CHAPTER 10

Becky woke up early, eager to see Unionville and her new school. She finished squaring away her things, put on a white blouse and dark skirt, and went next door for breakfast. Her landlady, in her pink bathrobe again, welcomed her to a spic-and-span apartment smelling of fresh coffee. The kitchen table held cereal, bananas, poached eggs, whole-wheat toast, and orange juice—not at all what Becky had expected.

“Doctor told me to watch what I eat,” Hazel said. “I hope this is okay.”

“It’s lovely and I’m starving.”

“Well, you just sit right down and help yourself, hon. Did you sleep all right?”

“I tossed and turned a bit,” Becky said, taking a chair between corner windows overlooking a small yard with beds of colorful flowers. “Guess I’ll have to get used to the cars on the highway at night. Was I dreaming, or is there some kind of mill close by? I thought I heard a steam whistle early this morning.”

“Yeah, you did,” Hazel said, pouring the coffee. “Unionville’s got two lumber mills. Both of them used to blow whistles to wake up the help in the morning. Blew them every time they had a shift change and at dinnertime too. They’ve all but quit now, though. The one you heard was down by the depot. They blow it mostly for old time’s sake. Goes off at six o’clock every morning, rain or shine. When the wind’s blowing this way, it’s really loud.”

“Then I won’t have to set my alarm clock.”

“Nope, hon, probably not. Nobody sleeps late in this town.” Hazel sat down and picked up a plate of toast to pass. “Is everything all right in the apartment?”

“Everything except a dripping faucet in the kitchen,” Becky said, taking the plate. “It needs a new washer. But you needn’t trouble yourself about it. I can fix it.”

“Oh, hon, you don’t have to bother with that. We have a plumber in Unionville, a colored boy. I can get him to come take care of it.”

“No, please. There’s nothing to it. I need to go out and buy an iron and an ironing board, and I can pick up a washer and fix it in a jiffy. I keep a tool kit in my car.”

Hazel beamed. This would save her three dollars, at least. “Well, ain’t you something, hon? I just know we’re gon’ get along good. That girl before you, she was always bothering me to get this, that, or the other thing done for her. I tell you what, my late departed husband—God rest his soul—he wouldn’t have put up with it. He was a good man, though. Worked down at Bowman Lumber Company.”

Becky helped herself to eggs.

“That’s the mill that’s got the whistle,” Hazel said. “Old Horace Bowman, he’s the big shot around town. Folks say he’s got more money than God. I believe it too. Lives in a house big enough for half the Baptist congregation. That’s the church you want to go to, by the way. Brother Byrd, he’s a real hellfire-and-brimstone preacher. Makes the hair crawl on the back of your neck. Oh, listen to me, hon, running on so. Let me tell you where to buy things. We got some good stores in Unionville.”

Hazel recommended the Feed and Seed and Perry’s for groceries, the Otasco store for the iron and the rubber washer, the variety store for the ironing board, and the Taylor sisters for dry cleaning. She offered to let Becky use her washing machine and dryer if Becky did her laundry in the daytime. Then came the inevitable.

“So, tell me hon, if you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your leg, and why ain’t a pretty gal like you married? Is your leg the reason? If it is, that’s too bad.”

Becky had heard the questions too many times to count. She took a sip of coffee and gave her standard answers.

“I had polio when I was a teenager and I’ve yet to meet the man I want to marry.”

She had shared an initial attraction with more than one man but had not admired any deeply, and none had seemed comfortable with her. At one point, she wondered if any man ever would be, but now she was not sure she cared. She was a lot more concerned about getting an opportunity to run a school someday.

After breakfast, Becky removed the worn washer from her kitchen faucet. Outside, trees and grass still wet from last night’s rain glittered in the early morning sun and the air was sticky. She decided to check in at school first and do her shopping later. The campus was close by and easy to find. She drove three blocks north on the highway then one block west on Newton Chapel Road.

The school was larger than she expected. A corrugated-tin bus repair shop and three elementary buildings of varying styles stood along the north side of the road. From phone conversations, she knew she would be teaching in the one-story concrete-block structure that sat between the repair shop and a two-story brick building that looked like it might have housed the entire school at some earlier time. A white frame structure with slides, swings, and seesaws out front lay west of it. Behind the buildings, playgrounds and sports fields extended north to woods and east to the highway.

The high school and district offices occupied three brick buildings on the south side of the road. Becky parked the Plymouth in front of the largest, climbed half a dozen steps to the main entrance, and entered through a pair of glass doors propped open with wooden blocks. The building smelled of aging books and cleaning solvents.

