Joe stood in the doorway of his classroom on Monday morning, waiting for the bell to clang that signaled the start of the school day. He took his watch out of his suit coat pocket, flicked open the lid, and felt the position of the hands. Eight twenty-eight. He shut the lid and returned the watch to his pocket, then took a deep breath. This either worked, or he was headed back to the Ponderosa to live out his life trying to find ways to be useful.
Joe’s room was on the fourth floor of the building, with Laddie’s room down the hall from his. Elias Cross’s room was housed on this floor, as were the classrooms of several other veteran teachers. Joe wondered at the logic of putting the newest students on the uppermost floor of the building, meaning they had to navigate the most stairs, but he supposed it didn’t hamper them much. Or least ways, he couldn’t tell it by how the boys in his class charged up those stairs like a herd of stampeding cattle.
Speaking of stampeding cattle, at the sound of the bell, the stairs vibrated with pounding footsteps. Joe heard the disapproving, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” from the other side of the hall, where Cross was no doubt standing at his classroom door, waiting to monitor everything Joe and his students did.
Today, Joe was ready for those stampeding cattle. He grabbed the first boy to reach his door by the arm and brought him up short, causing the other boys to bump into him. From the sounds of things, Joe guessed a few had fallen on their rear ends, but he figured it served most of them right.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?”
Joe immediately identified the speaker.
“The big idea, Henry, is that things are going to be done differently in this classroom starting right now.” Joe “looked” at his students. “Boys, I’m leading Henry into the class. The rest of you will follow in an orderly fashion, just like the school rules state.”
“I ain’t waitin’.”
Joe was prepared for the boy who tried to plow his way past Henry. So prepared, that he could have predicated the teenager’s actions. Joe grabbed this boy with his free hand.
“Oh yes you are, John. Now come on. It’s your lucky day.”
“Lucky day?”
“You and Henry here, have the privilege of setting an example for your classmates.”
Joe marched the two troublemakers into the class, his grip firm and strong.
“Hey, you’re hurtin’ me!”
“Then quit trying to twist out of my hold, Henry.”
This was the first time Joe had called the boys by name on a regular basis, because it was the first time he could easily identify who they were. His week of observation was already paying off. It seemed to make Henry and John a little nervous now that Joe was directly calling them on their misbehavior.
Joe turned to face the others.
“Come on, boys. Come in the room. But don’t sit down.”
“Why not?”
“Because, Tony, there’s a new seating order.”
“New seating order?”
“That’s right, Pete. Everyone stay where you are, while I lead Henry and John to their seats.”
Some of the younger boys giggled at the thought of the “big boys” being led to their desks like little kids.
Henry turned. “Shut up!”
Joe gave the teen’s arm a firm squeeze. “No, Henry. No more talk like that in this classroom.”
“Talk like what?”
“Telling someone to shut up. Calling someone names. Hitting, throwing things, tipping over desks. . .it stops as of today.”
“What if we don’t wanna stop?”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. I’m in charge here.”
“Haven’t been up until now.”
“Well, kid, it’s a new day.” Joe propelled the boy forward. “Now come on.”
When Joe came to the first desk in the first row, he let go of the boys, took Henry’s hand, and ran it over the wooden placard screwed to the back of the seat.
“This is your name written in Braille. It’s the first thing you’re gonna learn today. Now sit.”
“What if I don’t wanna?”
Joe shoved the boy downward. “Do it anyway.”
Joe smiled as he heard Henry trying to do exactly what he’d expected once the boy was seated – tip the desk over.
“Don’t waste your time, Henry. The desks are bolted to the floor.”
Joe smiled again at the collective, “Awwww,” of disappointment that resounded throughout the room.
“Now come with me, John. Your seat is the last desk in the last row.”
“But I wanna sit by Henry!”
“I’m sure you do. But starting today, you’ll sit back here. Give me your hand. This is your name written in Braille.”
Once Joe had John seated, he turned to go and retrieve another boy. However, he was forced to make a detour to the new bookcase he’d had installed on Saturday, where he heard someone trying to open the doors.
“That’s locked, Henry. Until you boys can learn books are for reading, and not for throwing, it’ll stay that way. Same goes for the paper. It’ll stay locked in that bookcase until you learn it’s for writing on.” Joe placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Now come on. Back to your seat.”
Despite Henry’s resistance, Joe ran the teenager’s fingers over the name placard again, telling him once more, “This is your name in Braille.”
As Joe assumed would be the case, he didn’t meet with resistance from the younger boys when it came to the new seating arrangement. It was only the older boys who voiced their displeasure with it.
“I don’t know what difference it makes to you guys anyway,” Joe quipped at the complainers as he seated Tony Marcelli, “it’s not like you can see the blackboard, no matter where I put you.”
Joe’s comment was met by shocked silence at first, followed by a smattering of laughter from the teenagers.
“Good joke, Mr. Cartwright,” John said.
“Yeah, Mr. Cartwright,” fifteen-year-old Pete Simmons agreed. “Pretty funny.”
Although Joe didn’t tell the boys this, there was a reason for the new seating arrangement. On the first day of class, the boys had been made to sit according to the Braille seating chart provided for Joe, which placed them in alphabetical order based on their last names. By the end of that first day, however, they were sitting wherever they wanted to. Which meant, like Pa often used to say rather pointedly to Joe when he was a boy, “Somehow the troublemakers always find one another.”
Pa’s wisdom regarding troublemakers proved to be sound where Joe’s students were concerned. Therefore, his new assigned seating arrangements split the troublemakers up, and had younger boys seated between them.
Three times during the process of getting everyone familiar with the Braille version of their names, and then getting them seated, Joe had to tell older boys to return to their desks. But now he didn’t feel at a disadvantage, because he recognized every voice and every footstep. He’d immediately refer to a youngster by name, and command that he get back to his seat. Joe’s sense of hearing told him if his command had been complied with or not.
Joe walked over to shut the door, and then seat the last child.
“Come on, Caleb. Let me show you to your desk.”
The boy yanked himself from Joe’s grasp. “I can find it myself!”
Joe was taken aback by the child’s anger. Because his attention had mostly been on the teenagers the last two weeks, he hadn’t observed a lot, good or bad, about Caleb Greers, other than the boy was quiet and seemed to keep to himself. At a time when Joe was desperate for a quiet boy, he took Caleb’s silence to be an indication of good behavior.
