Nevada Barr - Bittersweet

Imogene closed the door on the families and the couples going home to their Christmas trees and fires. She turned her back and leaned against the wood. A tear rolled to the end of her nose and she rubbed her face vigorously and sat down at her desk in front of the window. Lighting the lamp, she started to write. The kitten crept out from under the chair and jumped onto her lap.

My beloved Mary Beth , she began in a clear, bold hand, I have been so cold, so alone, without you next to me, warming my heart . Imogene read the words back and barked a humorless laugh. “Don’t commit your soul to the public post, my girl,” she said aloud. “Darrel Aiken’s cry of ‘unnatural woman’ will hound you to the ends of the earth. Which cannot be too awfully far from Calliope, Pennyslvania.” She balled up the paper and began again in cramped, schoolmarmish script: Dear Mary Beth, I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits …

When she was finished, she signed the letter, looked down at the sheets of foolscap covered with her neat, restrained handwriting, then crushed them and stared into the lamp for several minutes with dry, unfocused eyes. The kitten stirred on her lap and she looked down. “I’ll get you a little something to eat soon.” She scratched the soft ears. “You’re a dandy present for an old-maid schoolteacher, aren’t you?” The cat yawned audibly and she smiled. “Dandy.” The kitten stretched, peeping over the edge of the desk, ears flattened against some unseen enemy. A yellow paw shot out, patting at the foolscap still wadded up in her hand. “Discerning little creature, aren’t you?” Opening her fist, she smoothed the pages and, folding them, thrust them quickly into an envelope.

She scribbled Mary Beth Aiken, 72 Elm Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on the face. She printed her return address in the upper left-hand corner, then hastily crossed it out, marking and overmarking until it was illegible. Having sealed the envelope, she slipped the letter into her pocket and let herself out into the night.

STUDYING HARD TO EARN TIME TO WATERCOLOR, AND TO PLEASE Miss Grelznik, Sarah passed the winter quickly. Imogene’s attention and Sarah’s added zeal made up for the sketchy education of previous years, and by May, Sarah, at fifteen and a half, was ready to graduate from the eighth grade. She was second in her class.

There were six graduates, and the small school could scarcely contain the friends and families that had come to attend. They spilled outside, visiting with one another and watching the black clouds, big-bellied with rain, make their slow advance. The storm that had been just lace on the horizon at noon now covered half the sky. A breeze, rich with the smell of rain, ruffled the women’s light shawls and teased at their bonnets.

By the time the people were assembled indoors and quiet, the rain was falling. It came down in torrents, pounding against the roof and darkening the windows. Imogene raised her voice to be heard over the din and formally introduced the graduating students; each stood as she said his or her name.

“It is traditional at commencement to ask those who have received the best grades to give a speech. Jana Jenkins is our valedictorian, and Sarah Mary Tolstonadge our salutatorian. Salutatorian will go first.” Shyly, Sarah stared at the floor. “Sarah?” Imogene urged. Shooting Imogene a last, frightened glance, Sarah stood and stared at the crowd of familiar faces. She stepped forward slowly, the color draining from her lips. Her hands were shaking, rattling the sheets of paper on which she had written her speech. She bent her head over the page and began in a low, dry voice. “The class of 1874…”

“Teacher’s pet!” Karen hissed over the drone of the rain, and smiled sweetly at Imogene.

Sarah looked up.

“Go on,” the schoolteacher said quietly. Sarah stared blindly at the sheets of paper clenched in her hands, desperately trying to find her place. The silence grew and stretched taut. Sarah’s throat was working as though she were trying to swallow, her eyes hard and frightened. The blood drained out of her cheeks and she started to sway. Sam Ebbitt began to clap, then Mam took it up. A wave of palpable relief swept the room as applause caught on and built. Sarah stumbled to her seat. She didn’t raise her eyes even when Imogene gave out the diplomas, and when the ceremony was over, she pushed her way through the congratulating hands and darted out into the rain.

Imogene found her huddled by the firewood under the lean-to behind the school. She rested her hands on the low crossbeam and leaned down to look in, rain darkening her dress. “Sarah Mary,” she said gently, “why don’t you come out of there? It’s awfully cold and wet.” Sarah covered her face with her hands, and her sobs broke out afresh. “May I come in, then? I’m getting soaked to the skin.” Sarah nodded wordlessly and Imogene crawled under the low shelter, dragging her skirts through the mud, and sat silently by, hugging her knees and watching the rain. Sarah wiped her eyes, sniffling.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grelznik.” Her voice was a thread of sound, rough with crying.

“What for?”

Sarah looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “You’re not ashamed of me?”

“No, never ashamed.” Imogene stroked her tear-streaked cheek. She took Sarah’s wet head and rested it against her shoulder, smoothing her hair. “You mustn’t ever think that.” Sarah started to cry again, quietly, without the wrenching sobs. Imogene held her, murmuring soft words.

“I don’t want to graduate,” Sarah burst out. Imogene tilted the girl’s face up so she could see it.

“What do you mean, Sarah?”

“I won’t see you anymore if I’m not in school. There’ll be no one to teach me about painting. Miss Grelznik, you’re the only one that understands me,” she cried.

Imogene suppressed a smile. “Nonsense. You’ll see me. I’ve grown very fond of you.” She stroked the soft hair.

“Miss Grelznik, I’m real fond of you, too,” Sarah declared.

Imogene laughed nervously and pulled herself free from the girl’s warm embrace. “Now that you’re no longer a student, you must call me ‘Imogene,’ ” she said, to change the subject. “We’ll be peers.”

Sarah didn’t know what a peer was, and didn’t ask. She wasn’t to be comforted. “Will I really still see you?” she insisted.

“I will tell you what,” Imogene replied. “I’m going to Philadelphia in a few days-I’ve business there-but as soon as I come back, I want you to pay me a call. Will you do that?”

“The minute I hear you’ve got back.”

“Will you come inside with me now? The people have all gone,” Imogene reassured her.

Sarah dried her eyes with her sleeve, pushing the hair back from where it lay plastered to her forehead as Imogene eased out of the shed and pulled herself upright. She extended her hand to Sarah, helping her to her feet.

“You’re strong!” Sarah gasped.

“It compensates for being so tall,” she said wryly.

Sam Ebbitt was sitting under the canvas of his covered carryall. He started over as soon as he saw them.

“Is Margaret gone?” Imogene asked.

“I told ’em to go ahead on, I’d stay for Sare.” He combed his beard with his fingers; he wasn’t quite forty, and already it was streaked with gray. He hefted Sarah onto the front seat. She lurched, catching hold of his shoulders, her sodden skirts fettering her legs.

The rain poured down, pulling hanks of Imogene’s hair free form her bun and pasting them to her cheeks. She laid her hand on Sam’s arm. “Could I have a word with you, Mr. Ebbitt?” she asked. He looked at her expressionlessly, water dripping from his hat brim. “It’ll only take a moment.” He followed her from the wagon.