First Week of 2021: ~6,000 words

Chapter 1

From the back door of the diner, all you could see were two glowing orbs like pupil-less eyes. The sounds fed into the darker thoughts, the way dust funneled through the alley tearing air to a buzz, and don’t forget that growl of the engine. What great beast lurked in the dusty shroud?

It had a jaunty whistle, though.

“A radio? In a car?” Margaret asked for not the first time. “Don’t that distract you?”

The bootlegger sat in the cab without a word. All ready for the coming storm, he had on goggles pulled off the Red Baron’s body but the boy was too young for that. In nice clothes—nice and dirty—with a bandanna over his mouth and nose. Hard to say if he was enjoying the broadcast, but she wasn’t. She was busy sweating hefting a 5-gallon jug from the back. She paid $50 a jug, knowing half was water. It wouldn’t have been this heavy otherwise, heavy, but not this heavy, and a gentleman might’ve offered to unload it for her—heck even a good businessman would’ve offered, but this boy from Appleseed didn’t need to be a gentleman or a good businessman. He had a good business. Could charge what he wanted. Help how he wanted. Listen to whatever show he wanted.

She went back under the tarpaulin.

Box of tools.

A spare tire.

“There’s only one jug back here.” She went around the cab to knock on the door. “Hey, I paid for two and there’s only one back here.”

The boy looked down on her saying nothing.

“Now I’m a good customer but I won’t continue to be with this kind of service.”

“Tell the sheriff,” he said and the engine revved up to head out at speeds too dangerous for a town the size of Oskaloosa, Oklahoma.

Never heard of it?

Look on the map.

Still can’t find it?

What you need to do is get a map from 1862 before the Homestead Act then look at a map from anywhere in the 1920s and you see that little speck you thought was a printing error? That’s Oskaloosa.

But family, this story takes place in 1935 and don’t you dare look on a map after that because it won’t be there.

~

“Who’s winning?” Margaret asked as she came in the diner. Not a one in here offered assistance with the jug, either, but that was all the better. From the kitchen, hidden by a half wall and a curtain, she quietly turned on the tap, hoping their banter covered the sound.

“Shef,” one of the farmers said. “As usual.”

“Ah, you’re only here for the drink.”

“And the smile of Ms. Tully. But how’s it--” The farmer heard something.

“Just washing up.” She came out from the kitchen with a towel in hand. “Y’all may be cheats and scoundrels, but this here is a respectable establishment. Now who’s parched?”

The hands went up.

The glasses went round.

The faces got red.

The pot got bigger.

Margaret even won a hand, being the only clearheaded one. She wasn’t trying to peek but it was hard when the banker yawned with his Hearts over head.

The quarters and dimes got passed around, but one stack kept growing.

The farmer said, “Maybe you oughta come work the fields, Shef.”

The general store owner had a good hand coming up, he just felt it in his bones, like he knew the rain was coming any day. “I’ll knock a dollar off all y’all’s tabs. What do you say?”

The harbinger wind howled round and banged the Dutch shutters against the siding.

“You’re out,” the sheriff growled.

“Can be a dollar each and y’all just spot me a dollar collective.”

“Walk it off.”

“You’ll see! I just know I almost—”

“Go home, Willy!” he barked.

“Now wait just a damned second! I had the best hand last time but you just—you said—you—you!” He rose up out of his chair so quick the thing tipped back onto the hardwood with a thunderous clatter.

The men at the table went quiet. No running the tap at this juncture.

When Margaret came running out the kitchen, she witnessed the sheriff slowly rise up. He didn’t have his star on him tonight. Probably for the best because where the star went, the revolver followed.

A friendly game of Texas Hold’em was set to turn into a not so friendly game of fisticuffs.

Margaret said, “Now, Willy, why don’t you check your coat pocket? You’re always stuffing your winnings in there. And Sheff, what you doing bullying this boy? How about another drink? I was just turning the stove on, too, for a late night snack if y’all looking to soak up the gut rot.”

