But Willie was laughing. He was in the mood for doing a little teasing.
“An’ I s’pose you had ‘tea’ with her mother,” he said, and he held his fingers in a ridiculous pose and pretended to sip from a dainty cup.
“I did not,” I denied, and then remembered the small cups and the flimsy pastries. Well, it hadn’t been with her mother.
“An’ her pa said, ‘Josh-u-a, my boy, are your in-tentions hon-or-able?’ ” went on Tom, exaggerating every word and mannerism.
He somehow managed to catch the look of Mr. Foggelson and I suppose even I would have laughed had not the joke been on me. Willie and Avery howled. Then I noticed that Jack didn’t join the laughter. His face looked about as red as mine felt. It took me a moment to realize why.
Jack was sore. I knew he had been making quite a fuss over Camellia, but I sure hadn’t expected him to carry on in this fashion.
My face was getting redder too, a lot of it from the anger churning away on my insides. I didn’t know where to start with my denying; so much of what was being said was the truth that it was hard to sort it out from the errors. I knew then why Gramps had tried to explain to me how dangerous half-truths are. A downright lie you can dismiss in a hurry, but when it gets all tangled up with a smattering of truth, it is awfully hard to untangle.
I was genuinely saved by the bell. I had never been so glad to hear it ring in all my life.
We ran toward the schoolhouse, but even as we tore over the schoolhouse yard, I was aware of Jack’s angry glances my way. When we jostled our way out of the boys’ cloakroom and Camellia was just leaving the girls’, her bright hair tossing about her shoulders and her cheeks flushed pink from the chill morning air, Jack gave me another black look. And then, to make matters even worse, Camellia flashed me one of her dazzling smiles and said, “Good morning, Joshua,” very softly, but it wasn’t soft enough for the other boys not to hear.
Willie and Avery were fit to be tied. They jabbed me with their elbows and sniggered behind their wind-cold hands. Tom stuck out his foot to trip me and almost succeeded. But it was Jack that bothered me the most. He glared at me like I was suddenly his worst enemy. My face flushed red and my head clouded with confusion. What was all of this about anyway?
The day didn’t improve much. The boys teased me every chance they got. Camellia flashed little smiles and fluttered her long eyelashes. Her silent signals made shivery feelings go slithering up my spine, but I hoped with all my heart that no one else was catching her at it.
By noon it was not only the boys but the girls as well who were teasing me. They weren’t as bold about it, but the glances, the giggles, the laughter, all made me most uncomfortable. I was beginning to wish I had never seen or heard of Camellia Foggelson.
But, no, that wasn’t fair—nor true. I knew that deep inside me, every time I stole a brief look at Camellia.
Near the end of the class, Mr. Foggelson caught my eye and gave me a bit of a nod, which I had come to recognize as his signal that he wanted me to remain behind after class. Of all days to be doing that! The fellas would really make a case of it.
At last the room seemed to be empty. I was still shuffling books around and pretending to look for something I couldn’t find. Mr. Foggelson moved from the chalkboards back toward my desk. I knew I had to look up. But, boy, it was hard to raise my eyes.
“How’s the tutoring going, Josh-u-a?”
He really did say my name that way. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Fine, sir,” I responded as clearly as my dry mouth would allow me.
He nodded. “Camellia seems to understand the concept much better now.”
I let the words settle about us, wondering just what to say next. We were both silent. It seemed like hours.
“Then she won’t need any more help?” I asked, wondering if that made me sorrowful or relieved.
“Oh yes,” he cut in quickly. “I’m sure she would appreciate a little more of your time—if you can spare it.”
I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding, and then blushed at the thoughts of my classmates’ taunts. I swallowed again, then slowly nodded my assent.
Mr. Foggelson sat down on the desk in front of me, a place we students were forbidden to sit. Slowly he brushed the chalk dust from his fingers. Then he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands clean. He had a strange look on his face—like disdain or disgust or something.
“Fool dust,” he muttered. “Gets on everything. Your hands, your clothes—even up your nose.”
I didn’t know how to respond so I didn’t say anything.
