The Bridge to Cutter Gap Page 7

  “Not much.”

  He laughed then extended his arm. They started down the steps of the mission house.

  For this first day of school, David had put away his working clothes and was dressed in a tweed suit with a white shirt and bow tie. He wore heavy boots, laced almost to his knees, because of the deep snow. The boots made Christy’s dainty shoes, with their pointed toes and patent leather, look even sillier.

  Carefully she picked her way across the cleaned boardwalk that led to the school.

  “Is this a fashion parade on Fifth Avenue in New York?” David teased. “Those are silly, silly shoes. Ice-pick toes!”

  “I know,” Christy admitted. She’d wanted to look just right for her first day, but suddenly she saw herself through the eyes of the mountain children. She would look silly and overdressed to them. “Is it too late to change?”

  “Yes,” he said, shaking his head.

  Her right shoe began to skid on the boardwalk. “Hold on!” David called, reaching out his arm to support her. “We don’t want you slipping again!”

  She could feel the warmth of his hand even through her coat. She wondered if her hair still looked all right and if he liked the way she’d worn it.

  But suddenly she had more important things to worry about. The schoolyard was swarming with children waiting for the first glimpse of their new teacher. Their high-pitched voices rang in the clear air. Most were skinny, too pale, and none were dressed warmly enough for January.

  Christy hesitated, watching them run in and out of the school building. So many students. And so lively! What if she couldn’t handle them all?

  “These children are really excited,” David said. “You’d be surprised what a big event the opening of this school is in these people’s lives.”

  As they noticed Christy and David approaching, the children stopped to stare.

  A little boy detached himself from the group and came running up to Christy. He had carrot-red hair and blue eyes. “Teacher,” he said with a shy eagerness, “I’ve come to see you and to swap howdies. I memorized your name. It shore is a funny name. I never heard a name like it afore.”

  “Miss Huddleston,” David said solemnly, “this is Little Burl Allen, one of Bob Allen’s sons.”

  So this was one of the children who would have been fatherless if Dr. MacNeill had not operated. All over again Christy felt grateful for the good news she’d heard about Mr. Allen.

  She reached down for the little boy’s hand. It was cold. “I’m delighted to swap howdies with you, Little Burl.” He was so little—and those icy feet! She longed to pick him up and get him warm.

  They headed up the steps to the school. As they entered, they were met by the smell of wet wool and cedar pencils. Already there were puddles of water on the floor from the melted snow the children had tracked in. Most of the children filed up to the teacher’s desk to get a better look at Christy. Many of the girls were too shy to say anything, but the boys whispered furiously to each other. Christy overheard snatches:

  “Got uncommon pretty eyes, ain’t she?”

  “You’re already stuck on the teacher!”

  “Reckon she’ll have us a-studyin’ like dogs?”

  “Naw. She’s too little to tan any britches!”

  It took almost fifteen minutes before David could drag the children away from Christy’s desk and quiet them down. To Christy’s surprise, the girls seated themselves on one side of the room and the boys on the other.

  “Why are they separated that way?” Christy whispered to David after he shooed a straggler to his seat.

  “Tradition,” he said. “That’s how their people have done it for centuries. Same way at church on Sunday.”

  Christy stood beside the battered teacher’s desk on its raised platform and surveyed her class. Several of the pupils actually seemed to be as old as she was—including the three boys who had been the last ones to slink into the schoolroom. She noticed David eyeing them warily and wondered if they might be troublemakers.

  On the other hand, some of the children were tiny, not more than five years old. They wore a strange assortment of clothes—including coats several sizes too big with sleeves turned up. Many of the youngsters looked very tired, with the serious, worn faces of old men and women.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” David began, sending the class into a chorus of giggles, “I am indeed honored today to introduce to you our new schoolteacher, Miss Huddleston.”

