Chances (17 page)

“Great literature, yes, Miss Clay,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “but must we always use the same ones?”

Mrs. Benson nodded. “I was thinking we should offer something new this year?”

The teacher’s plump face twitched. “Changing the content would alter the intent of the exercise. Besides, I’ve already assigned the poems. Perhaps we should expand the refreshment table. Maybe more of the fathers will come.”

A twinge of sympathy welled in Sarah’s heart. Distasteful as the poems were, Miss Clay seemed attached to them, and there was no mistaking the hostility between her and Mrs. Benson.

“Miss Clay, if I might be so bold,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “I’ve had four children come through your class and each year, it has been the same recital. Those that continue to attend do so only because they do not want to disappoint their children. We need to look at change.”

Mrs. Benson scowled. “These poems are flat-out dull.”

A well-groomed older woman stood and glared at the group. “I think Miss Clay is doing an admirable job and we ought to just stay out of it unless we can propose something better.” She tossed her head at the group and resumed her seat.

Sarah shifted in her seat, more sure than ever that she did not belong there. Her mind leapt into action, seeking solutions that would end the growing sense of conflict filling the room.

“Aren’t there any new poems?” Mrs. Benson asked.

Miss Clay shook her head. “These pieces are classics.”

Tired of the bickering, Sarah stood and smiled at the group. “Perhaps the poems could be taught in class rather than used as the recitation pieces. That way, the children would still be exposed to them. Miss Clay could then explore something more entertaining for the presentation, perhaps forego poetry altogether.”

“Hear, hear,” Mrs. Benson added. “My husband says we ought to just let the kids make up limericks.”

“The recitation is intended to expose the children to literature, to foster memorization skills, and to allow them to present in front of people. Limericks are out of the question.” Miss Clay’s voice shook and her chubby face had stiffened in defensive resolution.

Sarah glanced around the room and saw the same fierce expressions deepening on others’ faces. “What about a play?”

The teacher stared at her as though she’d proposed a song and dance routine. “Oh, no. I hardly think …”

“It’s not a bad idea. The men hate poetry and the children are not fond of it themselves.” Mrs. Lassiter sat down at her desk and raised her eyebrows at the teacher. “Why not?”

“Oh, my, a play? I … well … I couldn’t. I mean, I’ve never done such a thing. I wouldn’t know how.”

“Nonsense,” said the woman who had earlier defended her skills. “You’d do fine.”

Miss Clay’s lower lip trembled. “As fine as I do with poetry recitations? I can teach a play, but I do not possess the skills to direct one. Do not put me in that position.”

Sarah swallowed. “What about allowing someone else to direct? Miss Clay can teach about the play and utilize her talents to educate the children on drama and its history while organizing the other aspects of the event.”

Miss Clay stood at the front, looking oddly relieved. “What a grand idea,” she declared. “Would anyone like to serve as director?”

The room filled with silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, the well-dressed woman who had earlier defended Miss Clay raised her hand. “Mrs. Elliot is an ardent supporter of the theatre. Perhaps we should ask her.”

Mrs. Lassiter snorted. “If Mrs. Elliot directs, we shall have nothing but melodrama, with her little darlings in the midst of it.”

“Well, we all know that the very best of the roles with go to your children if you take on the job,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“I don’t want the job.” Mrs. Lassiter stood with her hands on her hips. “Why does it even have to be one of us? Ask someone who doesn’t have children.” She turned and pointed to Sarah. “You, Sarah Donovan. It was your idea. You direct it.”

Nine sets of eyes focused on Sarah and a wave of panic washed over her. She didn’t even know how to talk to children. “I’d be happy to do what I can to assist, perhaps secure props or arrange advertising but—”

“You’re good enough to come up with the idea but not to see it through.”

“That’s hardly the case, Mrs. Lassiter, and I think you know it.”

Mrs. Lassiter pinned her with a stare. “Or is what they say true? That Sarah Donovan got her job through no skill of her own, that she is not truly as accomplished as she would have people believe?”

Sarah’s breath caught and her jaw stiffened. Was that really what people were saying?

She glanced at the blackboard, with its list of poems. A play was definitely the right answer, for the children as well as the audience. Still, a poorly directed play would be as disastrous as the worn-out recitation.