Joe didn’t try and touch Caleb again. The boy stumbled around the room feeling for an empty desk, Joe following behind him.
“Come on, kid, let Mr. Cartwright help ya’,” Tony advised. “If you hadn’t noticed, you’re blind.”
“Yeah, kid, quit trippin’ over your feet and sit down!” Henry called. “Ya’ can’t see the broad side of a barn, ya’ know!”
Caleb whirled toward Henry’s voice. “I can too! I can see! I can!”
“Then whatta’ ya’ doin’ here? Take a wrong turn on the way to Georgia or somethin’?”
Laugher erupted at Henry’s remark.
“All right, boys,” Joe said, “that’s enough. Go on, Caleb. Find your seat.”
“I can do it myself!”
“I never said you couldn’t. Just find it, please, and then sit down.”
Joe waited until he knew the boy had found the only empty seat left in the room.
“Your name is on the back of it in Braille. Why don’t you see what it feels like.”
“ ‘Cause I don’t wanna! I can read real words! Regular words written like they’re supposed to be.”
“Braille is regular words, too.”
“No it’s not, and you can’t make me learn it!”
“So you’re going to do your lessons in “regular words,” is that it?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. If you can do it, I’ll accept your work that way.”
“I can do it.”
“Okay,” Joe agreed, hearing the anger and defiance in the boy’s voice, as though he was daring anyone to say he was blind. “When we get that far, we’ll see how it goes.”
“It’ll go fine!”
Joe ignored the boy’s declaration, instead, turning his attention to the entire class. For once, the older boys were riveted by someone causing trouble other than themselves. Joe walked up and down the four aisles made up of five desks each. He didn’t realize how much he sounded like his father when he spoke, both in tone of voice and words chosen, though if Adam or Hoss had been present, they would have had hard a hard time discerning who was in charge of this classroom – Joe Cartwright, or Ben Cartwright.
“Boys, as I said earlier to Henry, it’s a new day in this room. Name calling, hitting, pushing, shoving, running in the halls, throwing things, shouting, and switching seats, won’t be tolerated. Therefore, Pete and John, get back to your assigned seats.”
Joe listened, smiling when he heard the two boys mumble under their breath as they did as he commanded.
“Thank you,” Joe then told the boys, wanting to give them the respect they deserved for obeying him. He kicked Tony’s feet aside as he continued to walk the aisles, causing the boy to grunt with pain.
“And if
you’re smart, you won’t stick your feet out and try to trip anyone either, will
you, Tony?”
“No, Mr. Cartwright.”
“Good man. You learn quickly. “Now--”
Joe grabbed his forehead. Once again, he’d been the victim of someone’s peashooter. But this time, he knew right where it had come from. He’d heard the boy take a deep breath, and then let it out fast and hard. He walked over to the first desk in the first row, and held out his hand.
“Give me the peashooter, Henry.”
“I don’t got no peashooter.”
“The peashooter.”
“I’m tellin’ ya’, Mr. Cartwright, I don’t got no pea--”
Joe grabbed the boy by the shirt collar and yanked him from his seat.
“The peashooter, kid. Now! Or you’re gonna find out I’ve got me a real nasty temper that my father’s warned would get the best of me someday. I don’t think you want that to be today, now do you, Henry?”
“Um…um…uh…no. Uh…here it is.”
The peashooter landed in Joe’s palm.
“Thank you. When the rest of us go out for recess after lunch, you’ll go to Headmaster Cartwright’s office, and write five times in Braille, ‘I will not bring peashooters to class.’ ”
“But I don’t know how to write in Braille.”
“I’m sure Headmaster Cartwright will be happy to teach you.”
“But it might take me more than one recess to get it done!”
“Then that’s the price you pay for bringing your peashooter to class.”
“But--”
“I’ll escort you to his office after we eat. And take it from me, Headmaster Cartwright is a real stickler for things bein’ done all nice and perfect-like, so you’d better plan on doing a good job right from the start, or you’re liable to be spending two months’ worth of recesses in his office.”
“Aw, Mr. Cartwright, that’s not fair.”
“Well, Henry, I hate to be the first one to break the news to you, but life isn’t fair sometimes.”
Joe turned to face the rest of the class.
“Anyone else with a peashooter, I suggest you either turn it in to me, or keep it in your pocket, unless you wanna join Henry in the headmaster’s office. And don’t bring them to class again, boys.”
“Golly, but this class sure ain’t no fun any more.”
Joe smiled at John’s remark. “There’ll be plenty of fun if everyone behaves, and you work hard at learning your lessons. The reward for hard work is fun. The reward for not working hard, is more hard work.”
Before any of Joe’s students could comment on that, someone knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Joe called, already certain he knew the identity of his visitor.
“Is now a good time, Joseph?”
“Yes, Mrs. O’Connell, come in. Boys, say hello to Mrs. O’Connell.”
A chorus of “Hello, Mrs. Connell,” sounded around the room.
“Henry, I didn’t hear you say hello to Mrs. O’Connell.”
“Hi, Mrs. O’Connell,” the teenager grumbled.
“My my my, what nice young gentlemen yeh have in yer class, Joseph. They wouldn’t be hungry fer a snack now, would they?”
The smell of chocolate and warm cinnamon traveled with the woman as she walked toward Joe’s desk.
“Oh, I don’t know. . .”
“I’m hungry!” John called.
“Me too!” Pete and Tony echoed. Even Billy Fitzgerald joined in.
“I’m hungry, Mr. Cartwright!”
“Well, I’m glad to hear yeh lads say that, because I just took some cinnamon rolls from the oven, and I just finished icing some chocolate doughnuts. I even stopped on me way here, and bought a cold pail of milk from that nice Mr. Harvey at the market down the street. Joseph, have yer boys here been good enough to have a snack, or should I just leave everything for yeh and the headmaster to share?”
“Mmmm. . .” Joe pretended to contemplate this proposal that he’d prearranged with Mrs. O’Connell, “let me see. Other than a few small incidents, I’d say yes. These boys deserve the snacks you brought.”
“Even me?” Henry asked.
“Yes, Henry, even you.”
