The Winds of Autumn Page 9

  I turned, not understanding her for a moment.

  “Who’s the lucky student?” she asked again, “to have you for a tutor?”

  Without me being able to stop it the red began to creep into my face. I wanted to turn away to hide my embarrassment but I knew that would be rude. I tried to keep my voice even, though the thumping of my heart was far from normal.

  “Camellia,” I stated as matter-of-factly as I could, trying hard to put no special emphasis on the name.

  “Camellia?” said Aunt Lou.

  “Camellia Foggelson,” I stumbled on.

  “Oh, the teacher’s daughter. Then it is an honor, Joshua. If the teacher picked you to teach his own daughter, then he must have a high regard for you.”

  I stood there, still blushing, not knowing what to say and wishing to escape to the quietness and privacy of my own small bedroom.

  “Is she a poor student?” queried my aunt.

  “She’s ’bout the best in the class,” I blurted out too quickly.

  “She always leads everyone in English and Social Studies. She’s real good at Art and Readin’ and everything. She even beats me in Arithmetic an’—“ I stopped. I realized I was sounding like I thought Aunt Lou had insulted her. I also realized Camellia was a good student. A very good student. She led the class in almost every subject. So why was I being asked to tutor her? I hadn’t given it a thought before, I was so excited over the possibility of just being with her. And if I did take on tutoring her, could I keep my thoughts on the geometry problems long enough to be of any help to her? Some strange doubts and feelings began to flood over me. I turned to go to my room.

  Aunt Lou must have sensed my confusion, for she did not question me further or try to stop me.

  All the time I was changing into my clothes for chores, my mind wrestled with the problem. Why was Mr. Foggelson asking me to tutor his daughter who clearly needed no tutoring? Was I failing geometry? Was this a way to help me without me feeling embarrassed over it? No, that didn’t make sense. I was having no trouble with the work. In fact, I had just gotten a grade of 98 percent on my last test. Was Camellia really having trouble with this part of the work? Well, maybe. Maybe she hadn’t gotten her usual high-nineties score last time. I was sure Mr. Foggelson expected only top grades from her. Perhaps he really did want tutoring help for Camellia.

  I tried to push the weighty problem to the back of my mind and think on other things, but it kept popping to the front again, insisting on my full attention.

  I picked up Pixie and headed out through the kitchen to get my heavy coat.

  “You’d best stay in,” I told the little dog. “It’s too cold out there for you tonight.”

  Aunt Lou, busy peeling the supper vegetables, gave me a smile as I walked by, but said nothing further about my tutoring. I was glad. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss it yet. I had to do some more sorting out first. I had been so excited about it and was nearly bursting to share it with some of the fellas. Now I just wasn’t so sure. Maybe I wouldn’t say anything about it at all. Might be better if I sorta kept it to myself, at least until I had it figured out.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Tutoring

  MR. FOGGELSON’S EYES MET mine the next morning as soon as I entered the classroom. I could not avoid him without being rude, so I sorta smiled and nodded my head slightly, and he understood that I had talked to my aunt Lou and uncle Nat.

  Fact was, we’d had quite a discussion about the matter. After the chores were all done, the evening meal over and we’d had our evening devotions together, Aunt Lou brought up the subject again.

  “Josh has had quite an honor today,” she told Uncle Nat. “The teacher has asked him to help his daughter, Camellia, with some geometry that she is not quite understanding.”

  Uncle Nat’s eyes lifted from the Bible he was replacing on the small corner table.

  “That so?” he said. “Good for you, Josh,” and he gave me a smile and a playful slap on the back.

  I blushed a bit and shifted my feet some.

  “When?” asked Uncle Nat.

  “We haven’t worked that out yet,” I stammered after Aunt Lou waited for me to answer the question. “He had suggested Wednesday, but I told him I couldn’t get my chores done soon enough. It’s all I can do to get finished in time for prayer meetin’ and I sure wouldn’t have time—”

  “If it’s the only night that will work for them, we probably could work something out,” said Uncle Nat. “Maybe a bit more wood chopping other nights, and on Wednesday I could try to get home earlier and—”

  “Ain’t no sense you takin’ on more,” I found myself saying.

  I knew that Uncle Nat was already too busy. He hardly had any time at home.

  “I’m sure another night will work just fine,” I continued.

  “I’ll talk to Mr. Foggelson tomorrow.”

  “We’ll co-operate in any way that we can,” said Uncle Nat as they both smiled at me, and I knew they would.

  Then Uncle Nat turned very serious. He spoke slowly and deliberately, “This might be an answer to my prayers, Josh. I called on the Foggelsons as soon as they moved to town and invited them to join us in worship.” Uncle Nat paused for a moment, and I knew he was carefully choosing each word. “Mr. Foggelson said they had no need nor interest in church. That it was for the deprived and unlearned—as a crutch—that educated men had other things than myths and fables to give their attention to. He also said his wife and daughter were free to make their own decision, but when his wife looked up after his comment, I got the feeling that the decision had already been made for her, too.”

