced. “The one every female member of the Tuttle family has attended for the past sixty years? That your grandmother founded? I’ve seen the school, almost the biggest place in town.”
“Grandma Clara inherited the house from her grandfather, the town banker. He thought bigger was better, and Grandma thought it was the perfect place for a school.” His mind seized upon an idea. “It’s so big, it’s nearly impossible to keep up with the housework. During the school year, the students do regular chores, but over the summer it’s different.” He snapped his fingers. “In fact, right now Aunt Flo’s making herself crazy, getting everything ready for the new school year. She could use an extra pair of hands to help.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to help.” Again, that rueful laugh. “At least I’ve learned how to clean.”
Wallace winced at the bitterness in her voice. Did she see herself as someone destined to nothing higher than cleaning other people’s messes? With a rush, he remembered his rude oversight. Good going, Tuttle. “I’ll say. You did an amazing job back in my cabin. I don’t think the dishes were that clean when I moved in.”
A smile flickered around her mouth.
“And I should have spoken up while you were still there, but when I realized how blind I had been, I was speechless.” Was Aunt Flo the answer? He hoped so. “Aunt Flo can be a bit of a martinet. But she’s good at heart. And she’s a grand teacher.”
Mary Anne sank back a little at those words.
He rushed on. “Only if you’re interested, of course. But you’ve got two weeks before school starts. At the rate you learn, you might be ready to tackle Shakespeare by then.”
She tucked her knees underneath and pushed up from the ground. “Very well. If your aunt is ready to take on a student my age, I’m willing to learn.”
Chapter 14
By Monday morning after her discussion with Wallace, Mary Anne had moved into the female seminary. Eager to start her new adventure, she woke up early on the first day. She stretched her arms over her head and kicked her legs against the bed with childlike abandon. Working, living, at a school earning cash money and, God be praised, learning how to read at long last.
Not that Mary Anne needed money, except as an excuse for having money to spend. The Tuttles probably knew she had money, from the way Winnie had commented on the cost of her Victoria coupe. Reluctantly, Mary Anne had left the car at the farm. She didn’t expect anyone from New York to search for her in this town, but the coupe was as good as a lighthouse for attracting attention. She needed to trade it in for something less conspicuous before she started driving again.
She’d give the Tuttles every penny she had to be able to read. Only, as with the times she had offered payment for truck repairs and room and board, they had turned her down. When she persisted, Clarinda said something about learning how to receive being harder than learning how to give.
As far as Mary Anne could see, the Tuttles had never had much experience in learning how to receive, either. They excelled in giving, however.
For now, she’d let them. Someday, when she was far away, she’d send a check or something.
Far away. Mary Anne needed to leave this fall, before the first snowfall. If she didn’t, she’d be stuck in Vermont through winter. In that case, she didn’t know if she would ever work up the courage to leave.
Outside the window, the sky turned gray. A glance at the clock revealed the hour: six o’clock. Even before she could read the numbers, she had learned how to tell time by the position of the hands on the dial.
Six was a good hour to get up. She put on blue jeans. She didn’t think Aunt Flo would object, since today was a work day. Shaking her head, she knew she wouldn’t find it so easy to decide what to wear if she expected to see Wallace today.
After a brief knock, Florence Tuttle came in. She’d invited Mary Anne to call her “Aunt Flo,” but Mary Anne felt uncomfortable using the title when she was working for her. With a backbone as stiff as a grave marker, and hair as prickly as a hedge hog, dressed in clothes about a decade out of style, glasses perched on her nose, Miss Tuttle looked like the perfect school matron.
Winnie complained about her sometimes, but Clarinda said she was only as stern as she needed to be. She reminded Mary Anne of President Theodore Roosevelt when he said to “speak softly and carry a big stick. You will go far.” “Aunt Flo” would work in private, Mary Anne decided, but she’d call her “Miss Tuttle” in front of the students. Right now she looked like a Miss Tuttle, pursing her lips as she considered Mary Anne’s attire. “Blue jeans.” She said it like a pejorative, as if she had never seen a woman in blue jeans before or, if she did, the trousers put the lady in the same unflattering category as flappers.