Mrs. O’Connell took plates and cups from a picnic basket, along with the rolls and doughnuts she’d made that morning after she’d gotten breakfast on the table for Adam and Joe. Adam hadn’t even realized she was up to something. He didn’t pay much attention to the running of the kitchen, allowing his housekeeper free rein over the planning of the meals. He might make a special request now and again when he was having company, but overall, he let the kitchen be Mrs. O’Connell’s domain, in much the way the Ponderosa kitchen was Hop Sing’s.
Joe asked Mrs. O’Connell to pass out the plates and let the boys choose a treat from her basket. While she started that process with Henry, Joe went to the other side of the room with the pail of milk and the cups, giving the boys their first lesson in how to pour their own drink. A few of the boys had mastered this skill on their own at home, but most of them were like Joe had been just a few months earlier – dependent on someone to pour their milk for them.
The boys were eager to learn this new skill. Joe smiled a little at something he was learning as well – that you could make schoolwork fun, and in so doing, the kids didn’t realize they were actually completing an assigned lesson.
As Joe was showing Billy how to tell when his cup was full, Mrs. O’Connell gave a startled cry. Joe heard a “thud!” and rushed to the woman’s aid.
“Mrs.
O’Connell, are you all right?”
“Yes. . .yes. . .” the woman answered a little breathlessly. “I think I’m okay. . .me old body doesn’t take a spill like it used to. Thanks be to Saint Thomas that I didn’t drop me basket of treats.”
“What happened?”
“I tripped.”
Joe turned at the sound of a snicker.
“Caleb, did you trip Mrs. O’Connell?”
“So what if I did?”
“Oh, Joseph, surely the lad didn’t do it on purpose.”
Joe crossed his arms over his chest. If he’d had his sight, he’d have stared a hole through the boy.
“I have to differ with you on that. I think Caleb did do it on purpose.”
“So what?
You gonna make me write sentences in the headmaster’s office, too? I can do ‘em
in regular writing, ya’ know. I don’t
need to learn none of that Braille stuff.”
“Nope, no sentences, Caleb.”
“Mr. Cartwright! That’s not fair! You’re making me write sentences!”
“Be quiet, Henry.” Joe turned to face Caleb again, taking the plate off his desk that held a warm cinnamon roll. “As for you, young man, no snack this morning.”
“I don’t care! I didn’t want it anyway!”
“Well, that’s good, because you’re not gonna have it. Snacks are rewards for good behavior, and obviously, your behavior toward Mrs. O’Connell is about as far from good as it gets. You don’t ever treat a woman that way in my classroom, Caleb. You go it?”
When Joe was met with nothing but silence, he poked the ten-year-old in the chest with a firm finger.
“Caleb, I asked you a question.”
“Yeah,” the boy grumbled.
“Yeah
what?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Now apologize to Mrs. O’Connell.”
When Caleb didn’t do as Joe ordered, Joe repeated, “Caleb, apologize to Mrs. O’Connell.”
Caleb hesitated, then finally mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Your apology is a little short on sincerity, but I’ll let it go for now.”
“Can the
boy have his roll back now, Joseph?”
“No, Mrs. O’Connell, not today.”
“But he apologized and--”
Joe gently urged the woman to move on up the aisle to the next child waiting for a treat from her basket. “Yeah, he apologized, but he lost his chance at a snack when he tripped you. Now come on. Let’s get the rest of these boys fed.”
While Mrs. O’Connell continued on her way with her basket, Joe resumed passing out cups and teaching the boys to pour milk. When he came to Caleb, he said, “You can have milk if you want some.”
“Don’t want any!”
“All right,” Joe agreed, moving on to the next boy. Despite what Caleb claimed, Joe knew better than to think the boy didn’t want something to eat, and a cup of milk to go along with it. No ten-year-old refused a doughnut or cinnamon roll, and especially not when the rest of his classmates were enjoying one.
Let him
be punished by his own stubbornness. That’s what Pa would tell me to
do. Lord knows I punished myself that
way a time or two when I was ten.
When the boys had been taken care of, Joe pulled a chair up to his desk and insisted Mrs. O’Connell sit down and eat with him. Joe chose a doughnut from the basket, while she chose a cinnamon roll. After everyone had finished, Joe asked the boys to bring their plates and cups to the front of the room. Again, many of them were learning a lesson without realizing it – how to pick up after themselves.
Joe helped Mrs. O’Connell pack her basket, then thanked her for coming.
“Boys, thank Mrs. O’Connell for bringing snacks to us.”
“Thank you’s” were called out. Joe took note of how Mrs. O’Connell’s presence seemed to be a positive thing for the younger boys – especially Billy, who hadn’t cried at all since she’d entered the room. He decided she’d become a regular visitor to his classroom.
“Now, a man always walks a lady to the door. Henry, can you do that today, please.”
Joe heard the pride in the teenager’s voice.
“Sure.”
The boy stood and waited for Mrs. O’Connell to reach his side. When she did, he walked with her to the door and opened it. Joe just about fell over with shock when Henry said, “Thank you for comin’ here today with your snacks, Ma’am. Please come back sometime.”
“My, but
aren’t yeh a nice lad. I’ll do that
‘Enry. Maybe bring some of me sugar
cookies next time. Would yeh like that?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
After Mrs. O’Connell left, Joe told Henry to shut the door and return to his seat. Henry did as Joe asked without hesitation, which was a first where Joe and Henry were concerned.
“Thank you, Henry. You’re quite the gentleman, aren’t you,” Joe teased, with just the right amount of humor. He could picture Henry blushing as John and Tony joined in the teasing, but he sensed Henry liked it. Maybe this was the first time Henry had ever gotten attention for good behavior, as opposed to all the attention he’d garnered over the years as a result of bad behavior.
“Okay, boys, that’s enough. Settle down. It’s time all of you start learning to walk around a room without bumping into things. Billy and Henry, come up here, please. We’ll start with the two of you.”
And that’s how the morning proceeded. Joe paired an older boy with a young one, and then taught them the basic lessons of navigating a room, just like Adam had taught him. When it came to anyone giving him problems, it wasn’t Henry, or John, or Tony, or Pete, but instead, Caleb, who refused to employ the methods Joe showed him. The boy stumbled around the room in the same way Joe remembered stumbling around the ranch house. He purposely pushed a chair in Caleb’s path, wincing when he heard the child topple over it. He reached down to help the boy up.
