Beyond This Moment Page 18

  Laughter erupted in the classroom, and children rose from their seats to come forward.

  "Please, stay in your seats, students" She made a conscious effort to lower her voice. "Don't be alarmed. There's simply a-" she swallowed, fighting a shudder-"a mouse ... in my desk drawer:' That wasn't moving.

  "A mouse?" Zachary Tucker strained to see from his first-row seat. "All that screamin' over a mouse, teacher?"

  A fresh wave of giggles swept the class.

  Molly squared her shoulders. "I was simply taken by surprise, that's all:' She looked closer at the vermin, unable to decide whether it was deaf or deceased. With all the commotion and still no reaction, she guessed the latter. But how to get it out of her drawer? And even more worrisome, how did it get in there!

  "Want me to fetch it out for you, teacher?"

  She looked up to see sweet Mason Tucker raising his hand. "Yes, Mason, I would-" Right behind Mason sat Kurt Boyd, whose smile seemed to hold a trace more exuberance than the other children's. Or did it? She couldn't be sure. But since Kurt was Rachel's son, and the sheriff's nephew, and for a host of other reasons, she decided not to pursue it. "Yes, Mason. I would appreciate if you'd dispose of it for me. And please take time to wash your hands at the stream:"

  By the time Mason returned, Molly had regained her composure. She took roll and stood in front of her desk to address the class. "Before we begin our lessons this morning, students, I'd like to know a little bit about each of you:" She usually asked her college students to take out a sheet of paper and write down their favorite book, era in world history, and what U.S. president-alive or deceased-they would most like to spend one hour with. She found it told her a great deal about them as a person, and also about where they were in their studies.

  Her question for these students would be somewhat different.

  "I'd like for each of you to tell the class what your best day this summer has been, and what made that day so special. I'd appreciate your standing by your desk when you address the class, and please remember to give your name." Some of the collegiate practices would translate well, even in Timber Ridge.

  Wide-eyed with lips in firm lines, the children stared.

  Mitchell's hand crept up. "Is this a test, Dr. Whitcomb?"

  Molly curbed a grin. "No, Mitchell, it's not a test. This is an exercise to help me get to know each of you better:" She approached his desk. "Why don't you start for us? Can you tell me what your best day this summer has been? And what made that day so special?"

  Clarity lit Mitchell's face, yet he said nothing.

  "And let me remind you, students;' Molly added, sensing his apprehension to share, "that there is no wrong answer to this question. Each answer will be right and for each student who answers, I'll draw a star by their name in my grade book:" She retrieved the book from her desk, along with a freshly sharpened pencil, and turning back, noticed the students sitting up a little straighter.

  Mitch raised his hand and stood by his desk. "My name is Mitchell Boyd, and my favorite day this summer was when my uncle James took me hunting with him. Just me and him alone ... over on Crawley's Ridge."

  Kurt's hand shot up one row over.

  Mitch looked at his brother. "He took my brother with him too, later. They went on their own trip:"

  Apparently satisfied, Kurt lowered his hand, and Molly could already guess what his favorite day was going to be.

  "And why was this day so special to you, Mitchell?"

  The boy started to answer, then stopped. He fingered the side seam of his pants, and his chest rose and fell with exaggeration. "It was special because ... we went back to the spot where ... where they found my pa-" The boy's voice broke. "At the place where the bear got him:'

  Molly's throat tightened. She looked around the room. Not a single child's expression revealed surprise. And then it slowly made sense. Timber Ridge was a small community. She'd already witnessed how quickly news traveled. Each child already knew what had happened to Mitchell and Kurt Boyd's father.

  "My uncle James, he's the sheriff;" Mitch continued, pride in his voice. "He and I camped up there for a night. We caught us a rabbit and roasted it like he and my uncle Daniel did when they were boys. Then Uncle James told me all the stories he could remember about my pa. He met my pa when he wasn't much older than me, so he knows lots of them. My pa was funny, especially when he was my age." Mitch managed a smile as he took his seat. "That was my best day, ma'am."

