Sycamore Hill (13 page)

“Why was the schoolhouse closed so long after she left?” I asked,
wondering why Marba Lane had become so restless and white.

“They couldn’t find another teacher,” she answered hastily,
refilling her glass. “No one in town was really qualified to take over other
than Miss Greer, of course, and she’s too old. Everyone else has their own job
and family to take care of.”

Perhaps the explanation was as simple as that, I thought. Maybe I
was making too much of the schoolhouse remaining unused for so long. But there
were more important things to consider than what had happened to the previous
teacher, I reminded myself.

“Will you think about what we discussed?” I asked, standing up to
take my leave. Marba set her glass down and rose as well.

“Yes, I will,” she said, seeming relieved.

“It might help if you talked things over with your daughter. You
might even leave the decision to her,” I suggested.

“I might just do that.” Marba smiled, the color now back to normal
in her cheeks. “And, Miss McFarland, thank you for speaking with me about it.”

As I walked down the stairs and across the hotel lobby, I heard a
familiar voice among the throng in the next room. Startled, I scurried out the
front door just as the barroom doors swung back to reveal Jordan Bennett.

My heart was pounding as I skipped down the steps and hurried
along the darkened street toward McPherson Street. I had not seen Bennett since
the Saturday he had brought the horse and plow to the schoolhouse. Linda and
Diego had ridden to school on their ponies without his escort, and I had been
relieved not to see him again. I knew he was avoiding me, and I hoped he would
continue the practice. It made my life considerably more peaceful, though I had
not succeeded in completely obliterating him from my mind. In fact, I thought
of him much too often. Reminding myself that he was married did not seem to
make a difference.

After hurrying for about a hundred yards, I slowed my pace to
normal, not hearing anyone following me. I let out my breath, realizing that I
had been restricting it since hearing Jordan Bennett.

As I turned up McPherson, I gasped in frightened surprise as a
hand closed on my arm, yanking me into the shadows of the trees and effectively
hiding me from passers-by.

“I thought I recognized that provocative walk of yours,” Jordan
Bennett chuckled, removing his hand from across my mouth. He had barely managed
to cut off my scream.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I quavered, wishing I could make
out his face more clearly. His other hand trailed away from my arm as he
lounged against the tree trunk, looking at me.

“I thought I might ask you the same question.”

“What are you talking about? Oh, why am I standing here at all,” I
muttered furiously to myself and started to move back toward the walkway.
Bennett’s fingers dug into my arm again.

“What in hell were you doing at the hotel?” he demanded.

“That’s none of your business, Mr. Bennett. And just what do you
think you’re doing!” I gasped again as he gripped my shoulders and pushed me
back against the trunk on which he had been leaning. His face came within
inches of mine. And my heart was thudding so wildly, I thought he would surely
hear it. His eyes were shining through narrow slits.

“I went to the hotel to talk with Marba Lane about her daughter,
Katrina,” I prattled frantically, afraid of what he intended to do. His fingers
eased their painful hold. He studied my face in the faint moonlight.

“Why didn’t Marba come to you?”

“Because she works, and I thought it would be easier if I went to
her,” I said, growing angry that he had frightened me into explaining. Jordan
Bennett started to laugh a low laugh that could not be heard beyond a few feet.

“What are you laughing at?” I hissed, trying to shake free of him.

“At you,” he answered, continuing the low chuckling as he looked
at my indignant expression. “Oh, Abby McFarland, you do amaze me. You really
do.”

“I think you’re drunk,” I accused as scathingly as I could.

“Not quite,” he disagreed pleasantly, and then leaned close to me
again. I stepped back hastily, but the trunk of the tree stopped me again. “But
as soon as I see you walk into that schoolhouse, I intend to go back and get
pie-eyed.”

“You’re disgusting,” I insulted him, becoming even more angry, as
my fury only seemed to amuse him more.

