Carol Ritten Smith (19 page)

As she opened the school door, she was met by the other students. One by one, the trailing line of students came through the doorway, shaking off snow as they entered. Each child was met by a rousing cheer from his classmates. When all were safe inside, Beth closed the door.

While students helped each other free themselves from their bonds and coats, they all spoke at once. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the schoolhouse, and for a moment even the wind outside couldn’t compete.

It was Norman who asked, “Where’s Martha and Peter?”

Slowly the room became reverently silent as, one by one, the students realized two were not among them. Quietly Beth told them, “They left before I got there.” Taking a long hard breath, she steeled herself against thoughts too horrible to consider. “Let’s dry our clothes by the stove.”

• • •

Tom could stand it no longer. If he didn’t get to the school and see how Beth and her students were faring, he’d go insane with worry. Somewhere in the smithy was an old roll of binder twine; he remembered coming across it not that long ago. He searched for a good five minutes before finding it under a shelf in the back. He inspected it. “Dammit,” he muttered. Mice had gnawed at it. But beneath several outside layers, the core of the roll seemed intact.

He pulled on his heavy sheepskin coat, his hat with the large ear flaps, and finally his gloves with the sheepskin lining and backs. He was already wearing winter boots. The hard-packed smithy floor was cold in the winter. With the binder twine under one arm and a knife to cut it in his coat pocket, he figured he was as ready as he’d ever be.

With the buildings on main street practically bumped up against each other, Tom had little problem navigating from the smithy to the bank on the corner. Tom secured the free end of twine to the hitching rail out front of North’s Bank. Trusting his good sense of direction, he headed out.

• • •

Beth heard the clomping of boots in the schoolhouse. Someone had arrived!
Please be Martha and Peter.
“Tom!” she exclaimed when saw him in the cloakroom. She gave him a hearty hug and a kiss on his icy cheek. “I can’t believe you made it here.”

“I had to see if you were doing okay.”

“We’re managing.” She took Tom’s ice-crusted coat from him, shook it, and hung it on an empty peg.

Tom saw the other coats hung around the cloakroom. “Thank God you kept the children.”

Beth looked at him and he immediately knew that something was very wrong. He closed the door between the cloakroom and the classroom.

Tears flowed freely down Beth’s cheeks as she explained about Martha and Peter.

Tom reached for his coat. “It’s not your fault. This damn storm hit so fast it caught everyone unaware. I better go looking for them.”

“You can’t go out again.”

“Beth, I can’t stay here, not when there’s a possibility they might still be out there. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Just keep the others calm.” Before she could protest further, he was out the door.

Beth fought back tears.

Ricky started crying for his mother and Beth remembered Tom’s order to keep the children calm. Drawing deep from her reserve of strength, Beth returned to the classroom. She comforted the little ones, telling them what an adventure this was going to be, staying overnight at the school. The boys were told to pull the desks in close to the stove while the girls were to gather leftovers from lunch pails.

Three apples, some cookies, half a sandwich, some raw carrots, and a large piece of chocolate cake — it wasn’t a feast, but at least something to nibble on, should they get hungry. They boiled melted snow to drink and the older students offered their meager share of food to the younger ones.

It was a good hour before Beth heard the heavy clomping of feet. She and the children had been singing to help pass the time and occupy their thoughts, but the footsteps brought a silence filled with dread. They waited to see who came through the cloakroom door.

It was Tom, but only Tom.

Beth hurried to him. He was shaking, barely able to hold himself upright from fatigue. She took the heavy coat from him, and led him to the stove. His face was red with white splotchy patches on them, indicating frostbite. Beth brought him a cup of hot water to drink, and allowed him a few minutes to absorb the warmth before asking, “Did you find them?”

Too cold yet to speak, he could only shake his head. A minute later, he forced words through his chattering teeth. “I never made it t … to the Brown’s place, but they might … t have. Don’t jump t … to conclusions.”

Beth nodded bravely. As he warmed, Tom explained the white-out conditions and how he thought he would have been near Peter’s place when he ran into the maple tree. All that time he’d been wandering around the schoolyard. It was by pure chance he was able to find his way back to the school. Until the blizzard ended, they would just have to wait to find out about Peter and Martha.