  Molly looked down to draw a star by Mitch's name, and the names of the children blurred on the page. "Well done, Mitchell Boyd;' she said softly, taking her time before speaking again. In the margin, she simply wrote James, where pa died, so she would remember what Mitchell shared-as though she could forget. She tried to push aside the image of what finding Thomas Boyd on that ridge must have been like. And of how it must have been for Rachel discovering how her husband had died. She cleared her throat. "Now, who would like to go next?"

  Half of the children raised their hands. Molly made eye contact with one of the girls and nodded. The girl rose from her seat.

  "My name is Emily Thompson, and my best day was when Mama and I made peach preserves. I got to stir and add the sugar just like she did with my grandma when Mama was my age. When we got done and the pot was cooled, we sat on the porch and licked the pot clean. We didn't use spoons or anything, just our fingers. My mama never lets us do that:' The girl grinned. "That was my best day, teacher:"

  Molly wrote peach preserves with mama in the side margin, then drew a star, almost able to taste the syrupy sweet peaches, and remembering a similar day with her own mother, a memory that felt as if it were a lifetime ago.

  Another student raised his hand, then stood. "My name is Billy Bolden, and my favorite day this summer was when I got shot out of a cannon and was sent to the moon:" He smiled, his brown eyes sparkling.

  Having met with Billy and his mother in their home last week, Molly still couldn't believe that he was the son of Hank Bolden, the shopkeeper who was so cruel to Angelo. She had been thankful Mr. Bolden wasn't home at the time of her visit. Billy was fair-haired and of thinner build than his father, and held not a hint of the same harshness.

  Molly eyed him, already having an idea of what his "favorite day" referred to. "And tell us, Billy Bolden, why did you enjoy reading the book From the Earth to the Moon?"

  His brow rose. "You know it, Dr. Whitcomb?"

  She nodded. "I've read it twice. Have you read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by the same author?" At the shake of his head, she smiled. "Then you indeed have a treat awaiting" She wrote books, Jules Verne by Billy's name. "See me after class and I'll share my personal copy with you."

  "Yes, ma'am! Thank you, Dr. Whitcomb:"

  The exercise took longer than Molly had planned, but by the time each child shared their special memory, she felt as though she truly knew them better, and their families. In many ways, these children already knew more about life-real life-than had her college students.

  "Thank you, children, for sharing. Now-" She checked her father's pocket watch that lay on her desk. "We have about a half hour before lunch recess, so I'd like to-"

  Ansley Tucker raised her hand.

  "Yes, Ansley?"

  "You haven't told us about your favorite day, teacher."

  As though they'd rehearsed it, the rest of the students nodded in unison, their attention focused on the front of the room.

  Molly walked to the front of her desk, trying to decide what she would share-when her mind went to one specific moment. She phrased it with purpose. "My name is Dr.Whitcomb-" she waited until the giggles subsided-"and my best day this summer was ... when the stagecoach I was riding in on the way up to Timber Ridge nearly went off the mountain:'

  Gasps filled the room and little jaws gaped, as she'd expected.

  Kurt shot up by his desk. "It did too! She coulda died. Everybody coulda died. Uncle James said so:"

  "Thank you, Kurt:" Molly motioned for him to be seat
ed. "But please remember to raise your hand and wait for me to call on you before speaking."

  He nodded and sat, his enthusiasm seemingly unfazed by the correction.

  "It had been raining that day," Molly continued. "The roads were muddy and the carriage slipped going uphill" She decided to forego the terrifying details. "It turned over and nearly slid off the side of the mountain."

  Kurt's hand shot up again, but Molly shook her head. With a pained expression, he lowered his arm.