  While he spoke, Christy tried to count the number of children in the room. She counted the number of desks in each row—nine—and the number of rows—eight. Seventy-two, with five desks empty. It was unbelievable. How could one teacher handle sixty-seven squirming children? All at once her careful lesson plans seemed crazy. No wonder David and Miss Alice had warned her about being too ambitious.

  The introduction was over. Christy moved to the front of the desk. “Thank you,” she began. “I—I’m glad to be here. I know that you have all sorts of things to do, Mr. Grantland, so we won’t ask you to stay.” She couldn’t bear the idea of his watching her first fumbling attempt at teaching, so she gave him a bright, confident smile, hoping that he would take the hint.

  A titter began at the front of the room and swept backward. What had she said that was so funny?

  She looked at David and saw amusement in his eyes. Had she made a mistake already?

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “It’s nothing. Your way of using English just sounds as funny to the children as their way of speaking sounds odd to you. You’ll get used to one another.”

  Christy nodded with relief.

  “Sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asked. The look in his eyes told her he thought it would be a good idea to let him.

  For a moment, staring at the big boys in the back of the room, she wavered.

  “Lundy Taylor,” David commented, keeping his voice low. He nodded toward a boy as tall as a grown man. He had a sullen expression, as if he were looking for a fight. “He’s never been to school before with the Allen children.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s a feud between the two families,” David said. “As old as these hills.”

  Christy thought for a moment. The boys might cause trouble, and it would be nice to have David nearby for help. On the other hand, last night at dinner Miss Alice had explained that in the mountains, women were still not accepted as equal. It was important, Christy knew, that she deal with this situation herself and make it clear that she was in charge.

  “Thank you, David,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll take it from here.”

  David nodded. He seemed doubtful, but she could see a glimmer of respect in his eyes. Without another word he left.

  Christy took a deep breath. So now she was on her own. All at once the children seemed like giants. She leaned against the edge of the desk for support. A little boy in the front row whispered behind his hand, “She’s scared.”

  “How can ya tell?” Little Burl asked.

  “Look at her shakin’.”

  He was right. Her legs were trembling violently. Christy breathed deep and thought, Well, it would be best to start at the beginning. Her first task was to get an attendance roll on paper. She needed to know her students’ names and have some information on how much schooling they’d had.

  She beckoned to Ruby Mae, a familiar face. She knew Ruby Mae could write some. “Could you and two other girls help me take a roll?”

  “Well, yes’m, I reckon so,” Ruby Mae said thoughtfully. “What’s take a roll?”

  “Write down each pupil’s name, age, address, and so on. I’ll tell you what to do.” She pointed to a pretty girl who looked about twelve or thirteen. “Who’s that blond girl there? Red bow in her hair?”

  “That’s Bessie Coburn, my best friend. She’s had schoolin’ afore.”

  “She’ll do fine. And over there—” Christy spied Clara Spencer, Fairlight’s oldest daughter. “How about y
ou, Clara? Would you like to help?”

  Clara glowed and jumped from her seat.

  “This is a special job, an important one,” Christy explained as Ruby Mae puffed with pride. “We want to write down the full name of each pupil.” Christy handed each girl a ruled tablet and a pencil. “Age. Beneath that, parents’ names . . . home address . . . and schooling the child might have had.”

  Bessie shook her head. “I vow and declare, Teacher. That ‘home address’ . . . I’d be much obliged if you’d tell us what you’re meanin’ by it.”

  “Where they live. So I can send parents reports and notices and so on. We have to know that.”

  “Can’t guess what she’s gettin’ at,” Ruby Mae said to Clara, who seemed puzzled too.

  “Tell you what. Let’s each take a row,” Christy said. “You watch me with the first name, and then you’ll understand perfectly.”

  All the pupils in Christy’s row were boys. The first one looked to be about a second-grader. He was blond, with eyes that looked directly at her as he spoke. He had the firmest mouth she had ever seen on a youngster. “Your name?” Christy asked, her pen poised, ready to write.

  “Front name or back name?”

  “Well . . . er, both.”

  “Front name is Sam Houston.”