“Don’t ever be a teacher, Joshua,” he said, still pronouncing my name like each syllable stood alone. He surprised me with the intensity in his voice as he stared over my head at some spot in the back of the room. “Poor pay, long hours, and a tough job. Day after day trying to pound a few facts into dense, uncaring little heads.”
I wondered if he remembered I was still in the room. He seemed to be talking to himself—and he sounded bitter and depressed.
I still did not make any comment.
Suddenly he swung back to me, carefully tucking the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket. His expression changed and his eyes looked alive again.
“You have a good mind, Joshua. The best I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. I can see your face light up with understanding and appreciation. You can go far, Joshua. Be anything you want to be.”
I knew that somehow my ability to learn had brought some strange joy to Mr. Foggelson. I couldn’t understand just why, but it was enough to know that I had pleased him. I knew he was paying me a high compliment, yet I didn’t know what to say in response.
“How would
you
feel about some special tutoring, Joshua?”
I licked my lips and swallowed again. I wasn’t sure just what he meant by his question. Was he proposing now that
Camellia
tutor
me
? Boy, that would really make me the laughingstock of the school.
“I have a good library of sorts, Joshua. Oh, it’s not big or grand, but it has some good basic books—books that would provide you with a great deal of information. I would no more consider bringing my books into the classroom for all of the students to paw over and mutilate and soil than—than throwing my daughter to the lions. But I would be happy to allow you the privilege of studying them—in my home—and of discussing the contents with me if you desire. What do you think?”
I’m sure my mouth, as usual these days, hung open. I didn’t know what to think. I did love books, I did love learning new things—but Mr. Foggelson’s private collection? Would I be careful enough? Would I understand them? Would I find the time? It all made my head spin. And what about the fellas? If I spent even more time at the Foggelsons’, it was bound to mean more jokes.
I knew Mr. Foggelson was waiting for my answer, but I still wasn’t sure what it should be.
I swallowed nervously and forced myself to begin, even though I still wasn’t sure what words my voice would form.
“That’s very kind, sir. I’m much obliged. I don’t really know what to say. I mean—well, I—I . . .”
I stammered to a halt and Mr. Foggelson took over.
“You do enjoy books?”
“Oh yes, sir.” That was not hard to answer.
“Then why the hesitation?”
“Well, I—I,” I stumbled on, “I never thought of having so many books at one time—to learn from—an’ these are your own special books. I’d hate to mess ’em up or anything.”
“I wouldn’t be afraid of you soiling my books, Joshua,” said the teacher. “I know you will give them your full respect.”
“Yes, sir,” I hurriedly assured him.
“Well—?”
“I’ll need to check at home. I mean—I have . . .” I fumbled for words again.
“Your chores. I know. But I’m sure we can work out something. Perhaps you would have some free time on Sunday afternoons.”
I must have blinked. Studying was not done on Sundays at our house—not even studying for enjoyment.
“Not on the Lord’s Day, sir,” I blurted out before I could even think about my selection of words.
Mr. Foggelson’s eyes darkened. “I see,” he said, but I wondered if he really did.
“Saturday?”
“I always go home to the farm after school on Friday night or else early Saturday mornin’. Grandpa comes for me. I stay all day Saturday and most of Sunday with the menfolk.”
“And chores every night?” questioned Mr. Foggelson.
I nodded.
Mr. Foggelson stood up, still brushing imaginary chalk dust from his hands.
“So we have a problem?”
“I’ll ask,” I cut in quickly. “I’ll talk to Aunt Lou—it’s gonna be hard to work it in. But I’ll ask.”
“It’s not that I want to be pushy, Joshua. It’s just that in my years of teaching I have never found a mind like yours. It would be—it would be a shame to waste it. Both for your sake—and for mine.”
I didn’t know exactly what Mr. Foggelson was trying to say, but I nodded anyway. I did appreciate the fact that he was going out of his way to be kind to me and to encourage me to use the mind that God had given me. I smiled my thanks and began to gather up my books, but Mr. Foggelson was not done yet.
“Have you given consideration to what you’d like to do with your life, Joshua? A lawyer? A surgeon? An architect?”
I hadn’t given much thought to any of those things. But I had thought about what I might like to do with my life, all right.
