A Northern Light(16)

"...we read the classics to be inspired by the great thoughts of great minds...," Miss Wilcox continued, and then there was a sudden tinkling sound. She had dropped her bracelets again. Abby retrieved them for her. Miss Wilcox often fidgeted as she talked, taking her ring off and putting it back on, snapping chalk in her fingers, or sliding her bracelets off one wrist and onto the other. She was nothing like our old teacher, Miss Parrish. Miss Wilcox had curly auburn hair, and green eyes that I imagined must be the exact shade of an emerald, though I had never seen an emerald. She wore gold jewelry and the most beautiful clothes—tailored waists, fine worsted skirts, and cutaway jackets edged with silk braid. She always looked so odd in our plain schoolroom, with its rusty stove, plank walls, and yellowed map of the world. Like some precious jewel put in a battered old gift box.

After torturing us with a few more pages of Paradise Lost, Miss Wilcox finally finished the lesson and dismissed the class. Jim and Will Loomis tore out of the schoolhouse, cuffing Tommy Hubbard on their way, shouting, "Hubbard, Hubbard, nothing in your cupboard!" Mary Higby and I gathered up the half-dozen copies of the book that our class of twelve shared. Abby cleaned the chalkboard, and Lou collected the slates we'd used to do arithmetic earlier in the day.

I stacked the books I'd gathered on her desk and was ready to leave when she said, "Mattie, stay after, will you?" We were all "Mr." and "Miss" during class, but afterward she called us by our first names. I told Weaver and my sisters that I'd catch up. I thought maybe Miss Wilcox had a new book for me to borrow, but she didn't. As soon as the others were gone, she opened her desk, took out an envelope, and held it out to me. It was large and buff colored. It had my name on it. Typed on a label, not handwritten. It had a return address, too, and as soon as I saw what it was, my mouth went as dry as salt.

"Here, Mattie. Take it." I shook my head.

"Come on, you coward!" Miss Wilcox was smiling, but her voice was quavery.

I took it. Miss Wilcox drew an enameled case from her purse, pulled a cigarette from it, and lit it. My aunt Josie had told me and my sisters that Miss Wilcox was fast. Beth thought she meant the way our teacher drove her automobile, but I knew it had more to do with her smoking and having bobbed hair.

I stared at the letter, trying to find the courage I needed to open it. I heard Miss Wilcox's bracelets tinkle again. She was standing by her desk, cupping an elbow in her palm. "Come on, Mattie. Open it, for god's sake!" she said.

I took a deep breath and ripped the envelope open. There was a single sheet of paper inside clipped to my battered old composition book. "Dear Miss Gokey," it read. "It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you of your acceptance to Barnard College..."

"Mattie?"

"...furthermore, lam pleased to award you a fill Hayes scholarship sufficient to meet the cost of your first year's tuition, contingent upon the successful completion of your high school degree. This scholarship is renewable each year provided grade average and personal conduct remain above reproach..."

"Mattie!"

"...and, although your academic background lacks in certain aspects—notably foreign languages, advanced mathematics, and chemistry—your impressive literary strengths outweigh these deficiencies. Classes begin Monday, September 3. You will be required to report to orientation Saturday, September 1, and may address all questions regarding accommodations to Miss Jane Brownell in care of the college's Housing Office. With all best wishes, Dean Laura Drake Gill."

"Damn it, Mattie! What does it say?"

I looked at my teacher, barely able to breathe, much less speak. It says they want me, I thought. Barnard College wants me—Mattie Gokey from the Uncas Road in Eagle Bay. It says that the dean herself likes my stories and doesn't think they are morbid and dispiriting, and that professors, real professors with long black gowns and all sorts of fancy degrees, will teach me. It says I am smart, even if I can't make Pleasant mind and didn't salt the pork right. It says I can be something if I choose. Something more than a know-nothing farm girl with shit on her shoes.

"It says I'm accepted," I finally said. "And that I've got a scholarship. A full scholarship. As long as I pass my exams."

Miss Wilcox let out a whoop and hugged me. Good and hard. She took me by my arms and kissed my cheek, and I saw that her eyes were shiny. I didn't know why it meant so much to her that I'd got myself into college, but I was glad that it did.

"I knew you'd do it, Mattie! I knew that Laura Gill would see your talent. Those stories you sent were excellent! Didn't I tell you they were?" She twirled around in a circle, took a deep draw of her cigarette, and blew it all out. "Can you imagine?" she asked, laughing. "You're going to be a college student. You and Weaver both! This fall! In New York City, no less!"

As soon as she said it, as soon as she talked about my dream like that and brought it out in the light and made it real, I saw only the impossibility of it all. I had a pa who would never let me go. I had no money and no prospect of getting any. And I had made a promise—one that would keep me here even if I had all the money in the world.

When he has to, Pa sells some of his calves for veal. The cows cry so when he takes them that I can't be in the barn. I have to run up to the cornfield, my hands over my ears. If you've ever heard a cow cry for her calf, you know how it feels to have something beautiful and new put into your hands, to wonder and smile at it, and then have it snatched away. That's how I felt then, and my feelings must have been on my face, because Miss Wilcox's smile suddenly faded.