Something to Hold (8 page)

Fifteen minutes later, the class files into the room. The new teacher's sweater hangs on the peg, and thick books fill up the shelves. Her name is written on the blackboard in elegant script—
Miss Anthony.
And below it, displayed in the center of the chalk tray, a black leather book with gold lettering. A Bible.

We settle into our seats and wait. Before she takes roll—or wishes us good morning, even—Miss Anthony stands at the front of the room and hugs that Bible to her chest. "Bow your heads, children," she says.

"Heavenly Father," she whispers, "bless our minds and our hearts so that we may glorify Your work here on Earth. Amen."

"Amen," I respond automatically.

Then I remember that teachers are not supposed to pray. The Supreme Court said so last summer. Miss Anthony doesn't seem to care that the first thing we do in her class is illegal.

I wonder what else we're in for.

***

At recess, Benson reports that the Nutes' house is all cleared out. On Sunday night he saw the moving van pull away from the street where the teachers live, just west of school, and turn left at the highway.

"Back to the city, where he belongs," Benson crows on his way to the backstop.

Pinky shakes her head. "That was quick. And where'd
she
come from?" Nobody seems to know.

When the lunch bell finally rings, I grab my jacket off the hook and hurry home. They're already talking about it when I come in the back door. At least, I think that's what "reassigned to Alaska" means.

Dad looks up from his sandwich. "Meet your new teacher?" he asks.

"Yeah—Miss Anthony." He doesn't need to know how.

"Me too," says Joe. "We were in the hall this morning, and this
huge
lady stared so hard at Miss Tutwiler, she turned around and shushed us. We were just
walking!
"

"You're not supposed to make noise in the halls," I point out.

"Yeah, but nobody ever
says
so."

"Who is she?" I ask Dad.

"Miss Anthony arrived last week to help out up at the Baptist mission."

I can picture it:
New mission lady drives the church van, capturing little kids for Bible class.
I'll spare him the part about the Bible this morning. He'd have a fit that a teacher prayed in school.

Dad pushes back from the table and sets his plate on the counter. "Then a spot suddenly opened up at the school. Miss Anthony is a teacher, Pastor Leland said something about the greater good, and ... well..." He heads down the steps to the back door. "You already know the rest."

When I arrive at the playfield after lunch, there's a big knot of kids at the backstop. Baseball happens every day, even when the wind is biting, like today. But nobody's playing now. The kids are all standing with their heads down, and Miss Anthony is towering over them. The scene has Howie Granger written all over it.

"Where's the retarded boy?" she asks as I come up to the back of the crowd.

Nobody says anything. Her gaze sweeps onto Orin, who is closest. "I'm told he likes to play baseball. Is he part of the game?"

Orin glances at Raymond. Miss Anthony's eyes shift to him too. "Hmm?"

"No," Raymond says, looking past the fence.

"Why not?"

"Doesn't want to."

"I see," Miss Anthony says. "Any idea why that might be so?"

When Raymond doesn't respond, she snaps her fingers. "Lunch is over. Get back to your classrooms."

Miss Anthony turns and blasts the whistle as she waves the other kids in, her arm pointed toward the school. I glance around for Howie, but he is long gone. And it looks like Raymond got caught this time.

Back in the classroom, Miss Anthony doesn't seem to be in a hurry. She hangs the whistle on the hook by the door. She pushes the sleeves of her sweater up her forearms. She settles her glasses squarely on her nose and then stands in front of us, arms folded, and begins. "Who can tell me what happened out there?"

Instinct tells me it is better not to volunteer. I keep my eyes focused on the worn groove holding a pencil at the top of my scarred desk.

Miss Anthony walks slowly through the back rows. After three or four passes, she finally speaks from the back of the room. "Howie is one of the Lord's special creatures."
There she goes again, talking about God.

"We'll take a moment of silence now. Every one of you needs to search your heart and consider why you are so mean."

In the quiet, I think about Howie. He flaps his hands when he talks, and I can't always understand him. I know he can't help it, but he almost invites kids to pick on him. This is probably not what Miss Anthony expects me to be thinking about.

