Saturday was also cold and rainy. I hand-washed my laundry and strung lines around my house to dry it. In the afternoon I had to haul more wood. It was a wet, muddy job, and I didn’t enjoy it.
Sunday, too, was wet and miserable. Few people turned out for the afternoon service. Lars came over early to start the fire in the school stove. It did not smoke. Those who gathered were glad for its warmth and cheeriness. As previously arranged with Mr. Dickerson, I welcomed the children into the teacherage where we had a special Bible story, so I did not have much opportunity to visit with the other worshipers. Mr. Delaney was there with his mother, a very sweet-looking person, and when I met her I realized from whom Mr. Delaney had inherited his warm, friendly smile. Phillip was still home-bound with his cold, so his mother had stayed at home with him.
After the service and my class was over, I escorted the children to the school, bid farewell to the worshipers, checked the stove in the classroom and sloshed home through the puddles. The rain had now stopped, and the sun was reappearing. Soon the earth was steaming from the heat. Fortunately, it looked as if our present spell of bad weather would be short-lived.
By midweek the yard and roads were dry again. On Wednesday our other “sun” returned; Andy was back. The whole class cheered for him as he entered the schoolyard. I was just going out to ring the bell when he appeared, and I must admit that I, too, wished to cheer when I saw his sparkling eyes. His joy at being back lit his whole face.
By midmorning I could tell that something was very wrong, but Andy shook his head when I asked him if he’d like to rest his head on his arms. By afternoon the pain dulled his eyes, and even resting his head didn’t help. I called Teresa aside and suggested that she take him home.
“He shouldn’t come,” she said anxiously, “but he been so sad, an’ he coax an’ coax.”
We bundled him up. They didn’t live far from the school, but I was anxious as I let him go, praying that he would be able to make it home.
Just as Andy and Teresa moved out the door, Carl Clark’s hand shot up. He didn’t even wait to be recognized, something that I usually insisted upon. “Teacher,” he said quickly, “how ’bout I go along? Andy might need some carryin’.”
There was real concern in Carl’s eyes, and my appreciation and relief must have shown on my face. Silently I nodded my permission.
The entire class watched the three of them leave. The silence was broken by Else’s whisper, “He’s real sick, ain’t he, Teacher?”
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I could only nod. I even ignored the “ain’t.”
“His folks should’ve taken him to the doctor again,” Mindy Blake commented.
“They ain’t got no money.” This from Lars, my star grammar student, his frustration apparent in his voice and choice of words.
“Then we should help them,” offered the shy Olga. She rarely spoke out in class.
“Us? How?” replied many voices.
Olga withdrew in embarrassment. Her seat mate, Maudie Clark, put a protective hand on her arm and then spoke boldly. “It wasn’t a dumb idea. We could, you know. We could bring our nickels and dimes or pennies even—an’ do special things at home so our pa’s might give us more money. An’ then we could put it together an’—”
“Nickels an’ pennies don’t pay a doctor none,” this from Mike Clark.
“They’d help.” Maudie wasn’t going to back down. I decided to get things back under control.
“I’m glad that in your concern for Andy, you’re willing to do something to help him, and I think that it’s a good idea—and a workable one. I’m sure that there is some way that we can find . . .” My words hung for a moment. It did sound possible. I just wasn’t sure yet how to go about it.
“I want you to think about this tonight—all of you. What might we be able to do? Ask your parents for ideas. And tomorrow when we come, we’ll discuss our ideas and see what we can do.”
All of the faces before me brightened. We settled back to our studies, but I often caught pensive looks and muffled whispers; I knew that thoughts were still on Andy and a possible way that we might help in getting him the medical attention he needed.
———
I still had not solved my mice problem; my declaration of war daily seemed more impossible. The mice were not content with peaceful co-existence or with taking over my entire cupboard, having driven me to my trunks; but they wanted the rest of my house as well. Every time I cleaned up after them, my anger increased.
On Friday morning it was apparent that they had enjoyed a good night’s romp. For the first time I found evidence that they had joined me in my bedroom. This was too much. Already in a foul mood after seeing where they had been, I went to the top drawer of my chest to get a fresh handkerchief. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the drawer had been open slightly because of a glove that had caught. Meticulous about closing drawers, I wondered how this one had missed my attention.
I laid the glove properly in its section of the drawer and reached in the handkerchief box. Before my hand touched one of them, my eyes flashed me a message. Something was wrong—seriously wrong, and then I realized what had happened. The mice had been at my handkerchiefs! With a cry I pulled them out and stared at them. Pretty lace and embroidery had been reduced to chewed fragments. My favorite handkerchief, with the daintiest lace that I had ever seen, had suffered the worst. It was beyond repair, and frustrated tears gathered in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks as I looked at it. Angrily I returned the box to the drawer, slammed the drawer shut and marched off to the classroom. This time the mice had gone too far!