“Run along now.” He stepped to one side and bowed low. I moved
quickly past him and bent over to emerge from the leafy branches. I jumped
forward with a gasp as his hand delivered a hardy slap to my rear. My dagger
glance did not even faze him.

“My apologies,” he mocked, laughing. “I just couldn’t resist an
opportunity like that one.”

I ran up the street as fast as my long dress would allow me.
Entering the dim schoolhouse, I tried to slow the rapid pumping of my heart. I
felt like throwing something, anything. And then my eyes caught something
written on the blackboard. The words jumped out at me and froze my churning
emotions to a jolting standstill: “Leave before it is too late.”

The writing was scrawled, the letters uneven and jerky, as though
written by an unsure hand. Or a child. It was not the first such message I had
received, and I decided to ignore it as I had the others. Some student was
probably playing a practical joke on the teacher, I thought with a wry smile.

Yet, that night I did not sleep well. Once I awakened and thought
I heard crying, but when I listened intently, there was nothing but
nerve-pulsing silence.

After I returned from my visit with Marba Lane to find the
scrawled warning on the blackboard, several weeks passed without a repeat of
the occurrence. I forgot all about it, not even remembering to mention the
incident to Ellen Greer during our weekly visit.

Other tilings also served to distract me. Katrina had begun coming
to school in casual gingham dresses and white pantaloons. With encouragement,
several girls had invited her to join in group games. While Katrina was coming
out of her shy shell and showing a spontaneous gaiety, Diego Gutierrez was
running into further difficulties.

Matthew Hayes, in an effort to gain his father’s esteem, threw
himself in direct competition with Diego, who was showing himself to be easily
the most gifted student in the class. Both boys were intelligent and ambitious,
but Diego was slightly superior. Matthew Hayes possessed a fierce, quick temper
and was showing a tendency to be vindictive.

The competition between Diego and Matthew came to a head one day
in the schoolyard. Each had been made captain of a ball team. Diego’s team was
winning. The two boys, in an effort to get the ball, knocked together
accidentally. In a fury Matthew fell on Diego, pummeling him with his fists.
Diego was quick and strong. His own temper, never before seen, burst, and he
gave the preacher’s son several wallops that knocked him to the ground. Not
willing to let it go at that, Matthew jumped up as Diego was walking away, and
attacked him from behind.

It took all my physical strength to break the two boys apart,
while receiving several blows myself. For an instant I was afraid they might succeed
in killing one another. Both boys, as well as myself, were breathing heavily as
we stood staring at one another. Diego had a black eye, which was rapidly
swelling shut. Matthew's nose was bleeding profusely. He howled curses at
Diego, who stood looking at the preacher’s son with the same contemptuous
disgust that I had seen mirrored in Jordan Bennett’s face. Afraid to leave the
two boys working out their anger without supervision, I decided to put them at
opposite ends of the classroom, writing essays on what had happened. As I read
them later that afternoon when the children had all gone home, I was appalled
at the hatred that had spewed out of Matthew Hayes. Diego’s comments were
restricted to the facts.

The following day was Saturday, and I set to work scrubbing the
schoolroom floor again. A hard rapping at the door announced James Olmstead. He
was looking very upset. I dried my hands and waited for him to tell me what was
on his mind.

“I’ve been with some of the school-board members in a special meeting,”
he began uncomfortably. I steadied my breathing and braced myself, almost sure
of what was coming. The two boys were going to be expelled for the fight, and I
was about to receive a severe reprimand for allowing the incident to happen in
the first place.

“It has come to our attention that Diego Gutierrez beat up Matthew
Hayes.”

“That isn’t at all what happened,” I said in surprise. I had
suspected that Matthew would go to his father with some tale. I had hoped he
would just remain silent on the event.

“What did happen?”

“Matthew Hayes started a fight with Diego Gutierrez over a ball
game. Diego was as badly hurt in the fight as Matthew.”

“You shouldn’t have allowed it to happen,” Olmstead condemned me
critically.

