September Wind (3 page)

             
After she left, Emily went up to her room and was about to place the book on a shelf next to the others, but changed her mind and set it on the nightstand beside her bed instead. Then she skipped down the stairs to help with the canning, thinking what a lovely day it had turned out to be. Her aunt was bound to mention that Miss O’Reilly stopped by.

             
They boiled, peeled, packed, and hauled jars of tomatoes down to the basement, but still not a word from her aunt about the visitor. Finally, as they were preparing dinner, she got up enough courage to bring it up herself.

She stood on a chair, stirring butter into a mixture of peas and carrots. “Looks like they want me in school, huh?”

              “
Sounds that way,” was all her aunt said.

             
Emily didn’t expect more. Her aunt was moody more times than not, and didn’t speak unless there was a need. In many ways, she was like the men in the house. She was a short woman with wiry hair, cut by herself in the same way since Emily could remember. Mood-wise, she was like Rupert her brother, with a tongue sharp as nails. The only difference was that Grandfather stood like a mountain next to his sister. His hair was soft and white as snow, while Francine’s was dirt-brown, except for the sprouts of gray that reminded Emily of tufts from peeled back cornhusks.

             
Steven was the taller of the two brothers, thinner though than Timothy, with hair brown like bread crust out of the oven and straight as a cutting board against his square face.

             
Timothy’s hair was shades darker than his brother’s, wild and unkempt, much like discarded bales of hay. His long nose so much like his mother’s gave him a hollowed look.

             
Claude was hefty and solid as an ox, with darting pale blue eyes and hair the color of rust one might find at the bottom of a pail. Grandfather called him Cousin Claude, but Emily had her suspicions that he was no relation at all.

             
Sometimes when Claude returned from the field, he would come with a beer in hand and hose down the garden. Emily stayed clear of him as much as possible. He was mean as a bull, especially after a few too many drinks. His favorite things to hate were cats and children. But if the truth were told, she’d have to say he hated cats just a little bit more. He always said two of them hairy beasts were more than enough in one household. His favorite name for Emily was Mud. The first time he had shown her any real interest was the time she caught him hiding in the bushes when she went to the creek for a swim.

             
Then there was the time he caught her alone up in the hayloft. He didn’t say anything, just acted in such a peculiar way, that she scampered down the steps and out the barn door as fast as she could. She tried not to remember, but sometimes he gave her this look that made her feel as if she had just swallowed a glass of dishwater. More than once, she had wondered why Grandfather kept him around.

             
When the men came in to eat that night, Emily was humming as she finished setting the table. Miss O’Reilly’s good news prompted her to bring out the white linen tablecloth her grandmother made with yellow trim to match the linoleum floors and the flowers across the white wallpaper. Everything had faded with time, but still it brightened the room.

             
Aunt Francine stayed for dinner, and Emily kept waiting for her to bring up the exciting news. She was glad Claude didn’t show up to ruin the night. Probably went straight to the bar after work, which was fine with her. Although, more times than not, he’d choose the furthest field from the house to attend to; he’d have a six-pack or two of beer waiting in the creek for later, and then he’d sit under a tree until every last drop was gone. Whatever the case, she was glad this special day wouldn’t have to be shared with him.

             
No one talked much during dinner. It usually took bad news, or maybe good news to get them talking. A little drink helped too. Although, that didn’t happen much when Aunt Francine was around. She got after the men, eyeing the bottles of whiskey or beer, or whatever they were drinking at the time, telling them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for carrying on so. “You Nincompoops,” she would say, and then she would traipse off home.

             
Finally, just as Emily brought dessert over, her aunt clicked her tongue and sucked in her breath as she did when something suddenly occurred to her. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. The school board sent someone over today.”

             
Grandfather’s brows met in a furry line. “What in tarnation did they want?”

             
“
Emily’s supposed to start school in fall, that’s what. Should’ve gone three years ago just like I warned you.”

             
“
I mentioned it myself,” Steven piped in.

             
Emily dished Grandfather the first piece of apple pie.
 
School is mandatory
, she wanted to tell him.

             
He picked up a fork and tapped his plate. “Where’s the damn ice cream?”

             
Oh, yeah. I was about to get it.” Emily set the pie dish on the table and hurried to the refrigerator.

             
“
I suppose someone’s coming to pick her up every morning,” Grandfather growled. “Maybe they’ll send someone over to do her chores.” He jabbed his fork into the pie, pulling off a big chunk. “What the devil does she need schooling for, anyway?”

             
“
Timothy and I went to the eighth grade,” Steven reminded him.

             
“
Seventh for me,” Timothy grunted. “I dropped out mid spring... remember? Tilling started early that year.”

             
Emily brought the container of homemade ice cream to the table and scooped some onto Grandfather’s pie. Aunt Francine had dished up the men’s pie and they held out their plates.

             
“
I can walk to school,” Emily said. “It’s not that far past Aunt Francine’s. Maybe I could ride Star. She’s broke in now, you know. I even rode her a couple times.”

             
Timothy threw back his head and laughed. “Listen here, bright eyes. You take that horse, and they’ll send you right back home.”