The walls of the schoolhouse almost wheezed with the strong gusts of wind. The windowpanes rattled in their casings. Snow sifted down from the rafters and the room became chilled despite the roaring fire in the stove. The morale in the classroom dropped as quickly as the temperature. Beth peered into the heater and added the last few chunks of coal. The oil lamps were lit and hung near the center of the room to add a small measure of heat. The light cast long shadows along the outside walls, and as children are wont to do, they soon made their own fun, seeing who could form the oddest shaped shadow. They were too occupied to notice Tom putting on his coat and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Beth whispered anxiously, following him into the cloakroom.

“We need more coal,” he answered. “I’ll use the twine as a safety line. You get back inside where it’s warm.”

Tom brought in several buckets of coal, enough to keep them toasty warm through the night. When the younger pupils began yawning, he and the older boys skidded desks together to form makeshift beds
.
Many were asleep before the coal oil lamps burned out shortly after nine o’clock. They slept fitfully. Jonah and Nels sat together, propped against a desk, and talked. Inga and Penelope tried to stay awake, but soon were sound asleep on the floor beside the stove. Beth covered them with an extra coat left after the Christmas concert.

“They’re all such good kids,” she said, returning to sit beside Tom.

“And you’re a good teacher.”

Beth made no reply.
A good teacher would have kept all her children safe.

“Are you chilly?” he asked.

“A little.”

“I’ll stoke the fire again.”

Other than to get up and tend the stove or to comfort a child’s sleepy whimper, they sat long into the night, leaning back against her desk, talking about the children and their families and how each was somehow related to another in the community. They deliberately avoided speaking of the missing children’s families.

Around two or three in the morning the storm began to abate and Beth felt herself nodding off. Tom put his arm around her, pulled her head against his chest and ordered gently, “Get some sleep. I’ll stay awake.”

She couldn’t remember if she even protested. Sleep came immediately, but an hour later, she woke. Something was strange. She realized the strangeness was silence. The storm was over almost as quickly as it had begun.

Well before dawn, fathers began arriving to retrieve their children. Each time Beth heard the crunch and stomps of snowy boots in the cloakroom, she prayed it was neither Peter’s nor Martha’s father.

Six children remained to be picked up when Mr. Simpson entered, his face ashen. “I passed the Pickard children. They told me Martha isn’t here.”

“She didn’t arrive home?” Beth’s voice broke. She felt for the nearest desk and sank into it.

Tom swung on his coat. “Peter Brown was with her. We’ll get some men and go looking for them.”

As soon as the door closed, Beth slumped over her desk, dropped her head onto her folded arms and quietly wept. Her students did their best to console her, but nothing helped. Martha and Peter were her sole responsibility and she had failed them.

• • •

When the sun rose that morning, Whistle Creek had been transformed into a world iced with swirls of snow. Drifts wrapped graceful sculptures around trees and posts. Barbwires, taut as fiddle strings, stretched between fence posts. After the last student was picked up, Beth and Davy trudged home through the drifted snow. The wonder and beauty were unseen by Beth, replaced by haunting visions of two small forms frozen in death’s icy grasp.

With a sense of hopelessness, Beth started a fire in the cook stove, reaching up to adjust the damper to draw properly. Heat slowly chased the chilliness into the corners of the room.

Bill came home just before dinner and complained immediately because nothing had been prepared. Beth made a broth soup, while Bill and Davy swapped their storm experiences over a game of checkers.

Whenever they laughed, Beth wanted to scream.
Don’t you care? Peter and Martha are probably dead.
Finally, she fled to her room, slammed the door behind her and fell onto her bed. She covered her head with her pillow to block out everything except her sorrow.

Her door crashed open and Beth yelled at her brothers from under the pillow, “Get out. I want to be alone.”

“Beth.” It was Tom. “Beth, we found them. They’re fine … cold, but fine.”

Beth pushed the pillow aside, and stared at Tom’s bulky form in the doorway. “They’re alive?” she asked incredulously, sorting between her nightmarish imaginings and the incredible truth.

