Mary MacCracken - The Lost Children - Part 2 of 3

Contents Cover Contents Cover Title Page Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Coming soon … Copyright About the Publisher

Title Page Contents Cover Contents Cover Title Page Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Coming soon … Copyright About the Publisher Title Page Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Coming soon … Copyright About the Publisher

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Coming soon …

Copyright

About the Publisher

I arrived early that first morning, thinking to talk with the Director, to find out about the children in Joyce’s class, to learn their backgrounds, their case histories, the results of their psychological and physical examinations. Even more important was to learn what their routine in school had been, what they were used to, how Joyce handled their problems; the daily lesson plan.

The Director was on the phone when I walked into her office, and I realized that this was my most familiar memory of her, both in this new building and in the old school. As I passed the office I would see her at her desk writing, talking – cigarette and pencil alternating in her right hand, the phone in her left.

She had white hair cut short, pushed back from a small, attractive face, bright brown eyes, and was somewhere between forty and sixty years old. She was cheerful and articulate in her speech; her movements were quick, strong, and spontaneous. She smiled and waved a good morning to me across the phone and cigarette and motioned to me to hang up my coat. I hung my heavy storm coat in the closet in her office, took off my fur-lined gloves and high brown boots, and – in memory of Helga – put on my sneakers. With my sneakers on, I was ready to teach.

The Director’s voice continued on the phone: “You’re right, it’s freezing cold this morning. If he’s coughing you’re wise to keep him home. Mmmmm. Yes. He did? Last night?”

Another ten minutes passed. I was beginning to get restless. In twenty minutes my class would arrive. I didn’t even know their last names.

Finally the phone call ended and the Director smiled at me. “I’m so glad you were able to come, Mary. How about a cup of coffee? First thing I do every morning when I get here is to plug in the pot.” From the shelf behind her desk she produced two cups and poured coffee for each of us.

“Could you tell me a little about the children in Joyce’s class?” I asked.

“Well, there are four boys … oh, excuse me, the phone. Oh, dear, I forgot to make a note that Jeff won’t be in; I must remember to tell Dan. Lots of calls on these cold mornings …”

And she was gone again. The phone rang four more times. There was a minor crisis when the woman who was scheduled to bring the casserole lunch for the children called to say that she herself was sick and couldn’t get out.

“Don’t worry. You take care of yourself now. Thanks for calling. Oh – yes. Yes. Certainly. No problem at all. Get well in a hurry now.” Cheeriness continued to flow out of the Director’s voice over the haze of cigarette smoke.

As soon as she was off the phone she was putting on her coat. “I’m going to have to dash over to the store and then back home for a minute to pick up the hot plate. The woman from the church who was supposed to bring lunch is sick, or so she says, so we’ll have to heat up some soup. Tell Zoe to handle the phone till I get back; she’ll be in in a minute. Oh, and I’ll see you at Circle with your class.” She emphasized the last two words and smiled.

“Mrs. Fleming …” I said.

“No, no. Call me Doris. Here now – here are the folders on the children …” She rummaged in a green file cabinet behind her desk. “Let’s see now – Chris, you remember him. From Helga’s class. Brad, he’s a doll. Where’s Billy’s – ah – here it is. And let’s see. Who else is there? Oh, yes, Louis. Mmmmm. Can’t find his at the moment. Oh, well, it’s not important. These will give you a start.”

She left then, leaving me holding the pale manila folders in my hand.

At the front door she turned back. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

I had wished for information, not cheery platitudes, and yet I had a small glimpse of the courage of the woman who had somehow not only founded the school but kept it together through many desperate times when money had been nonexistent and her own personal life rocked with the tragedy of her husband’s death. Perhaps she had found it necessary to ignore certain needs in order to be able to cope with bigger problems – perhaps cheeriness was the mask she wore.

Nonetheless, I shivered in my red jumper as I followed her out the door, calling, “Which is my room. Which door?”

“Oh, my. I forgot that, didn’t I? Well, you can’t remember everything. Especially on these cold mornings. The last one in the back is Joyce’s. Yours, I mean.”

I went back inside with a sinking heart. How could I have been so presumptuous as to think I could handle all this? It was one thing under Helga’s direction. But alone? I knew the Director scarcely at all. Helga had always referred to her by title or as “they,” which I had taken to signify authority. Now I wondered. She had left without introducing me to the children, without giving me any idea of the day’s routine.

Well, I decided, I would go down to the classroom and look at the folders. Perhaps I could at least learn how to recognize Brad from Louis.

The room was L-shaped, painted green. There were two high windows on the north wall so that the room was light enough, but cold and wintry. There was a large wooden jungle gym in one corner, a small white bookcase which held a few Golden books, and two Maxwell House coffee cans with wooden beads, strings, pegs, and missing puzzle pieces. There were three wooden puzzles and a peg board. Beside the bookcase was a small wooden chest that held some blocks, a doll with a missing head, a small, soiled blanket, and half a dozen clean diapers. There was also a jumping-jack rocking horse and a small pink table with chairs. A complete inventory. It had taken me less than three minutes to make it. Helga’s materials were sparse, but they were four times this. I looked again at the chest and bookshelves – could I teach four children with just these odds and ends?

There were coat hooks along one wall, though, and these at least looked familiar – until I saw that there were more than a dozen and they were labeled with names like Susan and Diane. Obviously names from the Sunday school class. Where did Joyce’s boys hang their coats? On nameless hooks or under someone else’s name?

Slam! The door of the room slammed shut so hard the glass in the window of the door rattled. A tall, dark man stood inside the door leaning against it, holding a small boy by the arm. It was Chris; I could not mistake those gray eyes – but if he recognized me he gave no sign of it.

“I’m Chris’s father,” the man said. “Will you tell his teacher he’s here?”

Chris twisted his body away from his father, trying to loosen his arm, pulling at the doorknob, trying to get the door open, to get out.

And I think, What is this? I have known this child before – he was always difficult, disruptive, but he never fought school before. What is this now?

Out loud I say, “Joyce isn’t in today. I’m Mary MacCracken, the substitute teacher.”

His eyes travel over me. “Well … good luck,” he says. Then: “Look, could you just hold the door while I get out, then I can hold it closed from the other side till you can slip the bolt?”