She strides to the front of the room to grab her Bible from the chalk tray. She stands in front of us and talks directly to Raymond. "When you are cruel, you only hurt yourself," she says. "And you
will
learn to spread compassion to others."

I wonder how she pegged Raymond as the tormentor so quickly.

"Please come up here." This is a command, not a request.

Surprised, Raymond stands up and slowly walks to the front of the room.

"Turn around and face the class," she says.

He obeys. Slowly.

Miss Anthony closes her eyes and moves her lips for a few seconds. Then she deftly flicks the hand that holds her Bible, and the book falls open.

"We'll begin with Proverbs eleven five," she says, flipping pages with her finger. She holds the Bible out to Raymond. "This is about you. Read it."

He hesitates, and I wonder if he dares to refuse.

Then he takes the book, bends his head toward the page, and reads. "'The righteousness of the blameless keeps his way straight, but the wicked falls by his own wickedness.'"

There is no other sound in the room, no movement. I can't imagine how it feels for Raymond to stand up there in front of all of us. I don't know if I could take it like he does.

I glance at Jewel a couple of rows over. She sits with her head down, eyes closed, fists clenched on her knees.

Miss Anthony takes the Bible out of Raymond's hands. She flips a few more pages. "And in chapter seventeen we learn that 'he who is glad at calamity will not go unpunished.'" She presses her palms together and the book snaps shut.

"Sit down," Miss Anthony says to Raymond, "and consider your sins."

I can't believe she would humiliate him this way. Raymond walks slowly down the aisle, his head up and eyes fixed straight ahead. He looks completely unmoved.

Miss Anthony talks about compassion, but she sure doesn't show any. I almost feel sorry for him.

A
T
the top of an endless hour before lunch, Miss Anthony picks up a long piece of chalk. She flips it between two fingers to hold like a cigarette as she adjusts her glasses. Turning her back to us, she begins to plant division problems on the board.

"Copy these and do them," she says as she writes.

A few minutes later, a shadow grows in the doorway beside my desk. It's Mr. Reeser, the janitor. "'Scuse me, Miss Anthony," he says.

Her hand freezes on a 5. She turns only her head toward him. "Ronald."

"Mr. Shanahan asked me to move some furniture in the attic. I'm taking a couple of boys to help. Might get a little noisy overhead."

She's not going to like that.
Miss Anthony doesn't believe in noise. Sure enough, she ignores him and turns back to the board to finish the last problem.

I didn't know this school had an attic. I wish I could see it. I imagine a stale, dusty room full of old desks with broken seats. File cabinets of lost records, or maybe books with swear words scribbled in the margins.

Miss Anthony scans the classroom. She plucks victims one by one to wrestle the problems at the board. We're supposed to keep one eye on them while working out the problems at our desks. You have to be ready to go up and do it right when somebody stumbles. She says it's good practice. It also causes bad feelings.

Miss Anthony patrols the board, peering over the sweaty heads as the kids work with their backs to the room. Then she looks out at the rest of us and settles on me. "Kitty. It's your turn. Fix Raymond's for him."

I definitely do not want to do that. "Miss Anthony," I say, "I'm not done yet."

All the way back to his seat, Raymond's eyes are fixed on me. If I do what she says, I'll pay for it at recess.

"You're done enough. Get up there," Miss Anthony says as she marches down the line from Raymond's empty spot at the board. She holds out her hand to Orin, and he gives up his chalk like a losing pitcher yanked from the mound.

I try again. "I'll do Orin's."

"Raymond's," she says.

I can see what a mess he has made on the board, the problem smeared by a wet palm.

I sigh and get out of my seat. Arguing with Miss Anthony never works. It's always her way or no way.

I have to walk right by Raymond's desk. He stares down at his worksheet, pencil in hand, but I can't miss what he says under his breath. "Go ahead. See what happens."

I take a quick step and grab the chalk out of the tray. I stall some more by rewriting the numbers as evenly and carefully and small as I can. Then I stand there, not sure how to do the problem.

Miss Anthony's voice sinks down onto the back of my neck. "You
were
listening when we learned this, weren't you?"

Such a dangerous question with no safe answer.

