Wind Over Marshdale (7 page)

 

Rhoda strolled into Rachel's classroom just as she was putting the last of her files away. “So? Surviving?”

“It's hard to tell,” Rachel replied with a laugh. “Kindergarten, fine. Special ed? Not so much.”

“This system takes some getting used to,” Rhoda agreed. “Alternating between kindergarten one day and special ed the next can get confusing at times. Small schools…we do what we need to do.”

In small rural towns like Marshdale, the kindergarten students only went to school every other day. It was a long bus ride for some of them, and they stayed for the entire day as opposed to only half days like in some other places. Rachel's “off” days were devoted to kids with special needs, and although she had training in the area, she'd never really had to focus on it much before now.

“I feel a little bit overwhelmed. There's an awful lot of paperwork to be done. Assessments, referrals, not to mention all the reading up I need to do on these kids.”

“Definitely not my favorite part of the job,” Rhoda agreed. “I almost feel guilty for dumping it on you.”

“I didn't mean to imply you left things in disarray. Everything seems to be in order. I just need time to sort through it all.”

Rhoda chuckled. “I said ‘almost guilty.' I'm really enjoying grade five. Most of them can actually read and they don't need help in the bathroom!”

“Lucky you!” Rachel laughed.

“Anything I can help you with?” Rhoda asked. “I can spare a few minutes right now if you like.”

“Really? I don't want to be a bother.”

“No bother. I remember what it was like. Let me guess. The big three?”

“The big three?” Rachel repeated.

“Sure. Laura Wilson, Robbie Nordick, and Brandi Lane. Besides those three there's nothing too drastic. A little reading remediation here and there, maybe, but…”

“Actually, you're absolutely right.”

“Of course I am,” Rhoda grinned.

“Of course,” Rachel smiled back. “Okay, shoot.”

“Okay. Let's start with Laura. Down syndrome, sweet as pie—just keep her worker focused on life skills, integrate her into the classroom as much as possible, and that's about it. She's doing pretty well with the alphabet and last year she learned to spell her own name. Just keep on with the program. On kindergarten days I found she's actually an asset with the younger kids, so you might want to let her alternate between the K's and her own age mates. Just my suggestion, though. You're in charge, now. Her worker, Rose, is a gem, so you really don't have to worry.”

“Okay. I've had more time to focus on her file, so I pretty much have her covered anyway, but thanks. What about Brandi Lane? I'm not sure where I'm supposed to be going with her.”

“Behavioral. ODD – Oppositional Defiance Disorder.”

“But her file said she has a definite learning disability, too,” Rachel noted.

“When you're so far behind your age mates, you're bound to start acting out. It's the only way she knows how to save face. Add to that the fact that she doesn't have a very stable home life, and…” Rhoda trailed off with a shrug.

“What do you suggest?” Rachel asked.

“Start with some positive attention. Try to make friends; establish a relationship,” Rhoda offered. “Don't be too disappointed if she doesn't respond right away. Brandi has made a science out of being uncooperative.” At Rachel's look of dismay she added, “Not that I'm trying to scare you or anything, but we might as well be honest. Last but not least, there is that little enigma, Robbie Nordick.”

“Now, his file was actually some interesting reading,” Rachel noted, “but I must admit, I feel a little bit like Annie Sullivan. I'm not a miracle worker!”

“Robbie never learned to talk because he was in the hospital with some kind of rare bone marrow disease when he was two. Even though he recovered, he somehow missed the learning to talk stage. He's perfectly capable, but he just never learned how.” Rhoda leaned a little closer. “Between you and me, it's more like he never had to.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's my humble opinion that Robbie's biggest problem is his own family,” Rhoda stated.

Rachel frowned. “Really? According to his file, his own sister donated bone marrow which helped him to recover.”

“True. But because of the trauma, the child has been totally spoiled ever since. He's had to do nothing but grunt, cry or scream and his family all rushes to do whatever he wants.”

“Wow.”

“Sure. It's a common syndrome in near death cases like his. The family feels such guilt, sympathy, whatever it is, that they give in to absolutely anything.”

“But to not learn to talk?” Rachel asked skeptically.

“Check the records. No hearing loss, no vocal cord damage, he's smart as a whip—nothing wrong with the kid but an interruption during those developmental months. Followed, of course, by several years of pampering ‘extraordinaire.' He's six years old, for crying in the sink! But they still treat him like he's a china doll ready to break at any minute!”

“I suppose it is only natural,” Rachel offered, trying to be sympathetic.

“Except they aren't doing the kid any favors. Just watch for yourself and see if I'm not right.”

“Hmm. So what should I do?”

“My best advice is to take the hard line. The Annie Sullivan approach, like you said. Make him talk whenever he's with you.”

“What if the family gets upset?”