  There was a long pause. “A fine name,” Christy prodded. “A Tennessee hero. He picked up where Davy Crockett left off, didn’t he?” She paused. “Well, now, your—what did you call it—back name?”

  “Holcombe.”

  “Fine. And your father’s full name?” Christy asked, writing away.

  “He’s John Swanson Holcombe.”

  “And your mother’s name?”

  “She’s just Mama.”

  “But she has a name. What’s her name?”

  “Womenfolks call her ‘Lizzie.’ ”

  “But her real name?” Christy pressed.

  The small brow wrinkled. “Let me study on it now. Oh, surely. Now I know. Elizabeth Teague Holcombe,” the boy announced triumphantly.

  Christy glanced over at her three helpers. Their faces seemed to say, You see, not quite as easy as you thought.

  Christy questioned Sam Houston Holcombe. He was nine years old. He had never been to school before. “Last question, Sam,” Christy said.

  “Generally go by Sam Houston, Teacher.”

  “Of course. I beg your pardon. And now your address. Tell me where you live.”

  “Well—” Again, the puzzled look appeared on the small face. “First you cross Cutter Branch. Then you cut across Lonesome Pine Ridge and down. The Gap’s the best way. At the third fork in the trail, you scoot under the fence and head for Pigeonroost Hollow. Then you spy our cabin and pull into our place, ’bout two miles or so from the Spencers’.”

  Christy scribbled something down quickly, aware of the three girls watching her. Obviously she was going to have to come up with some new system in a hurry for addresses in Cutter Gap.

  Slowly she worked her way down the row. Her third student was a boy who claimed his name was Zacharias Jehoshaphat Holt. As soon as the name was out of his mouth, the room burst into snickers.

  The boy immediately behind him said softly, “Plumb crazy. That ain’t your name at all.”

  Christy smiled. She recognized the Tom Sawyer look-alike as Creed Allen, one of the boys she’d met at the Spencers’ cabin that awful day.

  “This isn’t the time for fooling,” Christy said with just a hint of sternness. “We’re trying to get the roll down. Now tell me your real name.”

  “Zacharias Jehoshaphat—” With that, the boy’s right ear jerked violently.

  The children laughed uproariously, some of them doubling over. Creed, still straight faced, volunteered, “Teacher, that’s not his name. He’s packin’ lies. You can tell. Just look at his ear.”

  Sure enough, Zacharias’ ear jerked again. “Certainly, I see his ear,” Christy said. “But what’s that got to do with not telling the truth?”

  “Oh, ma’am! All those Holts, when they tell a whopper, their ears twitch—”

  Christy ignored him. She turned again to the boy in front. “Tell me your name,” she said again.

  “Zacharias—” He snickered, then swallowed. “Jehoshaphat—”

  Once again, the ear wiggled. But this time Christy saw it—the boy had a string over his ear. With narrowed eyes, she reached over to remove the cord. But Creed jerked it away from her and stuffed the string in his desk.

  That did it. Christy knew she had to control the class or this sort of prank would get out of hand. She marched to Creed’s desk and reached in. But instead of string, her fingers touched . . . a mass of wriggling fur! She squealed and stepped back, and a small animal as frightened as she was climbed onto the desk, screeching in protest. A ring-tailed raccoon sat there, looking at Christy from behind his funny mask of a face. He began scolding her, as if he were the teacher and Christy were the naughty pupil.

  Naturally, the schoolroom fell into chaos—the girls giggling, the boys holding their middles and laughing so hard that one of them got the hiccups.

  “Now,” Christy said, “let’s begin all over.” She was trying her best to be patient, but who had ever heard of having this much trouble getting a few names on paper?

  “Creed there put me up to it,” said the boy who claimed his name was Zacharias. “Said if I’d do it, he’d let me sleep with his coon for one night.”

  Christy turned to Creed. “This is your raccoon, Creed?”

  “Yes’m. Pet coon. Scalawag.”