Suddenly, I hear an invasion of giant, hard-soled rats rattling and bumping above my head. Something heavy is being dragged across the ceiling.

Miss Anthony's head snaps up. "
Good Lord!
" She reaches out to steady herself on my shoulder and lets go an instant later when the ceiling explodes with a sharp crack. Plaster splatters all over my desk as everybody ducks for cover.

I look up to see a kid's pant leg and sneakered foot dangling from a jagged hole in the ceiling. Somebody must have pulled him to safety, as the shoe disappears.

In seconds, Mr. Reeser appears in the doorway, his face white. Then Mr. Shanahan pushes through. "What
happened?
" he asks Miss Anthony.

She shrugs. "Children do not belong in the attic," she says calmly. "It's dangerous." Like he should have known better.

Mr. Shanahan considers the mess. "We need to clean this up," he says to Mr. Reeser.

"Yes, you do," says Miss Anthony, as the noon bell rings. "We will go to lunch now and be back promptly at one o'clock."

With half the ceiling sprayed across the room, I don't see how they'll get it cleaned up in an hour. But that's not my problem.
My
problem is staying out of Raymond's way. Just my luck that today Mom decides to go visit a friend in Madras and I have to eat lunch at school.

Miss Anthony marches our straggly line out the front door. I duck in behind her and stick close all the way across the playfield to the dining hall. I want to stay as far away from Raymond as possible. I have no idea what he might do, but I'm not taking any chances.

Shorty, the cook, looks up when his big doors swing open.

"Mr. Walsey." Miss Anthony gives a curt nod. "We've had a
situation,
and we are here early for lunch."

Shorty grins. "Well, today you're in luck. We got plenty of meatballs!"

"Thank you." Miss Anthony motions for me to hold the door open.

Oh, man!
Now I have to stand here while everybody passes by. Including Raymond. I'm thinking maybe I can yank Pinky out of line to protect me, but just then Miss Anthony holds out her hand like a cop and stops the line from moving forward.

"Raymond," she calls, "come hand out the milk cartons." This is Raymond's regular job. He has to wear a hairnet and everything.

Raymond is slouching against the concrete wall of the dining hall, hands in his pockets. He pushes himself away from the wall, elbows Orin to the side, and comes up the steps.

***

It is unusually quiet in the dining hall when I pull the doors shut and pick up a tray. The few times I've eaten here, I've been surprised by the racket that a roomful of kids with metal trays can make. Now all I hear is Shorty at the far end of the line cheerfully spooning up spaghetti and sauce. The kids don't jostle and clank like they normally do as they wait for food. As I reach for a fork and spoon, some of the boys are already banging out through the doors to the playground. Miss Anthony is nowhere in sight.

In his spot handing out the milk, Raymond sets one carton on each tray that passes. Nobody has the nerve to tease him, even with a net thing mashing down his hair.

Jewel is the last person ahead of me in line. Her ponytail hangs far down her back, held in place with a beaded clip. A rose deep red in a circle of white. This is the first time I've been close enough to see the delicate lines of pink that form folds in the petals, the tiny gold beads framing the outline. The work is tight and perfectly even.
Someone must really care for her to make something so beautiful.

Raymond pushes milk across the counter and onto her tray. "Leave her alone," Jewel says to him. "She didn't do anything to you." Then she slides her tray on down the line.

I follow fast behind her. Jewel sets her tray down at an empty table. She climbs over the bench, sits, and begins to pick through the food.

I hesitate, standing behind her with my tray. "Were you talking about me?"

Jewel glances over at Raymond. He has whipped off that hair net and is hunching over his tray at the far end of the next table.

"Yes," she says.

Thoughts are swirling in my head. Raymond makes fun of Howie and threatens me. But Miss Anthony picks on him. Now Jewel is sticking up for me. I don't know who is on which side, but I'm grateful for her help.

"Thank you," I tell her.

W
E'RE
eating breakfast in the kitchen when a long black car passes the window. Then an open truck full of people follows close behind. Women sit on benches in the back against the wooden slats, dark scarves tied over their heads, arms holding their shawls close in the cold December morning. Their wailing reaches the place where I sit with a piece of toast in my hand.