  "As I was in the coach, hanging there on the edge of that cliff, I stared down into the ravine and thought about what my life had been like up to that point:" How to phrase it in a way these children would understand, and in a way that they might perhaps glean something from her mistakes. "And I decided that if I lived, I wanted to do better. I wanted to make better choices with my life:"

  Mostly blank looks stared back-except for a handful of the older children. She hoped the older ones were grasping some of what she was saying, at least. "I realize how much older I am than all of you, but I wish I could convey to you how quickly the years will pass:' She shook her head, still able to feel what it had been like to be their age, having no idea what the world held-both for the good, and bad. "I decided that afternoon that I wanted to make more of a lasting difference in this world than I had in the past. So I-"

  She felt an uncomfortable prick of tears and cleared her throat, aware of something deep inside her, curled tight in a ball, slowly beginning to unfurl. Nothing in the room changed. And yet something did. `And so I asked God to give me another chance:' She took a breath. `And He did;' she whispered, hoping He was listening, not only to her words but to what was inside her heart that words had failed to capture in recent weeks. "With all of you:" And with the child hidden inside her womb.

  In the freshly washed faces of her students, she saw a hunger for knowledge she longed to fill. Her position as professor at Franklin College had held considerably more prestige, but she had an inkling that being schoolteacher of Timber Ridge might prove even more rewarding.

  19

  eaching children hadn't worked the first time; why on earth had she thought this experience would be any different? Molly checked her pocket watch again. Another hour until she could dismiss school. It felt like an eternity. Her head throbbed. Her lower back ached.

  With each passing day that week, she'd felt progressively worse. Thank goodness it was Friday. For the third time that afternoon, she rapped the ruler on the side of her desk, barely able to hear it above the din of high-pitched voices.

  She felt a tug on her skirt.

  Tears rimmed little Ansley Tucker's eyes. "I don't understand this, teacher:' She held up her slate.

  "That's okay, honey. I'll explain it again in just a-" Molly looked up in time to see Kurt lift the globe from its stand on the back table and bend low, as though he were going to roll it down the aisle. "Kurt Boyd!" she said, louder than intended. Ansley shrank back. "No, no, sweetie, you're all right:" Molly patted the girl's shoulder and headed to deal with Kurt.

  The boy straightened as she came closer and tucked the globe under one arm. "I was just going to-"

  "I know what you were `just going to do, young man:' She rescued the globe from his clutches. As cute as Kurt was, he was proving to be a pistol in class. His brother, Mitch, was the complete opposite-studious, well behaved, finishing his work in a timely manner and asking for more. "Kurt, I want you to be seated, and I don't want you to get up again until I give you permission. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes, ma'am, Dr. Whitcomb." He plopped down, but his tone smacked more of placation than penance.

  "Teacher, I'm done with this" Zachary Tucker held out his slate. "This was easy. Can I have something else?"

  Molly massaged her right temple. The past five days of teaching made the language classes she taught at Franklin College seem like a summer vacation. The constant chatter, the questions, the disruptions. She couldn't wait to get back to her cabin, to stillness and quiet. The popular saying "Silence is golden" had taken on a whole new meaning.

  "Teacher, I need permission to use the privy, please. Time is of the essence!"

  Molly turned to see thirteen-year-old Amanda Spivey looking as if she needed a fainting couch. She appreciated the girl's manners but not her flair for the dramatic. Amanda was a hard worker but was average in her marks, and had so far shown none of the propensity toward "extreme giftedness" that her mother, LuEllen Spivey, had insisted her daughter possessed.

  Molly gestured. "Permission granted, Amanda:"

  "But I'm scared! I saw a snake out there last time. And I loathe snakes with a vengeance, teacher!"

  Kurt jumped up from his desk. "I like snakes!"

  Molly stared him down until he plunked back into his seat, then she rubbed her forehead, the area behind her eyes aching. Maybe she was just overtired or had spent too much time writing in recent evenings. She'd been so touched by what the students had shared on Monday about their best days of summer that she'd written each of their parents a note, sharing the gist of what their child had said and telling them how much she appreciated being their child's teacher.

  Her gaze traveled the room. Perhaps that had been a premature move on her part. She felt another sneeze coming on but fought the urge.

  "Teacher, does your head hurt?" Amanda peered up, her face a stage mask of sympathy. "Because when my mama does that, it's because her head's hurtin' something awful. Right now my head is hurtin' too, teacher. Really bad. And I still desperately need to ..'

