Ghost Girl (9 page)

I felt like a bird I had seen once trapped in the rafters of our shed, beating its head and wings against the boards. I leaned over to tell Aunt Birdy that I was headed to the bathroom. But just as I tapped her arm, I heard the door in the back of the classroom open.

Mr. Jessup stopped rocking. His eyes got wide, and soon everybody was turning around to see what he was staring at.

Standing in the doorway was an older man dressed in city clothes—in a dark gray hat and a three-piece gray suit and starched collar. I had seen him before, but I couldn't remember where until I heard somebody in the room let out a gasp. Then Aunt Birdy said, “Well, look a'there,” and all of a sudden, I knew.

Still, just to be sure, I turned around and double-checked the big framed picture hanging over the chalkboard . . . the stiff collar, the serious face, the steady gray eyes.

It was him all right—President Herbert Hoover. And following along behind was his wife, Lou Henry Hoover, and behind her were two marine guards. The marines stepped into the doorway and stood with their hands behind their backs, gazing out over the schoolroom.

For a minute, everybody froze. Then, all at once, the room was full of chattering and whispering, and Miss Vest was springing up from her chair. “Hello!” she cried, hurrying down the aisle. “I got the message that you might come, but I never thought you'd be able to make it up here in this weather. Welcome, Mr. President! Good morning, Mrs. Hoover!”

“Good morning to
you
,” the president said, looking around, with the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. We must have been a sight, all gawping at him with our jaws hanging open. He took off his hat, shaking drops of rain from the brim. Then he searched around for a place to set his umbrella.

Miss Vest rushed up to take it, but Mrs. Hoover shooed her away. “Please, Miss Vest,” she said. “Don't let us interrupt any longer. We're so sorry to be late. The muddy roads took a bit longer to navigate than we thought.”

Miss Vest shook her head. “It's quite all right! You've arrived at a perfect time. Mr. Jessup was just getting ready to begin his sermon. Please . . . please sit down.” She flitted back to the front of the room to a pair of folding chairs propped against the wall next to her own. “Here. Here are some seats I saved for you,” she said.

Mr. Jessup hurried over to help set the chairs into place along the wall, and I heard him say in a hoarse voice, “I can leave my sermon till next week, Miss Vest. It might be best, you know, seeing as we didn't expect the Hoovers here and all.”

“No, Mr. Jessup,” she whispered back. “You just go right ahead like we planned. The Hoovers didn't want us to make any fuss or change our routine.”

He frowned and looked over at his wife, but Mrs. Jessup was busy handing Little Elton off to Ida and smoothing her dress over her knees.

As the Hoovers walked down the aisle to their seats, a few men reached out to shake the president's hand. Mrs. Hoover greeted everybody, acting like she didn't even notice all the women stretching their necks to get an eyeful of her flower-print dress and her smart hat. The name, first lady, suited her, the way she glided along, smiling and murmuring, “How do you do? . . . Pleased to see you. . . . How do you do?”

I couldn't help sneaking a glance over at Mama to see what she was thinking. Our eyes met—just for a second. Then Mama looked away and so did I, and we sat there quiet, waiting for everyone to get settled while Aunt Birdy perched on the edge of her seat like a little girl.

Once the Hoovers had taken their chairs against the side wall, Miss Vest came back to stand at the front of the room. “I'm sure everyone here,” she said, turning to smile at the Hoovers, “would like to convey how thrilled and happy we are to have you with us this morning. Of course, if it weren't for your generosity, this fine schoolhouse and these children and their families wouldn't be here today.”

Everybody broke out clapping, and the Hoovers bobbed their heads and smiled till the room turned quiet again. Then Miss Vest said, “So now without further delay, I'll let Mr. Elton Jessup get on with his sermon.”

Mr. Jessup stepped to the front of the room. I waited for him to take a deep breath like usual and start in with “Brothers and sisters . . .” But as soon as he lifted his head, we could all tell something was wrong. His face had turned gray, like the color of dirty dishwater, and his forehead was shiny with sweat. And he didn't say a word. Just stood there, blinking and swallowing with his Adam's apple working up and down in his throat. I could see Dewey squirming in his seat, wondering what was the matter.

“
Elton?
” Mrs. Jessup called faintly.

Her husband glanced down at her and gave a puny little laugh. “Nobody told me the president was coming today,” he said. His voice sounded lost, nothing like the swelled-up voice we were all used to.

Then Mr. Jessup looked over at Miss Vest, who had taken her place next to the Hoovers. “Why didn't you tell me?” he asked. “If I'da known they were coming, I would have planned something special.”

Miss Vest stared back, helpless. She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it when Mr. Jessup slowly turned to the Hoovers.

“I would have planned something special,” he said again. “'Course, I had plenty to say today about the Scripture we heard, and well, about the paths to salvation. . . . But everything just ran right out my head when you walked in here.”

A chunk of Preacher Jessup's slick hair had fallen down on his forehead. He didn't even try to push it away. “I reckon you've heard some fine speeches in your life, sir,” he said to the president.

From where I sat, I could see President Hoover lean forward in his chair as if he and Mr. Jessup were the only two people in the room. “Yes, and I've heard some mighty dreadful ones, too, Mr. Jessup,” he told him. “I come from a Quaker background, so my favorite sermons are the simplest—straight from the heart.”

Mr. Jessup nodded for a long time, looking down at his feet. “That's real good advice, sir,” he finally answered. “I won't be forgetting it any time soon. But for now, I reckon I just . . . just better say thank you and head on out of here before I make a bigger jackass of myself.” And before we knew what was happening, he was walking softly down the aisle, excusing himself as he pushed past the marines and slid out the door.

