Brightest and Best (3 page)

Margaret Simpson admired the three pristine erasers and set them an equal distance apart on the chalk ledge at the front of her classroom. Her list of ways she hoped to prepare for this year’s class was lengthy, but she would have to accomplish many of the tasks at home. In the middle of the summer, the principal of Seabury’s consolidated grade school allowed teachers limited access to the building. Margaret looked at her watch, knowing that any moment now the principal would stand in the doorway to her classroom and clear his throat. He was a stickler for rules, including the schedule on which he would open and close the building over the summer.

Few of the other teachers bothered to come into the building in the months when classes did not meet. Some had other jobs for the summer. Some helped on family farms. Some traveled. Margaret, though, seemed to have nothing more exciting to do than straighten her classroom and make lists. She decided to scoot out before Mr. Tarkington could make her feel that she somehow inconvenienced him. Pushing papers into the leather satchel she had carried since she entered teachers college eleven years earlier, Margaret readied to depart the building. She would do Mr. Tarkington the courtesy of stopping by the office to thank him for opening the building.

A few minutes later, Margaret stepped into the bright afternoon sunlight. July was not one of her favorite times of year in eastern Ohio, though January was far worse in the other extreme. At least she had mastered using fabrics and styles that allowed her clothing to breathe. She was grateful for the current fashions that did away with cumbersome underskirts and allowed shortened hems above the ankle. The new garb was far more practical than what Margaret had grown up with.

Outside the school, Margaret turned to look at it. Her first position out of teachers college had been a one-room schoolhouse in southern Ohio, but four years ago she jumped at the chance to teach in a larger—and newer—consolidated school. While she was confident she could capably teach any grade, teaching first graders was a good match for her. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked over at the adjacent high school. From her classroom windows, when school was in session, she could see the older students coming and going from the high school. Every year they looked younger to Margaret.

Of course the students were the same age coming into high school. It was Margaret who aged. When she became a teacher, she never imagined she would still be teaching at age twenty-nine. She would meet someone, as her college classmates had. She would marry and have her own children.

It hadn’t happened. And now Margaret did not know a single unwed woman her age with any serious expectation of marriage. Until a few weeks ago, Margaret would have—reluctantly—put herself in that category and focused on being grateful she had work she enjoyed. Now she was not sure.

Margaret’s rented bungalow was only six blocks from the school. She owned a car because her uncle had given her one he’d tired of, but it was foolish to think an unmarried woman would own a home. The bungalow, with its low-pitched roofline and overhanging eaves, was no architectural wonder. It had come from the Sears, Roebuck catalog as a kit, arriving in a railroad boxcar. Her landlord had constructed it himself eight years ago. The home was cozy with a small second bedroom, but its best feature was the front porch shaded by an extension of the main roof. Except in the harshest winter months, Margaret enjoyed sitting on the porch with a book or her sewing.

Her shoes clicked down the narrow sidewalk in automatic movements.

When she saw him—as she hoped she would—Margaret slowed her steps to give Gray Truesdale time to catch her eye and cross the street to say hello.

Gray was the reason Margaret was not fully certain she would never marry.

She nearly melted the first time he spoke to her and was so tongue-tied that she could not imagine he would ever repeat the act of kindness. Or perhaps it had been pity for the spinster schoolteacher.

But Gray Truesdale had never married, either, and he was more than mildly eligible. At thirty-five, he owned a home that had not come from a kit. One of the first men to own an automobile truck, Gray did steady business in deliveries and home repairs.

Margaret liked a man who was not afraid of hard work.

She liked Gray Truesdale. He had spoken to her again after the initial social disaster, and gradually she relaxed and enjoyed herself with him. He made her tingle up and down. It was the oddest sensation, but delicious.

Now he waved and approached. “I wondered if I might run into you.”

“And you have.” She smiled.

“I might be in your neighborhood later,” he said.

“Oh? When might that be?” The familiar exchange had become a litany between them.

“Around suppertime, I expect,” he said.

“I expect I’ll be taking a roast chicken out of the oven about then.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, I do believe I will be.”

“I imagine it will be a juicy roast chicken.”

“That’s the kind my mother taught me how to cook.”

Gray nodded. “Well, then, I’ll certainly be mindful.”

He tipped his black hat and backed away.

Margaret tingled.

Ella recognized the neighborhood they turned into.

“Lindy Lehman lives on this street,” she said.

“That’s right,” Nora said. “Do you know Lindy?”

“She’s my stepmother’s oldest friend.” Ella did not add that Lindy was the sister of Gideon’s deceased wife. Most
English
had enough trouble sorting out Amish relationships. The simplest explanation was best.

Nora’s brow creased. “But your stepmother is Amish, isn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“And Lindy … is not.”

“No. She chose not to be baptized and join the church, but she grew up among our people. Lindy and Rachel are still close friends.”

“Is that allowed?”

“No one can force another person to believe,” Ella said. “Officially Lindy was never a member of the church, so she has done nothing wrong by leaving.”

“She has quite a workshop behind her house.”

“I’ve seen it,” Ella said. “She’s talented. Her birdhouses are popular all over Geauga County.”

“It’s an unusual occupation for a woman, don’t you think?”

“She used to spend a lot of time watching her grandfather.”

“He was Amish?”

“Yes, but he didn’t see the harm in a girl learning to use a few tools.”

“Perhaps I’ll order one of her birdhouses,” Nora said. “I wonder if she knows Margaret Simpson across the street.”

“Is that who you want me to meet?”

Nora nodded. “She teaches at the consolidated grade school. If anyone could help you become a teacher, it would be Margaret.”