I smiled confidently at my teacher as I answered, “Yes, sir. A minister.”
“A minister?” Mr. Foggelson shook his head slightly as if to clear cobwebs. I thought perhaps he had not understood me.
“A minister—like my uncle Nat,” I explained to him.
“Nat? Oh, yes. Nathaniel Crawford is your uncle, isn’t he? I had forgotten.”
“Yep,” I said with a great deal of pride, “he’s my uncle.”
I guess I had expected Mr. Foggelson to greet my announcement with a great deal of enthusiasm. He didn’t. He didn’t seem pleased at all. I couldn’t understand it. But then, I remembered, Mr. Foggelson did not attend church. He most likely did not understand much about being a pastor. Maybe I could bring a few of Uncle Nat’s precious books with me when I came to read from Mr. Foggelson’s library.
I looked up. Mr. Foggelson was clearing his throat. Then he said a very unusual thing—more to himself than to me. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll wait and see.”
I
WAS STILL GETTING
a great deal of ribbing at school. The fellas got a lot of laughs from it but they meant no harm. It wasn’t that way with Jack Berry. He had been my friend, a close friend. Now he rarely even spoke to me, just about me—and everything he had to say was mean and cutting.
I was really sorry about this. I didn’t like having an enemy. I’d never had one before. Was he sore, too, about not getting to go on the camping trip? I just didn’t know what to do.
I knew what the Bible said about enemies—that we are to love them, to do good to them. But, boy, it sure was hard to be nice to Jack Berry. He seemed to spend his nights thinking up mean things to say about me, and his days saying them.
I tried to ignore the insults but it sure got tough. Even the other fellas were beginning to get on me about the situation. They said I shouldn’t allow Jack to say those things, that I should stand up to him. I tried to shrug it off.
Willie was the only one who really understood how I was feeling.
“It’s tough, Josh,” he said. “Doing what you know Jesus would do is really tough sometimes.”
“Turning the other cheek” was what Willie said the Bible called it. Though he acknowledged that not defending myself was tough, that was exactly what Willie expected a follower of Jesus to do.
Then one Thursday everything all broke loose.
I had gone again to Camellia’s house and, after our tea and pastries—which I still didn’t manage too well—we spent some time studying. I would have stuck with it longer, but after a few minutes of working over the geometry text, Camellia started talking about other things.
She was bright, lively, exciting, and it was fun talking to her. It was easy for me to just let the book slide to the table and listen to the music of her voice. When I finally pulled myself away, gathered up my books and my coat and left her house, I was in a big hurry. I was later than I should have been and I had chores waiting for me at home.
I was just running by the darkened schoolyard, my breath puffing out ahead of me in cloudy little spurts of frost, when I heard an unexpected shuffling sound. Before I could even turn to look, someone grabbed me and a fist whirled through the air and hit me right in the face.
I hollered out with surprise and fright and my book went flying through the air and landed somewhere in the dark bushes just beyond me.
The fist hit me again, and this time pain streaked through my right eye. It made tears stream down my face so I couldn’t even see my assailant.
I had never fought before in my life, but suddenly I was fighting as if my very life depended upon it—for all I knew, maybe it did.
As we traded punch for punch, I could tell whoever had jumped me was about my size and weight. I still couldn’t see, so I had to cling to him with one hand and swing with the other. Most of my punches missed, but a few of them were solid hits. The other fella responded in grunts or cries of pain that made me fight even harder.
It was hard and slippery under foot because of the frozen ground, and as we tussled and pulled at one another, swinging whenever we could get a hand free, our breathing became more and more labored. Once or twice I heard a tearing sound but I didn’t know, nor care, whose clothes were being ripped in the exchange. I was far too busy trying to save myself from who knew what.
I stopped worrying about who I was fighting and why, just kept on swinging as hard and effectively as I could. And then a solid blow caught me right on the chin, and I felt my knees turn to mush.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but it would be several weeks until I was able to remember and sort out exactly what happened after that. Reconstructing events later, I recalled I had tried to stay on my feet, but the slippery ground and our tangled legs didn’t help my sense of balance any, and I felt myself slowly going down.