Sycamore Hill (33 page)

Every time the door opened, my heart lurched. I felt sick and
dizzy with tension. Ellen Greer arrived, dressed somberly, with a simple brooch
at her thin neck. She was leaning heavily on her niece’s arm, but raised a
gnarled hand in hello and then took a seat toward the back of the classroom.
When I saw Reva, I tried to still the trembling of my knees, knowing that right
behind her must be Jordan. I focused my gaze purposely on Diego and Linda, who
came rushing in together. With a few words to me, they went quickly into the
back room to throw on their costumes for the play. I forced myself to look up
and meet Jordan’s blue, enigmatic gaze. My hand knotted convulsively at my
side.

“Good evening.” My greeting encompassed both Reva and Jordan. Reva
chattered gaily, very excited about the evening ahead. Her son had a major part
in the presentation, and she was proud. She looked around at the other parents,
and there was a definite tilt to her head that dared them all.

Jordan had not said a word, but he was watching me. I wished he
would look elsewhere, for his studious gaze was unnerving me more and more by
the second. I could feel my cheek fluctuating between tingling heat and cold
whiteness. Apparently satisfied by what he saw, he turned away. My relief was
short-lived. A gnawing pain ate at my stomach as I saw him smiling and talking
with Marba Lane across the room.

I moved about, showing people where to sit. Ellen stayed me with a
hand to mine. “Are you feeling all right, Abby?” she asked in a low voice. “You
look very pale tonight.”

“Just a case of nerves,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be fine just
as soon as everything begins and goes smoothly.”

“Everything will go very well, my dear.” She patted my hand. I
wished she had resorted to her usual biting humor, then perhaps I could have
snapped out of this dreadful state of nerves. My eyes drifted toward Jordan
again. He was still talking with Marba, throwing back his head and laughing now
at some witty remark she had made. Ross was laughing with them. He turned as
though sensing my attention, and he smiled at me. I forced myself to smile
back.

Looking at my pinwatch, I saw that it was time to begin. I entered
my room and shut the door behind me. Then I shushed the children. “Is everyone
ready?” I asked in a cheerful tone, smiling at each one of them in
encouragement. I was as nervous as they were—perhaps more so. My hands felt
clammy. My head was floating with a strange kind of dizziness, and I felt
nauseated. I took a deep, slow breath.

“I’m so excited, I feel faint,” I admitted to them laughingly.
Several giggled and seemed to relax by my disclosure. “Matthew, do you have
your lines ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Everyone is into their costumes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” they all replied in hushed tones, wide-eyed with
excitement.

“Well, then, as they say in the theater, ‘break a leg.’” I leaned
forward. “But not really, please.” They giggled again.

I went out, leaving the door slightly ajar so that they could hear
me. Taking another deep, calming breath, I stepped onto the low platform and
leaned back against the edge of my desk, with my hands clasped in front of me.
People saw me come from my room, and they grew quiet. I carefully avoided
looking in Jordan Bennett’s direction, though I was aware his eyes were on me
from the moment I came from my quarters. Marba Lane seemed more relaxed and was
even smiling, her first tension dissipated. How I wished mine was! Ross was
smiling at me with encouragement. Then I let my eyes trail over the other
faces, picking out the friendly ones—Elvira Hudson, Ellen Greer, Charles
Studebaker, Emily Olmstead.

My heart was doing a nervous polka in my chest as I said my first
few words of greeting and introduction. Once those were out with a voice that was
thankfully unbroken, though slightly more breathy than usual, I felt my control
returning. I went on to talk a little more about our play, an adaptation of
Dickens’s
A
Christmas Carol.
I gave a brief synopsis of the
story, explaining that due to a lack of time, we would act only the key
sections. And then I introduced Matthew Hayes as our narrator. He marched
forward with great dignity, his nervousness apparent in the slight shaking of
the papers in his hand as he began reading in a slow, careful voice. I sat near
the door where I could signal the children for their entrances. Sherman Poole
came on first as Scrooge. There was some laughter from the parents as they saw
the tall, lanky boy dressed and made up as an old man. Sherman grinned
sheepishly and then launched into his threatrical debut with gusto.