Ella held her tongue. Nora did not understand how complicated the notion was—or that Ella and Gideon were talking of marriage.

Nora pulled her horse alongside an automobile parked in the street in front of a bungalow.

“That’s Margaret’s car,” she said. “I confess to envy. I feel so old-fashioned to still be driving a horse and cart.”

Ella gave an awkward smile.

Nora blushed. “I meant no offense. I respect the ways of your people. I know you don’t use cars. But I have my eye on the future. I just don’t know how Margaret affords an automobile of her own. Maybe the town teachers earn a higher salary than the rural teachers.”

Envy was not entirely unfamiliar to Ella, though she had no aspirations to the
English
ways.

“There’s Margaret now.” Nora guided her horse to the side of the street.

Margaret stood on her front porch and waved. Nora and Ella walked up the brick path to the bungalow. Nora made introductions.

“I thought you two would enjoy meeting,” Nora said. “Margaret is a wonderful teacher and a good friend.”

“Do you have a child in Nora’s class?” Margaret asked Ella.

“I’m not married,” Ella said, “but she’s been the teacher for my stepbrothers, and I have friends with children in Nora’s school.”

Nora sighed. “Or what’s left of my school.”

Margaret’s eyebrows went up.

“The schoolhouse is in serious need of repair,” Ella explained.

“We need funding,” Nora said. “Do you have any influence with the superintendent?”

“Me?” Margaret said. “I’ve been in the county for four years, and Mr. Brownley barely knows my name.”

“I don’t want to leave the farm families in the lurch,” Nora said. “It will be hard enough to find a teacher if I don’t return, but now they need a new building.”

“I wish I could help,” Margaret said. “I have absolutely no influence on these decisions, but I do have a fresh pitcher of cold lemonade.”

Ella silently admitted her thirst. July days seemed to bring perpetual thirst. And she liked Margaret Simpson. She smiled acceptance of the hospitality.

G
ertrude, please don’t play in the dirt.” James Lehman’s tone was kind, but he mustered a firm expression. He knew this child well. If he gave her any reason to believe his request lacked conviction, Gertie would dawdle until one of the endless tasks on the Wittmer farm distracted him.

“I’m not playing,” Gertie said. “I’m experimenting.”

“Then I suggest you experiment in the grass. “You know your
aunti
Miriam doesn’t like you dragging dirt into the house at suppertime.”

Gertie tossed her stick aside and rose from the crouch that already had left an inch-high gray ring around the hem of her dress. She moved to the grass, where she would be content to lie on her back and squint at the clouds.

Gideon came around the corner of the barn, wiping sweat on his sleeve.

“How is she?” he asked.

“She hasn’t said a word all afternoon about the school falling in,” James said. After six days, Gertie was beginning to believe not all schools were like the one she’d visited.

“Good. No nightmare last night either,” Gideon said.

“Sit in the shade for a few minutes.” James gestured to the empty outdoor chair beside him, part of a set he’d made several years earlier. “The heat will get the best of you.”

Gideon dropped into the chair and glanced at Gertie sprawled on the ground. “Where are Tobias and Savilla?”

“I sent them both to the woodpile to make sure Miriam has enough for the kitchen stove for a few days.”

“We could eat a cold supper more often, you know.” Gideon lifted his hat and ran his fingers through limp, damp hair. “Miriam is the one who suffers most when the kitchen heats up.”

“There’s no talking to her when she makes up her mind to cook,” James said. “Now Savilla wants to learn, which gives Miriam more reason.”

Smiling, Gideon nodded. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these last five years. After Betsy died …”

“Hush. Betsy was our niece. We loved her and we love you.” James turned his gaze across the property to the
dawdihaus
Gideon had built when James and Miriam arrived to help with the house and children after Betsy’s sudden death. Without children of their own, James had imagined he and Miriam would live into their old age in the farmhouse across the state that they had occupied since they were newlyweds. Miriam was the one to say they ought to move so they could care for Betsy’s family.

“I’d like to have Lindy out more often,” Gideon said. “My children should know their mother’s sister better than they do.”

“She comes if you ask.”

“I know. But I also know Miriam tends to fuss even more when Lindy is around.”

James laughed. “Are you suggesting I should handle my wife? What would she do with herself if she didn’t have you to fuss over?”

“Put her feet up and get the rest she deserves.”

James had to admit Miriam looked ragged recently.

“Still no news from the superintendent?” James asked.

Gideon pushed out a slow breath. “It’s been a week since Walter Hicks took that letter into town. You’d think that this close to the beginning of school the board would act quickly.”

James nodded. “They could have a special meeting or something.”

“We need to make sure no one goes in the schoolhouse.”

James scrunched up his face. “Who would go in there? Everybody knows half the roof fell in.”

“I wish I could be sure,” Gideon said. “I put up a sign and roped off the front entrance, but you never know.”

“I’ll go by in the morning on my way into town. I promised Lindy to help her with some deliveries.”

“I’ve heard some call you ‘Wagon James,’” Gideon said. “Do you ever say no to a delivery?”

James shook his head. “Not if I’m sure it will help folks if I deliver. A man wants to be useful.”

“I should get back to the barn. One more stall to muck. Shall I take Gertie with me?”

“I’ve already pulled her out of the dirt over there.” James gestured. “I might as well look after her until supper.”

Gideon paced over to the patch of dirt. He looked up at the scene before him and back to the dirt. “It’s a drawing of the horse pasture.”

“How can you tell from scratches in the dirt?”

“It’s not scratches. She drew what she saw. The fence is perfect.”

James got up to look for himself. “Why would Gertie do such a thing?”