Sycamore Hill (25 page)

Ellen snorted and leaned back in her chair again. She shook her
head, looking at me like a worn but still patient parent. ‘“From ashes to
ashes, dust to dust,’ as the Good Book says. That’s what I believe in, Abby.
What makes man worth any hereafter, if there was such a place, which I heartily
doubt. People remember us as we were during our life on this godforsaken earth.
That memory, be it good, bad, or indifferent, is about as much as any of us can
hope for after we’re dead and buried. God created us perhaps, but I’m inclined
to believe he regretted that mistake and wants nothing further to do with us.”
She sighed deeply.

“My dear, heaven and hell are right here,” she further explained
her views, tapping her cane hard on the floor as emphasis. “Your loneliness is
part of your hell. Seeing your students learning is part of your heaven. And as
for my attending church like some faithful follower, it’s my only social
activity of the week.”

Ellen chuckled. “Hayes is a pompous, ignorant baboon, but he’s
entertaining to watch. I relish the way he shouts himself red in the face,
making his veins stand out at the temples. He scares the very mischief out of
the weakhearted. Did you see Berthamae’s face last Sunday when Hayes howled
down at her of the sins of idle gossip? And Howard Donlevy turned white when
the good reverend told the congregation that God is listening to our every
word. I’ve never heard anyone cuss with the finesse that Howard exhibits. He’s
an artist with the way he punctuates his sentences with hells and damns.”

I knew that Ellen was trying to distract me from my thoughts, but
her methods were not working and only succeeded in increasing my curiosity
about the spirit in the schoolhouse. Her very determination to sidetrack me
made me wonder just what she really did believe.

“There is something there in the schoolhouse, Ellen,” I said
quietly, dogmatic. Ellen stopped her flow of talk and looked at me. Her mouth
tightened.

“There isn’t anything in that schoolhouse now that hasn’t been
there since it was built fifty-odd years ago,” she told me firmly. “There’s
only a lonely woman who gives up her own dreams to help others have the means
of achieving theirs.”

“Did Prudence Townsend leave because of the ghost?” I asked,
displaying my own determination to have some answers.

Ellen issued an impatient snort and tapped the fingers of her
right hand on the arm of her rocker. “No. Prudence Townsend did not leave
because of any ghost,” she retorted indignantly. She did not meet my eyes,
however, but looked away from me and out into the garden now turned under and
fertilized for spring planting.

“Then why did she leave?” I asked, still pressing the matter.

“Leave be on the subject of Prudence Townsend!” Ellen snapped, her
eyes swinging back to me. I saw with surprise that she was really angry, more
angry than I had ever seen her.

“That girl was a damn fool, plain and simple! Now, just forget
about her!”

I knew I would not do as Ellen so belligerently instructed.
However, I would respect her wishes and not bring up the subject of Prudence
Townsend with her again. There was no sense in doing so, for I would get no
answers to my questions from Ellen Greer. And as for the ghost that inhabited
the schoolhouse, I would have to find other sources of information concerning
that as well.

Trouble seemed to roost on my shoulders. As long as my ideas
remained in opposition with James Olmstead’s and the Reverend Jonah Hayes’s,
there was little I could do to alleviate the growing tension of my life.

Since arriving in town, I had become the hub of controversy.
First, I had allowed the children to paint murals on the schoolroom walls, an
act in itself that had raised eyebrows, made tongues wag and heads shake. Then
I had used physical labor to work out the mischievous energies of my resident
miscreants. My teaching methods were next to come into the critical arena.
Games and dramatic play had no place in a classroom, according to Olmstead and
the goodly Reverend Hayes. I knew that my methods were unorthodox and highly
unconventional, but both men had demanded results, and the techniques were
working. The children were learning, and they were enjoying themselves in the
process. The way they learned seemed of little import.

Most of the parents graciously reserved comment about me. There were
some exceptions, of course. Berthamae Poole had been very indignant when she
found her two boys digging the latrine. However, since then, she had forgiven
and even praised me when her sons showed marked improvement in their basic
skills. They surprised her even more by reading during the evening rather than
playing poker.

I had earned Reverend Hayes’s eternal ire by refusing to teach the
stories he selected for Sunday School. He had suggested Adam and Eve being cast
from Eden, the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Job, and the great flood to
start with during the first month. However, I had put those aside and taught
the stories of Ruth, the raising of Lazarus, the blind man who was given sight,
and the meeting of Jesus and the woman beside Jacob’s well.

Angry and frustrated, Reverend Hayes had said that the children
were not getting the proper attitude about God’s power. They should fear His
wrath, he’d said. I had argued that everyone should live with the knowledge of
His love and forgiveness. He cited passages from the Bible, and I did likewise,
which only increased his distrust and dislike of me.

With the antagonism between me and Olmstead and Hayes, I knew it
would be difficult to have Diego Gutierrez reinstated in school. However, I
intended to try as much for his sake as for Matthew Hayes’s, since the latter
was still in disgrace with his classmates.

My first attempts to discuss the matter with James Olmstead and
the goodly reverend met with dismal failure. Once, Olmstead simply turned on
his heel and stormed from the storefront into the back room, where he had
remained so long, I had little choice but to leave in frustration. Reverend
Hayes proved even more illusive. He was always on his way out to visit some
member of the congregation who was in dire need of his spiritual guidance. The
reverend seemed oblivious of his eldest son’s dilemma. It was when Matthew came
to me in tears that I decided I would have to press until the matter was
resolved.

