“There is the schoolhouse,” says Mary, stopping the jeep in a cloud of dust. She sits there for a minute, looking; then she climbs out of the jeep and goes up the steps to peer in the window. She tries the door. It is locked, of course, but through the window Mary can see the blackboard, rows of desks, the teacher’s desk in front—my desk, thinks Mary—chalk still in the holder, big old dictionary on a table near the window, coat rack, all the usual things, the comfortable things. Mary smiles. She is holding Abbey, whose tail suddenly twitches, making Mary look around.
“School’s not open, not till fall.”
“No summer school?” says Mary, knowing there is not. She faces a grubby little girl not more than six, escorted by a big hound who seems to be smiling at Abbey.
“Oh, no! Never have school in the summer,” says the child. “Weather’s too nice for that! Come fall, though, bell’l ring, teacher’ll come—new teacher, we’re getting—then we’ll read Shakespeare!”
Mouth open, eyes wide, Mary stares for a minute. Shakespeare, indeed! “Can you read?” she asks the child, putting Abbey down to nose at the dog as she seems determined to do.
“Of course we can! Read the newspaper. Come fall, read Shakespeare!” the child repeats.
“We?” Mary says, looking around.
“Twins,” the child says shortly. “In the grocery. Here she comes.”
From the door of the small country market comes a whole passel of children, varying somewhat as to size and degree of dirtiness. There is no difficulty in recognizing the other part of ‘we’ … The spit ‘n’ image, thinks Mary McCamley. Wonder if she plans on Shakespeare, too!
The second twin is eating a licorice, and holds another out to her sister. She extends a third to Mary, shyly, and Mary takes it, smiling.
Then everyone is quiet, staring. Some are petting the cat.
The children look at the jeep, at Abbey, at Mary more closely; then two go to peer inside the jeep. There is luggage there, and boxes of books. There is a world globe and a songbook.
The children stare again; then one says, “You’re the new teacher! You’re very early, though.”
Mary smiles. “Yes. Well, do you mind?”
“You’ll not start school yet?”
“Oh, no. Just want to get settled and wade in the ocean first.”
This sounds sensible to the children, and they begin an alluring discussion of where Mary McCamley is to stay.
“Hotel,” says one. “Last teacher stayed there.”
“Too old,” says another. “Food’s no good. My pop says so.”
“I’d like a small cottage near the beach,” cuts in Mary, wondering if anyone will take her suggestion.
“Of course,” says one big girl. “That would be best.
But where? Everything is taken, summertime. City folk,” she says, not kindly. “Come school, you’ll have no trouble, hut now, everything’s full!”
“Hmmm,” says Mary McCamley. “Well, I will stay in the hotel until then, that’s all.”
“You won’t like it,” says one darkly.
“Pitch a tent,” says another, delighted with the idea.
“That’s a thought,” says Mary, weighing the possibility of frowning city fathers and no job after all.
“Won’t take your cat, the hotel,” says a third.
“Oh, dear,” says Mary.
“We will,” says Lisa. The twins have been very quiet, listening, and watching Bo to see he doesn’t get scratched.
“We will keep you and your cat,” Jana pipes. “For the summer. Sleep on hay, you must. Or maybe get a cot, could do that, I guess.” They grab each other suddenly and do a wild, circular dance in and out among the other children. “Real live teacher, right at home,” shrieks Jana. Mary McCamley looks alarmed.
“Teach us Shakespeare,” shouts Lisa. Mary looks helplessly about her, but all the children seem delighted with the idea. What is she to do?
Well, first things first, and she untangles herself and Abbey from the children and prepares to make her duty calls to the school board and such. She puts Abbey safely in a large cage in the jeep, straightens her hair, and dusts off her shoes. The twins watch silently, and then Lisa steps up and begins to give directions. Her brown eyes are bold, but steady. Her directions are careful, with a ring of authority. “But what will your family say,” asks Mary McCamley, “if I come barging in?”
“Papa will be very pleased,” says Lisa. “So will all of us, specially Sarah Paddyfoot. You’ll see!”
“Well, all right,” says Mary, smiling.
It is at the jailhouse that Mary McCamley must present herself. How funny, she thinks. Oh, well. She goes up the steps, sensibly leaving Abbey in the car. There is a small waiting room with no one there to ask anything of, but through a door she can see part of a desk, some large feet propped up on it, and there is the smell of cigar smoke.
Knocking at the half-open door, Mary peers in. Three men sit there, one with his feet on the desk, two lounging comfortably. There is a great struggle to arise as she appears before them. She protests, but, no, finally, their coffee nearly spilled, they are all up and smiling at her. One, who seems in charge, must be the sheriff. The bearded one seems shy, perhaps ashamed of his ragged clothes. The other man, wearing Levi’s and boots, makes himself ready to leave.
A long time later, with arrangements made to meet the school board and the proper papers to sign, coffeed, informed, and quite assured about the Tillmans, Mary takes her leave.
Outside, most of the children who had been at the schoolhouse are gathered around Mary’s jeep, deep in loud argument.
Jana is shouting, her dark eyes angry, “Not either! Didn’t come from Hell, no such thing! You don’t know anything, Billy Greeb.”
“Do, too,” the little boy shouts back, his face close to Jana’s. “Came from Hell. Devil sent ‘em!”
Lisa, until then watching silently, looks hard at Billy, then turns on her sister, shouting, “Came from Hell on a dark, stormy night, all right. I saw ‘em! Came to devil you!”
This is too much for Jana, and she grabs her sister’s hair. There is a moment of turmoil until Karen has them separated. Mary McCamley stands discreetly by, not interfering.
“What on earth’?” she asks Karen when there is a moment’s silence. “Came from Hell on a dark night? What are they talking about?”
“The Sand Ponies,” offers an older boy, stepping up. “Wild ones. They’re just wild ponies. People think they …”
At that moment Jana breaks in, nearly crying with indignation. “Sand Fairies!” she says. “They’re good, not devils! They make my wishes come true—that’s cause I can talk to them!” This is not true, but she feels enough better, having said it, to allow herself to be guided toward the jeep by Karen, and climbs into the back seat next to Abbey’s cage, where she will speak to no one but Abbey all the way home.
By the time they reach home she feels even better, for Lisa has apologized, fearing some dark retribution from the ponies if she does not, and it is understood, grudgingly, that she didn’t mean it. “Fairies,” she says, “I know that. I just felt sorry for Billy!” This is a lie, but it is ignored.
J. L. scramble out of the jeep together, shouting their news of Mary to Sarah Paddyfoot.
One more plate for supper and one more bed in the barn.
CHAPTER 15
Under the willow tree the table is laid with a yellow cloth, and there is a bouquet of day lilies in the center. A clam pie waits on top the oven, bubbling hot, and there is a salad of wild greens. Day-lily bulbs are simmering, and day-lily buds wait to be battered and fried. “My goodness, Sarah, where did you find them? I haven’t seen a one close by!” Karen says. “You’ve been busy while we were away.”
Sarah grins. “Oh, secret spot for day lilies. Take you there one day. I must have a few secrets, child! No, one more plate, places for nine.”
“Well, Miss McCamley, yes. That’s eight,” says Karen, counting.
“Set for nine.”