Could she do it? It would be a whole new test of skills, something she’d never done. With children. But wouldn’t it be something to pull it off?

Sarah straightened her back, feeling the familiar irresistible lure of a challenge, and nodded her acceptance.

Seconds later, she caught Mrs. Lassiter’s satisfied smile and realized she’d been suckered.

* * * * *

Frank Bates lay on the rumpled bed of his sparse room in Mrs. King’s boarding house. He peered at the tiny gray mouse in the corner and smiled.

“You like that cheese, huh fella?” he whispered.

The mouse tensed at the sound and waited without movement.

Frank smiled and sketched whiskers on his charcoal drawing of the rodent. As sketches went, he reckoned this one wasn’t too bad. He didn’t much like charcoal, but his pastel crayons were across the room, in their metal tin. Squeaky didn’t pose for him all that often. He’d made do with the tools at hand.

He waited while the mouse snatched up the last crumb of cheese and scampered off behind the dresser. Then, he rose and looked up at the high shelf that held his other drawings. Mostly all animals, they peered down at him, wordless friends.

If he’d had the nerve all those years ago, he’d have told his father to go to hell. Maybe one of his sketches would be hanging in some fancy museum somewhere. Maybe he’d be wealthy and famous and recognized everywhere he went.

Instead, he was working at a shit job in a railroad station. As jobs went, it was just one more shit job in a long line of shit jobs, all of them ruined in one way of another. He’d have been good at all of them, if it weren’t for bad luck.

Frank slammed his sketchbook and charcoal pencils on the dresser and snarled at the reflection in the mirror. “Spineless, cowardly little bastard,” he muttered. “No account little sissy. Be a man.” He growled his father’s words, crumpled the sketch into a ball, and threw it across the room.

Stupid drawings would get him nowhere. If he wasn’t on his toes, Sarah Donovan would turn this job to ruin, too, and his father would be right. She’d signed up to take her primary operator test. He’d be out on the street, sure enough, and through no fault of his own, except that he’d let it happen. This time, he’d show some spine, prove he was a man.

Empty ideas slid through his mind until one stuck. All he had to do was send off a few telegrams to Big John, hint around that any and all proposals would be entertained, for a certain sum, and use Sarah’s sine. Little Lark wouldn’t know what hit her. Big John would pass word around and she’d have more propositions than she could shake a stick at.

Then it wouldn’t be no time until she was gone, bad luck along with her.

* * * * *

“What do you mean there’s not going to be a recitation this year?” Daniel asked, following his daughters up the stairs. Kate and Molly’s brown curls bobbed in excitement. They were so animated he could hardly get a word in edgewise.

Molly jumped up and down, her black button-shoes tip-tapping on the upstairs hallway’s polished wood floor. A small oval portrait bounced, frame and all, against the wall.

Kate frowned, censure in her hazel eyes. “Be careful, Molly.” She straightened her back and tried to look official, brushing off her blue calico dress for effect. “We’re going to put on a theatrical instead,” she announced.

“A real live one,” Molly added.

Daniel crossed his arms and bent to Molly’s level. “As opposed to what, a dead one?”

Molly shattered into giggles while Kate rolled her eyes. “Papa, that truly wasn’t very funny. I’m not sure you’re very good at teasing.”

Daniel frowned. There wasn’t much he was good at, when it came to the girls. He tended to either treat them like small adults, because it was easier, or push too far, like now, only to have Kate recognize, and call attention to, his over-effort. “Molly thought it was funny.”

“Molly thinks everything is funny.”

“Perhaps Molly has good taste.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t.” Kate shooed Molly into their bedroom and eased the door shut. “We’ll be just a minute, Papa, and then we’ll tell you all about the play Miss Sarah is going to help us put on.”

The door closed completely, leaving him to digest Kate’s words. So Sarah was going to direct a play. For years, Miss Clay had been presenting the same tried and true poetry recitation and now that Sarah was in the midst of it, they were going to do a play. He wondered how long it had taken her to convince Miss Clay and the group of mothers that they should let her refurbish the entire show.

