The Envelope Page 4

  “But it was an accident,” he said.

  “Great apology.” Sheila knew better than to be sarcastic with a student, but her Hector was not a crybaby, so she knew he must have been really hurt to be sobbing the way he was at the moment. She pulled Hector closer to her side.

  “Anyway, you’re not my teacher,” the older child continued. “I don’t have to do what you say.”

  Sheila’s temper flared. She couldn’t stand rebellious kids. If teachers were allowed to administer corporal punishment, he wouldn’t have dared say that. Sheila clenched her fist, fighting the temptation to drop her professional demeanor and scream in his face. Not that she thought that would do any good. If she had not learned anything else in her years of teaching experience, she had learned that power struggles were exercises in futility, even against five-year-olds. The adults always lost.

  “Hey, buster, she is a teacher, so you better do what she says.”

  Sheila turned around to see Hank Johnson coming up behind her, and felt relieved. As a matter of course, a teacher took on many tasks that were not in her job description, including disciplining students who weren’t in her class, and she hated doing it. Especially with the bigger kids with their smart mouths and attitudes longer than the Mississippi.

  She almost smiled at Hank, but caught herself, not wanting his student to think there was anything amusing about the situation. Hank sidled up to them, not frowning, but not smiling, either. He towered over both of them, although his boyish face and sparkling green eyes neutralized any intimidating threat his height might engender.

  The large boy muttered under his breath, then said, “Sorry, kid. It was an accident.”

  “That’s better,” Hank said. His tone was suddenly light, even cheerful. “Now, get on down to the gym.”

  The boy resumed his breakneck speed down the hall, which had caused the accident in the first place, and Sheila raised her eyebrow at Hank. Is that all he’s going to do? Over the last couple of months, the teacher lounge grapevine had begun whispering about Hank’s lack of classroom discipline, and off-the-wall teaching methods that allegedly had his kids running around his room like wild animals. She always liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, but now she’d seen firsthand what the grapevine meant.

  “That’s it?” she asked in disbelief, stroking Hector’s hair as he continued to sniffle. Her relief of a few moments earlier became irritation. Sheila couldn’t remember the last time she had confronted a colleague about his students’ behavior, but then again, until Hank had arrived, the faculty at Roosevelt kept their charges in control. Next time she had an encounter with an older child, she would handle the discipline herself, just in case he came from Hank’s room.

  Hank shrugged. “He’s just an active kid. What do you want me to do, give him a detention over it?”

  Great. Not only did he not discipline his students, but he enabled their behavior. “You could at least tell him to slow down.”

  “All right, I can do that.” He smiled, and stooped down until he was eye-level with Hector. “You’re all right, kid. There’s no blood.” Winking at him, he stood up and headed toward the library.

  Jerk, Sheila thought, immediately adding, Forgive me, Lord.

  She motioned for the rest of her class, who had been sitting against the wall opposite the restrooms the whole time, to stand. As she walked them back to the room, she made an addendum to her prayer.

  But could You at least keep him away from me and my kids?

  * * *

  Hank shoved the pile of math papers away from himself with a sigh. He had been hoping Sheila wasn’t one of them, that is, one of the traditional teachers who kept her kids in rows and threatened death if they so much as coughed. She couldn’t have been any older than he was, yet she acted like some strict old maid schoolteacher who spent Friday and Saturday nights knitting and writing copious lesson plans.

  With the judgment you judge, you shall be judged. . . .

  “Sorry, Jesus,” Hank mumbled as the words scrolled through his mind as red as the words in his Bible. But we sure didn’t get off on the right foot. Not that it mattered if Barbara was about to waltz back into his life.

  For some reason, the thought made him uncomfortable, as if by thinking it he was betraying Sheila.

  “Lord, I need to stop,” he groaned. But since mailing his letter to Barbara yesterday, his mind had been flooded with confusion and conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he felt a strong attraction to Sheila, as well as an inexplicable kindred spirit. Though he’d never thought seriously about marriage, since meeting her he’d entertained the idea numerous times.