She crossed the oiled wood floor to an open door with “Office” painted yellow on a glass pane. Inside, a middle-aged woman looked up from her typewriter. “Morning,” she said, peering over eyeglasses. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Rebecca Reeves, your new seventh-grade teacher. Folks call me Becky.”

“I’m Hilda Starr, Superintendent Appleby’s secretary. We talked on the phone. We’ve been expecting you. Have a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Becky thanked her and chose the nearest chair. Several minutes passed before Hilda returned. “Mr. Appleby will see you now,” she said. “You stopped in at just the right time. I’ll take you back.”

“Hello, Miss Reeves,” Appleby said, rising as Becky walked into a large room with a long row of windows overlooking the street. The other three walls were bare except for pictures of several US presidents. An American flag stood in one corner. A slender woman with white hair and piercing eyes sat at the far end of a conference table filled with papers. “This is Gladys Woodhead, the elementary school principal,” Appleby said, “We’re delighted to see you.”

“I hope you had a good trip down,”Woodhead said. She remained seated.

“How do you do?” Becky replied. “The drive was fine and I’m happy to be here.” She walked across the room and shook hands with her new bosses, and Hilda returned to her desk.

“Well,” Appleby said, then paused, searching for words. His globe-like face and thick, black-rimmed glasses reminded Becky of an owl. Strands of brown hair were plastered over his mostly bare scalp. Suspenders and a wide tie stretched over his stomach.

“You didn’t tell us you had a handicap,” he blurted finally. “I hope you’re gon’ be able to hold up.”

“The forms you sent didn’t provide a space for it and I didn’t consider it pertinent,” Becky replied. “I assure you, I’ll manage nicely.”

“I hope so,” Woodhead said, motioning Becky to sit down. “This is my last year before retirement and I don’t want any more surprises or any trouble.”

She told Becky her classroom was not ready but Hilda had her student list and textbooks. “Our seventh graders don’t change classes the way they do in some of the bigger schools,” Woodhead explained, “so you’ll teach all subjects. You can come back Friday and I’ll give you a tour if you want one. We have a faculty meeting next Wednesday morning at nine. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” Becky said, smiling despite Woodhead’s sharp manner. “I’m looking forward to getting started.”

“How’d it go?” Hilda asked, when Becky returned to the reception area.

“They said I have to fill out more forms and you have my class list and books.”

Hilda handed over a file. “The forms are in here. They’re self-explanatory and you can bring them back next week. Your class list is in there too. You have thirty students and the other seventh-grade teacher has twenty-nine. Lily Poindexter is her name. You’ll like her. Her husband is the mayor on the Arkansas side. And don’t mind Mr. Appleby and Mrs. Woodhead. They’re always a little anxious before school starts. We get funds from two states and students from one county and two parishes, and we have to keep separate records on all of them. It gets complicated. Your textbooks are on top of the cabinet over there. You need a hand?”

“No. I can manage. I came prepared.” Becky took a drawstring bag from her purse and began filling it.

“What did you think of Mrs. Brantley?” Hilda asked. “She’s a character, isn’t she?”

“She certainly seems well versed on the community.”

“Yeah, Hazel loves to talk, but when you get down to it, she’s really pretty nice. Well, if you need anything, give me a call. My home number is in the file. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

Becky returned to her car, drove slowly past her building, then headed for Unionville’s tiny business district.

“Baseball’s not gon’ be the same anymore,” Sam said. He, Billy, Lester Grimes, and Neal O’Brien were gathered around the Otasco store cash register.

“I never liked any of them New York teams, not even when the Yankees had Ruth and Gehrig,” Lester said, shifting some of his bulk from one leg to the other. “But the Giants go back a long ways. They ain’t San Francisco Giants. Ain’t now and won’t never be.”

Three days earlier, the Giants had announced they were moving to California beginning next season, and baseball fans were unhappy just about everywhere except on the West Coast.

“I read the Dodgers might move out there too,” Neal said. A slim, studious-looking man with thick brown hair and glasses, he always wore sport shirts and dress slacks in keeping with his position as president of the Arkansas-side town council. The job did not require much, but he liked it and moved among his fellow merchants as if they were family and the whole town his backyard. “The story said they started thinking about it right after the Braves moved to Milwaukee and the Browns went to Baltimore.”The Braves had moved from Boston and the Browns from St. Louis.

“Better be careful what you say about the Braves,” Lester said, winking. “Billy’s a big fan of theirs. Ain’t you, boy?”

“No, sir,” he said. “I like the Cardinals.”

