The Hired Girl(8)

It seems to me that teachers are a little bit heartless. They greet each new wave of pupils and choose which ones they’ll like best, and then, when the students grow up and leave school, they forget all about them and turn to the next wave. I thought those thoughts and I was in a kind of panic, because I was sore with envy. I didn’t want to be. Miss Chandler was sitting there right in front of me, and she might never come again, and if I couldn’t enjoy myself having strawberries and cream with her — well, I didn’t know what was the matter with me.

Then I noticed Miss Chandler looking over my shoulder, nervous-like. I turned to see what she was looking at, and there was Father, coming up the hill. I forgot all about Ivy Gillespie and worried about Father. I could tell from the set of his shoulders he wasn’t in a good humor, and all at once I recollected that I hadn’t finished the laundry, and his trousers were lying on the grass. I knew Father wouldn’t like seeing Ma’s silver spoons or the little china bowls. Or the strawberries, either, because most of those we sell.

But there wasn’t anything I could do. I couldn’t hide the picnic things or make Miss Chandler vanish into thin air. I stopped listening to Miss Chandler and started to pray. Holy Mother of God, I thought, don’t let Father be ugly to Miss Chandler.

His footfalls came closer. At last I couldn’t stand waiting any longer. I got to my feet and turned to face him. I saw him with Miss Chandler’s eyes. Father’s a powerful man, and big. He was wearing his barn clothes, and you could smell them. His shirt was soaked with sweat and he had his sleeves rolled up, and he didn’t smile. “Father,” I said, “this is Miss Chandler. She came to call on me.” He didn’t say anything, the way he does, so I added, “My teacher.”

“You don’t go to school,” Father said curtly. He turned his head and spoke direct to Miss Chandler. “My daughter won’t be coming back to school. She’s needed at home.”

“I understand. Of course,” said Miss Chandler. She sounded fluttery. “Joan told me about her duties here. I hope you don’t think that I would try to come between a girl and her duty.”

It flashed through my mind that I wished someone would try to come between me and my duty. But there wasn’t time to mull over that. I was watching Father’s face. He looked from the tray and the empty bowls over to where the washtub stood, as if to say Miss Chandler was keeping me from my duty this very minute.

He did it so pointedly that Miss Chandler caught on. Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked flustered. I stiffened my spine and said, “It was very good of Miss Chandler to call on me. She heard I was hurt, and she brought me flowers.”

Miss Chandler picked up her satchel. She started to fumble at the latch. “I thought perhaps Joan might be laid up in bed. I brought her some books to help pass the time.”

She drew out the books. There were three of them — two small reddish-brown books, one of them right thick, and a bigger book that was green, with gold letters on the spine. I reached for them. I couldn’t help myself. I knew that Miss Chandler was in a hurry to leave, and that Father might go into one of his tempers any moment. I wanted those books in my arms, safe.

But Father was too quick for me. His arm lashed out, making a barrier between Miss Chandler’s books and my hands. She flinched and stepped back, clutching the books to her breast. Father’s arm is as hard as iron, and she was as frightened as if he’d struck her. The way he moved, so fast and strong and angry — it wasn’t proper to treat a lady caller like that.

“She don’t need books to pass the time.” His voice was thick with scorn. “She can waste time without you helping her, I guess. She reads too much as it is.”

“I don’t,” I began indignantly. “I only read at night — mostly.”

“Joan has a great thirst for knowledge,” Miss Chandler said. Her voice was shaky, but she was taking up for me. My heart swelled with love. But at the same time, I wished she would stop. It never does any good to speak against Father. “I’ve never had a brighter student, or one who works harder. I’m not saying she must return to school, but a girl can better herself if she has books. I’d like to help Joan.” She was trembling, but she spoke with such fineness and dignity — I’ve never seen anyone so brave and so ladylike at the same time. “I know that some people think that a girl becomes less womanly if her intellect is overdeveloped, but it is my belief that a girl is better fitted for marriage and motherhood —”