Good Night, Mr. Wodehouse. Faith Sullivan
at the open window, she fell to her knees weeping, but weeping for what? At length, a wisp of night breeze, what her mother called a “fairy kiss,” lifted the damp strands of hair clinging to Nell’s nape and temples. She breathed deeply and rose, staring down at Hilly’s blurred form against the sheet.
Life’s purpose grew as clear, then, as a drop of pure water. This child must grow up gentle—and happy, of course. And I must see to it.
“I’m Elvira.” The girl at the door spoke softly, shifting an ancient carpetbag from one hand to the other.
Nell had expected a girl with thick ankles and thicker wits. But the young woman on the landing was tiny and well formed, with intelligent dark eyes set in a perfect oval of pale skin.
“Come in, come in.” Nell held the door. “You’ll share Hilly’s room,” she said, leading the way. Nell had purchased a twin bed and bureau from the newly opened Bender’s Second Hand. A new kerosene lamp stood on the bureau.
Since the baby was asleep, Nell whispered, “This will be your bed and this”—she pointed—“is your bureau. Mrs. Rabel gave me lavender from her garden to scent the drawers. I hope you like lavender.”
The girl nodded a blank face.
“The Rabels are good to us. To me. I still forget that Herbert’s gone.” Odd the way she’d begun thinking of him as “Herbert,” not “Bert,” as if in death she’d put him at a little distance. As if he were both strange to her now and, at the same time, finally coming clear. “Well, I’ll let you put your things away. Would you like a glass of cool tea when you’re ready?”
Turning back, Nell said, “There’s a commode in the bathroom. I’m afraid emptying the pot will be your job.”
Again the girl nodded.
Shy or anxious, Nell thought, setting out ginger cookies on a plate and pouring tea into two glasses.
“The baby’s handsome,” Elvira said, pulling out a kitchen chair from the table.
Nell smiled. Handsome. “Thank you. He looks like Herbert.” Did he? She was no longer quite sure. She sat down. “Think you’ll like town life?”
“Oh, yes!” the girl said. “So many things going on.” She hugged herself. “Exciting.”
“I forgot to ask. Are you Catholic?”
“Yes. I’ve brought my missal and rosary.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, but this way we can go together.” Nell held the cool glass to her temple. If the heat continued, the classroom would be hot, the children restless.
“Do they have parish dances here, Cousin Nell?” the girl asked.
“No, but there are dances at the hotel every Saturday night. Herbert and I used to go before we had Hilly. But—please—just call me Nell.”
The girl took a bite of cookie and chewed. Then, “Do you have to have a beau to go to the dances?”
“Heavens, no. All the girls go. Town girls and country girls.”
“Are the town girls stuck up?”
“I don’t think so. You’ll have to see for yourself.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I went to a dance?”
“Goodness, no. Maybe you’ll find a beau. How old are you?”
“Sixteen. Ma says I oughta be married.”
“What do you say?”
“I want to find out about town life first.” She paused. “Maybe find a town beau.” She peered up from beneath black lashes to see if Nell was shocked.
“Why’s that?”
“Had enough of the farm.” She smoothed the oilcloth covering the table.
Nell noticed that the girl’s hands were rough and sore. Small burns marked the wrists. Canning; probably milking and cooking for hired men. No fieldwork, though: Elvira’s face was fashionably pale. At the Saturday dances, she’d give the other girls a run for their money.
When the girl picked Hilly up from his nap the next afternoon, she told Nell, “He’s the best baby. Not like the ones in my family. Such fussers. Colicky, most of ’em. That’ll tire you out.” She rolled her eyes and held Hilly close, kissing his warm cheek. “This one’s like a doll.” She changed his dirty diaper, sponged his bottom, and powdered him with baking soda.
They’d taken to each other, Elvira and Hilly. Both were children, really, Nell thought. For all Elvira’s talk of a “town beau,” the girl was artless and vulnerable. And Nell soon saw that Elvira liked pretending that Hilly was her own. She playacted the little mother, dreaming of a town husband, Nell supposed.
A few days later, Elvira took Hilly for the first of many walks to the Milwaukee depot, three blocks away. Having lived on a farm, far from a railway, Elvira now gravitated to the depot. She timed the walks to coincide with the arrival of the 2:30 p.m. passenger train. After the first excursion, she reported that she and Hilly had seen a commercial traveler alighting with his satchel and sample case. “Least, that’s what Mr. Loftus”—the depot agent—“called him. Commercial traveler.”
One afternoon, while Elvira and Hilly were out, Nell sat at the kitchen table drumming her fingers. A week until she must prove herself. She had a teaching certificate, yes, but almost no practical experience. Just a few days substituting in a country school.
What if town children were cannier than country children? What if they set out to bring her down? Such things happened. Hadn’t she heard of a young woman in Minneapolis who’d hanged herself when the school board wouldn’t renew her contract? She’d been unable to control her pupils, they’d said. And no other school wanted a teacher whose contract hadn’t been renewed.
What if, after all their kindness, Nell failed the Lundeens?
THE DAY BEFORE IT OPENED, Nell walked down Main Street to the Harvester school, an impressive three stories and built of dark-red stone. Unusual for so small a town. In a lofty belfry hung the bell she had heard on many mornings, calling children in. Clearly Harvester placed great value on education and expected only the best from its teachers. Nell’s step faltered and she held a clammy palm to her middle.
Earlier, she had carried home textbooks, poring over them, mapping out lessons and quizzes. Now, alone in her classroom, she printed her name on the blackboard. Moving on, she wrote, “‘A day of the learned is longer than the life of the ignorant.’ Seneca. Do we know what this means?”
Mercifully, the first day of school was a half day. Desks were assigned. Attendance was taken. Texts were distributed. Monitors were chosen: one to keep order should Mrs. Stillman be called away from the classroom; one to check the cloakroom at the end of each day; one to assist at recess; one to clap erasers and clean the blackboard.
“I will reassign these jobs at the end of the first six weeks,” she told them, “and I may find that I need more monitors as we go along.”
Everyone wanted to be a monitor. Everyone wanted to be important.
Before dismissing the children at noon, Nell told them, “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about what Mr. Seneca meant in his quote.” The following day, Cletus Osterhus was so excited and desperate to explain the Seneca quote that, after he’d raised his hand and been called upon, he found that he must first run to the outhouse.
Returning,