At exactly three o’clock he pulled the buggy up to the house. Nate regarded her with raised eyebrows. “Don’t you look nice.”
Angel sniffed. “I don’t want this teacher to think she’s dealing with just anybody. We’d better get some answers this afternoon.” She ran her palms over her skirt and pulled on brown leather gloves, glancing at Nate. “You look nervous.”
“Schools always scare me,” he confided, slapping the horses. “Teachers even more so.”
“Not me.” She jerked as the buggy started up.
The small school stood back from the main street. Because of the growth of the town in the last ten years, the school boasted two floors, four classrooms and four teachers.
Heart pounding, Nate ushered Angel up the front steps. Once inside, they spotted Mark, slumped on a bench in the hallway.
“Is this your classroom?” He said as they approached the boy.
“Yes.
Miss Hathaway
is waiting for you. I told her you were coming.” Mark swallowed several times. “Um, she may be a little mad ‘cause I skipped school yesterday.”
Nate took off his hat, and ran his finger around the inside of his shirt collar. Angel sailed in ahead of them, head held high, back straight, looking as if she were ready to cross swords with the enemy.
Miss Hathaway sat behind a well-worn desk, working on papers. Everything about the desk, Miss Hathaway, and the classroom was tidy. No stray pencil lay on the floor; books on the shelves were precisely aligned. Everything on her desk had been neatly arranged.
The teacher was a stout woman of undetermined years, wearing a tight bun, and spectacles attached to her formidable person by a string around her neck. A starched white shirtwaist, with a watch pinned to the front, and a blue serge skirt completed the educator’s outfit. She didn’t stand when they entered, but put her pen down, and folding her hands at the edge of her desk, nodded to the two chairs in front of her.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Mark told me you would be here. I understand Mark was not ill yesterday as Matthew told me.”
Nate made a mental note to have a talk with his oldest son when the boy got home.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Hathaway, I understand Mark is having trouble in school. He says he can’t read too well.”
“Mr. Hale, your son cannot read at all.” She sniffed, glaring at the child who sat next to her in the small chair.
Angel shifted in her chair, and slid forward. “Tell me, Miss Hathaway, why can’t he read? He’s been in school here for almost three full years.”
The teacher sighed. “Mrs. Hale, as teachers, we’re aware some children don’t take well to school. They find learning hard, and eventually find it’s better to pursue other things that can provide them with a living as adults. Apprenticeships come to mind,” she finished, smiling sadly.
Angel moved further up in her seat until she sat so far forward, Nate was afraid her impressive posterior would slide to the floor.
“Are you suggesting our son isn’t capable of learning to read?” his wife said coolly.
“Well, so far he doesn’t seem able, and as you pointed out he’s been here almost three full years.”
“How dare you!” Angel leapt from her chair and leaned over Miss Hathaway’s desk. “Every child can learn if taught properly. Perhaps it's your methods at fault here.”
Not to be intimidated, the teacher drew herself up. “I will have you know I’ve been teaching for over seventeen years, and I know when a child can learn, and when he cannot. Mark cannot read the third grade reader, and the year is almost over.”
Angel leaned two fists on the desk, and moved closer to the teacher. “Can he read the second grade reader?”
Her face flushing, Miss Hathaway fumbled for a moment, and leaned back. “I don’t know, I don’t teach second grade.”
“Ha! Well, can he read the first grade reader?”
“What exactly is your point, Mrs. Hale?”
“My point, Miss Hathaway, is since you don’t know if he learned to read the first grade or second grade readers, how can you expect him to learn to read the third grade reader?” Crossing her arms, and tapping her foot, Angel glared at the teacher.
Nate and Mark looked at each other, eyes wide, jaws slackened at the back and forth conversation between the two women.
When Miss Hathaway didn’t respond, Angel sat back down and tugged on the cuffs of her sleeves. “May I see a first grade reader, please?”
“I don’t have one in this room. This is the third and fourth grade.”
Angel turned to Mark. “Please go to the first and second grade classroom, and bring me their readers.”
The boy raced out of the room. Nate continued to run his finger around his collar. Miss Hathaway attempted to return to her papers, but seemed to be having a problem concentrating. Angel sat back, a slight smile on her face.
Mark returned in a couple of minutes with the two books. “Miss Glendale said I must bring these back.” He placed the books in Angel’s hands.
Angel pulled Mark close and handed him the open first grade reader. “Please read for me, Mark.”
His face a deep red, the child barely made it through the first page, stumbling and missing words.
Miss Hathaway nodded, and crossed her arms at her waist, a smug look on her face.
Angel closed the book, and addressed the teacher. “I want to take these two books home with me. I will work with Mark in the evenings.”
“You can’t take those books with you,” the teacher gasped. “The School Board only allows us a certain amount of money for supplies.”
“How much?” Angel said, narrowing her eyes at the teacher.
“How much what?” The teacher questioned.
“How much for the two books? My husband will buy them.” Angel glared at the flustered teacher with a look in her eyes Nate had only seen over a poker table.
“I would say twenty cents for the two books would be sufficient.”
Angel nudged him. “Pay her.”
Still stunned at how his sweet little Angel had handled the teacher, who would’ve scared him to death had he been alone, he jerked to attention. He fumbled in his pocket for the coins and deposited them in the teacher’s outstretched palm.
Angel stood and pulled on her gloves. She picked up the books, nodded at the teacher and marched out of the classroom. Nate and Mark jumped up and followed.
Angel stormed down the street, apparently forgetting they’d arrived in a buggy until he caught up with her, and grabbed her arm. He laughed, clasped her around the waist, and swung her in a circle. Then he kissed her right there on Main Street.