Willy desperately rummaged in his coat pockets at the rack, careful to take only his coat and take it far from the others, lest they think something untoward was happening.

A few hands went up for drinks and a few more for sandwiches.

Two hands went up in celebration. “You were right, Ms. Tully! I’m a darn fool. I always stuff my winnings or change in my pocket and play with it as I’m heading home. Lets me savor that victory. Watch me win back all I lost with just this lucky dollar. Sheff, a sandwich on me? No hard feelings. Two more sandwiches, Ms. Tully.”

The bacon and eggs joined the smoke in the air and then all the sandwiches came out toasted. Sheff took two and said, “Thank ya, Willy. No hard feelings.” There wasn’t another leftover for him.

“Fifty-one,” Margaret muttered into her accounting book, writing in red.

~

Margaret carried away the glasses and plates into the back.

“Can we help, Ms. Tully?” Willy asked with five dollars stuffed in his pockets and his hat in hand.

“Yes, Willy, you can help by going and getting.”

The glassy-eyed lot of them said their thank yous and goodbyes and Margaret Tully took to cleaning. First the dishes. Rinse, wash, dry, and place them in the cabinet and seal it.

As she turned away from the sink window, just a screen of dark dust out there that even the White Way couldn’t do more than cast silhouettes, one such silhouette approached the window.

The shadow watched through the glass as she cleared the table.

“Save all them crumbs for Abner,” she said in her mocking tone. She brushed them down into a sieve, knowing it unnecessary but still worrying what dust might do to her baby’s baby, and the dust that fell out—if it were sugar, it’d be enough for a cake. She worried what this dust might be doing to all them.

Then last and probably least, she grabbed her broom and dust pan.

No matter how she stuffed cloths and towels under the doors and around the windows, dust got in. Even the church with its vestibule entrance had a thick layer of dust whenever you opened the hymn book. No power greater than Gods’ but perhaps there were other matters to attend.

It’d all be back in the morning but there was some dignity in leaving a place tidy. She gathered up a nice little pile then listened for the wind. Today, the leeward side was the window above the sink.

She set the dust pan on the floor.

Then unlocked the window.

Then she bent down for her dust pan.

And when she rose to toss out the day’s filth…

She sneezed and it went all in the sink.

She just sort of stared a moment. “Messy Margaret strikes again.”

~

The window got closed and locked as did the door behind her and once outside with a scarf pulled over her mouth, she circled the building to latch the shutters. They did their part, however small, in keeping the dust out. And silhouettes.

If she were new in this one-horse town, it’d be easy to get lost on a night like now. The storm was in full force. Maybe she could’ve waited it out. They never lasted long. But it wasn’t the big one. And she liked getting home before the witching hour.

As she followed those too high orbs lighting a vague way down Main Street, she couldn’t hear herself think. A gale force wind sent nipping particulates across her cheeks and she turned away as she trudged on.

And at first, she thought her mind must be playing tricks on her. A bit of Midnight Madness striking a weary mind. But her eyes kept on it, trying to focus, trying to filter out the smokescreen, until she was certain:

Someone was following her.

“Howdy, neighbor!” she called.

But she did not stop.

She released her clutch upon her scarf to wave. “We best be getting home before this really picks up.”

Her voice could be getting carried two towns over for all she knew. And perhaps the same was true for the silhouette.

She continued down the street, her pace a bit faster now.

“Gotta get out of this storm!” she tried again.

Faster still.

Losing her breath, catching a mouthful of dust instead.

Soon she was at her gate. It wasn’t more than a block away from the diner. Everyone knew her house. Everyone knew she had sugar or recipes or a hammer. Everyone knew, unlike everyone else, she kept her doors locked.

How many times had that saved her?

Not now.

She had her key in hand before she ever stepped on the wooden porch. It really needed replacing and she meant to last year before it got cold but maybe this year, maybe this summer, and the boards would sit tight together.