  There was silence for several moments.

  “Maybe God can use you in some way, Josh, to bring His light to this family.”

  The thought kinda scared me. I was no preacher or anything. If Uncle Nat had failed to convince the man, then surely there was nothing I could do. I mean, it was real scary—to have someone’s eternal destiny, so to speak, resting on my shoulders. Actually, I expected to take that responsibility someday. I was sorta thinking about being a preacher like Uncle Nat. I really respected him—and so did the other people of the town. Wherever he went folks greeted him and doffed their caps and listened to what he had to say with real respect. And he was the one they called on when there was sickness or an accident or trouble of most any kind. I bet there wasn’t a fella who got called on more—unless it was the doc. Even then the two of them most often ended up in the same house, for the same need—doc with his black medical bag and Uncle Nat with his black Book.

  Well, even if I did hope to one day be a preacher too and looked up to by the people, I wasn’t quite ready for that responsibility yet, and the thought of being the one to help some family, especially the family of my teacher, see the need for Christ and the church—well, I didn’t know if I could do that. Still, I said nothing. Just squirmed a bit.

  “Let’s pray,” suggested Uncle Nat.

  We had just finished praying, but after a brief glimpse at Uncle Nat, then Aunt Lou, I bowed my head like they were doing.

  “Dear Lord, our Father,” began Uncle Nat. “We thank you for this opportunity that has come to Josh to enter the home of the Foggelsons. Help him to be sensitive to your leading and to let his light shine for you. May he be used of you, Lord, and be instrumental in bringing this family to the place where they realize that education, as good as it is, is not enough to prepare one for life after death. That one cannot better the mind sufficiently to redeem the soul—that only through the death and life of Jesus Christ can we have our sins forgiven and our lives changed. Amen.”

  I gave a great deal of thought to Uncle Nat’s prayer. I had never considered the possibility of a man like Mr. Foggelson being denied heaven. I mean, he was decent, intelligent, and a gentleman. Everyone nodded to him and greeted him with respect. Yet here he was, not believing in God and not ready for heaven. If he should have an accident or a sickness and die—I didn’t even want to think of it. It w
as easy for me to understand about Old Sam. He was wicked. The fella was always drunk. He couldn’t even care for himself properly. He didn’t wash, he didn’t change his clothes. He didn’t even eat most of the time. Uncle Nat had to look after him constantly and pour soup down him or he wouldn’t even have survived from week to week. But Mr. Foggelson? It was awfully hard for me to put the two men in the same category—“lost.”

  So that’s how I came to be back in class, trying not to let on to Mr. Foggelson that I knew he was a sinner, that he would not be allowed into heaven unless he chose to repent of his sin. It wasn’t my rule, it was God’s rule—it was that simple, that straightforward. There was no middle road. No other option. There was only heaven and hell, and heaven was for those who called on the Lord God to forgive them for their wrongdoings. If one chose to ignore God or deny that He had a right to direct one’s life, that person would not be allowed into heaven, no matter how good other people thought he was.

  I was glad we went right to our history lesson so I could lower my eyes to my book.

  At recess and lunch time I didn’t say anything to the other fellas about tutoring Camellia. Not even to Willie or Avery. I tried to join in with the games as usual, but it was difficult. My mind just wasn’t on them. I think the others noticed my lack of concentration and my quietness—I caught a few glances my way, but no one said anything, for which I was glad.

  I also noticed a few glances from Camellia. She looked over my way several times and once even smiled before I could turn away. My stomach gave a flop and I missed the tag on Avery. I tried to fake a trip so the fellas wouldn’t guess what had really happened. I don’t think I brought it off very well.

  After school I knew I would be questioned by Mr. Foggelson, so I didn’t even try to hurry putting away my books and gathering up my lessons to take home.

  He came with a big smile.

  “Well, Joshua, did you get permission from your aunt and uncle?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, swallowing hard and trying to raise my eyes to Mr. Foggelson’s face.

  “Good,” he beamed. “When can you begin?”

  “Thursdays seem to be best, sir. Right after school, if that suits you.”

  “That suits me just fine. And Camellia, too. She’s happy to hear you can help her.”

  I blushed, hating myself for doing so.

  This was Wednesday and I had to get right home to do the chores. I was glad for an excuse to get away quickly.

  I gathered my books and nodded at Mr. Foggelson.

  “I’ll plan on tomorrow then. Right after school.”

  “Fine,” he said and reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he had touched me, the first I had seen him touch any of the students. Not even Camellia, though I was sure that in the privacy of their own home there must be father-daughter contact. I felt a bit embarrassed, though I did not know why. I was used to a great deal of touching. Why, in my family we were always hugging and slapping one another on the back and patting on the head and squeezing the hand and all sorts of nice family things.

  Still, it wasn’t like your teacher laying his hand on your shoulder, like you were someone special to him—and you weren’t just sure what the “special” was. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just cleared my throat and looked down at my books again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said awkwardly and headed for the door.

  I both dreaded and anticipated the day for the first tutoring and, boy, can that ever mix you up inside!