“Oh, they will. Don't you worry,” Rhoda laughed. She surveyed her younger colleague for a moment. “Have I been sufficiently pessimistic yet?”

“I'll say,” Rachel chuckled.

“Good. You've got to be tough around this place. People will walk all over you if you give them the chance.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Just kidding,” Rhoda said with another laugh. “Don't take everything so seriously. I didn't mean to burst your bubble, but you've got to be prepared for the worst. That way, when the little triumphs do come, you'll be that much more appreciative.”

“I see,” Rachel nodded with a smile. Her friend's philosophy might leave something to be desired, but at least she was honest.

“Well, I better get home,” Rhoda sighed. “Dinner never seems to cook itself.”

Rachel had time to think about what Rhoda had said as she finished up the last of her paperwork and locked her classroom. Not that she wasn't confident in her abilities, but these three cases did create some extra stress and she was beginning to feel the burden. Whatever happened to the simple days of teaching kindergarten only?

Tonight she was going to treat herself to something quick and easy from the grocery store. It had been a long week so far and she deserved a break of sorts.

She walked at a brisk pace to the store on Main Street. So far, she'd observed a certain stark reality to life here on the prairies that she sensed was missing back home in the city. Here, people depended on their own sweat and hard work in order to make their living. For the most part, people looked her square in the eye like she was a real person with something to offer, not just another number in a lineup, or another body in a milling crowd of bodies. It was a philosophy of life that was natural and honest. Truthful.

It was this search for truth that had driven Rachel out west to the small prairie town in the first place. Finding answers was difficult, however, when one wasn't sure of the questions. Nevertheless, she clutched at her own growing need to find out what the true meaning of life—her life—was. Perhaps this place, stripped bare as it was, was the place to begin.

It didn't help that her treacherous hormones seemed on high alert since being here. What was that she'd been claiming, not only to Sherri but to her new friends as well? “Not interested in a relationship right now…” She could think of a couple of examples that just might make her into a liar.

Upon entering the store, she was greeted by a distinct drop in temperature; a pleasant change from the relative heat of the harvest weather outside. The store was not new by any means. The floorboards creaked underfoot, even waving unevenly in places, but the establishment was clean and well-stocked for such a small place. Maybe from now on she'd do all her shopping here—try to support the local businesses as much as possible.

She found a plastic grocery basket near the door and started down one aisle and then up another, surveying the items on the shelf for future reference. She pondered for a moment over a can of chunky soup, finally dropping it into the basket. She turned and almost ran headlong into another shopper.

“Oh, pardon me!” she exclaimed. Much to her chagrin, it was the disdainful Miss Eleanor Thompson, the senior English teacher.

Miss Thompson looked down her nose at Rachel for a moment and shrugged. “No harm done.” She moved on.

Rachel frowned, feeling somewhat dampened in spirits. What was wrong with that woman, anyway? Didn't she know how to smile?

“You look puzzled,” a comment came from just up the aisle. It was the science teacher, Carl Binder. His hair was sticking out in all directions and she noticed that his shirt was buttoned up wrong.

“Oh, hi,” Rachel said with a little wave. “Carl, right? I was just deciding what to buy for dinner.”

“Hmm. May I suggest the frozen foods section? I often find many items to tempt the palette there. And since I don't really cook much, as a rule, I can just pop whatever takes my fancy into the oven.”

“Or the microwave,” Rachel added, trying to be conversational.

“Oh, no! I don't own a microwave. Did you know that microwaves actually change the molecular structure of the food?” He blinked quite sincerely behind his large glasses.

“Um… I didn't know that. Thanks.” Rachel tried to smile. “Maybe I'll see you tomorrow at school.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” he replied. “I rarely venture into the staff room.” He nodded and proceeded down the aisle with his full sized cart, which so far had only one banana in it.

She looked down at her own basket, the soup rolling around the bottom forlornly. Maybe she'd try the frozen foods as Carl had suggested. After another few minutes of shopping, Rachel brought her basket to the one cash register. A thirty-something man with a moustache and the standard ball cap was ringing in Miss Thompson's purchases. Rachel avoided any eye contact, opting to busy herself at a rack of magazines instead.

“You gonna buy one of those?” the man asked. He was gesturing at a minute sign that read “If you read it you buy it.”

“Oh, yes,” she fumbled, setting the magazine down on the counter. She really wasn't interested in the latest Hollywood gossip, but it was her turn at the till now anyway.

“So you must be new in town,” he commented, surveying her several times as he rang in her items.

“Ah, yes. I'm the new teacher,” she supplied. She felt decidedly uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny.

“That'll be twenty-four seventy-five.”

