Wind Over Marshdale (11 page)

 

“Teacher!” a desperate sounding voice called. Rachel looked up from the oversized storybook she was reading aloud from. All the children were sitting cross-legged on the story time mat except one. The poor little fellow was dancing from foot to foot, holding himself with both hands.

“You may go to the washroom, Travis.” Rachel turned back to the adventures of Chatterer the Squirrel.

“Teacher, Travis piddled on the floor,” another boy called out. He pointed to a yellow puddle where the unfortunate little boy had been standing. A chorus of squeals rose up from the class as each one moved farther away from the telltale liquid.

“Everyone sit quietly, please,” Rachel commanded. She went to the sink and got the necessary supplies to clean up the mess.

“Only babies pee thurselves,” one girl observed smugly.

“Franny, we don't use that word, remember?” Rachel reminded.

“Well, my daddy said so. He said only babies pee thurselves,” Franny reiterated, her eyes wide with innocence.

“Everyone has accidents sometimes,” Rachel explained. “What I meant was, please don't use that particular word for going to the bathroom.”

“Okay. Teacher, why not?”

“Well, because it isn't polite. And we want to be polite in kindergarten. Isn't that right?”

“S'pose.”

“Teacher,” another little girl with freckles and braids called out. “One time my brother went pee-pee on the floor at my house. My momma gave him a lickin'.”

“Is that so? Oh well, we aren't going to do that today,” Rachel said as she finished her task and came back to the story circle. “Now, shall we finish our story?” By this time Travis had returned and was about to sit down by one of his classmates.

“Ewww!” squealed the girl next to him. “His pants is all wet!”

“Travis, remember where we keep your extra change of clothing? In your cubby?” Rachel asked. The little boy shook his head miserably. “Come with me. We'll find it together,” she said as she took his hand.

They found the extra clothing, but Travis seemed reluctant to go to the bathroom alone to change. “Class, I think we will finish our story about Chatterer tomorrow. Right now, I would like you to listen quietly to an audio book I'm going to put on.” After cueing up the CD, Rachel took Travis by the hand and left the room.

They returned a few minutes later to what could have rivaled a professional wrestling match. Two little boys were battling it out on the story mat. Most of the other children had scattered. One little girl sat crying at the top of her lungs; others just stood back wide-eyed. Rachel jumped into action and tried to separate the boys. Arms and legs were flailing everywhere. Just when she thought she was getting the better of the situation a loud tapping silenced the entire classroom.

All eyes turned to the doorway where Mrs. Wilmott, the grade one teacher, stood ramrod straight, a disapproving glint in her eagle eyes.

“Is there a problem, Miss Bosworth?” the older woman queried.

“Mrs. Wilmott,” Rachel said rather breathlessly. “I just stepped out of the room for a moment. Travis had an—”

“Miss Bosworth,” the elder teacher cut her off. “I would advise you to take control of your pupils. Before they take control of you.” She turned on her heel, her orthopedic shoes clicking soundly on the linoleum.

Rachel was mortified. With more harshness than usual, she ordered the offenders to separate time out chairs. Of all people to come to her classroom during such a disturbance! Mrs. Wilmott was renowned for her militaristic style. She must have considered Rachel the most inexperienced of fools after such a display. But there was little time for reflection. All eyes were now on her with expectancy.

“Children,” Rachel announced with forced brightness. “I think it is time for some free play.”

A chorus of “yeahs” rose from the children as they scattered to the various play stations. They had already established a routine of sharing and cooperation, and knew exactly how many people were allowed in each area. If only Mrs. Wilmott could see that, Rachel mused. Now she must interrogate the boys.

“Robert,” Rachel began, “I would like to hear your side of the story.”

Danny, the other boy, blurted out, “He was —”

Rachel cut him off, calmly, but firmly, “Danny, I was speaking to Robert. You will get your turn.”

“But—”

“Danny, you know the rules.”

“Okay, teacher,” Danny conceded, “But—” One more look from Rachel silenced him.