He should have put his foot down when Molly issued the invitation. But he’d been loath to protest, especially when he’d almost ruined all the progress he and Sarah had made that day. She just had so many newfangled ideas. Heaven only new what sort of child rearing notions she had.

Reminding himself to stay objective, he knocked on the girls’ door. “Are you two ready in there?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Come in.”

He opened the door and peered into their room. Their school dresses were hung, each on its own hook, just as he’d taught them. Shoes sat, paired up, in a straight row underneath their dresses. Kate was brushing out Molly’s brown curls.

“So tell me about this theatrical,” he prompted, seating himself on the bed next to them.

“Oh, it’s gonna be so much fun. Lots and lots better than those same old poems we always do.” Molly turned and smiled at him with excitement gleaming in her eyes. “Miss Sarah said so.”

“Now, girls, there’s nothing wrong with poetry.” The words sprang more from loyalty than a sharp preference for odes and sonnets, and Daniel fought to keep his face serious. Kate and Molly needed to learn to appreciate fine literature.

Kate nodded in agreement. “That’s what Miss Sarah said. She said poetry is special but that this year, we were going to do something different so we wouldn’t get tired of things. I think that makes sense.”

“It seems to.”

“Miss Sarah says we’re not gonna do a regular play, on account of most plays being for grown ups,” Molly added. “She says we’re gonna read a book and then act it out.”

“Don’t you think that’s a good idea, Papa? That way we’re ‘killing two birds with one stone.’” Kate slid off the bed and placed the hairbrush on the dresser, then turned back to Daniel, waiting for his opinion.

Daniel weighed the information, finding its logic more sound than he’d expected. “It certainly seems like a good idea. Did Miss Clay think so?”

“Oh, Miss Clay is very pleased. She’s going to be in charge of refreshments and she’d got all sorts of fancy baked goods planned.” Kate winked at him knowingly.

Daniel stood, waited for Molly to climb off the bed, and turned down the blankets. “So, Molly girl, what story are you going to read? A fairy tale?”

She shook her head. “Oh, goodness no, Papa. We’re going to do a ‘piece of literature.’”

“Miss Sarah has lent Miss Clay her copy of
Little Women
,” Kate explained.

“
Little Women
, hmm? Why does that sound like something Miss Sarah would recommend?”

Kate curled her bare toes and gazed at him as if he’d said something wrong. “My friend Dorothy said her sister read it and it’s a real good book about four sisters.”

Daniel shrugged his shoulders. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall a thing about the book save for its popularity these last few years. “I imagine it must be then,” he agreed, pointing to the open bed. “Come on, let’s get you tucked in.”

The girls crawled into their double bed and pulled up a worn scrap-quilt. Daniel bent to whisper a goodnight to each of them and kissed them on their cheeks, then turned and blew out the lamp. Pulling the door half shut behind him, he started down the stairs wondering what in the world Sarah had up her sleeve this time.

* * * * *

Near the end of the week, Sarah opened the door of the depot and rushed in. Between writing the script for the play, practicing for the primary op test, and work itself, she’d done nothing but rush all week. She should feel overwhelmed. Instead, invigoration filled her. She stomped her boots to shake off the morning’s wet snow and waved to Jim.

“You got company, Sarah,” he called from his perch behind the ticket counter.

Sarah glanced around the waiting room and spied two familiar brown heads. Kate and Molly sat on one of the padded leather seats, book in hand, intent on what they were reading. Goodness, they hadn’t even heard her come in. She hung her cloak on a hook and crossed the room to where they sat.

“May I help you, ladies?” she asked.

“Oh, Miss Sarah, we’ve been waiting for you.”

“We’ve come on an errand for Miss Clay. She wanted you to have a list of the parents who have signed up to help with costumes and set construction so you can start on things as soon as Thanksgiving is over. She doesn’t have Papa’s name down but we think you ought to add it.”

“Why, thank you, Kate. And Miss Clay let you out of school to bring this?”

“Not ‘xactly.”

“What Molly means is that it’s lunch time and we figured it would be better to catch you now, when you’re just coming to work, instead of later when you’re more busy.”

“And does Miss Clay know you’ve left school to do this?”

“Not—”

“Lots of kids leave to take lunch at home. We don’t need to get permission just as long as we’re back in time.”