My opportunity came sooner than I expected. I needed a few
sundries and went to the store following school on Friday afternoon. When I
entered, I spotted James Olmstead perched precariously on a tall ladder,
rearranging some canned goods. Below him, arms crossed and talking leisurely,
stood Reverend Hayes. I smiled slightly, wove my way among the tables and
positioned myself at the base of the roost and in front of Reverend Hayes. The
latter eyed me with the same imperious gaze that terrified most of his
parishioners. Then he looked up at James Olmstead, who had not yet noticed my
daunting presence.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said pleasantly enough. Hayes’s
quelling look was not going to veer me off my purpose. Olmstead looked down and
mumbled some disgruntled greeting. He continued to work, obviously hoping I
would take the hint and go away.

“I wish to speak with both of you about the reinstatement of Diego
Gutierrez in school,” I opened bluntly. They knew very well what was on my
mind, and I might as well jump right into the fire with both feet as to roast
on the edges.

Reverend Hayes’s thick brows rose with a shot, and those
frightening eyes chilled. His facial muscles became set. Olmstead merely issued
an impatient snort.

“When are you going to leave that alone, Miss McFarland?” the
reverend asked tiredly. I saw Emily standing silently behind the counter. She
looked up once and then quickly lowered her head to pretend concentration on a
grocery list handed to her by Berthamae Poole. I could expect no assistance
from them, Emily was cowed by her bullying husband, and Berthamae Poole shook
with fear of the reverend.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that. Diego was expelled more than a month
ago for a minor incident—”

“Minor incident!” Reverend Hayes boomed. “You call my son’s bloody
nose a minor incident?”

“Diego Gutierrez suffered a blackened eye that swelled shut,
Reverend Hayes,” I said quietly, managing to keep my voice steady and
reasonably calm in the face of Hayes’s quite alarming anger.

“He deserved it,” he stated, still in a loud voice, not caring who
heard him. The two women at the counter were frozen, but if ears could grow to
indicate interest, there would be two sets as tall as a jack rabbit’s.

“That little Mexican devil was beating up my son for no reason. He
deserved to get a black eye. He deserved a good hiding as well, and if you were
doing your job properly, Miss McFarland, you would have used the switch on him
in front of the children so that they would all know what happens to bullies.”

“Diego did not beat up your son,” I said coolly.

“That’s not what I was told!” he stormed.

“I know that,” I said in an attempt to be soothing, but knowing it
was like throwing sand in the face of an angry bear.

“You said you were not even there when the fight started,”
Olmstead reminded me, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I was in the schoolroom tutoring one of the children,” I agreed.
“However, I was informed by several of the children who witnessed the entire
affair that it was Matthew who hit Diego first and not the other way around.”

“My son said Diego Gutierrez started the fight,” Hayes insisted
stiffly.

“And if you discussed the episode with him now, I believe you
would find his story different.”

“Why should his story be any different now than it was then?”
Olmstead asked, coming down from his perch aggressively. I stepped back out of
his way. “Have you threatened the boy to make him change his mind?” he
continued. “Your favoritism for the Mexican is well-known, Miss McFarland.”

I wondered if he was deliberately trying to incite my anger. If
that was his intention, he was succeeding remarkably well. I drew a deep
breath, striving for some control over my anger.

“I do not threaten children, Mr. Olmstead,” I said indignantly.
“And I find such a question highly insulting.”

Olmstead flushed as I stared at him. I knew that my expression
said more than was politic, but I could not help but feel he was contemptible.

“Matthew’s grades have dropped since the boy was expelled,” Hayes
told Olmstead, obviously implying there was a connection.

“Matthew’s grades have fallen,” I agreed frankly. “His work has
suffered greatly since the incident with Diego. He is under a great deal of
strain.”

“Strain you have put on him, no doubt,” the reverend was quick to
say.

“The strain of a guilty conscience and social pressure,” I said
calmly. “Since Matthew used you and Mr. Olmstead to finish a fight he started
and could not finish successfully, the children have ostracized him. They liked
Diego Gutierrez, and they refuse to forgive Matthew his deceit and method of
revenge.”

“And you encourage their behavior?” he demanded, outraged that the
children should so despise his son.

“Indeed, I do not. But it changes nothing in the way they feel.
Children understand justice, and they know that Diego did not receive it.”

“You are impertinent!” Hayes said with a whitening around his
mouth.

I did not speak for a minute. “I understand that you did not have
all the facts,” I said slowly, wanting only to accomplish my goal and not
further antagonize these two men.

“I have the facts. My son gave them to me.”

“I suggest you speak with him about the incident again,” I said
and then looked at Olmstead. “You should speak with your son as well, Mr.
Olmstead. He witnessed the incident as did Margaret Hudson, Sherman Poole and
Toby Carmichael.”

James Olmstead looked uncertain for the first time. Reverend
Hayes’s expression remained unchanged. I began to suspect that there was more
than his son’s bloodied nose behind his dislike of Diego Gutierrez. I was
afraid I knew what it was, and it would be very difficult to fight.

“Whatever happened that day, the boy doesn’t belong in our town’s
school. He shouldn’t be allowed to mix with good children,” Reverend Hayes
began.

James Olmstead looked at Hayes with an admiration I found
impossible to understand.

“Would you please explain?”

“I shouldn’t think that would be necessary,” Hayes sniffed.

“I’m afraid it is!”

“The boy is Mexican, and he is born out of wedlock. He does not
belong with decent people.”

I was shaking and hoped it did not show. “You deny the boy his
rights because of two things over which he has no control?”

“That boy has no rights as I see it, Miss McFarland. And I won’t
allow him to be reinstated into the school so that he can further blight our
good children with the sin of his birth.”

I stared speechlessly at Hayes, the anger blooming inside me until
I trembled with it. “Your Christian understanding shows no bounds, does it?” I
managed, but my sarcasm eluded him.