“I thought since I was cleaning...” Mary Anne jumped to the closet and reached for one of her darker skirts. “But I can change in a snap.”
Aunt Flo shook a finger at her. “Your choice of clothing does not concern me, except when it reflects on the seminary. Let me see.” She studied the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. “Hmm, you have good taste in clothes.”
Thanks to Clarinda.
The administrator pulled out the dress that had belonged to Mary Anne’s mother. “This one suits you well.”
Mary Anne nodded.
“I think it best if you have clothing similar to what the students wear. I usually wear dark-colored skirts myself, similar to the blue wool jersey you have hanging here. I see you have black as well. Perhaps a dark green and another one in brown, as well.” Aunt Flo went through her blouses, setting aside ones of neutral, mostly boring colors. “These will do. Our girls wear jumpers made of dark blues and greens, like the mountains Vermont is known for, with white blouses. Of course, when you go to church or into town, you may choose something different to wear.”
That was a reasonable request. Mary Anne had worn a uniform before, back when she worked as a waitress. “I’ll get fabric for the skirts on Saturday morning.”
Aunt Flo started to speak—to offer to pay for the skirts, Mary Anne guessed—then hesitated. “If you like, you can take the afternoon to go shopping.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Very well. This morning I will show you the rooms that need to be freshened before school opens. After you return from your shopping, we can begin your studies, if you wish.”
Mary Anne’s heart about jumped out of her chest. Studies. What a fancy word to use about teaching a grown woman her ABCs. What if she discovered she was too old to learn, after all? “I’d like that.”
After a hearty breakfast, Aunt Flo took Mary Anne to the second floor. “We need these rooms cleaned first. Our teachers will be arriving early next week, so we want to be prep
ared for them.”
Teachers. Of course. “How many people are on your staff?” The house was empty except for the two of them.
“Did you think I run the place all by myself?” Aunt Flo huffed, a sound that matched her prim exterior. “We have five professors, including myself, but they have the summer off, and the cook and her husband.”
“How many students?”
“We have two dozen girls who are completing their secondary education, and two dozen more who attend classes to prepare for entrance to the university. Several of our graduates have received advanced placement in college after their time here.” Pride rang in Aunt Flo’s voice.
So many years of school. It seemed like children would have learned all there was to learn by eighth grade, and these women attended classes for twelve years and more. Mary Anne couldn’t imagine it.
Maybe after her first lesson today, she’d get so excited about it that she’d still be studying fourteen years later.
* * *
Wallace rolled the last sheet of typing paper out of his typewriter. He had met his goal: to finish typing the manuscript by the end of August. The birds of Vermont were Wallace’s love, but this book was his labor. He didn’t know if he’d ever want to try it again.
He had inserted blank pages where he wanted to include sketches of the birds. His book included nine endangered birds, but he wanted to include more pictures than that.
Over the course of the spring and summer, he had filled four sketchbooks with pictures. He glanced at the wall, where Mary Anne’s picture of the titwillow hung. If she would let him, he’d include it in the book as a way to thank her. She wouldn’t appreciate it, though.
He picked up a new yellow pencil and sharpened with a mechanical sharpener that had become popular about the time he started school. His father told him he was lucky he didn’t have to whittle the wood with his pen knife. For school work, he kept his pencils as sharp as possible, but for sketching, he needed different thicknesses of lead. In addition to the different grades of pencils he bought at the store, he had used his Swiss army knife to pare others as needed. The sharpener worked well for the No. 2 pencils. He cranked it through until the lead was so thin it broke, and he had to work the machine again. There. The lightest touch of a pencil could suggest the wispy white feathers around the bald eagle’s neck. Searching through his set of pencils, he chose one to suggest dashes of color among the bird’s feathers.
Hidden Dreams Page 9
