The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(14)
Preacher Broody didn’t say much but even Abigail Anne, peering through a crack in the pantry door, could see how he kept his eyes fixed on Miss Judith’s pretty face.
“She already knows how to read and write,” William said, his voice bristling with rancor. “And, with Livonia gone, she’s got more chores to do.”
“She’s just a child!”
“She’s going on fourteen. I was only eleven when I started working the farm.”
“But, the world is changing,” Miss Troy argued, “Now-a-days children need to know more than just reading and writing.”
“Not for living on a farm, they don’t!”
“Abigail Anne might not want to be a farmer!” At this point, Judith Troy’s voice got sharper and she poked that little nose of hers out in a way that made Abigail Anne worry her papa would reach over and smack it good.
“She won’t be a farmer, but she’ll sure as hell marry up with one! You gonna educate her about caring for a family in that school of yours?”
“I’ll teach both of the children the ways of the world so that they can choose what they want to be. The time is coming when men will travel to cities and take on jobs that their fathers never dreamed of. And women…someday they’ll be able to stand shoulder-to-shoulder alongside of men. Don’t you want those things for your children?”
William stood so abruptly that his chair flew backward. “I sure as hell don’t!” he shouted. “I’m a Valley farmer and it’s a damn good life. If it’s good enough for me it’s sure as hell good enough for them!” William’s face was red as the noonday coals in the stove and Abigail Anne was certain if the preacher hadn’t been there, her daddy would have picked Miss Troy up and bodily tossed her out the door.
Preacher Broody must have known it also, because that’s when he started speaking up. “Now, William, there’s no call to get riled,” he said. “Miss Troy here is just trying to be helpful.”
“I don’t need help and neither does my kids.” William picked his chair up off the floor and sat back down at the table.
“There’s no way of knowing what God has in store for a body,” the preacher said. “Could be there’s some merit in what Miss Judith believes.”
William most always addressed the preacher with respect, but this time he looked him square in the eye and said, “Henry, I ain’t counting on the Lord to decide what’s in store for my kids. Will is gonna work this farm and Abigail Anne damn sight better be married off by time she’s sixteen.”
Just when Abigail Anne thought Miss Troy didn’t stand half-a-chance of changing her daddy’s mind, Preacher Broody hauled out his trump card. “The Lord takes a mighty dim view of such talk,” he said. “A closed mind is not the Christian way.”
Whereas he had been almost nose-to-nose with the preacher, William now slumped back in his chair. “I’m as God-fearing a Methodist as any,” he said, and that’s when the conversation took a turn for the better. Everybody’s tone of voice got a bit more easygoing and before the preacher and Miss Troy left the house, William had allowed that both children could attend school three days a week and Preacher Broody had indicated William’s name was sure to be on the list when the Congregation’s new Ministry Assistants were announced. In William’s mind, such an appointment practically meant a reserved spot in Heaven.
Still hidden back in the pantry, Abigail Anne grabbed hold of a sack of flour and kissed it as ardently as she would have kissed Miss Troy, if she’d had the opportunity.
The second Monday in March was blustery and cold, but to Abigail it felt like the most glorious of days as she and Will rode across the ridge road and off to Bush Creek. They were riding double on the back of Whisper, who was well past his prime, so by time they arrived most of the other children, including Cora Mae Callaghan, were already in their seats. Miss Troy stopped what she was doing when the twins entered the schoolhouse. “Welcome back,” she said. “We’ve missed you, haven’t we class?”
“Yes, Miss Troy,” everyone echoed.
Then Judith Troy walked over and hugged both children. Abigail Anne was certain she caught a whiff of the same Lavender Water Livonia always wore. The teacher was dressed in a brown wool skirt and a white blouse, but as Abigail watched throughout the day, she could envision Judith Troy in cloche hats, suffragette-type suits and rustling silk ball gowns. Once when Miss Troy touched the tip of her pencil to her chin, Abigail even pictured her smoking a cigarette.
That was when Abigail Anne first decided she wanted to be exactly like Judith Troy. She took to studying her movements, her smile, her tone of voice, the way she combed her hair and even the precise shade of lip rouge she used. Long before she turned fifteen, Abigail Anne had set her mind to becoming a teacher. Most times she could picture how she would look in wool skirts and crisp cotton blouses, hear herself speaking with Miss Troy’s rounded vowel tones, even feel the rumble of the train that would carry her off to far away cities, but sometimes in the middle of those thoughts, she’d hear the echo of her father’s words—better be married off before she turns sixteen.
Troubled Times
Destiny Fairchild always reminded me of the wild roses that sprang up along the south end of Chestnut Ridge every summer. In the dead of winter, when the snow on the plateau was as high as a man’s head, Mama would say “I don’t expect we’ll see any roses this year.” But a few months later there they’d be, millions of bright red buds twining their way along a row of split rail fences or shimmying up the sunny side of a chestnut tree. I always supposed God planted those roses so he could chuckle at the wonderment on folks’ faces when they passed by. I guess He also had a hand in bringing Destiny to Middleboro because, just like those roses, she cropped up out of nowhere and made folks feel happy. What kind of a mother would name a child Destiny I’d wonder; then I’d get to chuckling and have to admit it was pretty appropriate.