Her eyes never left the figure behind her. They were just across the street now. She hoped they’d pass.

Perhaps if she had prayed…

She fumbled for the lock but aiming without looking is bad business.

She felt the hole with her thumb but when she tried lining it up, her hands trembled too fiercely and she missed, lost her grip on the keys, and they fell.

Still her eyes stayed locked on the figure nearly at the gate. If he—and she was sure they were a he now--opened that gate, she’d scream. She’d scream the whole way. She’d scream whatever happened.

But like the lock, it’s bad business feeling for keys without looking. Especially on a deck with space between the boards. The moment she felt the metal of the key, she nudged it just enough to fall through to the dirt beneath.

She had to look.

The keys had disappeared into the abyss where no light reached tonight.

No more looking.

No more waiting.

Just screaming.

Bang, bang, bang!

“SARAH!” she screamed. “Uncle Pete! Unlock this right now.”

Bang, bang, bang!

A look back.

Where was he?

She heard a lock undo.

He was coming through the gate.

“Gonna wake the neighborhood like that.”

The front door opened and Margaret Tully charged in, knocking the book out of her teenage daughter’s hand.

“Who walked you ho—? Uncle Pete? He’s long…” At 17, Sarah was taller than her Mama and a good deal sturdier, too, but a mother on a mission can’t be stopped. Before Sarah could finish a thought, Mama disappeared into the kitchen, but she got her answers when Mama returned with Uncle Pete’s shotgun (Gods rest his soul).

She aimed at the door.

They waited several minutes. Long enough Sarah almost said something but thought better of it.

Then Mama lowered the gun.

She didn’t put it away, but she did remove her finger.

“No one came by tonight?” she asked.

“No, Mama.”

They waited several minutes more and this time Sarah did say something.

“My only suitor was Abner.” She waited for Mama’s response. “I didn’t let him in though.”

Mama breathed finally. “I brought him a present.”

“Any apple cores?”

“Two.”

“He’ll love them.”

Mama had come in charging but trembling. Now her nerves were still. Sarah had the opposite reaction. She was trembling as reality set in, her eyes scanning the window for anything but getting nothing. Mama put the gun back and instead put her arms around Sarah.

It was just them in this big house these days. Only a month since Gran passed and already a lot of things happened: the two had gotten closer, the schoolhouse closed, they started dragging themselves to church, and soon a lot more would.

Mama looked out the window a bit longer. Even a flashlight wouldn’t cut through. Best wait till morning to get the key she dropped. She felt braver with a babe to protect, but not to the point of foolishness.

“Now what are you doing up reading past midnight? That’s how your eyes fall out.”

“Waiting on you,” Sarah shot back. “The Board of Education sent a note. New teacher’s coming next week.”

“I guess we can take tomorrow to rest.”

“No church?”

“No church. But don’t go celebrating! Celebrating is a sin!”

Sarah stifled her smile until she was in Mama’s arms again and then let it spread wide. She hated that creepy old pastor.

~

In 1862, Congress passed what was known as the Homestead Act, signed by Lincoln on May 20. In 1863, the first settler took to living on and improving their land. Soon 3 million would follow with 1.6 million officially obtaining necessary documents for the 160 acres of nearly-free land. Nearly-free because there was a small registration fee, and the price of tools and materials to build a new house, and the fact that this was already Native land, some legally given to tribes after they’d been forced to move once before.

But to the ignorant, predominantly white settlers taking advantage of this, none of that mattered.

Do you know how long it takes to walk the length of 160 acres?

90 minutes without dillydallying.

Do you know how long it takes to tear up the grasslands, plow, plant, tend, and reap 160 acres?

A whole lot longer, family.

And these inexperienced farmers laid claims without a single thought to that and many found out a whole lot longer was in fact too long and parceled out acres here and there until the size was manageable and being neighborly with houses on either side was feasible after a hard day’s work.