Rachel raised her eye brows in surprise. She hadn't expected it to be that much. He waited patiently while she dug in her wallet for the exact change.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the money. He grinned suddenly, his eyes straying several times below the neck. One of his front teeth was chipped off. “Probably be seeing you around.”

With a prim nod, Rachel went to grab the bag of groceries. He still had it firmly in his grasp.

“The name's Harley, by the way. Harley Dickson, not Harley Davidson.” He winked and handed over the grocery bag.

Rachel bolted from the confines of the store. She just might be doing all her shopping in the city from now on.

****

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Beatry called, rapping on the door with her knuckles.

Rachel considered pretending she wasn't home, but knew Mrs. Beatry had seen her enter with her groceries earlier. Despite her landlady's assurances that she didn't often “pop in on her tenants,” she seemed to find ample excuses for almost daily visits.

With a sigh, Rachel turned the knob, pasting on a plastic smile as the door swung open. “Well, hello, Mrs. Beatry.”

“Hello, dearie. I was just checking to make sure that Stanley cleaned up all his mess in your apartment. He was down doing some work on that plumbing. You know, dear, the trouble you were having with the drain? And I needed to be sure he didn't leave any mess behind. My, that man can make a mess, now and again, when he chooses to!” She clucked her tongue.

“I see,” Rachel said, miffed that Mrs. Beatry had been in her apartment without notice—again. “I didn't notice anything out of order.”

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Beatry beamed. She stepped across the threshold. “Of course, he's had quite the time since his wife up and left him. I don't know what she ever saw in that other fellow. Quite scandalous, you know. They were carrying on right under poor Stanley's nose. And now they have the nerve to live right here in Marshdale, just two blocks down from her old home. Imagine!” Mrs. Beatry clucked again. She had followed Rachel into her kitchen and was now sitting at the table.

Rachel automatically put the kettle on. Mrs. Beatry was quite capable of carrying on without any comment from her.

“Of course, you've probably met the poor waifs. Little what's-his-name. Rather chubby little fellow. And the little girl. Hmm. I can't quite remember her name either. A pathetic little thing, really. I tried to teach her piano once, but her mother complained about too much practicing and pulled her out. Quite a shame. She might have had potential.” Mrs. Beatry took a pensive sip of the tea that Rachel placed before her.

“Of course, that was just after the breakup. That Alice. I never did like her much. And poor, poor Stanley. Such a nice, hardworking fellow. Of course, he's much better off now with his new woman. She moved out here from Regina. I'm not sure how he met her. But she seems pleasant enough and has certainly done a world of good for Stanley! I just wish they'd get married properly. Why, people think nothing of just shacking up, these days. Now, in my day, it was a disgrace. I remember when old man McKinley shacked up with his housekeeper. Well, I heard about it—I wasn't actually here at the time. But in any case, such a scandal! Of course, nowadays, people think nothing of just swapping with one another right and left. A regular Sodom and Gomorrah, it's become.”

Rachel listened with one ear as Mrs. Beatry prattled on. What a gossip! She'd have to be extra careful. “Um, sorry to interrupt, but I have somewhere to go,” Rachel finally interjected.

“This time of day?” Mrs. Beatry asked, her brows descending in a worried V.

“Yes,” Rachel nodded and closed her mouth. She wasn't about to say more. It wasn't a lie, really. She did need to go somewhere—away from Mrs. Beatry.

“That's a shame,” Mrs. Beatry said. “We were having such a nice visit, too. Normally I have a piano student this evening, but they had to cancel last minute. Oh well.” Mrs. Beatry hoisted herself from the chair and continued another story on her way out the door.

With a sigh of relief, Rachel leaned against the door once the elderly lady was gone. She couldn't just stay inside, since she'd said she had somewhere to be. A walk would probably clear her head. The sun hadn't fully set yet, and the evenings were still relatively warm. She donned a light jacket and headed out the back door. The air was fresh and clear, with the lingering hint of grain dust from the ongoing harvest.

She took her favorite path past the schoolyard and out to the edge of town. She was beginning to love the sights and sounds of the prairie. A symmetrical pattern of swathed grain wound up and down the fields, while a still un-harvested sea of grain swayed in gently waving ripples as the wind brushed past. If she listened intently enough, she could almost imagine the whispered nuances of a voice echoing out across the land. Overhead, a flock of geese announced their departure for warmer climates with a barrage of honking. Rachel watched as the V-formation flew out of sight.

Standing like silent sentinels against the setting sun were two large grain elevators—prairie skyscrapers that once graced every skyline, but were now being replaced with more efficient centralized terminals. Only one of Marshdale's elevators was still in operation. Apparently, the other was scheduled for demolition sometime in the near future.

She was struck with how very alien this was compared to what she had left behind. The quiet was deafening. Instead of the steady hum of traffic, she could hear a single dog bark, answered by the distant yelp of another. A chorus of croaking frogs mingled with the chirp of crickets coming from a slough on the edge of town. It was a different world.