“Now you know why you should do what I tell you to. You wouldn’t have fallen over that chair if--”
“Leave me alone!” Caleb twisted from Joe’s grasp. “Just leave me alone! I don’t need ta’ learn any of your dumb ol’ lessons ‘bout bein’ blind. I’m not blind; do you hear me? I’m not blind!”
“Then why--”
Joe clamped a hand over Henry’s mouth. “Be quiet,” he told the teenager.
“Caleb, you’re right. If you’re not blind, you don’t need to be here. You can go ahead and leave.”
“Le-leave?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. Leave the room. You might as well pack up your stuff and go home. It’s silly for you to be here learning with us, if you’re not blind. I’m glad I got to meet you, but seems to me it’s a waste of my time and yours if there’s nothing you can learn from me.”
“All right then. I’ll leave.”
Joe was taking a big gamble that the boy wouldn’t actually leave the building and disappear somewhere in Boston. But it was a gamble Joe was willing to take in an effort to deflate some of Caleb’s bravado.
And it was a gamble that paid off, because when the bell clanged an hour later signaling the start of lunch break, Caleb was leaning against the wall outside Joe’s classroom. The only thing Joe said to the youngster when the boy tried to sneak by him was, “Get in line, Caleb. We’re going to lunch now.”
“I don’t need to be here, ya’ know.”
“I realize that. But until I figure out how you got sent here to the institute by mistake, you might as well keep comin’ to my classroom, don’t you think?”
Caleb refused to answer, but for some reason, Joe knew the boy would be present in his assigned seat when recess ended.
After lunch, Joe took Henry to Adam’s office and explained what the boy’s punishment was. As Joe knew would be the case, Adam took exaggerated delight in using this opportunity to teach Braille to Henry.
“Henry, I admire a boy who’s so diligent that he volunteers to stay in at recess to do his lessons.”
“Didn’t volunteer.”
“Pardon?”
“I. . .I mean, yeah. Sure. Sure, Headmaster. Whatever you say.”
“That’s better. Go on, Henry. It’s eight steps straight ahead to a chair by my desk. I’ll be right there.”
Adam pulled
Joe out into the hallway. “How’d this morning go?”
Joe smiled. “Better. A lot better.”
“I thought as much since I haven’t heard any crashes coming from above, and since Cross hasn’t been in my office with a battle report.”
“It hasn’t all been smooth sailing, and it probably won’t be for a few days yet, but I. . .I think I’m on my way, Adam.”
Adam clapped Joe’s upper arm. “Good for you. What’s your secret?”
“Secret?”
“Yeah. How’d you turn things around?”
“I told you. I’m being like Pa.”
“Ah. A fox in the bear cub den, is that it?”
“Something like that. Listen, I gotta get outside and help supervise recess. . .plus say a couple of “I told you so’s” to Cross. See ya’ later.”
Adam normally would have admonished Joe to leave Elias Cross alone, but not today. Today, he wanted Joe to revel in his victory, because God knew Joe deserved to.
That afternoon, Adam didn’t have to help Joe pick up desks, papers, or books. Instead, he silently admired his brother’s ingenuity when he stopped by Joe’s classroom at the end of the school day.
“Who helped you do all of this?” Adam asked, referring to the desks bolted to the floor, the name placards on the back of them, and the new bookcase.
“A lot of people. Ray and Boyd helped me with the desks,” Joe said, naming two of the building’s caretakers, “and some of the kids on the newspaper staff did the placards for me, and Mr. Murphy went with me to get the bookcase, along with a few things I wanted from that Braille shop where you bought my watch.”
“What
things?”
Joe answered vaguely, “Oh, just some toys, games, things like that.”
“Joe,
you’re not going to bribe these kids, are you?”
“Whatever
works, big brother.” Joe grinned as he passed Adam on his way out of the door.
“Whatever works.”
Adam followed in Joe’s wake. “Pa never resorted to bribery.”
“Maybe not with you he didn’t, but with me he did.”
“All the more reason not to be the oldest child.”
Joe laughed. “Guess not, if that means you missed out on chocolate drops every time you were good after a visit to Doc Martin, or on new marbles every time you sat still in church.”
“You got marbles
for sitting still in church?”
The only answer Adam received was another laugh.
As Joe lay in bed that night drifting towards sleep, he smiled over his successes as a teacher. Like he’d told Adam after lunch, he still had a ways to go before the seas weren’t a little choppy now and again, but overall, it had been a good day. A day Joe was proud of. A day he’d remember for a long time to come. Granted, he hadn’t made any headway with Caleb Greers, but right now, as Joe basked in victory, one angry ten-year-old was the least of his worries.
Joe Cartwright was likely the most unorthodox teacher that the Boston Institute for the Blind had ever employed, but the headmaster was willing to look the other way – not because Joe was his brother, but because his methods worked, and his students were prospering. After all, as Adam told Elias Cross one morning, how could a teacher be held at fault who had, despite an unproductive start, managed to make up two weeks worth of missed lessons by the end of September, and now had his students on schedule.
“But there’s too much laughter coming from that room, Headmaster,” Cross complained.
“Isn’t that better than shouting, and crying, and general chaos?”
“It disturbs my students.”
“Then perhaps you should tell them not to concern themselves with what’s going on across the hall, and instead, focus their attention on you.”
Cross glared at Adam, then moved on to his next complaint.
“He allows his students to go outside during times that aren’t designated as recess. He says he’s holding lessons out there.”
“Then I’m sure he is.”
“Playing horseshoes and baseball?” The man sneered with disgust. “I highly doubt it, unless horseshoes or baseball will somehow become a way for blind men to gain employment.”
“Possibly not employment, but I’m sure it’s teaching them teamwork, while building their self-confidence.”
“Self-confidence? And just how might that be?”
“I’d suggest you run around a base path with your eyes closed to discover the answer to that question.”
“It appears to be nothing other than fun to me. Of no value whatsoever.” Cross shrugged, “But you’re the headmaster, so if you disagree. . .”
“I do.”
“So be it. But one thing you can’t disagree with me about, is that your brother takes off his suit coat and tie, and rolls up his shirtsleeves, not five minutes after the morning bell rings. All of that is a direct violation of the dress code for this school’s male teachers.”
“Since his students can’t see him, I don’t think it makes a lot of difference, do you?”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if he wasn’t your brother.”