With so many farmers, ranchers, miners, speculators, and the rest, they needed infrastructure. They cobbled it together like they cobbled together their houses. They weren’t the first to discover it but certainly they acted though they were.

For example, it didn’t make sense for so many farmers to head out to the City to sell their crops. That was time not spent growing their crop. So they set up somebody’s son to sell all the farmers’ crop in the City and then come back and pay them 90% of the earnings. And while he was out there, bring back some supplies for the farmers.

They later realized this was a store.

Then Farmer Fred started putting up fencing and his neighbor Farmed Ted argued Fred had intentionally lay claim to Ted’s land. Neither had any way to prove their stolen land was their own, but the collective commissioned the smith make a star and they pinned that to the ugliest, meanest man who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone. He locked up folks just for whistling at too high a pitch.

They called him Sheriff.

Then farmers started catching sick and a guy pretty good with a horse was put in charge of all hoarse throats. They wouldn’t be named such if they weren’t connected. They started calling him Doc and people thought he must be or they wouldn’t call him that. He did alright, as well as anyone should’ve expected, but eventually he got old and an apprentice replaced him who could actually read and the population boomed.

And with the farmers multiplying, there were a lot of children running around unable to read and that was no good because a church was coming next. So they set up the St. Thomas Aquinas church for the old pastor that seemed like he’d come as naturally as the town. He was ancient, as all pious folks were, and his long, gaunt fingers traced the words as he read them. His voice shivered and quake and he promised these wet years would continue so long as they kept up the intensive farmer.

“Rain follows the plow,” were his words and the words of old wisdom.

And 60 years later, 60 years after Oskaloosa was the official name for their little collective turned town, the curse came collecting.

It was, as many things are, the curse of ignorance.

Stolen land.

Poor farming.

The death of natural diversity.

All for a quick buck.

And little in Oskaloosa was set up in antagonism toward ignorance.

That little was Ms. Catherine Tully’s schoolhouse who passed 60 years later, a day short of 100, an age no one would question her fate, and soon a terrible dust storm five miles high would smite the folks for their ignorance.

Chapter 2

The day had been pretty clear.

The coolness of March was giving way to April and little dust wafted through the air without a breeze so everyone could go about their business with their bandannas around their neck or perhaps stuffed in their pockets. Some of the ruder men used them in place of a handkerchief, but when the inevitable storm came, you knew they didn’t change them before putting them on.

But all in all, today it was easy to forget about their troubles: the drought, the economy, all the goodbyes to folk chasing a better life in California. Those faded into the background like a cricket’s song and however briefly, the idyllic days had returned.

Then Willy came running into the diner.

“You forget your hat, Willy?” Margaret asked.

“You gotta come look!”

A Cadillac on an old country road in the days after a dust storm announces itself like a war.

The curious from the diner joined the curious already in the town square and soon a little crowd formed almost higher than Willy could count without pulling off his socks, all to peer down main street at the cloud forming the horizon.

It approached until the haze faded and the red dot at the center grew larger until you saw there was green trim and it was in fact a car growling down the road and not some Otherworldly beast that had its sights set on Oskaloosa. The folks there always were worrying about that.

“That’s a bootlegger’s car.”

“Think it’s the boy from Appleseed?”

“He drives a truck,” Margaret said. Then added, “Don’t he?”

Willy gulped. “What do they want with us?”

Sheff was the last to join the crowd, if you didn’t count Sarah who only peeked up from her book and out from her shed at the conversation around the vehicle.

But when the crowd moved to the parking spots the Cadillac occupied in front of the general store, Sarah stayed on the bench in her shed and closed the door.

“Howdy, sir,” the sheriff said as a man in black stepped out of the car.

This stranger was not aged, perhaps in his early 30s, but there was something old about the twinkle in his eyes. The way he took in the rapidly expanded landscape, building a mental map of the town, comparing it with one already in his mind, erasing the most modern buildings, and looking, scanning, searching for some landmark to orient himself. Even in this town with low-lying buildings and their wide yards, the skyline hindered his view.