After class I planned to call on the school-board chairman, Mr. Laverly, and insist that someone, somehow, dispose of those despicable rodents. I would refuse to live in the teacherage until something was done.
———
By the time the students had arrived, I had managed to quiet my anger. We began our day by saluting our flag and reading some verses of scripture. I realized as the class took their seats that it would not do to go directly to our lessons. Their excited faces told me that first we must discuss what we as a school could do to help Andy.
Many suggestions were presented, some to .cheers and others to groans. I listed them all carefully on the board. I wrote in large letters, realizing that Tim Mattoch had an eye problem and could hardly see the board. His parents could not afford to get him glasses, so Tim struggled on, squinting and squirming, often having to approach the board so that he might make out a letter or a number.
There were many good suggestions. I decided to let the students discuss them for a few minutes before we commenced our lessons. After a fair amount of discussion, Mindy suggested that we take a vote. It seemed reasonable. The voters decided that we would have a penny circus and a box social on October 25 at the school; all money raised through the event would go to help Andy Pastachuck. Everyone was happy and excited, but once the matter was decided, they were better able to settle down to their lessons. I was proud of them for their concern, and I was also eager to help Andy in any way that we could.
———
At the end of the day I asked for the directions to the Laverlys’ farm. The place would not be hard to find but required a three-mile walk. Undaunted, I put on my hat, buttoned my coat, and set off. For the first two miles I walked with the Clark girls. The boys had hurried on ahead, for they had chores awaiting them. Also, they didn’t care to be seen with a bunch of girls. The Blake girls had also walked with us for the first mile.
It was a pleasant day, and I found the little expedition enjoyable. Only a few mudholes remained in the road from the recent heavy rain, and those we were easily able to skirt.
After I left my students, I walked more briskly. I missed their chatter, but on the other hand I was glad for the solitude after a busy school day. At last the Laverly farm came into view.
The Laverly sons were no longer of school age, and I thought that it was very commendable of Mr. Laverly to have worked so hard to get a school when none of his family would directly benefit from it.
Mrs. Laverly was a bustling, energetic woman with a great deal of curiosity. She pumped me with questions, not only about my work in the classroom but about my family and background as well. She insisted that I have coffee and sandwiches. After she had set the pot on to boil, she went to the back porch and pounded with a metal rod on a large iron plate. I jumped at the first loud, harsh sound.
“Thet’ll call in the menfolk,” she explained, “They’re in the field out back.”
I apologized for interrupting Mr. Laverly from his work. I hadn’t even considered that he might be busy, so anxious was I to be rid of my freeloading tenants.
“Thet’s a’right. Thet’s a’right,” she assured me. “They’ll be wantin’ somethin’ to eat anyway. An’ b’sides, it’s time for one of ’em to start chorin’.”
Mrs. Laverly set to work on a huge plate of man-sized sandwiches. Thick slices of homemade bread, generously—though not particularly carefully—spread with fresh butter and covered with large portions of cheese or cold roast beef were quickly assembled, while her tongue moved as fast as her hands. I wondered if I’d be able to get such thick sandwiches into my mouth. I offered to help her, but she waved me off with the butcher knife which she was using on the beef.
“No need to be a helpin’. Me, I’m not used to another woman underfoot. Had to do it alone all my life. Jest raised boys, ya know—five of ’em. Lost one, but still got four. One of ’em’s married an’ lives near Edmonton. Other three lives right here an’ helps with the farm. Don’t know what their pa would do without ’em. Middle one’s kinda got ’im a girl, an’ the youngest one’s been a’lookin’. Oldest one don’t seem much interested. S’pose I’ll end up havin’ to find someone for ’im an’ draggin’ ’im off to the preacher myself.”
She rambled on as if it were one continuous sentence with hardly a pause for breath.
The sandwiches were placed on the table, and tin cups for coffee were set out. We could hear the menfolk tramping toward the house. They stopped on the back porch to slosh water over their faces and arms, squabbled some over the rights to the coarse towel, brushed the worst of the straw from themselves, and came in.
It was apparent from their faces that they hadn’t expected to see me. Three grown men suddenly turned shy. One of them flushed beet red, while another fiddled nervously with his hair, his collar, his suspenders. The third one seemed to regain his composure almost immediately and decided to make the most of the situation, appearing to take pleasure in the discomfort of his brothers. He turned out to be George, the middle one, the one with a girl. The red-faced one was Bill, the youngest; the nervous one was the eldest son, Henry. I recognized them as three of the men who had huddled near the door during my welcoming party.