Adam sighed. Maybe Cross was right about that. He’d told Joe more than once in recent weeks to put his coat and tie back on. Joe would apologize sheepishly, claiming he “forgot” about the dress code, and then do as Adam asked. Somehow, though, by the time their paths crossed again during any given school day, Joe’s memory where the dress code was concerned had managed to fail him. Adam finally gave up on trying to make Joe adhere to it, figuring his brother deserved a little leniency given how hard he’d worked to master his new career.
“Look, Elias, I know my brother’s ways are a bit. . .informal, but you have to keep in mind that until very recently his life’s work was as a rancher. He’s used to a more relaxed atmosphere.”
“Then perhaps he should return to roping steers, or panning for gold, or chasing Indians, or doing whatever it is you people do out West.”
Adam shook his head as the scrawny man with the stick-thin legs and arms turned on one heel and walked stiffly from his office. If Joe could see Cross, with his erect bearing and beak-like nose tilted upward with disdain, he’d ask Adam who’d shoved a hot branding iron up the man’s ass.
The headmaster chuckled at that thought, then walked to his office window. He looked toward the ball diamond, seeing Joe’s class engaged in a game. Adam knew Joe was using some of these impromptu trips outside as a way of rewarding the boys for good behavior, and for working so hard to get caught up in class. Despite Cross’s complaints, Adam was hard-pressed to find a reason why Joe couldn’t reward the boys every now and again. Plus, Adam truly believed they were learning from each new experience Joe gave them, even if it was playing baseball. When it came to engaging in common schoolyard games, they were discovering they could enjoy the same entertainment sighted children did, albeit adjusted in some ways to allow for their handicap – like the rope strung around the diamond that guided the boys as they ran from base to base, and the ball with jingle bells inside of it, that allowed them to use their hearing to track its movements as it was pitched, and then hit. Shakespeare, who now went to Joe’s classroom on most days, chased the boys around the bases, playfully barking and nipping at their heels.
Joe’s shouts of encouragement drifted in through the window, as did the boys’ laughter. Adam couldn’t tell who was having more fun – Joe, or his students. Well, all except for Caleb Greer, who was sitting on a bench and not participating. An educated guess told Adam the boy was once again being punished for misbehavior. So far, nothing Joe had tried seemed to get through to the ten-year-old. He was the only student of Joe’s lagging behind where progress was concerned.
They’d had a few students like Caleb since Adam’s tenure at the institute. Angry, sullen children, who refused to learn, and who Adam eventually sent home to their parents. Adam hated giving up on those kids, but since so many other children were waiting for a place at the institute, he couldn’t see the point in keeping a student who didn’t want to be here. He’d broached the subject of Caleb’s possible dismissal with Joe, but Joe wouldn’t entertain the notion.
“I’ll get him to come around. Just give me more time.”
“I’m not saying I’m sending him home tomorrow, Joe. I’m just saying that he’s been here for a month now, and he hasn’t made any progress. If I don’t see his attitude change soon, then quite frankly, notifying his parents and asking them to come get him is my only option. There are too many other deserving children on our waiting list.”
“Give me more time, Adam,” Joe requested in that voice that sounded so much like Pa’s – the one Adam doubted Joe even realized he used when he was determined to accomplish something. “Give both Caleb and me more time.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t give up on me when I didn’t wanna learn, so don’t ask me to give up on him.”
Adam had reluctantly agreed to do as Joe asked, but added, “I’ll give you until Christmas break. If Caleb’s still refusing to learn at that time, then I’ll have to tell his parents not to send him back to us when school resumes in January. Deal?”
“Deal,” Joe nodded in agreement.
Adam watched out the window now, as Joe called a halt to the ball game and told the boys they had to return to class. Joe put a hand on Caleb’s shoulder, but the boy jerked from his grasp. While the other boys walked across the grounds toward the building with one arm protecting their faces, and the other arm extended in front of them, Caleb stumbled along, tripping over everything in his path.
Adam shook his head, wondering if the boy would ever be willing to learn, or if, when school resumed after Christmas, another child would take his seat.
October had always been one of Joe’s favorite months. The days were still warm enough to make being outdoors enjoyable, but the nights spoke of winter’s pending arrival. It was a time on the ranch when they’d be busy making repairs to buildings and line shacks, so animals and people had protection from the cold, and getting ready for the cattle drive. Hop Sing would be bringing in the last of the vegetables from the garden, filling the kitchen with rich smells as he canned pumpkins and squash for winter pies, cakes, and breads. That was one of the few memories Joe had of his mother – the way she’d help Hop Sing in the garden all summer and fall, and then helped making jams, jellies, pies, as well as canning whatever vegetables were currently being harvested.
Adam said autumn in New England was truly a season of beauty, with brilliant oranges, golds, yellows, and reds bursting from the trees. Joe would have loved to see the colors that spoke of an old year slowly slipping away, but then, he would have loved to see a lot of things. He still wasn’t completely used to being blind, and wondered if he ever would be – or ever fully accepting of it, either, for that matter. He kept that non-acceptance well hidden now. After all, it seemed petty to wallow in self-pity when he was surrounded by children who didn’t complain about their misfortune in life. A misfortune just like his own.
Joe’s teaching skills continued to grow that fall. As he’d known would be the case, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. The entire month of September was as much a learning experience for Joe, as it was for his students. His confidence grew as October progressed, and the boys settled into the daily routine. No longer was Joe confiscating peashooters, or sending someone to Adam’s office to write sentences, or dealing with John, Henry, Pete, and Tony, doing their best to switch seats at the start of each day. The younger boys were thriving, too. The calm routine that prevailed in the classroom now seemed to put their fears to rest, and even Billy no longer cried for his mother.
Mrs. O’Connell made “surprise” visits now and again, bringing treats baked in Adam’s kitchen, and Joe also gave out other rewards for good behavior, or lessons well mastered. For the little boys, the rewards were things like tin whistles, toy soldiers, Braille building blocks, wooden horses, hand-carved cowboy and Indian sets, modeling clay, Braille card games and board games, and candy from Casey’s Sweet Shop – everything purchased with Joe’s own money. The older boys received “passes” to places Joe took them on Saturdays – horseback riding at a nearby stable, a picnic at a park down the street from the institute, and upon an invitation from Laddie’s father, “amusements” at the Brockington estate. Mr. Brockington even taught Joe and the boys a new game called golf. It seemed silly to Joe, trying to hit a tiny ball into a small, round hole, but Mr. Brockington claimed the game would be all the rage soon. Silly or not, it didn’t matter to the teenagers. A day away from the institute was a treasured prize. They didn’t care where Joe took them, they were just happy to have the opportunity to leave the grounds with him, which probably accounted for at least some their good behavior in class.