Not once did his gaze dip to the man addressing him, nor the crowd surrounding him. He was unconcerned with these folks. But they were concerned with him.

His clothes were as nice as his car. Black with crimson and green trim, and trim those clothes were on his slender body. His head stuck out above the crowd and if any folks ran up at this moment, they’d know exactly who everyone was gawking at and why. While his tight buttoned collar did a good job of hiding, it didn’t do a perfect job and just below, there were deep scars.

When his eyes eventually did condescend to meet the crowd, he regarded them wordlessly. The sort of wisdom of a man that knew to think before he spoke, the sort of wisdom of a man to who you listened when he spoke, and if he didn’t speak and instead started doing something, it must be important. So when his eyes settled on the sheriff’s badge and suddenly he stooped to reach back inside for the passenger seat, the town collectively held their breath and the sheriff readied his anger in place of his revolver, but the stranger was just grabbing his wide brimmed hat.

The crowd breathed once more.

Finally, he said, “Which one of you local yokels want to show me to the schoolhouse?”

There was disdain in his voice.

“Yokels?”

“Calling us ignorant.”

“Ignorant?”

“Uneducated, Willy. Illiterate. Idiots. Bumpkins. Fools. Stupid, stupid!”

Two murmurs at opposite ends ran through the crowd.

“The new teacher?”

“In that car? No… What do they pay teachers elsewhere?”

“City fools think reading people superior to feeding people!”

Both conversations found their way to either ear of the sheriff.

“Pardon, friend, but might I ask your name and business? I seen this sort of transportation and I know what company it follows. And what company it attracts. This here is a Christian society and we don’t mind keeping the schoolhouse closed.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he replied slowly. “But the board of education does. And I can already see I have a lot of work to do here. And a lot to undo. Don’t worry. The car won’t bite. If you’re understandably green, I’ll take you for a spin sometime, Sheriff.”

The sheriff didn’t much care for the accusations in that answer. “Your name, boy.”

“Call me Ishmael.”

Margaret could see the rising tension as red filled up the sheriff’s face. “That’s certainly a unique name, sir. You’ve had a long trip, I imagine. Perhaps someone could show you to the schoolhouse to get you acquainted.”

“I’d be touched if you did.”

She raised her hands to say not her, just now realizing she still held a pen and notepad with someone’s order half-written. “I’ve got my diner to tend to. But—SARAH!” she yelled suddenly.

Her eyes trained over his shoulder and it made him turn his head to see a tall, lean, slapped together, wooden shed with a pitched roof and occupancy for one. The door stayed shut a minute. As if the occupant, this Sarah, was finishing up her business. He raised an eyebrow at the thought of putting such infrastructure in the center of the town square.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My daughter is not otherwise occupied and she’ll be one of your students, one of the best and brightest you’ll ever see.”

He doubted that but did not say. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make introductions and y’all can return to your little lives.”

“Little lives?” someone muttered.

He marched across the brown grass to meet his star pupil. She had a book in hand. The Secret of the Old Clock Tower.

“I respect you rising above your environment and learning to read, but I cannot ignore the locale. A latrine?”

Sarah’s jaw dropped in confusion. Her eyes found the crowd still watching, though her mother had gone back inside. Perhaps if the windows had been cleaned, she’d see Mama watching through the window as well. But when she searched for answers over her shoulder, she realized. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is a reading shed. One of the farm boys put it up. There’s a door so it keeps the dust out and when the wind comes, it don’t turn the page on me.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I assure you it does!” she said, wondering how this newcomer could argue with her. Men in this town always thought they knew everything and apparently men in other towns thought the same.

“It looks like an outhouse.”

“No, it don’t!”

“Doesn’t.”

“Glad you see reason.”

“Your grammar. If you’re the exemplary student, I worry about the rest of the crop. How’d your poor, previous teacher survive so long?”

“Don’t speak ill of my gran.”