The play went very well. Toby Carmichael made a darling Tiny Tim,
but it was Grant Poole as Father Christmas who brought down the house with
laughter when he tripped over his costume and almost fell flat on his face. By
the time the end came, everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves, even
Reverend Hayes. The children lined up on the small platform and made their
giggling, now-confident bows to the applause of their proud parents. Then they
scurried back to change into their costumes for the nativity scene and
caroling.

Some of my nervousness returned as I again stood in front of the
filled schoolroom and spoke to the parents about the carols and the history of
the nativity scene. I allowed the children five minutes for their quick change.
We had rehearsed this many times, and I knew by a light tap on the door when
they were all ready. I paused for a moment, looking at the door.

The youngest girls came out first, dressed in their party best
with paper wings and little halos. The parents twittered proudly among
themselves. Then the boys came, scrubbed and combed and looking a little too
innocent to be credible. I suppressed my smile as I looked at Sherman’s solemn
look.

A space had been cleared at the front of the classroom, and here
Margaret and Diego knelt together as Joseph and Mary. A small doll was wrapped
and lay in a basket. Luke, Harold and Chester were the Wise Men following the
star held aloft by Matthew Hayes.

With me conducting, the children sang “Silent Night, Holy Night.”
Their harmony was not always perfect, but never had I heard them sound more
wonderful. Katrina Lane sang the second-verse solo as the other children hummed
harmony. Her voice was pure and delightful, and she looked every bit the angel
she was dressed.

When the song was over, the children grinned delightedly. I smiled
back, gave them a broad wink and said they were dismissed. The parents were
clapping and standing up to greet their children, who were pouring down off the
platform to receive their well-earned compliments.

As I turned around, I felt another wave of dizziness, and a clammy
chill came over me. It passed quickly, but left the same annoying nausea with
which I had been too often plagued lately. I felt all the color draining from
my cheeks. Turning quickly away from the attention of the parents, I headed
toward my room where there was a chance of privacy and the excuse of a
half-dozen trays of cookies waiting to be set out. Once there, I closed my eyes
and took several deep breaths. The nausea abated slightly, and my head stopped
swimming.

“Can I help you, Miss McFarland?” Elvira Hudson asked from behind
me. I turned around and smiled with forced brightness. I gladly accepted her
offer and indicated two trays she could carry out to the table while I took the
grounds from the coffeepot. The smell of the rich brew revived my ill feeling.
Usually I loved the smell of coffee, but not lately.

Breathing through my teeth, I lugged the heavy commercial pot Ross
had loaned me across the room to the refreshment table. Then Elvira and I began
distributing the treats. As people came by for cookies, they paused to
congratulate me on the Christmas program. I glimpsed Jordan at the far side of
the room, talking again with Marba Lane. She looked toward me several times as
she spoke, and I wondered if they were discussing me. Jordan’s arms were
crossed over his chest, and he was smiling slightly. It was a friendly smile he
had rarely turned on me, except the one time I wanted so desperately to forget.

Everyone in town had come for the program. Even Sheriff Tom
Hallender was there. He stopped at the table when the others had moved on. I
noticed that his hair was growing very white at the temples, and he looked
tired and drawn.

“You’re doing a fine job of teaching, ma’am,” he commented. “I
haven’t had any need to chase down truants lately.”

Ross walked up to stand next to Tom Hallender. “With a teacher as
pretty as Miss McFarland, who would want to play hooky?” He grinned. I was now
used to Ross’s flirtatious manner, and for once I didn’t flush.

“Do you plan to stay in Sycamore Hill?” Hallender asked.

“Yes,” I answered, and then added with a smile that I hoped I
would be allowed to stay. It was up to the school board as to whether my
contract would be renewed at the end of the year. If it was, I could stay on
permanently unless some unforeseen conflict arose.