“No. I should have seen it coming. The boys have been competing in
almost everything.”

“Then that makes our decision all the more proper under the
circumstances,” Olmstead decided.

“What decision? And what circumstances?” I demanded.

“That Diego Gutierrez be removed from this school. His presence
alone is enough to cause trouble. We don’t want our children exposed to his
kind.”

“Diego didn’t start the trouble. Matthew Hayes did,” I insisted
angrily.

“Were you there to witness the whole thing?”

“Well, no, but the other children corroborated Diego’s story.”
From Olmstead’s expression, the children’s decision to side with Diego was
another count against him.

“Nevertheless,” he disregarded my defense, “he never belonged in
this school. He’s a Mexican. And he’s a bastard. He should not be allowed to
socialize with our children.”

A bastard! Jordan’s? A sick feeling dropped into the pit of my
stomach.

“You’re slandering the boy, Mr. Olmstead.”

“Everybody in town knows what he is,” Olmstead told me, though he
flushed slightly. “Reva Gutierrez has been living with Jordan Bennett for
years.”

Oh, God, this got worse by the minute. “Diego Gutierrez has a
right to an education whatever the relationship between his mother and Mr.
Bennett,” I defended.

“Let Bennett send him somewhere else then. That boy doesn’t belong
with decent people.”

I was appalled at the unfairness of Olmstead and the rest of the
board members. “And what happens to Matthew Hayes? You won’t be helping that
boy by solving his problems this way.”

“Matthew Hayes will return to school as always.”

“Without any disciplinary measures for what he did?” I asked in
anger. “He was devious and cowardly in his actions of running to his father
with that untruthful story.”

“He defended himself,” Olmstead asserted firmly, as though
refusing to believe anything else.

“Nothing will change your mind, will it?”

“You are to go to Eden Rock and tell Jordan Bennett and Reva
Gutierrez of the board’s decision.”

“You expect me to carry that odious slander against Diego?” I
gasped incautiously.

“It’s more than obvious you favor the boy. Perhaps your favoritism
brought on this whole unfortunate incident.”

“I suspect it started long before I ever even heard of Sycamore
Hill, Mr. Olmstead. It’s a thing called bigotry.”

“Don’t be impertinent!” Olmstead snapped. “If you want to keep
your job, you’ll carry out your responsibilities. And one of your
responsibilities is to inform Diego and his parents that he is no longer
welcome at this school. Is that clearly understood, Miss McFarland?”

I remembered what Ellen Greer had said about teachers being hard
to find because the job was a thankless one. I knew that I could refuse to take
this message to Diego, but what was the alternative. James Olmstead would go.
Or the Reverend Hayes himself. I could well imagine what would be said to Diego
in that case. The boy would be terribly hurt with perhaps a memory that would
last him his lifetime. I could not allow that to happen.

“I understand you very well indeed, Mr. Olmstead,” I said coldly.
He flushed slightly under my derisive look, and then left.

I sat down and put my head in my hands. How was I going to tell
Diego that he was no longer welcome at school because he had defended himself?
What would it do to him? On top of the hurt it would cause him, how was I going
to face Jordan Bennett with the board’s decision? That I did not approve of it
or agree with their reasoning would only make him all the more scornful because
I was carrying out their dictates without the courage to fight them. Or could
I? What was to stop me from tutoring the boy myself?

Jordan Bennett’s illegitimate son. What kind of wife did he have
that would allow her husband’s mistress and son to remain on the ranch? And
Reva Gutierrez? What would she be like?

With my Sunday schedule I had little choice but to leave the
schoolhouse cleaning for later that night. I would have to ride out to Eden
Rock and speak with Diego, Jordan Bennett and Reva Gutierrez. I gave a harsh,
almost hysterical laugh as I remembered that James Olmstead had neglected to
tell me how to reach Jordan Bennett’s ranch. But the man at the livery stable
would know, and I needed a horse and buggy.