The Children's Blizzard(26)

Ollie pressed his lips together, turned away so that he didn’t have to see the terror in this young woman’s eyes—and so that she wouldn’t see the disgust in his. This was who was teaching his kids? A girl who hated them, who was terrified of them? Was she able to hide her disgust at the color of their skin because they were small and couldn’t hurt her? He tried to remember what he knew about the school, newly open. His children could legally go to the white schools but they weren’t welcome there, not as their numbers grew. Schools were forming here on the North Side to accommodate the growing population. He’d heard there was only one colored teacher in all of Omaha, and she taught at a small high school. So the younger children were being taught by white teachers, mainly those who volunteered in, or were volunteered by, their churches. He’d never thought of it this way, but it was true; teaching his children was considered an act of charity. And Ollie knew people well enough to understand that those performing a charitable act rarely had much love or consideration for the recipients of it.

    “I have to go home!” Miss Carson stood up abruptly; she was trembling from head to toe. “I have to go home, they’ll be worried for me, I can’t stay here, I don’t care about—you can take them home, get them out of here, get them away! All of you, just go away!”

“Now, miss, listen to me.” Ollie’s voice could be as smooth as honey when he wanted it to be, and right now he did. “It’s not possible, not with the way this storm is. Where do you live, anyway?”

“Why do you want to know?” The girl’s eyes narrowed, her lips grew white.

“Just—is it on this side of town? Or somewhere else?”

“Near Fremont, the Episcopal Church—my papa is the rector there. It was his idea that I teach here.”

“Ah.” Ollie nodded, unsurprised. “Well, miss, you won’t get there, is what I’m trying to tell you. The cable cars aren’t running anymore, most of the streetlights are out, it’s not fit for man or beast. You’d get lost, you might hurt yourself—you can’t even see a horse coming around a corner. You need to stay here until it’s over.”

    “Stay here—stay the night?” Her voice rose.

“At least until it’s over.”

“Will you take these—the children home?”

“No, miss, I won’t. It’s safest right where we are.”

“Oh!” Miss Carson shut her eyes tight; she turned her head, hiding half her face against the wall.

Ollie took a few steps backward, allowing her time to absorb what he’d said. He turned toward the children, who were all holding hands near the stove, watching with big eyes. He joined them, holding his hands out toward the feeble fire, thinking.

The room was small. It had two rows of benches, no blackboard, no desks—not for the colored children, he thought grimly. Tell them they can learn but don’t give them the tools they need. There were a few readers, and he deduced they had to share. His children had slates, but he knew—he’d overheard his wife—that some of the others didn’t, and that she was thinking of taking up a collection for them. There were some pictures, childish drawings, pinned up on the whitewashed walls, but otherwise, it was a joyless place, dimly lit with a few dusty oil lamps.

He couldn’t see any stacks of logs or buckets of coal for the stove.

“Where do you keep your fuel?” Ollie asked this casually, tossing it over his shoulder, still not turning toward the schoolteacher.

    “We ran out about an hour ago. That’s the last of it,” she said, and he could hear her rapid breathing, like something caught in a trap, from across the increasingly cold room.

He rose—pretending to stretch, but really, he was searching for something to burn. There were the few books. He saw a stack of old newspapers in a far corner—probably intended for the outhouse behind the building. There was a massive desk—a heavy rolltop, like you’d find in a bank—for the teacher, and that counter along the back of the room. But that looked solid, not anything that would yield to his bare hands.

He turned his gaze to the two rows of benches. Putting his hands in his pockets, he casually strolled over to the first bench. He kicked at it, and it moved; it wasn’t bolted to the floor. It wasn’t solidly built, either, just planks nailed on either end to legs made of two-by-fours.

The six children shadowed him; he realized they’d been frightened by the teacher’s behavior. Now that he was here, they weren’t scared anymore—but they’d probably stick to him like glue until he could get them all home in the morning or whenever the storm stopped. When he stopped moving, they all did, too.

He turned, fixed them each with a kind gaze, then broke into a smile.

“Who wants to play a game?”

There were some grins, and then his son began to cheer as Ollie showed them how to break apart the benches, kicking at them, chopping them with their small hands. Sanctioned vandalism—every schoolchild’s dream. Soon they were all laughing and shouting. It was good for them to run around, get their blood going, warm themselves up a little. Ollie wasn’t sure how long the fire would last, even with this new source of fuel.

    “You can’t—why, they can’t do that! That’s not right!” Miss Carson took a few steps out of her hiding place, outraged. “That’s someone else’s property—it belongs to the town!”