Strangest of all, Rachel realized, was the fact that she was out walking alone when it was almost dark. It was something she certainly would not have considered doing in Toronto. But here she felt safe.

As she walked along the edge of the gravel road running west of town, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle and looked back to see the telltale cloud of dust in the distance. The vehicle, a beat up blue and rust pickup truck, slowed as it passed her. To her surprise, the driver pulled over to the side and waited. Rachel felt sudden panic. What should she do? Here she was, alone on a deserted gravel road, with dusk approaching. She decided to pick up her pace. With head held high, she walked past the truck without as much as a glance.

“Hey, Missie,” drawled the driver out the window. “You need a lift?”

“No, thank you,” Rachel called back, trying to sound confident. Why, oh why hadn't she taken up karate with her sister Tiffany?

The truck pulled up beside her again and rolled along at a crawl as the driver continued, "No trouble. Where you headed?"

Rachel glanced over at the man, and quickly looked away as her stomach lurched into her throat. He looked dirty and unkempt with a day's growth of stubble darkening his chin. A textbook predator if she ever imagined one!

Just then another vehicle approached from the same direction. The first man picked up speed and drove away. The second vehicle pulled up alongside her. Rachel was afraid she might burst into tears until the occupant of the vehicle spoke. "Are you all right? Do you need a ride somewhere?"

She stopped in her tracks and swung around to face the driver. Overwhelming relief mingled with embarrassment flooded her at one and the same time. Con McKinley leaned across the seat and opened the passenger door from the inside and Rachel climbed silently in, not yet trusting herself to speak.

“I thought a city girl like you would know better than to walk around after dark by herself.”

“I thought…I mean, I assumed it was safe here.”

“I like to think so. To a degree. But that doesn't mean you should be careless.” Con glanced over at Rachel, but she made no reply.

She was struggling with herself, afraid that she might actually burst into tears after all, and feeling very foolish for such an overreaction. Especially in his presence.

“Good thing I happened along. I don't think old Bart would have hurt you, though. What did he say?”

“Nothing. He just offered me a ride.”

“That's probably all he intended.”

“Probably?” Rachel asked, her voice rising.

“Bart's a drunk. No doubt about that. But a fairly harmless drunk. He was probably just heading into the hotel, where he spends most of his evenings. He likely didn't know who you were. Maybe he thought it was his lucky day,” Con grinned in her direction.

“Well, thank you, anyway. For rescuing me, so to speak.” She knew he probably couldn't see the deepening blush that was spreading over her face, but she turned to look out the window anyway.

“No problem. It's not every day I get to rescue a damsel in distress. In fact, they're few and far between around this neck of the woods.”

“You must think me very naïve,” Rachel said.

“No. I guess it would seem logical that you wouldn't feel the same sense of danger out here. I know for myself I hate the city. It makes me feel claustrophobic.”

“Really?”

“Well, not that bad, I guess. I enjoy going to the city once in a while. And I had fun there during my university days. But I always feel a sense of relief once I get back home.”

“You went to university? Where?"

“Saskatoon. College of Agriculture.”

“Agriculture? You mean you can go to university to learn to be a farmer?”

Con laughed, “There's more to farming than sitting on the seat of a tractor. It's a high tech industry these days. If we hope to keep up with the rest of the world, we'd better realize that.”

“Oh. I suppose so.”

“This is where you wanted to get dropped off?” Con asked as he pulled up in front of Mrs. Beatry's house.

“Oh, yes thanks.”

“Remember, no more wandering around alone after dark,” Con cautioned. “If the town drunk doesn't get you, the coyotes might.”

“Coyotes?” Rachel asked, her eyes widening.

Con laughed outright at the look on her face. “You mean you haven't heard them?”

“You mean that howling?”

“Of course I mean that howling. What did you think it was?”

“I don't know. Are they dangerous?”

“Not really. I've never known one to attack a human. But they are wild animals and quite plentiful around these parts. I'd just be a little more cautious from now on if I were you.”

“Well, thanks again. For the ride and for the advice,” Rachel said as she went to open the door of the vehicle. “Oh no!” she exclaimed suddenly.

“What?” Con asked.

“I just saw Mrs. Beatry's curtains move! Now we'll both be fodder for her gossip mill for sure!”

Con just chuckled. “Could be worse.”

Rachel glanced at him in the now darkened cab. She didn't know what to make of that last remark. “Well, thanks again,” she said as she climbed out of the truck.

He tipped his hat as he drove away, leaving Rachel to stare dumbly after him for a few seconds. With a sigh, she glanced once more at Mrs. Beatry's living room window, before opening her own door and retreating to the relative safety of her apartment.