Hannah Alexander - Double Blind

“Tell you what, I’ll keep a close eye on your work next week, and give you a critique on Friday.”

“Just what I need,” he said dryly. “Another critic.”

“I’ve heard there’s been quite a turnover of principals in the past few years,” she said.

“Seems that way.”

“I’m not getting myself into the middle of a mess, am I?” she asked. “You know, student pranks, stuff like that?”

“No pranks. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“But there is something.”

He turned to look at her for a long moment as his hand went to the cafeteria door. He grasped the handle, then stood still. “Do you remember when we were kids, we used to try to help Granddad’s neighbor herd his sheep?”

“And we spooked them every time.”

“Right. The kids remind me of those spooked animals.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head. “I’m afraid you’ll see what I mean when you start talking to them.” He pulled open the door. “If you do, will you tell me?”

“I’ll add it to my critique.”

Sheila took a deep breath and preceded Canaan into the noisy cafeteria. The huge room, as modern and clean as the exterior of the building, had been designed with children in mind. Bulletin boards held beautiful drawings and collages. She wondered if Canaan had a hand in the inspiration for some of the masterpieces.

The aromas were the same as they had been nearly a lifetime ago. Sheila knew if she closed her eyes, the smell of yeasty rolls and bubbling stew would draw her back to the days when Betsy Two Horses had stood at the serving line, teasing and laughing with the hungry children.

Recognition and remembered affection warmed Sheila as she caught sight of the Navajo woman. Funny how she could remember Betsy and Canaan and the ruggedness of the land surrounding the school so very well, but she could barely remember her mother’s image.

No, not funny, but certainly sad.

From across the length of the large cafeteria, Betsy didn’t look more than fifty, though she must be past seventy. Tendrils of her hair, still as black as Sheila remembered, had escaped the ponytail that emphasized her thin, angular face. As she reached up to push the strands back, her dark eyes met Sheila’s.

For a moment, Betsy stared. Her thick, dark brows gave her a glowering appearance, until a gleam of recognition lightened the woman’s expression.

Canaan touched Sheila’s arm and led her forward, past the chattering kids holding their trays and the dorm parents who monitored to make sure their charges behaved while the principal was in the room.

“Well, Betsy?” Canaan said. “You told me you’d recognize her.”

Betsy looked at Canaan, then at Sheila. In the light, the deep lines of her face belied the youthful blackness of her hair, but the warmth in those eyes welcomed as it had so long ago.

“I knew her,” Betsy said, then directed her gaze to Sheila. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“It’s been a long time,” Sheila said.

Betsy studied Sheila more closely. “You’ve always looked like Evelyn.” She explained to Canaan, “Sheila’s mother.”

“I know,” Canaan said dryly. “I was here, too, remember?”

Before they could talk further, a group—Sheila guessed they were teachers—entered the cafeteria, talking and laughing as energetically as students…until they saw Sheila.

Silence descended, amusement disappeared and the expressions on various faces ranged from curiosity to resentment.

For the first time, Sheila became aware of the paleness of her skin. It felt strange. She couldn’t remember ever feeling out of place at this school when she was a little girl. Always, when she’d been here, she had belonged.

Canaan touched her arm and addressed the new arrivals. “Come and meet Sheila Metcalf, the nurse Johnny Jacobs has hired to help me in the clinic. She and I attended school together here when we were children, which means she’s one of us.”

Sheila felt only slightly relieved when a few of the expressions lightened. One heavyset woman who had passed them earlier with a group of children stepped forward and picked up her tray, interest sharpening her delicate features.

“I hear you’re going to examine my kids,” she said, selecting her silverware. “I have first-and second-grade girls.”

“This is Jane Witherbe,” Canaan told Sheila, putting an arm on the woman’s shoulder. “She’s been a teacher and dorm mother here for a lot of years.”

Jane nodded, dark eyes friendly, and the smile revealed she was older than she first appeared. “I remember you, Sheila. My first year here was—” the smile disappeared “—it was the year you left.”

“You’ll like her kids,” Canaan said smoothly. “They’re well behaved.”

Another of the women spoke up. “They’re all good kids. They mind their teachers and dorm parents.”

One of the men snorted, his expression still grim, his gaze most unwelcoming as he studied Sheila’s face. “That’s because they’re all Dineh. ”

Sheila knew that word. It was what the Navajo called themselves. It meant The People. The man looked familiar, and for a moment Sheila held his dark gaze. She remembered his name without having to be told. Kai Begay. He’d been a teacher-parent when Sheila had lived here. But he hadn’t been unfriendly then, had he?

“Sheila was with us for several years, Kai,” Canaan said. “You should remember her, since you were here at the time her parents came. Her mother was our nurse, and her father helped the local farmers to utilize their land more efficiently.”

Kai Begay’s chin came up as he met Canaan’s gaze and held it for a moment. Canaan returned the look. Kai cleared his throat and looked away.

Something relaxed inside Sheila. Canaan might not feel as if he would make a good principal, but he was obviously making an effort to retain control of the staff, no matter how unpopular that might make him.

Betsy Two Horses returned her attention to the steam table in front of her.

As the talk increased and the tension eased, Sheila pushed her tray along the counter.

Betsy gave her a quick once-over. “You’re starving yourself,” she said, her voice brusque as always, but her eyes still warm.

“I’ve actually gained some weight,” Sheila told her.

“Well, gain some more.” Betsy held up a ladle of stew. “Mutton.” Her dark eyes gleamed with the barest touch of humor. “Your favorite.”

Sheila nodded and enjoyed the look of surprise on Betsy’s face. She’d never developed a taste for the stew as a child, and she’d been teased about it a few times. But who was to say her tastes hadn’t changed in twenty-four years?

When Canaan turned with his tray toward a far table, Sheila glanced at Betsy wistfully. When the glass door opened and more people entered, Sheila turned away and wove between the tables to where Canaan waited. Later. She and her old friend would have time to become reacquainted soon.

In spite of what she’d told Canaan, Sheila had no appetite. In fact, she hadn’t felt hungry all week. Now, as she glanced into the bowl of thick stew, nausea bubbled in her stomach. The reaction of the dorm parents, especially Kai Begay, concerned her. It didn’t help that she felt as if time had shifted, as if she were a child again.

Canaan held her chair out for her.

He sat down after she did. He bowed his head, said a brief prayer softly, as if to himself, then tore off a corner of his bread and dipped it in his stew.

“Fry bread?” Sheila asked. “I didn’t see that.”

He chewed, swallowed. “You were so busy watching Betsy, you pushed your tray right past it. She was always good with us kids, wasn’t she?”