The only child who had yet to earn a reward was Caleb Greers. He’d taken over where the older boys had left off when it came to disruptions. Tripping his classmates, striking out at them in anger, name calling, sweeping books off his desk, shouting at Joe – and if he wasn’t doing those things, then he was sitting sullenly, refusing to learn, all the while maintaining that he could see and shouldn’t be at the institute.
“Saying it doesn’t make it so, Caleb,” Joe had told the boy more than once.
“Yes it does!” the stubborn child insisted, and kept on insisting it even when all the other younger boys were playing with new toys and games Joe had given them.
At least Joe was dealing with only one child not willing to learn now, instead of twenty. He continually thought of ways to make the boys’ lessons fun. When Adam discovered the older boys reading dime novels in Braille with titles like, “The Adventures of Tex Mathers and the Cowboy Kid,” and “Shootout at the Circle B Ranch,” and “Pistol Pete and His Trick Horse Maverick,” he told Joe, “I can’t believe you’re letting them read that trash.”
“That ‘trash’ as you refer to it, entertained me on more cold winter nights than I can remember when I was a kid.”
“Which explains a lot.”
Joe ignored his brother’s teasing sarcasm.
“They’re perfect for teenage boys just learning Braille.”
“And why is
that?”
“Because those novels make them want to read, that’s why.”
“Thoreau and Hawthorn should make them want to read, too. Not to mention Shakespeare.”
“All those guys ever did for me was put me to sleep. But either way, there’ll be enough time for Thoreau and his buddies next year, when the older boys are in your literature class. In my class, it’s nothing but Tex and Pistol Pete.”
“And candy, and games, and my housekeeper showing up with a basket of cookies, and--”
“And whatever works, Adam,” Joe said with a grin. “Whatever works.”
When it came to Joe teaching the boys table manners, Adam thought he’d gone too far when all of them but Caleb, who’d refused to leave the institute with his classmates, showed up in Adam’s dining room one Saturday evening. Laddie, however, thought it was ingenuity at its finest. The boys took turns pulling out her chair for her, spreading their napkins across their laps, passing dishes of food without spilling anything, filling their own plates and cups, and then offering Laddie their arms and leading her to the parlor after the meal was finished. The final touch was when the boys wrote Adam a thank you note in Braille to express their gratitude for the evening.
“I would have never guessed you knew it’s proper to send a thank you note to your host after a dinner party,” Adam told his brother on the evening the thank you note had arrived in the mail.
“That’s because you think all the manners Pa taught us only rubbed off on you. Hoss and I picked up on a few things, too, ya’ know.”
“I’m beginning to learn that.”
“About time you did, big brother. About time you did.”
Joe’s headaches continued to come and go during September and October, but he’d been able to keep their existence from Adam. Some were mild enough that Joe could go about his normal routine without interruption. He’d had a bad one on a Saturday evening when Adam was out with Laddie, and Mrs. O’Connell was doing some kind of charity work for her church, which made it easy to go to bed early without Adam being the wiser. Another bad headache occurred one day at school right before lunch. That day, Joe managed to keep the pain hidden while getting Laddie to take his boys to the dining hall, and then to recess, saying he had things to catch up on his classroom. By the time the boys returned an hour and a half later, the headache was gone.
But probably worse than any headache, was the heartache Joe felt when one particular letter arrived from Pa. Adam, of course, had to read Pa’s and Hoss’s letters to Joe. After Adam had read the news Pa wrote about the price he was anticipating for the fall market steers, and that the nights were growing colder, and that Hoss was busy repairing and stocking line shacks while wishing Joe was there to help him, and how old Bart Thomas was predicting a bad winter because his bursitis was bothering him something fierce, Adam’s voice faltered and trailed off.
“Is that it?” Joe asked, from where he was seated in what had become his favorite easy chair in Adam’s parlor.
“Uh. . .no. There’s. . .there’s one more paragraph.”
“Go ahead then, read it.”
“Joe. . .”
“What?”
“Um. . .never mind. It says. . .it says. . .” Adam took a deep breath, then read, “Joseph, I’m sorry to have to write of this news, son, but I didn’t think it was right to keep it from you. Sally Morris’s parents have announced her engagement to Carl Jeffers. The wedding is to take place in February.”
Joe stood as Adam finished reading.
“Joe--”
“Don’t say anything, Adam. There’s nothing you can say.”
“How about, I’m sorry?”
“No need to be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Joe whistled for Shakespeare and went to the closet for his leash. “I’m taking Shakespeare for a walk around the neighborhood. Be back in a little while.”
“You want
company?”
“No. Thanks but. . .no. Not right now.”
Adam was still sitting in the parlor when Joe returned a half hour later. Joe knew this was his brother’s way of saying he was available to talk if Joe wanted to, but Joe didn’t want to. Instead, he bid Adam good night, and went upstairs to bed.
Joe lay awake for a long time that evening, trying not to feel sorry for himself, while thinking of all the dreams that had died when he’d lost his sight.
“Come on, Caleb. Let’s go. That was the breakfast bell.”
“I’m still dressing!”
“Well hurry! I’m not gonna be late for breakfast again ‘cause a’ you. Last time that happened, that ol’ weasel Cross gave me detention.”
“Then go on without me! See if I care, why don’t ya’.”
Caleb could tell the older boy had paused with indecision. Emil Sheen was the “sergeant at arms” of this room, meaning it was his job to make sure the daily rules were followed; like beds being made, clothes being folded and put in the dresser, the floor swept, and getting to breakfast on time. Caleb’s other roommates, a teenager named Hal Jenkins, and that stupid crybaby Billy Fitzgerald, had already left for the dining hall.
“Just go on!” Caleb yelled, when he couldn’t stand Emil’s silent presence any longer. “I don’t need you walkin’ me there anyway.”
“It’s my responsibility.”
“I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything!”