The door swung shut behind him, and there was a second of awful quiet until Mrs. Jessup started getting to her feet, too. We could all hear her nagging at Dewey and Ida. “Come on now,” she hissed. “We got to go after your pa. . . .
Come on.
” She yanked Little Elton out of Ida's arms, and headed after Mr. Jessup, with her eyes blazing and her kids trailing after her.

Dewey was the last one to follow. As he walked by, he kept his head down and his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked shamed to the bone. I know I should have felt bad for him, but I didn't. Not one little bit. I felt glad—glad that Dewey Jessup was finally seeing what it felt like to have folks staring and feeling sorry for him.

Miss Vest looked weary, as if all her weeks of trying so hard were finally catching up to her. Somehow she managed to announce that it was time for the closing hymn, “Bringing In the Sheaves.” Without a fiddle or even a mouth organ to keep us in tune, our singing sounded pitiful. Miss Vest and Aunt Birdy and Mrs. Hoover were about the only ones who knew all the words, and the rest of us limped along in scratchy voices.

After we were done, everybody rushed up to the front of the room to shake hands with the Hoovers, like nothing with Mr. Jessup had ever happened. Aunt Birdy pulled me into line, saying, “Come on, Apry. Don't you want to meet the president?”

I nodded, trying not to watch Mama as she slipped away through the crowd and out the door.

I was spending recess under
my chestnut tree the next week when Poke McClure turned up out of nowhere. One minute I was sitting by myself trying to make out words in a little book Miss Vest had loaned me. The next minute, I turned around to find Poke slouched against the tree behind me.

“You learned to read yet?” he asked, eyeing the book spread across my lap. It was filled with pictures of a brother and sister smiling and feeding their new kitten and putting her to sleep in a straw basket.

I squinted up at Poke through the bright afternoon sun. He looked even meaner than I remembered, with his dirty hands hitched over the straps of his overalls and a shadow of black fuzz growing along his sharp jaw. I didn't know whether to answer him or not.

“Well?” he asked again.

“Almost,” I lied. I bent over my book and pretended to start reading again.

Poke grunted and glared out at the schoolyard, where Ida and her friends were busy skipping rope and chanting the singsong rhymes that Miss Vest had been teaching them: “Mabel, Mabel . . . set the table . . . just as fast as . . . you are able.”

I looked around for Miss Vest, then remembered she was still inside, clearing a space in the classroom for the new piano. The piano had arrived just that morning, right in the middle of our arithmetic lesson. It had been sent as a present for the school from a musical instrument company. All the kids were so excited that Miss Vest had to ask the delivery men to roll the piano into her parlor for the time being—at least until we finished our lessons for the day.

“Hey! Look who's here!” I heard somebody yell.

A few boys had spotted Poke leaning against the tree. They let the ball they were playing with drop to the ground. I wasn't surprised when Dewey came strolling over. He was still wearing his wool suit, even though it needed a cleaning and the day was plenty warm enough for short sleeves.

“Hey there, Poke,” he said. “You get tired of clearing stumps and decide to come back to school?”

Poke settled back into the crook of the tree, crossing his arms and sizing up Dewey's knickers. “Naw,” he said, drawing out his words long and slow. “You won't be seeing me at school again. . . . But I might start coming to those Sunday meetings. From what I hear down at Taggart's, the sermons are getting a lot shorter these days.”

A sickly look flicked over Dewey's face, and then he muttered, “Last Sunday weren't Pa's fault. Miss Vest should have told him the Hoovers were coming.”

Poke let out a mean little laugh. “Huh! The way I figure it, Miss Vest and old President Hoover did folks round here a favor with that little surprise visit.”

Poke didn't see Dewey's hands curling into fists. He was too busy smirking and showing off for all the kids who had started to crowd around the chestnut. “Maybe now,” he said in a louder voice, “Preacher Jessup might stick to logging, where he belongs.”

He had barely gotten the words out before Dewey was on top of him like a wildcat. They fell to the ground, and all I could see was a tangle of elbows and knees and punches and kicks. Then I heard Ida screaming, “Stop it, Poke! Stop it! Somebody run get Miss Vest. Poke McClure's gonna kill my brother!”

I crawled out of the way on all fours, leaving my book behind me in the dust, but with all the kids pushing closer to see, I could barely get clear of the fighting. Finally, I managed to scrabble to my feet just in time to see Dewey, with his lip split and his nose bloody and his eyes full of the devil, lunging at Poke again. All of a sudden, both boys were barreling toward me, and before I could get free they sent me slamming backward into the gnarled roots of the tree.

I managed to throw my hands back to catch myself, but when I landed, I heard a funny pop and felt a pain like a pitchfork driving into my arm. I was afraid to look down, afraid of seeing a bone splintering up through my skin. My ears filled with a roaring, so loud that I couldn't hear the kids around me anymore. I rolled over on my side, hugging my hurt arm. The next thing I knew, Luella was peering down at me, and then Alvin and Dewey with his fat lip. Then I saw their feet shuffling backward, trying to make room. Soon Miss Vest was kneeling in the dirt beside me, out of breath, asking me the same questions over and over.

After a few moments, her words started to make sense. “Answer me, April,” she said, sounding sterner than I'd ever heard her. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“My arm,” I whispered. “I think it's broke.” It was hard to talk with my tongue and lips caked with dust. All I wanted was a drink of cold water, and then maybe I'd feel better. I tried to sit up, but the pain came washing over me again, making me sick to my stomach. I dropped back in the nest of roots.

“That's all right,” Miss Vest said. “Just lie still for now.” She got to her feet and I heard her say, “Ida, you stay here while I run inside and telephone Sergeant Jordan to bring the truck up from the marine camp. We need to get April down to a doctor in the valley. . . . The rest of you children, try and give her some room.”