  “Might be a good name for you too,” Christy commented. She turned to the boy in front of Creed. “All right, now, let’s have your real name.”

  “Front name is Zacharias for a fact, Teacher. You can just call me Zach. That ‘Jehoshaphat,’ now, that was made up. Back name is Holt. Six of us Holts in school.”

  At last she was making progress. With some effort, Christy obtained the rest of the information she needed. That brought her back to Creed, whose eyes glittered with—was it intelligence or mischief? Perhaps both. Quickly she decided that she’d better try to make friends this first morning.

  “How old is Scalawag, Creed?”

  “Got him from a kit last summer.”

  “What’s a kit?”

  “Like a nest. He’s most grown now. Sleeps with me.” Seeing the expression on Christy’s face, he added, “Oh, he’s clean all right. Coons wash every natural blessed thing before they eat. They’re the best pets in the world. Teacher, come spring, maybe we could spy out a kit and get one for you.”

  “Uh, thanks, Creed. Tell you what. Let me think about that offer. Now, about Scalawag and school—”

  “Oh, Scalawag won’t cause no trouble. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  What could she say without caving in this friendship before it got started? Suddenly Christy had an inspiration. “It’s like this, Creed.” She lowered her voice. “This is just between you and me. Promise you won’t tell?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Scalawag is such a ’specially fine coon. I can see that already—you know, so good-looking and such a little comic actor—that the children will want to watch him instead of doing their lessons.” She grinned. “How about you and I make a pact? You leave Scalawag home after this. Then I’ll let you bring him to the last social, the big recitation just before school closes. We’ll fix it so that Scalawag will be part of the entertainment.”

  “Honest, Teacher?” Creed’s face shone. “That’s a sealed bargain, fair and square. Why, pretty much everybody in the Cove will see Scalawag then. Put it there, Teacher!” He stuck out a grubby hand.

  Well, then. She’d handled that little crisis, at least. Christy gazed around her. Sixty-seven eager faces were waiting for her next move.

  It was going to be a very long day.

  As the day wore on, Christy nursed a growing uneasiness about the big boy in the back row, the one David had pointed out as Lundy Taylor. She tr
ied to tell herself that David had been overreacting, but it was true that the Taylor boy was uncooperative. He never joined in the singing, never took part in anything. Resentment of some sort smoldered in him. Already he seemed to dislike Christy.

  There were so many other problems too. The fire in the stove that was much too hot close to it, much too cold in the rest of the room. The dripping noses, and the complete lack of handkerchiefs. The dirty, often smelly clothes, and the need for warmer ones. The mountain dialect that was almost impossible for Christy to understand. The fact that children who wanted a drink went back and forth to the cedar water bucket in the back of the room, everyone drinking from the same gourd—a good way to start epidemics.

  And then there was the utter lack of books. How was she supposed to teach sixty-seven students without any materials?

  During the noon recess, which the students called “the dinner spell,” Christy sat on the steps, watching the children and wondering how she was going to handle them all. She was surprised when Little Burl came up and sat down beside her like an old friend. He was eating his lunch—a biscuit split in two with a thin slice of pork between the halves.

  “I’d be proud to share, Teacher,” he said.

  “Thank you, Little Burl,” Christy said, “but I’ve already eaten.” It wasn’t exactly true. Actually, she was simply too anxious to eat.

  Just then a pair of black-capped chickadees fluttered to the tree nearest the schoolhouse entrance. Little Burl hesitated, then tossed part of his biscuit to the birds, who swooped down, devouring every last crumb.

  “That was nice of you, Little Burl,” Christy said, knowing that the boy probably didn’t get enough to eat as it was. “They’re pretty little birds, aren’t they?”

  “Eat upside down sometimes, chickadees do,” Little Burl said. He shook his head. “Crazy birds.”

  “Isn’t it great how many different kinds of birds there are, each one so special,” Christy exclaimed. “God must have cared about them, or He wouldn’t have made them so beautiful.”

  Little Burl thought about this, nodding as he finished his biscuit.