“Don’t need to tell me. Pretty much figured it out the first day I met ya’.” Emil didn’t attempt to keep the disgust from his voice. “Fine. Have it your way. I’m not servin’ detention again ‘cause a’ the likes a’ you, that’s for darn sure.”
“Just go then!”
“Don’t worry, I am.” Emil stomped out of the room, muttering, “Loony kid,” as he headed for breakfast.
Caleb finished buttoning his shirt, though his state of undress didn’t really have anything to do with why he was running late. He was lagging behind on purpose, hoping a long-awaited opportunity would finally present itself.
The boy dropped to his knees beside his mattress. His was the lower bed of a wooden bunk bed set. Emil slept above him, with Hal sleeping on the upper bunk of the other bunk set in the room, Billy on the bed below him.
The beds reminded Caleb of the room he shared with his brothers at home. Matthew slept above Caleb, and Phillip slept above James. Caleb remembered when James was still too small for a bed, and slept in a cradle in Ma and Pa’s room. But James had grown quickly, like Mama said he would, and it seemed like in almost no time at all before he joined Caleb and the older boys in the “bunk house,” as Pa jokingly referred to their room.
“There’s no bunkhouse on a farm, Pa,” Caleb would say at those times. “Ranches have bunkhouses, not farms.”
Caleb’s father would laugh again and agree, while telling Caleb what a smart boy he was. Caleb didn’t know how he came to have all the knowledge that seemed to be stored in his head, ready for him to pick and choose it at will. Maybe he was smart because he’d always liked to read, or because sums came easy for him, or because he was a good speller, or because, unlike a lot of other boys his age, he liked school. Or at least he had liked school until his parents sent him to this stupid place. He didn’t need to be here. He’d told them that before they brought him. He told them he didn’t want to come, but they wouldn’t listen. He promised he’d earn his keep by doing the same chores on the farm that he’d done before the accident, but Ma had cried a little when he said that, and Pa had hugged him, and told Caleb that the school in Boston would teach him how to do those chores.
“But I don’t need anyone to teach me! I know how to do my chores! I been doin’ ‘em by myself since before James was born!”
However, when Caleb tried to prove that to his father, he fell over a milking stool, knocked over the pail of milk that Phillip had just gotten out of Susie, and somehow ended up face down in a pile of manure.
So, Caleb had ended up here, at this dumb school with all these blind kids. He wanted to be at his own school, the one just over the hill from his parents’ farm, where Miss Kennelworth taught. She was pretty, and she smelled pretty too – sweet, like the way a lilac bush smells when it blooms in the spring. Not like Mr. Cartwright; he smelled like men’s cologne. Caleb didn’t want a teacher who smelled like a man. He wanted a teacher who smelled like Miss Kennelworth. And besides, he was the one who was supposed to be in charge of James this year. James was going to school for the first time, and just like Matthew had been in charge of Phillip, and Phillip in charge of Caleb, it was Caleb’s turn to look out for a little brother and show him what school was all about. But they sent Caleb to Boston instead, and Phillip probably got to look out for James, or maybe Matthew, ‘cause he was the oldest.
It wasn’t right that one of them got to do Caleb’s job. It was an important job, too. Pa said so. But Pa seemed to forget that it was supposed to be Caleb’s responsibility to see that James made it to and from school safely, and learned where he should hang his coat, and what shelf his lunch bucket went on. Ever since Caleb and his best friend, George Fillmore, had played with those firecrackers, nothing had been the same. It wasn’t fair! George hadn’t been hurt when they went off – he’d hadn’t gotten so much as a scratch. Not that Caleb wanted George to be hurt. Ma would say a good Christian boy didn’t wish for bad things to happen to his friends.
Well, maybe a good Christian boy didn’t, but Caleb wasn’t even sure if he cared about being a Christian any more. Right after the accident happened, he’d prayed and prayed and prayed that God would give him his eyesight back. But so far, God hadn’t answered his prayers, and Caleb no longer believed you could call upon Him for all of your needs, as Mama often told Caleb and his brothers was the case.
Footsteps coming down the hall caused Caleb to sweep his hands under his mattress. He smiled when he encountered what he’d smuggled from his winter coat pockets into his suitcase before leaving home. These would sure make a jim-dandy noise in class today. Billy would cry for his mother again for days on end.
Caleb stuffed his treasures in the pockets of his woolen trousers, just as someone stepped in the room.
“Ah, Caleb lad, there yeh are,” Mr. Murphy said. “Glad to see yer sayin’ yer prayers. Now finish up, and let’s hurry on to breakfast. There’s barely ‘nough time left to eat a’fore classes get underway.”
Caleb stayed on his knees a few seconds longer, pretending to do the activity Mr. Murphy mistakenly thought he was engaged in. He mumbled, “Amen,” for good measure, then stood. He didn’t even pull away when Mr. Murphy laid a hand on his back and urged, “Come along, lad.”
Had Caleb’s mother been present, she would have realized what her son was up to, because in some instances, for reasons known only to God, little boys don’t always learn their lesson the first time.
Joe winced, trying to fight off the throbbing pressure building behind his eyes. At least in this roomful of blind boys, he had no worries that anyone would notice he was in pain.
As Joe stood beside the desk of seven-year-old Jacob McGregory, helping the boy do a few simple sums, he struggled to keep his concentration focused on the child. He realized now that he should have told Adam he wasn’t feeling well, and stayed home. But Joe wasn’t one to shirk his responsibilities. When he was younger, playing hooky every so often from his ranch duties wasn’t beneath Joe, but with age comes maturity. Or so he’d often overheard Pa assure Adam would eventually happen where Joe’s occasional waywardness was concerned. Currently, maybe Joe was letting his maturity and dedication to his job override his common sense. Or, more likely than that, Joe hadn’t wanted to tell Adam he was under the weather, because he didn’t want Adam taking him to a doctor.
So Joe had toughed it out through breakfast with his brother, and then on the walk to school, never giving Adam any indication that this headache had been brewing since the previous evening. They’d parted ways once they reached Adam’s office, Shakespeare continuing up the four flights of stairs with Joe. The dog now lay beside Joe’s desk, ready to guide him from the classroom if needed, or play outside with the boys.