“Honey, you were wonderful!” He set her down and hugged her.
Angel’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know how you can laugh, Nate. That woman is probably the worst teacher I have ever run across. To say our child cannot learn to read. Really!”
He could have stood there and stared at her for hours. Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, she looked like the wrath of God. And she’d never seemed more beautiful.
Mark walked up to them, darting a glance at Angel every once in a while as if he feared her hat would erupt from her head. “Thanks for sticking up for me,” he mumbled in his stepmother’s direction, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Angel put her arm around his shoulders and hugged him close, the first time he’d allowed it. “We’ll work on it. Don’t believe anyone who says you can’t read.”
“Okay, son, you need to go see Mr. Conway and work out a way to pay off his window.” Nate pointed to the store across the street.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ll have extra chores at home for skipping school.”
The boy nodded.
“Come right home afterwards for supper, and then we’ll work on your reading.” Angel squeezed his shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am!” Mark said as he raced down the street in the direction of the hardware store.
Nate slung his arm around Angel’s shoulders. “Honey, I think you forgot we brought the buggy with us.”
“Oh, dear.” She laughed.
He took her arm and escorted her back toward the school.
That evening, Angel started Mark’s reading lessons. She had infinite patience, and worked with him for at least an hour. She had various methods to help children learn to read from when she had tutored. Simple things, like holding a piece of plain paper under the line Mark struggled with, helped a lot. She made a list of words Mark had trouble remembering. She had him say the words from the paper before they began their reading lesson. Then, when he grew too tired, she closed the book and the boys ran upstairs and jumped on their beds, waiting for her to read another chapter in their book. They’d finished
The Swiss Family Robinson
, and were now on
Westward Ho
!
Nate wandered to the boys’ room during story time, leaning against the doorway, his hands in his pockets. She grinned when he appeared again. He probably enjoyed it as much as the boys did. Angel took a moment to observe her family as they settled in for story time. Four clean, shining faces, eager for her to start. Julia-Rose had crawled into her lap, her fingers finding their way to her mouth. She smoothed the blond curls from the baby’s forehead, and with a contented sigh, picked up the book.
Chapter 11
“What is it?” Matt asked.
Angel and the four boys stood in the kitchen, staring at a round, brown disk sitting in the middle of the table.
“Well, it’s a cake.” She cleared her throat and frowned.
“Cakes are supposed to be fluffier.” Luke held his hands out, demonstrating.
She peered closer. “I must have left something out.”
John patted her on the arm, his face solemn. “Maybe it will look better when you put the frosting on it.”
Angel grimaced. “I already did.”
Nate entered the kitchen, carrying Julia-Rose, dressed in a red, white and blue dress Mrs. Darby had made. A bright red bow held back her blond curls. The little girl reached for Angel. “Mama.”
She took her from his arms and gave her a big kiss on her chubby cheek. The baby giggled.
“Are we all ready for the fourth of July parade, picnic and dance?” Nate rested his arm on Angel’s shoulders and stared at the table. “What’s that?”
“What do you mean?” she said, drawing herself up. “It’s a cake.”
“She must have left something out,” Luke offered, nodding.
“I’ll say.” Nate grinned. He glanced at Angel. Tears swam in her eyes, and his smile faltered. “Maybe if you put frosting . . .”
Four small heads slowly shook a warning.
“What’ll I do?” She turned to him, one tear sliding down her cheek. “Every family is supposed to contribute a dish or dessert. I can’t bring this cake.”
Nate used his thumb to wipe away the tear. “It’s okay, honey, we’ll think of something.”
“I know.” Mark shouted. “There’s a really big jar of pickles Mrs. Darby gave us. In the pantry. We could bring that.”
“Yes.” Nate smiled his son. “Go fetch it, and let’s get going.”
Angel juggled Julia-Rose in one arm as she grabbed the blanket she’d readied for the picnic. A jar of pickles somehow didn’t seem a proper contribution, but certainly better than the disaster of a cake, so she shrugged and headed for the wagon.
The boys raced out of the house, and jumped in the back in a jumble of arms and legs and laughter. She settled with the baby on the front seat, took the jar of pickles Nate handed her, and placed it snugly on the floor between her feet.
She inhaled a refreshing breath. Bright sunlight trickled through the trees, casting webbed designs on the deep green grass as they rode by. A soft breeze lifted the tendrils that had escaped her bonnet, waving them around like a multitude of flags. She pointed to the puffy clouds, challenging the boys to find pictures in them.
Occasionally, a cloud would block the sun, easing the heat. The soft hum of honeybees, mixed with the chirping of birds as they sought nourishment for their young, created a symphony of nature’s music.
Oregon was certainly a beautiful place. After the first few weeks, she’d missed New York less and less. The air here seemed cleaner and crisper, and the only odors were the fresh ones of animals, vegetation, and earth.
Palpable excitement crackled in the air as the wagon rumbled closer to town. Oregon had only been a state for two years, so celebrating Independence Day was still new. Red, white and blue flags had been hung around town, creating a festive air.
Although The War Between the States tore the country apart, the fighting took place so far away, its effects hadn’t touched most of the townspeople. Some residents had family members who fought in the war, and checked the newspaper every day to receive battle information as soon as it became available. But for the rest of the town, it seemed almost a foreign conflict.
Angel’s thoughts drifted to Sylvia in Virginia. She kept up with the war news herself whenever in town. Although she’d expected to receive a letter from her stepmother by now, so far she hadn’t heard a thing.
She would be lying to herself if she pretended she didn’t care about Sylvia’s safety. No matter what she had done, Sylvia was still her stepmother, and this silence concerned her.