“All right, Robert. What happened?” Robert stared at the floor. “Robert, I'm speaking to you. Please tell me why you and Danny were fighting.” The only answer was a definitive shake of the head. “Robert, now is your chance to tell me your side of the story.” Another shake. Rachel sighed. “All right. Danny, since Robert has nothing to say on the matter, you may now have your turn.”

Danny sat up straight and reported in a matter-of-fact tone, “He said 'Teacher is a dummy.'”

“Oh, I see. And?”

“And I said ‘No she's not.'”

“And that led to the fight?”

“Well, kinda…”

“What do you mean?”

“He said, ‘Yes she is and she's ugly too!' And I said, ‘No she ain't, she's purdy.' And he said—”

“And who hit the other first?” Rachel interrupted.

Danny looked down at his feet, which were swinging back and forth beneath the chair. “Me, I guess,” he mumbled.

“Should we solve our problems by hitting others?” Rachel asked.

“No.”

“And is it nice for us to say mean things about other people?” Rachel directed at Robert. He shook his head. “Now, I want you both to apologize to one another, and after two minutes you may play.” Each boy mumbled an apology, and after the allotted time they ran off together, once again the best of friends.

“Teacher,” a shy voice approached Rachel.

“Yes, Lisa?” Rachel asked.

“I think you're pretty, too,” Lisa smiled, looking down at her feet.

“Thank you, Lisa.”

“My Uncle says so, too.”

“Pardon?” Rachel asked.

“My Uncle Con. He thinks you're pretty, too. He said so.”

****

Rachel helped the last, straggling, little boy with his zipper before heading down the corridor to the staff room for lunch. Unfortunately, Steve Friest was already occupying one of the comfortable armchairs. At least he wasn't at the table. After a cool nod in his direction, she sat down across from Rhoda and Grace.

“How was your weekend?” Rhoda asked.

“Fine. I went into Regina on Saturday to see my friends Sherri and Dan.”

“That's nice.”

“Mmm-hmm. They're the ones who convinced me to come to Saskatchewan. Sherri is pregnant,” Rachel confided.

“Hope it's not catching!” Grace laughed.

Rhoda surveyed the other woman down the length of her nose. “A steady boyfriend might be in order first,” she teased.

“I think I'll just spoil other people's kids,” Grace said. “I don't think I'm mother material. Besides, the gene pool in Marshdale is rather shallow.”

“I always say, Marshdale is a great place to come if you're looking for a husband—as long as you don't care about things like looks, age, or IQ!” Rhoda countered.

“Hey, look who's talking,” Grace pointed out. “You came to Marshdale and ended up getting married yourself.”

“See? My point exactly!” Rhoda laughed. She noted Rachel's guarded expression and patted her arm. “You look way too worried. I'm only kidding. Truth is, Jerry was the only good-looking man under thirty with any brains at all when I moved here fifteen years ago. So naturally I had to snap him up quickly before he changed his mind. Unfortunately for you, there has never been another man, before or since, who possesses any one of the aforementioned qualities. They're all overweight, lazy, middle-aged couch potatoes with mush for brains.”

“Good thing I'm not looking,” Rachel quipped.

“Every woman is looking,” Rhoda protested.

“Not me,” Rachel reaffirmed.

Grace shrugged. “Sounds like she's made up her mind to me.”

“Wait until those cold prairie winds start to blow. She might change her tune,” Rhoda teased. “Who knows?” She lowered her voice and leaned in, making a slight gesture toward Steve Friest with her head. “Stevie-boy might not look so bad after all.”

“I don't know.” Grace surveyed Rachel. “She says she's not interested, but I saw the way you and Con McKinley looked at each other the other night.”

“What?” Rachel spouted. “You're delusional.”

“Oh really?” Grace countered, brows raised. “So you deny that he is one hot cowboy?”

“I didn't say that,” Rachel laughed. “I mean, of course, I noticed…”

“Uh-huh?” Grace smirked, nodding. “And?”

“But I'm not interested in a relationship right now,” Rachel repeated.

“So you keep saying.” Grace didn't sound convinced.

“I think you and Con would make a cute couple,” Rhoda offered.

