Chapter Nine

So Halloween came and went in Franklin Hill and November began its descent toward winter. Grace began her work at the school administration office, sorting through the jumbled mess of paper alongside Homer Emerson. Bernadine Turner, the school secretary, was employed part-time and nearing retirement. Bernadine gave Grace a warm welcome but also made it clear she was on her own with both the computer and any paperwork generated by Homer Emerson.

“Mr. Emerson tries, but he just can’t handle it all. Now, with all those new federal guidelines they put on us, he has too much to take care of as it is, poor soul.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Bernadine. That’s what I’m here for,” Grace tried to soothe Bernadine’s frowning, worried expression and packed her briefcase to take home as much work as possible.

One thing Grace did have to thank Bernadine for was her constant vigilance. She was an invaluable mix of watchdog and security guard where Nola Brayton’s presence was concerned. Grace noticed that whenever Nola appeared in the front office, Bernadine would rise gracefully and close office doors. “On a conference call with the State Board,” was one excuse. “Dealing with a truant,” fell from Bernadine’s lips another day. After Nola’s third attempt to see Grace was blocked once again with a firm smile by Bernadine, Grace had tried to thank Bernadine. But the expression on Bernadine’s face make it clear she would brook no conversation. No bones about it, Bernadine felt about Nola just as Grace did.

After a week of sitting alone in her office, in private conference with Homer Emerson’s mountains of paper, Grace was feeling a sense of satisfaction that she could so easily and efficiently deal with the forms and filing which had paralyzed the superintendent of schools and principal of Franklin Hill Elementary. She had succeeded in bulldozing her way through Homer’s immovable object. Letters were written, responses were sent to concerned parents. She made repeated phone calls, lists were started and finished. She sorted, then shredded, then filed, working with a vengeance on the backlog of paper. In the course of one week Grace had indeed brought order to chaos in the office. She grasped firmly what she was doing, how she could make it better and exactly how the school office worked. And then the peaceful quiet of paper rustling and filing came to a halt.

She could hear Bernadine’s voice through the open door, stress radiating from her responses.

“I understand, Mrs. Semple, I really do . . . but she is only in first grade. Usually Mr. Emerson,—I understand Mrs. Semple, but Mr. Emerson— Yes, she’s here and I’m sure she would help you. But Ms. Phillips has only been with us—Yes.”

Grace looked out the door at Bernadine and nodded her head. Whatever would come, this was her job and she would handle it. Bernadine looked steadily at Grace for a long moment, pursed her lips, and then turned back to the telephone, “Send her up, Mrs. Semple. Send her up now.”

Bernadine slammed the phone down none too gently. “It’s the Rodwell girl again, Ms. Phillips. She’s dirty and—” Bernadine took a breath, searching for the words “—and she smells. Mrs. Semple,” stress on the name of the culprit, “doesn’t want her in the classroom with the other children.” Apparently Bernadine’s consternation lay not with the child but with the teacher.

A minute later, the doors to the office swung open and the dark-haired shoplifter from the IGA appeared, and halted, like a deer in a clearing, wide-eyed, staring at Grace.

“This is Gina Rodwell, Miss Phillips.” So it wasn’t Gina P. It was Gina R. So much for Homer Emerson’s handwriting.

Gina’s dark hair was a tirade of tangles and snarls, her plaid skirt, pinned together with a diaper-size safety pin, hung open slightly on the side, rent apart and pieced back together so many times the faded blue and red of the tartan print pulled threadbare, barely hanging on. The same torn tennis shoes that Grace had seen at the park showed grimy bare toes peeking through. The smell that followed the child through the door could only mean weeks-old undergarments. Grace tried to keep her face impassive and looked at the child.

“Well, we’ve met before haven’t we?” She put her hand out to the girl, offering to shake hands. “I’m Grace Phillips, Gina, nice to meet you.”

“Miss Phillips, Gina” corrected Bernadine, but not unkindly. She cast a look and inclined her head toward Grace’s office.

Grace took Bernadine’s hint and smiled at the girl who was staring at her offered hand like it was a snake, “Why don’t you go have a seat in my office, Gina? I’ll be right with you. There’s a Highlights magazine in there on the table.”

“Am I in trouble?” Gina’s voice was the familiar whispered squeak.

“No ma’am, you are not in trouble or I would look much, much, meaner,” Grace exaggerated the word for comic effect and added a smile. “So scoot on in there, I will be right with you.”