“We found them in a hay stack, wormed in deep like a couple of fleas on a hairy dog. That old horse stayed with them the whole time. Had an inch of ice on his back, but stayed right there. That’s how we found them. Doc Fisher is taking a look at them right now, but the main thing is they’re safe.”

Beth sat up, swinging her legs over the side of her bed. Trembling fingers covered her lips as a small cry escaped.

Tom crossed to the bed and gathered her in his arms. Though his coat was covered with snow and ice, she held him close and wept with relief. He supported her for several minutes. No words were necessary to explain their feelings of thankfulness.

A loud cough pulled them apart. “You’ve had plenty of time to say your piece, so I think you should leave now,” Bill said. His wide stance almost filled the doorway as Tom’s had only moments before. Davy’s head poked around Bill’s leg.

Beth straightened from Tom’s embrace. “Bill! That’s no way to talk to Tom. He knew how worried I was and he came to tell me they’re safe.”

“Well, now you know, so there’s no point in his stayin’.”

Tom stood. “He’s right. I should be going. I’ll see you later.” He stooped and dropped a kiss on her forehead, which surprised Beth because they had been so careful to keep their burgeoning relationship a secret.

At the sight of them kissing, Bill nearly growled, while Davy jumped up and down with delight. “Tom and Beth, sitting in a tree. K. I. S. S. I. N … ” His song was cut short as Bill dragged him out the doorway.

“Shut up, Davy! You don’t know nothin’,” Bill spat.

Beth began to rise, but Tom gently pressed her back. He pulled up the quilt at the bottom of her bed and covered her. “You rest, I’ll let myself out.”

After Tom departed, Beth curled up under the quilt and listened to Bill and Davy arguing. “He is not!” Bill yelled.

“Is too! He kissed Beth for no special reason. That means he’s her boyfriend.”

“Does not!” Bill countered.

While the two quarreled, Beth found herself siding completely with Davy.

With the Valentine’s dance a few days away, Ernie Brown was doing a rip-roaring business in his barbershop. Three long-haired, unshaven men sat along a bench, while other men leaned against the wall visiting with one another as they waited their turn in the chair.

“Get your wife a card yet?” one asked.

“Oh, jees no! I’d better remember to head over to Betner’s after my cut.”

“The best cards are almost gone,” another said. “I was there yesterday.”

“I gotta get one! I forgot last year and Flora wouldn’t speak to me for three days.”

“Now there’s an idea!” said Ernie. All the men chuckled.

It was Mr. Pickard who held out his hands for silence. “I don’t give my wife a Valentine’s card,” he announced proudly.

“And you don’t get in trouble?”

“Nope, ’cause I give her a book of sonnets instead. Been doing that for quite a few years now.”

“Sonnets. Shee-it! What’s that?” asked Flora’s hubby.

“Poetry,” said Pickard.

“Yeah right! There once was a farmer named Tucker,” one fellow started and the rest broke out in wide-mouthed grins.

“No, no! Don’t you fools know anything? Women want romance. My Emmy, she loves romantic poetry. She thinks I’m
sen-see-tive
when I give her that stuff. Puts her in the romantic mood, if you catch my drift.” Pickard nudged the fellow beside him.

“Why, Pickard, you sly rascal!” Ernie pointed the shears at him. “Considering you have more kids than anyone else in the community, I’d say there’s method in your madness.”

“Better believe it,” Pickard replied smugly.

Lewie Hanks happened to be in the barbershop, not for a haircut, though he needed one badly, but more for the company. He was lonely and listening to the men usually brightened his spirits, but today, with all their talk about sweethearts and love, he felt lonelier yet. He should try to get himself a sweetheart.

As if the heavens were listening, he spotted Miranda Parsons strolling along the boardwalk across the street. She was single, and as far as Lewie was concerned, she was fair game. Like a rock from a slingshot, Lewie flew out the door, dashed across the street and came to a sliding stop on the icy boardwalk in front of her.

“Hey, Miss Miranda. You look purdy today.”

“What do you want?” she asked, her nose pointed upward in disgust. “I told you at the box social I never want to see you again.”