  Molly closed her eyes, not exactly certain when she'd lost control. But lost control she had. And she needed to get it back before a parent-or worse, a council member-stopped by to see how the week had progressed.

  What if one of the children went home and told their parents how unruly recent days had been? Especially this one. If Hank Bolden found out, he would go straight to Mayor Davenport, and that would be the end for her.

  She took a deep breath, her temper teetering on the edge. "Children, I need your attention, please."

  Only a handful responded. She obviously hadn't spoken loudly enough.

  "Children! Give me your attention!"

  The room stilled. Children froze as if time had stopped and rendered them immobile.

  Molly swallowed, willing calm. Her throat hurt more now than it had that morning. "Rebecca Taylor, would you please accompany Amanda Spivey to the privy?"

  The older girl nodded and put down her book. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Everyone else, I want you in your seats. Immediately!" She smiled at Ansley Tucker to soften the command. But the girl's tears flowed anyway.

  Molly walked the short distance to her desk. She had her doctorate in language studies. She could speak three foreign languages fluently. She had chaired committees with senior members twice her age, earning her colleagues' respect. From most of them, anyway.

  So why couldn't she handle a roomful of children?

  This experience was turning out to be worse than her first. Her first class consisted of nine students. She'd been sixteen at the time and full of energy. Now she was thirty-one, unmarried and expecting a child, and could easily put her head on her desk and be asleep within seconds.

  She sank down in her desk chair, breaking one of President Northrop's cardinal rules. He had strict guidelines against a professor sitting when they addressed a classroom. But this was her classroom, not Northrop's. And it wasn't as if she hadn't already broken about every one of his cardinal rules anyway.

  "Students, thank you for giving me your attention. We're nearly through our first week of school"-Thank you, Lord-"and I appreciate those of you who have listened and worked hard these past few days." She looked at every child she considered part of that group-and rewarded them with a smile. "To those who have not listened and who have not given their best effort-" Starting with Kurt Boyd, she addressed the other children. "I will not tolerate disruptive behavior in my classroom. The town council brought me to Timber Ridge
to teach. However, if some of you choose not to develop an attitude of learning, then I'll be forced to speak with your parents, and together we'll see if we can't arrive at some ... motivation that will encourage you to come to school with a readiness to learn. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, Dr. Whitcomb;' a few of the children muttered.

  "Do I make myself clear?" Molly repeated with more boldness.

  "Yes, Dr. Whitcomb;' they all said in unison.

  "Thank you. And now, students, you are-" She sneezed, and the throbbing in her head pounded harder. Pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, she saw the book for Elijah still occupying the edge of her desk-something else she'd intended to do this week and hadn't yet. Just add it to the list.

  She sniffled. "You are dismissed:"

  Achy, fighting chills, and glad the week was nearly over, Molly opened the door to the newspaper office, peering through the front window as she went. A bell jingled overhead. She didn't want another day to go by without sharing this book with Elijah Birch, especially considering that Josiah might have mentioned it to his son and that Elijah might be anticipating her visit.

  The office appeared to be empty, yet the door had been unlocked. "Hello?" Feeling another sneeze coming on, she held her breath until the sensation passed. "Is anyone here?"

  It wasn't overly cool inside, but she pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, warding off a shiver. This had to be a cold she was gettingas if she had time for such a thing. She would stop by the store on her way home and get another tin of chamomile tea. A cup of hot tea and a quiet weekend buried beneath a mound of covers sounded like heaven about now.

  She was turning to leave when the door at the back of the office opened.

  Elijah walked in carrying a box. He glanced up. "Dr. Whitcomb! I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in, ma'am" He set the box aside. "Is there something I can help you with?"

  "Good afternoon, Elijah:" She scanned the office. "Are you minding the shop by yourself today?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Ranslett-she's the editor-she and her husband live a ways from town, so she only comes in three days a week. If there's something I can do for you, I'd be pleased to:"