The stranger caught his tongue. And softened it.

“Your gran was the previous teacher? Ms. Tully? Making you Sarah Tully?”

“First true thing you said. And maybe I didn’t take to every lesson but she taught me just fine to not let myself be bullied by some--”

“By some fool from out of town. Let me start over. I apologize for my initial tone. My prejudice of country folk maybe extended unfairly onto you. I’m sorry, Sarah Tully.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d been insulted by an adult or by a boy or even by a man belittling her on purpose or because of how he was raised, but it might’ve been the first time she remembered one correcting himself.

“It won’t happen again. You have my word.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Call me Ishmael.”

She let out a laugh. “Ha! That for true? Or did your folks just fancy Moby Dick?”

“You’ve read it?”

“Gran made me.”

“My wife’s favorite book, even before it found its place in the canon.”

“Your wife don’t—doesn’t name you.”

“Maybe that’s why she liked me, though.”

“A flimsy foundation for a marriage.”

“Maybe that’s why she isn’t here.”

It was Sarah’s to soften her tone. “Sorry, sir, for whatever happened to her. My daddy’s gone, too. Sir… Ishmael, Mr. Ishmael? What did my mother send you to me for?”

He gathered himself with a big breath. “I want to see the schoolhouse and perhaps meet your classmates to arrange the start of classes once more. I’ll take you in my Cadillac.”

They returned to the crowd. It had dispersed enough to perhaps be called a company instead, but the sheriff watched with a suspicious eye. He could love and accept all, as the Good Book told him, but he didn’t have to trust them.

When the new teacher pulled out of the parking spaces, before he put the car in drive, he had to ask his burning question.

“So your mother owns the diner?”

She nodded.

He had to be sure.

“And her name’s Tully, too.”

“’Course.”

“Margaret Tully?”

“You got a good memory, sir.”

“I do now. I do.”

He drove off down the street, following her guidance. Sarah assumed he wasn’t used to the dust yet, heck even she wasn’t, because as a smile crept over his face, a tear formed in his eye.

~

In 1967, our nation closed its last one-room schoolhouse, but in 1930s rural America, they ruled America. The Church of St. Thomas Aquinas set up Oskaloosa’s to give children and adults the opportunity of reading the Good Book themselves. Did that violate a separation of church and state? No, because in those early barbaric days, the state had no involvement in the schools and it wasn’t until 1909 that Boards of Education were nationally instituted.

By then, Ms. Tully Sr. had already separated church and school.

~

Sarah was meant to be directing her new teacher to the schoolhouse, but she got lost in the leather seats and knobs. Instinct told her to play with them all and he didn’t say nothing when she did. He kind of watched. Not supervised. Not cautioning. Observed. That sort of look like at Christmas time when you’re trying to memorize the look on Mama’s face as she opens your gift.

Sarah stopped playing. But didn’t stop thinking about playing. She had never been in a car like this before. A few pick-up trucks and farm equipment, of course, but nothing that reeked of luxury. She didn’t like it.

But when they arrived at the schoolhouse, she hesitated to step out.

Maybe she liked that it was different.

“How did you know where—?”

He cut her off. “It has a recognizable shape. Clearly not a house or business. Clearly not the church. I got lucky.”

“Unlucky if you wound up in Oskaloosa.”

The teacher went to inspect his workplace. He’d be spending a lot of time in here, except in summers, of course, and it was almost summer. An odd time for the Board to send a new teacher, if you asked her, but adults rarely did. Regulations are regulations, however nonsense.

The walls were painted white last summer. Sarah had helped. Gran had supervised. Some desks dated back to before she was born, but whenever one broke, it got replaced, and since they didn’t all break on the same day, an array of history was on display. Various names carved into the desks, some with hearts round them. Rude words. Crude pictures. The roof was all new as a tornado came by and ripped it off three years back—a scary time in Oskaloosa but now, the folks might welcome a tornado if it took all the dust with it and dumped it on Appleseed.