“Oh, they’ll renew it all right,” the sheriff said, seeming very
sure. “There isn’t anyone around these parts that would want to work day and night
in this place.” His words seemed to mean something other than the usual duties
that went along with teaching, and I had started to question him when the good
Reverend Hayes approached with his wife on his arm.

“Tom, how are things with you?” The minister nodded greetings to
the sheriff. Ross was standing next to Hallender, but Reverend Hayes looked
right past him, and fixed his cold eyes on me. The only evidence of Ross’s
reaction to the deliberate snub was a faint twitch in his cheek. He sipped at his
coffee and then moved away from the table.

“The Christmas program was done fairly well,” Reverend Hayes said,
and I was pleased by that compliment, the first of any degree at all that I had
received from him.

“Thank you very much.” I smiled. “I thought Matthew did remarkably
well with his narration. Didn’t you? He does very well in any oral
presentation.”

“You showed sound judgment selecting him to do it,” the minister
agreed proudly. “Your judgment was a little lacking in some others however,” he
added after a pause. Hallender looked at the reverend with obvious interest.
Elizabeth Hayes peered up at her husband pleadingly. When she squeezed his arm,
he patently ignored her.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“You never cease to amaze me, Miss McFarland,” Reverend Hayes said
with a stem shake of his head. “How could you possibly have a Mexican boy play
Joseph? It’s unthinkable! And that barmaid’s daughter as an angel? What a lack
of taste and discretion!”

Angry color came into my face. I hoped that Diego and Katrina were
nowhere close by to hear such vile prejudice.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said levelly. “The children
elected Diego to play Joseph, and as for Katrina, she has a beautiful voice and
is a charming child.”

“Luke would have been an excellent Joseph,” the minister insisted,
flatly ignoring my explanation about how the parts were chosen.

“Luke would have done well, yes,” I agreed, trying desperately for
calmness. My stomach was churning again, and I wished that the conversation
would end so I could escape outside for a breath of cool night air.

“If you agree with me, you should have chosen him,” Reverend Hayes
told me briskly. “Joseph should have been played by a white child.”

I started to tremble. I straightened up. The impatience from my
own physical discomfort made me speak candidly. “I know a little about
geography, Reverend Hayes. Jesus was born in Bethlehem, not in London. It’s
highly unlikely that Christ would have been white... or blond... or blue-eyed.
It’s more reasonable to assume he would have been dark-skinned, probably very
dark, since he was a carpenter and therefore must have spent a good deal of
time outside in the sun. And he traveled, walking over the land to preach the
gospel to the people. He would have been brown, Reverend Hayes, very, very
brown!”

There were curious eyes on us, but I had kept my voice low enough
so that others did not hear me. Hayes’s mouth was a hard line of anger and
indignation. He gave me a long, eloquent look and then spoke in a hiss to his
pale wife.

“Get the boys! We’re leaving!” She scurried away to collect her
four sons. Hayes did not move, and I noticed the color in his neck. I knew my
own color was very high. There was a great deal more I wanted to say to this
man, but I knew that I had already said quite enough. More than enough, as it
was.

“June can’t come soon enough, Miss McFarland. I suggest you begin
looking for other prospects more suited to your temperament,” he hissed,
hitting me at my most vulnerable point—my survival. The color washed out of my
cheeks as he watched with immense satisfaction the effect of his words. I felt
the nausea welling inside me as I watched him walk across the room and leave
with his family. I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

“The life of a public servant is about as thankless as they come,
isn’t it?” Tom Hallender said. I looked up, and he smiled sympathetically. “God
knows, you have enough work to do without having to take that kind of abuse.
Beats me why you do take it, Miss McFarland. A young woman like you, well-bred,
pretty. You should be able to find some position in a more exciting place—San
Francisco, for example. There must be lots of things there that would be more
rewarding and interesting than teaching farmers’ kids the alphabet and numbers
while taking a lot of rough talk from a preacher who thinks you’re kin to the
devil himself.”