  On the other hand, there was Barbara. He definitely knew her much better than he knew Sheila, and he’d believed several years ago that he might be falling in love with her. And now it seemed she was coming back into his life.

  He stood up, stretching, and glanced at the clock on his classroom wall. Ten minutes before he had to retrieve his kids from the library. And the tormenting thoughts would settle in the back of his mind for another two hours while he busied himself with his students.

  He stared back down at the papers on his desk, grimacing. If only he could just teach, and not have any paperwork. He thought about Sheila again. Maybe he should be a Kindergarten teacher. Their biggest concern was wiping noses and making sure their kids didn’t get beat up by mean fourth graders with lazy teachers.

  Hank snorted. Until coming to this campus, he’d really never cared about what other people thought about him, even though he got the same kind of flack from his colleagues in Austin. Maybe hearing rumors about what a lousy teacher he was had gotten to him at a subconscious level, and the load was finally getting too high to stay buried.

  Or maybe it just bothered him that Sheila had a low opinion of him.

  He sat back down and picked up another paper. Lazy. No one could think that of him if they had seen him in action overseas, building churches, teaching the natives basic gardening skills, cleaning up after disasters. . . .

  But no one sees you doing that now.

  Hank threw the paper down. “I’m not going there,” he said to the empty room in a warning tone. He was where he was, and he wasn’t going back. Ever.

  He remembered the day four years ago he’d announced to his parents that he was quitting the mission field to become a teacher. He’d expected them to argue, to throw Bible verses in his face about God’s will and God’s callings, to give him some sort of resistance. Instead, his mother was a sea of calm, and his father gave his blessing.

  They must have seen it coming.

  During his two years of schooling—he’d already completed a degree in theology, so he only needed to take education classes—his parents never wavered from supporting his efforts. Though his father didn’t show it, Hank knew he struggled with it, having always believed that his son would follow him in ministry.

  When Hank announced six months ago that he was moving to Fort Worth to teach, however, that was a different story.

  Randall choked on his iced tea. “Come again?”

  Hank glanced from his father to his mother, waiting for her reaction. He was their only child, and they were a tightly knit family. He’d never lived farther than five miles away from his parents’ small brick home on the east side of Austin, and he sometimes thought he spent more time at his parents’ home than in his apartment.

  His father looked shocked. “Son, tell me that you didn’t just say what my ears are telling my mind you just said.”

  Brenda placed a hand on Randall’s leg. “Calm down, Randy.” She leaned her plump, fifty-five-year-old body toward Hank. “First of all, my love, how many times have I told you not to lean back in Grandma’s antique rocking chair like that?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Hank loved the back support on the old chair, but its seat was too close to the floor for his long legs, so he would lean backwards until the only the tips of the back ends of the legs were touching the floor. His mother had bee
n saying for years, that one day, the legs would snap like toothpicks under his weight, but so far, they hadn’t.

  Regardless, Hank had been brought up to obey his parents, so he eased the rocker back down, appreciating the gentle creaking sound of the old wood. He grinned sheepishly at his mother, waiting for her to continue.

  “Thank you. Now, second of all, have you prayed over that decision?”

  “Oh, Ma,” Hank said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, “you know I have.”

  “Pray some more.” The sudden outburst from his father startled both Hank and his mother. Randall was generally gentle and rational, two characteristics which had served him well as a pastor over the years. He often said himself that one who has to raise his voice is letting fear control him. The thought struck Hank even harder. He had never seen his father afraid. Did he think he’d never see his son again?

  Brenda took her hand off her husband’s leg and lay it on one of his arms, which he had crossed over his chest. “Randy, the boy’s twenty-six years old.” Her voice exuded comfort and peace. “Most parents aren’t blessed to have their offspring around so long.” She regarded Hank with a loving smile. “Especially one so marvelous. You’ll make someone a wonderful husband someday.”