             
Grandfather clammed up the rest of dinner. For once, Emily didn’t feel threatened by his mood. Instead, she felt empowered by the knowledge that he had no say in the matter.

             
After everyone left, she turned on the radio and began to clean the kitchen. If it wasn’t for Grandfather’s dislike of music, most likely anything her mother might have listened to, she would have it on the entire day.

             
Her appreciation for music came early on with records playing on the Victrola. Her grandmother reminded her many a time how she would sit on the kitchen floor, bouncing and waving her hands to the beat. And then as soon as she could walk, she would whirl and bounce around the kitchen and living room, at times stopping to tap a foot when the music swelled to a heightened state. Even now, if she listened carefully she could still hear her grandmother’s voice: “
Oh, Bella Bambina, you’ve got such rhythm
.”

             
The Victrola finally broke, but even then, the radio always played in the background as the two went about their chores.

             
When Emily put the last dish away, she scrubbed the kitchen and living room floors, and then pulled out wax and rags. She did this once a week, something of a ritual she took on after her grandmother died. Grandmother had taken pride in her floors, although the dashes of red and green were beginning to fade into the yellow linoleum. Still, it looked just fine after a good waxing.

             
The last of the supplies had just been returned to the closet when a song came on called
 
You Are My Sunshine
. She slipped onto a stool next to the radio and turned it up.               This kind of music brought her grandmother back as if soft winds carried memories of them together with Bing Crosby, Glenn Miller, and Gershwin. On Sundays whenever Grandfather wasn’t around, they would listen to gospel hymns. And then there was Billie Holiday singing one of her grandmother’s favorites,
 
God Bless the Child
.

Emily figured she wasn’t yet three the first time she heard it. The two were making a quilt when she noticed the tears. “What’s the matter, Grandmother?” she had asked.

“
Oh, my little Bella Bambina
,
 that song, that came out when you were just a baby. Your mother would’ve loved it.”

             
After that, each time it came on, they would sit in silence until it finished.

             
Emily fumbled with the dial, hoping to find the song, but it was futile. Finally, she pulled the plug, rigged up an extension cord she snuck from her grandfather’s bedroom, and took the radio up to her room. Grandfather listened to the farm report most mornings so she would make sure it was back down before he got up.

             
She loved being in her mother’s old bedroom, tucked away like a secret haven in the only upstairs room. They never got around to bringing up electricity, although Emily didn’t mind unless there was a thunderstorm. Then she would hide under the covers, or in the closet, wrapped in a blanket.

             
Every night just before dark, she would run upstairs and light a lantern. A vent in the corner let the heat up from the wood stove and fireplace. There were three windows, one facing the road, one high above her bed, and another that faced the back yard. She slipped off her shoes, blew out the lamp, and lay across the bed listening to the music as she watched stars out the back window.

             
The next morning, she awoke to the sound of her grandfather hollering from the kitchen. She stepped into her shoes, unplugged the radio, and hurried down.

             
“
Well, there it is,” he said as she rounded the corner and returned the radio to its spot on the counter. “What’re you doing with my radio anyway?” Everything was his.               She imagined he would claim her thoughts if he could.

             
I was hoping to hear a song Grandmother and I used to…”

             
“
Well you can just as well listen down here.” He jabbed the plug into the wall socket and turned to the farm report. “And put that damn extension cord back where you got it. You wanna start a fire?”

             
“
I’m making bacon grits this morning,” she said, hoping to appease him.

* * * *

When Tuesday arrived, Emily kept looking out the windows for Miss O’Reilly. She was up in her bedroom reading
Down Our Street
for the seventh time when a car pulled into the driveway. Seeing it was Miss O’Reilly, she rushed downstairs and peeked around the doorway as her grandfather let her into the kitchen.

“I’m here to discuss your granddaughter.”

              “
I know exactly why you’re here,” Grandfather barked. “I don’t know what the rush is. Some people are busy, you know.”

             
“
Don’t you think Emily’s education is important, Mr. Rezell?”

             
“
She’s learning all she needs to learn right here, cooking, cleaning, and gardening.”

             
“
What about reading and arithmetic and...?”

             
“
Oh, pooy. For what? There’s a radio right over there,” he said, waving an arm at the counter. “And now and then we’ll even pick up a newspaper.”

             
“
Sir, that’s not enough.” Her voice was firm, yet stilled with compassion.

             
“
Auh, she doesn’t need...”

             
“
Mr. Rezell! The law says she’s to be in school unless there’s some kind of hardship.” She handed him a piece of paper. “Here’s the date and the hours of school as well as the supplies she’ll need.”

             
“
Supplies?” Grandfather grabbed the list.

             
“
Yes, sir. She’ll need paper, pencils, crayons...” Her
voice trailed off as grandfather clinched his jaw, looking the other way.

             
Emily strained her ears to catch every word. She lost her balance and stumbled into the kitchen.

             
“
Why, hello, Emily,” Miss O’Reilly said. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

             
Emily realized how much she missed that smile and sweet voice. “Hi, Miss O’Reilly.” Still clutching her book, a little tighter now, she looked at her grandfather, ready for the bite.