We sat up to the table together, and the men reached for the sandwiches, the enormous size giving them no pause. I managed, too, in spite of the fact that the portions were anything but dainty; they were delicious, especially after my nice, long walk.
Mr. Laverly was cordial and warm. He was even allowed to ask me a question or two in between the ones peppered at me by Mrs. Laverly. The three sons were at first too busy with eating to pay any attention to the conversation—or so I thought. By the time the supper was over, George was joking and teasing, and Bill was openly staring. But Henry kept his eye on his plate and cup, unwilling—or unable—to participate in the talk around the table.
I waited until after the meal—for it was a complete meal by my standards—before I asked to talk to Mr. Laverly concerning my mice problem. He was such a nice man that I approached the subject very calmly, making sure I didn’t insinuate that the mice were inhabiting the teacherage with his permission. I hurriedly poured out my whole tale. He stuffed his pipe and lit it, inhaled a few times, but all of the time that I talked, he offered no comment. I told him of the mice dwelling in my cupboards, entering into my bedroom, and taking over my dresser drawers. However, I did not tell him about my lace handkerchiefs. I was afraid that if I went into those details I would lose my temper, or cry—or maybe both.
He listened patiently, but eventually I gathered that he felt that a few mice in the house were really nothing to get so worked up about. When I finally stopped for breath, he removed the pipe from his mouth.
“We’ll git ya some traps.”
“I tried that.”
He looked surprised.
“Well, a cat might—”
“I tried that, too,” I said in frustration. I avoided explaining why they hadn’t worked.
“Me an’ the boys’ll go over an’ see what we can find. Must be comin’ in somewhere. We’ll take some tin an’ nail up the holes.”
This sounded good, but I was not completely satisfied.
“What about those that are already in?” I asked.
“We’ll care fer ’em.”
“Hope ya don’t mind us stirrin’ round in yer quarters none. We’ll git at it this next week.”
I thought of the silent Henry, the teasing George and the flirting Bill.
“Perhaps it would be best if I moved out for the week.”
“Moved out?” He looked alarmed, as though if I left the teacherage, he might never see me again.
“To the Petersons. Anna has already told me that should I ever need a room, she could spare one.”
He looked relieved.
“Good idea,” he said and removed his pipe. He shook the ashes into the coal bucket and laid the pipe back on the shelf, as though to indicate that the matter was closed.
I went back to the kitchen to thank Mrs. Laverly for the supper. She was busy wrapping a portion of the cold meat and a jar of her pickles for me to take home.
“The boys have gone fer the team,” she said.
At my questioning look, she explained, “Too late fer ya to start out a’walkin’. One of ’em will drive ya.” She began to chuckle. “Saw ’em a’flippin’ fer it.”
I wondered who would be taking me—the winner or the loser of the toss. I found myself trying to decide which one I hoped it would be.
The lucky—or unlucky—one was Bill. He came in grinning from ear to ear, announcing that he was ready any time I was. Bill—the one who was “a’lookin’.” I smiled rather weakly, I’m afraid, and followed him out. He didn’t offer to help me up, so I scrambled over the wagon wheel on my own, dragging my skirts and clutching my food parcels. Then we were off.
The team was spirited and Bill liked speed, which didn’t enhance the comfort of the rough wagon. Bill muttered over and over about “havin’ to talk to Pa ’bout a light buggy.” Jostling along, trying to cling to my precarious perch, I felt sure that the sweating team, and all of Bill’s future passengers, would approve of a lighter vehicle for traveling at such a pace.
My main concern was staying on the wagon seat. I had to hold onto the brown paper bag containing my cold beef and pickles, so I clutched the edge, white-knuckled, with the other hand. By the time we reached the teacherage, my bones felt like I had been trampled. I clambered slowly down over the wheel, wondering if my legs would still hold me when my feet reached the ground.
Bill, removing neither himself from his seat nor his hat from his head, seemed rather pleased with himself, as though he had perhaps made the run in record time. I felt sure that he had. He grinned at me, and I knew that he expected me to appreciate his feat.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” I said shakily. “It—it was very kind of you.”
Bill’s grin widened.
“Next time, maybe I’ll have me a buggy. Then we won’t be held back by this ol’ lumber wagon.”
I hoped there would be no “next time,” but I said nothing. Bill wheeled the horses around and left the yard at a near gallop. I shook my head, waved the dust away from my face, and turned to go into my house.
Tonight I would pack for my move to the Petersons and tuck everything else away, safe from the mice. I would go over right after my evening meal the next day, if this worked out for Anna.
“You’d better enjoy yourselves tonight,” I warned the little varmints. “It might be your last chance.”
From the evidence I found the next morning, it appeared they had.