“Well, Billy,” Neal said, “I hope you’re not counting on them catching the Braves this year. Looks like Milwaukee’s pretty much got it locked up.”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said, “I know how it looks but I’m hoping.”

As the merchants and Billy talked, Becky parked in front of the store, got out, and came inside. Everyone looked around at her. Knowing that Miss Ruthelle was unlikely to offer to assist her, Sam headed up front.

“Hi, I’m Sam Tate,” he said, introducing himself as he would to any new customer. “May I help you?”

He was not looking at her the way he would look at some other new customer, though. Like everyone else who saw her for the first time, he noticed her limp, but he was also looking at how her shoulder-length hair framed her eyes and her dimples, how her breasts filled her blouse, and how tan she was, as if she spent a lot of time outdoors. She seemed bright, warm, and desirable all at the same time. He had not looked at a woman this way since Judith Ann.

“Yes, hi, I’m Becky Reeves, the new seventh-grade teacher over at the school, and I need an electric iron and a half-inch faucet washer.”

Becky’s answer surprised Sam. He was not used to women asking for faucet washers.

The mention of seventh grade caught Billy’s attention and he edged toward the center aisle. He might be in her class when school started. Neal and Lester inched forward too.

“All right, let’s start with the iron,” Sam said, and motioned Becky toward an aisle on his right. “We have several kinds.” As she moved past him, he drew in the smell of her perfume, sweet but light and cool.

She knew the type of iron she wanted and grabbed it.

“Now, about that washer,” he said, showing her to the other side of the store. “Do you need someone to install it for you?”

“No,” she said, smiling, her dimples deepening. “I can do it myself.”

“Well,” he stammered, color rising to his cheeks, “I can recommend a good plumber and I’ll be happy to get ahold of him for you.”

“No, really, I can do it,” she said in a confident tone Sam liked. “How much do I owe you?”

“Let’s ring it up,” he said, and led her back to the cash register. The onlookers scattered, each suddenly interested in car parts, fishing tackle, and assorted other merchandise.

“I suppose you’re renting Hazel Brantley’s apartment,” Sam said, trying to extend the conversation as he totaled the sale. He regretted the comment as soon as he made it. He was afraid it seemed nosy.

“Yes,” Becky said in a cheerful tone. “I’m in the teachers’ suite.”

“I bet you’re finding out all about Unionville, too, at no extra cost.” He wondered where she came from but did not ask. “My son’s gon’ be in the seventh grade this year. Maybe he’ll be in your class. Billy, come on over here and meet Miss Reeves.” Sam had noted right off that she was not wearing a wedding band.

“Hi, Billy,” Becky said, extending her hand. “I’m glad to meet you. Are you looking forward to school?”

He shook hands with her. “Well, yes, ma’am, I guess so.”

“He’s all wrapped up in baseball right now,” Sam said. “But he enjoys school once it gets going.”

“Oh?” Becky said, smiling again. “Who’s your favorite team, Billy?”

“The Cardinals. Me and Daddy like Stan Musial.” Sam grimaced at Billy’s bad grammar but Becky gave no sign of noticing.

“Well, now. How about that? The Cards are my favorite team too. I’m from St. Louis, or at least from near there.”

“Have you ever seen them play?” Billy asked, wide-eyed that someone standing right here in his daddy’s store might have seen his heroes in person.

“Yes, I have. Not often, but a few times.”

“Wow!” Billy said. He wanted to ask more questions but felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder and kept quiet.

Becky picked up the paper bag containing her purchases. “Sometime after school starts,” she said, “whether you’re in my class or not, I’ll tell you all about Busch Stadium. That’s where the Cards play, but I expect you know that already.”

“Yes, ma’am, that’d be great! Thank you!”

“Okay, then, I’ll see you at school,” she said.

“Well, welcome to Unionville, Miss Reeves,” Sam blurted, trying to keep her longer but unable to think of anything else to say. “I hope you enjoy it here.”

“Call me Becky, please, and I’m sure I will,” she said, and headed for the door.

The onlookers moved back to their places around the cash register.

“That’s sure a fine-looking woman,” Neal said, when she was out of earshot. “Wonder what happened to her leg?”

“Sure is a pity, ain’t it?” Lester said. “But did you get a load of them headlights? Man, oh man, has she got a pair!”

Miss Ruthelle, who had been watching from the office, almost choked on the soda she was sipping. She coughed and Lester burst out laughing.

“Knock it off, Lester.” Sam said.“That might be Billy’s teacher you’re talking about. Besides, she seems really nice.” He walked to the display of irons and pretended to rearrange them but kept his eyes on Becky as she got in her car and drove away.