Bernadine’s voice dropped. “Has anyone told you about the clothes closet?” Bernadine hissed, “Some of the church ladies and I keep clothes for kids who need them. We keep a closet back behind the teacher’s lounge.”

Grace grabbed this idea with both hands. Thank God for Bernadine Turner and the Church Ladies. “What size do you think? She’d be a six, I think, maybe a 6X?”

“Too little meat on those bones. But I think a six will work.” Bernadine was already out of her chair.

“Look for shoes, Bernadine. And socks if we have them!”

The secretary was already trotting down the echoing hallway toward the teacher’s lounge with all the speed her sixty-year-old bones could muster.

Grace braced herself and walked back into her office, the aroma of unwashed underwear filling the air.

Grace soaked that night in her deep claw-footed tub and thanked God for the blessings of hot water, bubbles, electric light and central heating. A good meal before a blazing fire had offered further comfort for which to be grateful. That day had been a rush headlong, a crash without protection into the reality of rural life and the poverty surrounding Franklin Hill.

Grace had blanketed the dirty child’s worry about handing over her clothes. “My goodness, that skirt has about given up. What a shame. And it’s getting so cold. This was very nice when it was new, I’ll bet.” She admired the ragged, torn and rent garment. “But we surely have something you can borrow. I had to go get a sweater myself, just this morning. Thank goodness we can all trade clothes when we need too. If you or your brothers or sisters have something to give, you just bring it in and they can borrow when they need to as well. Now, would you like to wash up a little before we put on these clean jeans? Well look, Miss Bernadine has found some socks and shoes. That’s fantastic!”

Gina’s blue eyes followed Grace, uncertain, but she put out a hand to accept the small package of Wiggles underwear from Bernadine along with a sweater and a pair of jeans with glittery designs on the pockets.

Bernadine graciously assessed the neatly folded, sky-blue sweater she passed over to the dark-haired girl, who tracked it with a hungry, anxious gaze, “Gina Rodwell, I believe that matches your eyes. It will do nicely.”

Gina stood at the desk, looking down, after her transformation, scuffing the slightly large shoes on the floor. Something was on her mind.

“Yes, Gina?”

“Miss Phillips? What . . . what’ll I tell Mama about these clothes?”

“Tell her the truth, Gina.” Grace was smiling but firm. “The skirt was torn, but it served you well until today. At Franklin Hill we are all trading clothes to give them a good long life, just like your mama does at home. I’m sure your mama’s busy. So she’ll be glad you were able to stay in school today and keep studying when your poor old skirt didn’t make it, isn’t that right?”

The head stayed bowed, a small black-haired wall facing her.

“Gina,” she added “what could you bring in to share? Can you think of anything?”

Gina looked up at last, her fine feathered eyebrows creased. Grace realized with a start that Gina was a beautiful child beneath the ever-present grime of poverty with a mother too tired to be sure she was clean. “Mama’s too busy to fix our clothes most of the time so Derry tries to do it. But he can’t use a needle and thread so good, he’s only ten.” Gina paused and then her eyes lit up, reminding Grace of cartoon characters with lightbulbs over their heads. “Derry’s got some boots! Nobody can wear them. Too wide for our skinny feet, mama says.”

“Boots! Phenomenal! Bring them in, someone will be happy to have those boots, I’m sure. Maybe I could wear them!” Grace thought she saw a shadow of a smile beneath a fringe of black lashes.

After a moment, Gina squared her shoulders, then looked concerned. “You won’t tell Miss Bernadine about—the other day? She was so nice to me.” The squeak returned.

“No Gina. I won’t. Everyone makes mistakes. And everyone should get a second chance, kiddo. Everyone. Just remember what I told you.” She noted Gina touched her small bottom pensively, no doubt remembering the whipping she had received. Evidently Mrs. Rodwell was still parenting in some form. “And Gina, if you want to help your Mama and Derry, you make it your job to be sure all the kids take a bath at night. That’s something you can do for your mother that doesn’t cost a thing.” Gina blinked and nodded.

Bernadine’s brusque demeanor hid a gentle heart. She discreetly bagged the girl’s clothes to drop in the dumpster. Grace saw her take three Hershey’s kisses from her desk drawer and tuck them it into the pocket of the blue sweater. She then took out a worn black coin purse and removed a dollar bill. It would be wealth to the little girl from the wrong side of the tracks in Franklin Hill.