  Hank chuckled as he stood up on the braided rug that graced the hardwood floor. “I’m not moving there to find a wife.”

  Brenda raised her eyebrow with an oh-really-we’ll-see-about-that expression. Randall just frowned.

  “So, why are you moving?” His voice was lower, but still held a tone of disapproval.

  Hank hesitated. He knew what his father was thinking. That everything around Hank reminded him of the plane crash. That as much as he acted as though everything was back to normal, the reminders were still too painful to bear. That he felt the only option to finding relief was to run away.

  But that wasn’t true. Not entirely. And it certainly wasn’t the motivating factor behind his decision. At least, that’s what he told himself.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Hank finally said, pacing back and forth. “I started feeling at the end of this school year that it was time for a change. Whenever I prayed about it, I kept hearing, ‘Fort Worth’ in my spirit.” He stopped, and knelt down in front of his father. “I don’t know why, but I believe God is calling me there.”

  Randall met his son’s gaze with wet eyes. “You sound sure.”

  “I am sure.”

  “Well, Brenda,” Randall said, his tense shoulders relaxing, “ain’t you got nothing to say about all this?”

  Brenda smiled smugly. “The Lord started preparing me for this day two years ago,” she said. “I’m just surprised it didn’t come sooner.”

  “Woman, why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because,” Brenda replied, winking at Hank, “The Lord never told me to tell you.” She put up her hands to buffet her husband’s playful swats, laughing. “You won’t get any of Grandma’s secret recipe key lime pie that way.”

  Randall gently pulled Brenda toward him and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

  “Hmmph, that’s better. Now,” she said, rising from the sofa, “are my two favorite boys in the whole world ready for a little snack?”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” Hank and his father had replied in unison, and followed her like obedient puppies into the kitchen.

  Hank laughed to himself as he stood again, setting the half-corrected paper back onto the pile, feeling better. Yes, God had called him to Fort Worth for some purpose yet unknown, and so what if his colleagues didn’t understand him? Joseph’s brothers never understood him, the Israelites didn’t understand Moses, a whole lot of Jews and Greeks didn’t understand the Apostle Paul—

  “Lord,” he whispered with a grin toward the flickering fluorescent lights, “keep me humble.”

  Then he noticed the time. Five minutes late. He shot out of his room and down the stairs, adding to his prayer: “And don’t let Miss Carson catch me running in the hall.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Conversation around the Thanksgiving table was subdued at the Carson’s house on Elton Hills Drive in Rochester, Minnesota. As they had last Thanksgiving, and the Thanksgiving before, everyone present was working hard to keep the topics on safe ground.

  So no one was saying much of anything.

  Evelyn noticed that April’s plate had a spoonful of potatoes and no more turkey. “Would you like seconds of the bird, sweetheart?” she asked, grateful for an excuse to talk.

  April’s smile was forced. “No, thanks. I’m full.”

  “You said you sent your resume to the U of M, right?” Gary asked her. April had already informed everyone of that fact, but Evelyn knew he was just trying to milk out all he could in the name of upbeat holiday conversation.

  “Last week.” April’s tone conveyed her annoyance at having to rehash the details again. “Are you going senile or something?”

  “April—”

  “It’s okay, Mom.” Gary smiled, taking another roll from the bread plate. “I was just going to ask if you wanted some interview tips. I’ve got a friend who—”

  “Gary, I’m twenty-five. I’ve done interviews before. And read books on it. Thanks, but I think I’ve got it covered.”

  Gary shrugged and glanced at Evelyn as if to say, “Well, that’s my attempt at stimulating verbal interchange. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “May I be excused, Mom?”

  Evelyn glanced at Linda, who sat directly across the table from her. “I haven’t served the pumpkin pie. Your favorite.”

  “Not my favorite. It was Sh—” She broke off before finishing the name, and looked down at her plate.