“For the last time, I'm not interested!” Rachel cried. Steve looked up from his post. The heat of humiliation filled her face. What was the use? “I've actually got some marking to do. I'll see you later.” She stood up from the table and stalked out of the room. Let them talk about her behind her back if they wanted. She couldn't take any more references to her love life. Not when her libido was denying everything she'd just said.

****

The bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Thank goodness! Rachel kept watch as her charges scrambled for the door, hurrying those along that needed to catch the bus.

“Wow. This is a busy place.”

Rachel looked up, recognizing the male timbre. There it was. That ridiculous giddy feeling again. “Hello, Mr. Lone Wolf. Ryder's not free to pick Whisper up today?”

Thomas shrugged, smiling. “I just thought I should do it once in a while. It's good to stay in touch with what's happening at school. Parent-teacher relations and all that. And it's Thomas, remember? Mr. ‘anything' is a bit too formal.”

“Okay… Thomas. Whisper is adjusting very well, I think,” Rachel said.

“Good. And how about you?” Thomas asked.

“Surviving,” Rachel laughed.

Thomas smiled. “Good, good.” He looked down at his daughter. “Ready?”

Whisper nodded.

Thomas gave a slight wave, and then turned all his attention to the little girl, taking her hand in his as they walked out the door. What was it about him that she found so intriguing? Obviously, he was tall, well-built, and good-looking. But there was more to it than that. Charisma; a sense of mystery—some exotic charm that he seemed to exude. It would be good to find out more. Maybe she was ready for a relationship after all.

“How are things going?” Rhoda popped her head into the doorway. “Ready to quit yet?”

“Not yet,” Rachel laughed. “Although today had me thinking about it. Mrs. Wilmott walked in during the middle of a ruckus between a couple of boys.”

“Oh, not good.”

“Oh well. Not much I can do about it now.”

“Listen, about earlier. I'm sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. Sometimes Grace and I just get going and we don't know when to quit.”

“Forget it.” Rachel waved a dismissive hand.

“Anyway, I thought maybe you'd like to come out to our place for supper tonight. We could talk more about the special ed kids you were wondering about, and you could meet Jerry and the boys.”

“That would be great. Robbie Nordick really has me stumped. Are you sure?”

“Of course. I wouldn't invite you if I didn't want to. Besides, we're just going to throw some steaks on the barbeque. Jerry loves his barbeque, and the season is almost over. ”

“Can I bring anything?"

“How about a salad? Jerry just likes his meat and usually forgets to make anything to go with it. I'll throw on some potatoes.”

“Sounds good.”

****

Rachel Bosworth was pretty. No, she was attractive. No, she was sexy in a naïve sort of way. He never thought he'd be interested in another woman again. Not after Rhea. But now that his mind had turned that corner, Thomas was surprised at how quickly he was ready to move forward. He'd pick Whisper up a few more times from school and then he'd ask the teacher out for coffee.

As soon as Thomas pulled onto his street, he noticed the unfamiliar Jeep sitting in front of his house. Technically, it was a “double-wide,” but house sounded better than trailer. The unfamiliar vehicle was empty. He parked in the driveway, waited for Whisper to get out, and walked with her up to the house. The door was already unlocked. Ryder must be home.

“Ryder?” he called.

“In here, Dad.” He heard his son's muffled voice coming from the recesses of the trailer, probably from the back room which had become his “office” and where he kept the computer.

He strode down the long paneled hallway, coming to an abrupt halt when he entered the makeshift workspace. “Oh. Hello. That your Jeep out front?”

Sitting in one of two comfortable chairs was an elderly native man. His face was a leather mask of wrinkles and his thick hair, which was pulled into a scruffy ponytail, was a salt and pepper grey. The man nodded.

“Dad, this is Dennis Johns. He came all the way from Manitoba to talk to you about your project,” Ryder informed.

“Welcome,” Thomas nodded a greeting.

“He was sitting out front when I got home,” Ryder supplied.

“I was here a few days ago,” the elder spoke, his voice crackly with a thick accent. “But you were out.”

“You must have just missed me,” Thomas replied.