Joe winced again, massaging his temples while requesting that Jacob repeat the question he’d just asked. He grabbed Jacob’s desk as a wave of dizziness swayed him back and forth. The animated chatter coming from the older boys, who were gathered around Henry’s desk plotting a wagon train route from Boston to Virginia City on a Braille map, grew distant and fuzzy. The younger boys went about working their sums quietly as they’d been instructed to do, or so Joe assumed was the case. The teeth-clenching pain was making it so hard for him to concentrate, that the little boys could have been dancing on their desktops while singing “Oh Susanna” for all Joe knew.
“Do the best you can on your own, Jake,” Joe mumbled to his student. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Just
make it to your desk, Joe told himself as he walked on weak legs toward the
front of the room. Make it to your
desk and sit down. You’ll be okay in a
little while. The pain’ll get worse
yet, then it’ll pass. It always does.
For just a brief second, the black curtain that had been pulled over Joe’s eyes ever since the day Charlie’s shack exploded was lifted. Or at least it seemed that way to Joe, when suddenly, his world was a foggy, out-of-focus murky gray. Before Joe could figure out if this alteration was real, or a product of his imagination, or the result of a pain-addled brain, a mighty succession of “Bang! Bang! Bang’s!” resounded from the back of the room.
Joe dived for the floor as children screamed and Shakespeare barked.
“Get down! Get down!” Joe yelled. “Get under your desks!” he ordered, as the explosions continued.
The eruptions were over with almost as quickly as they’d started. However, when you’re blind and lying on the floor praying to God someone wasn’t standing in your classroom doorway taking potshots at your students with a gun, the situation seems to go on forever. But when the room was finally quiet again, other than the sound of Billy Fitzgerald’s wails for his mother, Joe came to a very quick conclusion based on the smell of burned fuses. His headache forgotten for the moment, Joe jumped to his feet, demanding, “Who shot off those firecrackers?”
A smattering of, “Not me, Mr. Cartwright,” came from the teenagers huddled beneath Henry’s desk. They all sounded sincere to Joe, and plenty scared, as though they feared they’d be blamed for something they hadn’t done. Six weeks ago, Joe wouldn’t have believed them, but now he had no reason to doubt their honesty. Which left just one culprit on Joe’s list.
“Caleb?”
A defiant, “What?” told Joe his suspicions were accurate.
“You’ll make things easier on yourself if you tell me the truth.”
“I wasn’t gonna lie anyway. It was me who did it. So whatta’ ya’ gonna do about it? Make me write sentences?”
Joe advanced toward the boy, doing his best to keep his temper in check. He had yet to send any of his students to Adam’s office for a paddling, so stood there in silent debate with himself, wondering if that’s exactly what Caleb needed. Considering the danger the boy had just thrust upon his classmates with this latest prank, Joe was tempted to turn the kid over his own knee and give him a few whacks, before passing him on to Adam for more of the same treatment.
“You know, Caleb, when I was a kid, behavior like this in a schoolroom – endangering my teacher and my classmates the way you just did – would have earned me a trip to the woodshed.”
“I don’t care. Besides, you can’t give me a lickin’, only the headmaster can.”
“Then maybe you and I need to take a walk to his office.”
“Fine with me! Go ahead and tell him what I did! He can give me a lickin,’ and then send me home.”
It was with those words that Joe fully understood the reason behind Caleb’s surly attitude and frequent misbehavior. While Joe had known Caleb was in denial about his loss of sight, he hadn’t realized the kid was bucking for a one-way ticket back to the Pennsylvania farmhouse he’d been born and raised in.
Joe abruptly changed his stance on the form of punishment Caleb needed.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I said I don’t think so.”
“What’s that supposed ta’ mean?”
“It means you won’t be going to the headmaster’s office after all.”
“But--”
“That’s not fair, Mr. Cartwright! If me, or Tony, or Pete, or John had just done what that stupid kid--”
“Be quiet, Henry.”
“But, Mr. Cart--”
“Henry, I said be quiet. I’ll handle the discipline in this room the way I see fit.”
“No!” Caleb screamed. “No! I wanna go to the headmaster’s office! Take me there! Tell him what I did! Tell him!”
“I’m the teacher here, Caleb, not you. I don’t have to tell the headmaster anything I don’t want to.”
“Yes you do! You do! You do!”
The boy launched himself from his desk. Joe heard the movement, but Caleb was too quick for him. Before Joe could jump out of the way, the boy was on him like a frenzied bobcat, clawing, biting, and unlike a bobcat, throwing punches in a whirl of flying fists Joe couldn’t get under control.
The boy’s unexpected weight threw Joe off balance. He fell backwards, slamming his head against the floor with a “thunk!” The other boys rushed to Joe’s aid, which only made matters worse instead of better. As Shakespeare darted around the room franticly barking, as though trying to summon help, Joe ended up on the bottom of a suffocating pile of tangled arms and legs. Boys’ frenzied shouts and cries, and in the case of Billy Fitzgerald, screams of terror, punctuated the air.
Joe tried to fight his way out from under the kids, tried to order them to stop, but it was like a mob gone out of control. If their original intention had been to pull Caleb off of him, it had quickly changed to beating Caleb up, and in the process, accidentally hitting each other, and Joe, as well.
Joe wasn’t sure how long the free-for-all went on before he heard a shout over all the noise.
“What’s going on in here?”
No one answered the headmaster. The boys were too caught up in their brawl to even take notice of his presence, and Joe was barely able to get any air beneath the weight of their bodies, let alone give his brother any kind of response.
Soon, the burden on Joe began to lessen, as boys were plucked from the pile by some of the building’s caretakers and Mr. Murphy, who had either been summoned by the noise, or by Adam, Joe wasn’t sure which. He could have sworn he heard Elias Cross snickering somewhere by the door. He pictured the yellow-bellied snake being the first one to run to Adam to report the disturbance, but the last one willing to offer a hand when it came to breaking up the brawl.
A hand finally grasped Joe’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
“What happened here, Joe?” Adam demanded over the cacophony of young voices offering explanations and accusations to the adults in the room. “Who started this?”
Joe swiped at the blood running from a corner of his mouth. “No one.”
Adam squeezed Joe’s arm. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”
“You did. We were. . .we were goofing around, and things got outta hand.”
“Joe--”
“Adam, not here.”
Adam started to say something, but then squelched it, instead letting his aggravation come forth in the form of a sigh.
“Come on. We’re going to my office.”