When Sarah chased him in, she heard escape from his lips, “It’s not the same.”

“Same? Same as what?”

“Not as I expected.”

“Reading too much Little House on the Prairie?” Sarah had a gnawing suspicion inside her.

The newcomer rifled through the desk drawers, but though he found names, notes, and even drafts of letters for parents that got a second, gentler attempt, nothing seemed to satisfy his curious itch. “There must be something,” he muttered.

“What’s it you’re searching for?”

He ignored her because one drawer was locked.

It did not open with a jiggle and he went once more through the drawers looking for its key.

She would not help him until he proved himself. “Say, Mister, where are you from?”

He moved onto the library, a single bookcase in the corner with texts on all manner of subjects: math, grammar, history, geography, a dictionary, and the rest novels of varying quality.

“Paris.”

“France? You don’t got no accent like them.”

“Illinois.”

Paris at that time would’ve been close to 10,000 folks. 10,000 folks don’t get you taught in Geography class.

Sarah grabbed her grandmother’s—well, his pointing stick and slapped the map. “Point to it on the map, Ishmael.” Then she dropped her impression and added, “Sir.”

Without so much as looking up, he jabbed empty green land. Without a label and without knowing better, Sarah doubted he’d be anywhere in the right vicinity of Paris, Illinois, but with a bit more insight, her jaw would’ve dropped.

Instead she shrugged.

His investigation turned up nothing, but frustration.

“Tell me about your gran.”

~

Flashback scene

~

Sarah prided herself on being quick on her feet.

“I don’t know what you want to know but everyone liked her. Sometime around January, a boy was giving her lip because he didn’t want to chop wood but it was his turn! I did it just the day before. Gran did it on the weekend! But you know how boys are, thinking they’re already grown, and so he shoots up cussing out of his chair and grabs the ax and says, ‘You wanna see how good I am at chopping?’ It all happened so fast all we could do was stare. We all knew he wasn’t talking about wood at that point. Gran asked, ‘What do you want to happen next?’ and he took a second to think before settling down and going to chop wood.” Sarah took a second to settle herself. “I think if you locked a lion in with her, she’d come out queen of the jungle.”

“Tigers live in the jungle. Lions are the savanna.”

She doubted very much Georgia had an lions but sometimes it was best not to argue with a teacher.

“Chopping wood at her age? No one ever thought to let the old gal retire?”

“They don’t exactly ask my opinions on such things.”

“Tell them anyway.”

“Gran said the same…”

He’d spent that whole story searching with no fruits. Nothing on the door frame. Nothing under the Gran’s desk or the students’. When he opened the sash window, he frowned deeper than elsewhere, testing its smooth track and finding trouble in its fresh coat of paint.

His goal was clear when he returned to the desk.

He gave it so violent a tug the whole thing moved and white scratched appeared near the feet.

Gone or not, his or not, this was her Gran’s desk that he abused. “Sir, please just the littlest of respect for her property.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah. I need in that drawer. Where’s the ax?”

Her eyes went wide and she held her breath with an internal struggle, before she stepped outside to the chopping stump. The ax was locked away in a shed. But she reached under the stump and came back in with a handful of dirt that held a dull, golden prize: the key.

It fit perfectly in the locked drawer.

With trepidation, Sarah watched him pull it open, not sure why, not sure what inside her gave her these shivers, but certain she could trust them.

Inside was a Bible.

“That’s it?” he said.

“No…” Sarah couldn’t put her astonishment into words. Parents often came by asking why their child didn’t have more verses memorized and Gran would tell them they were at the wrong place. Whatever the old ways were, Gran had shirked them. She didn’t attend church. She didn’t keep a Bible. She said she feared but did not love.

“Gran was not a pious woman. She kept us out of church each Sunday.”

“As she should. The best defense against sin is education. Immorality and ignorance go hand-in-hand.”

Sarah bit her lip. Was that a common saying? How else could he quote Gran?