  An awkward moment of silence hung around the table. She had almost said the name that they had all spent the entire day trying to avoid. For a split second, Evelyn felt a glimmer of hope. If Linda could just say something about Sheila, just say her name, her stubborn pride might break.

  But when she cut herself off, Evelyn’s hope dashed against the invisible wall that her youngest daughter had built around herself five years ago. Gary must have sensed her disappointment, for he reached under the table and squeezed her hand.

  That gave Evelyn the courage to clear her throat and say, “Anyway, you always did eat every last crumb.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Linda’s gaze remained on her plate, still half full of food.

  Forcing her tone to remain light, Evelyn said, “Well, I suppose then you may be excused.”

  As she headed upstairs to the room that had been hers as a teenager, April frowned. “What’s up with her? She never leaves the slightest smidgen on her plate.”

  Gary didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned. “Maybe she’s coming down with something,” he said, just before taking a large bite of turkey.

  Evelyn let her gaze fall onto Linda’s empty chair. “Yes, maybe,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt. “Maybe she’s just coming down with something.”

  * * *

  “She’ll be all right, don’t worry.” Margaret gave Sheila an encouraging smile as she stabbed a piece of turkey from the serving platter.

  Sheila wiped up the last smidgen of mashed potatoes with a green bean. “She’s five going on fifty,” she sighed. She hadn’t meant to bring up Diana’s problem father, but when the conversation at the Thanksgiving meal had turned toward teaching, she couldn’t help herself. “Kids are forced to grow up so early nowadays. It’s not fair. They shouldn’t have to face adult problems until they’re adults.”

  Margaret picked up the large platter. “More turkey, dear?” she asked her husband Daniel, seated next to her. Then to Sheila, “Every generation has its own share of worries. When Diana grows up, she might well tell her kids how much easier life was when she was a kid.”

  Sheila set her fork down and stared at her best friend. “That’s a scary thought.” She took a sip of water. “Then again, the Bible doesn’t promise that life on earth will get any better.”

  Margaret’
s brother, sitting across from her, took up the theme and began to expound on it. He had graduated from some seminary or other years ago, although he’d never become a licensed minister, and was quick to get involved on any theological discussion. Sheila sat back and listened as the conversation bounced among the other fourteen people seated around the huge farm-style table. Not one given to great conversational skill, she felt amused that her statement had begun such banter. Everyone had something to say about it, with opinions varying from one extreme to the other.

  Sheila felt a pang of envy, observing the ease with which the family related to each other. No harsh words were spoken, and laughter was frequent and hearty. Sheila remembered a time when her family’s behavior was very much the same. Perhaps it still was, when she wasn’t there. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall in that house on that very day. She wondered if her name was ever mentioned, or if the subject of the oldest Carson girl was taboo. She wondered what Linda would do if she walked into her mother’s house unannounced.

  On second thought, she was glad not to know what was happening there. She was undoubtedly all the happier for her ignorance.

  “Mom, Dad, may I be excused?”

  Daniel looked at his youngest son, who was fifteen. “Hang in their, Matt,” he said. “It’s Thanksgiving. You know the routine.”

  Matt gave a nonchalant grin. “Worth a shot, anyhow.”

  This was Sheila’s second Thanksgiving at Margaret’s house, and she knew what they were talking about. At the end of every Thanksgiving meal, each one present was expected to share one thing they wanted to thank God for.

  Sheila had not decided what to say this year. Everything she thought of seemed so mundane, so trivial. She had a job. She had good health. She had clothes. Et cetera, et cetera. Yet her overriding thought was that she felt miserable, as she looked forward to another Christmas alone. Every year she traveled somewhere, just so when people asked her, “What are you doing for Christmas?” she could say, “I’m going out of town.” If they asked her if she was going to see her family, she would say, “Well, my family’s out of town.” Even Margaret assumed Sheila went up north to visit her family every year, and Sheila hated herself for deceiving her best friend. But Margaret was unaware of Sheila’s secret, and Sheila didn’t want to give her any information that would cause her to ask unwanted questions.