  I did have the sense to set aside my geometry book after class the next day. I fumbled around at my desk, pushing books around, sorting and resorting until I was sure the fellas had left the room.

  I finally dared to look up, half expecting Mr. Foggelson to be standing at my desk with instructions on how I was to teach his daughter. But it was Camellia’s deep blue eyes that met mine. She gave me a wonderful smile, and I nearly dropped the geometry book I held in my hand. I looked down again, fumbled some more with my book and nearly choked mid-swallow.

  “Are you ready?” she asked nicely and I nodded, then let my eyes wander to the boards that Mr. Foggelson was meticulously cleaning.

  “Papa will be home later,” she said in answer to my unasked question. “He always stays to clean the chalkboards and put some lessons on for the next day.”

  I nodded again, but I felt like I was rooted to my spot.

  “Let’s go then,” she offered. “Papa said you have lots of chores after school so I mustn’t waste your time.”

  I forced my wooden legs to move and followed her out of the schoolroom. We were halfway across the yard before I realized she was carrying a load of books. I mumbled some kind of apology and reached to take them from her.

  “Thank you, Joshua,” she said with just a hint of appealing shyness, dropping her long, dark eyelashes. It rather threw me. I had never had a girl flirt with me before. At least not one like Camellia.

  When we got to her house her mother greeted us warmly and waved us toward the tea and fancy pastries placed on the table. I was not a tea drinker. I didn’t care much for the stuff and I had always been encouraged to drink milk, a growing boy needing lots of it to make his teeth and bones strong and all, but I would have died before I would have admitted that to Camellia or her ma.

  “Do you care for cream or sugar?” asked Camellia courteously, about to pour.

  I tried to remember what Aunt Lou or Grandpa took in their teas but my mind went blank. “No, thank you,” I finally mumbled. “Just bare.”

  Camellia’s eyelashes fluttered softly as she glanced at me, and I knew I had said something dumb. What was it that one said about tea anyway? I knew Gramps always had his coffee “black,” but tea wasn’t black. What was it, anyway?

  “I like a little cream in mine,” Camellia was saying. “Papa’s always teasing me, saying it will make me fat someday, but I use it anyway.” She laughed merrily.

  I couldn’t imagine her fat but didn’t know if I should say so.

  She passed me a pastry then. It looked about the size of one mouthful, but I knew better than to take two. Besides, I wasn’t sure just what the thing was and how one went about eating it. I laid mine down on the small flowery plate that sat on the white tablecloth and waited for Camellia to lead the way.

  She picked hers up nimbly in her fingers and took a dainty nibble. I followed suit. Only for some reason mine didn’t work quite like hers had. I don’t know if I had gotten a faulty one or what, but just as I went to take a teeny bite from the side like Camellia had done, the fool thing crumbled in my fingers and fell all over the tablecloth, leaving me with empty air and a red face.

  I felt like a dolt, that’s how I felt, but Camellia pretended not to mind.

  “I’ve always told Mama that those dainty little pastries were not made to be held in the strong hands of a man,” she said.

  “Their fingers are just too used to a firm grip on things.” And so saying she leaned right over toward me, swept the crumbs into her own plate and took them away from the table. When she returned she brought with her a small fork with a short handle, and she passed me another pastry.

  “They are difficult to eat with a fork, too,” she whispered confidentially, “but it might be a little easier.”

  I somehow managed to get most of that pastry to my lips. By the time I was finished I was glad the thing hadn’t been any bigger. I was almost sweating with the effort—and I still had that cup of tea ahead of me.

  The teacup with its little handle was not much easier to manage than the pastry had been. It must have been designed for a creature with only one finger and a thumb. I didn’t know what to do with the other three—no matter how I held the cup they all got in the way.

  Camellia tried to put me at ease and I appreciated her effort. Not only pretty, she is sensitive and caring, too, I thought, and that made me like her even more.

  “We will study in the sitting room,” she informed me whe
n we had finally freed ourselves of the tea and dainties, and with great relief I followed her away from that table with its linen cloth and china cups.

  The sitting room was comfortably furnished, and we chose a settee by the large window and spread our books out on the small table before it. Somehow I had the feeling that the table had been placed there purposely for our use.

  “What part you wishin’ to study?” I began, opening my text.

  “None of it,” she responded. I’m sure I couldn’t have looked as astounded as I felt, but she giggled, softly and bubbly, like our little crik when it splashes over pebbles on a sandbar.

  Now, I had never cared much for girls giggling, but Camellia’s was different. It made me feel like giggling, too, and I had to check myself before some dumb sound came out of my mouth. Instead, I just smiled, a blush making my cheeks hot. I knew there was a secret joke here, but I wasn’t sure just what it was.

  “One is supposed to be honest, isn’t one?” Camellia was saying pertly, her blue eyes twinkling with merriment.

  I nodded. Certainly one was to be honest.

  “Well, I’m honest. I wish we didn’t need to study.”

  “I’m sorry,” I began. “I didn’t know that your pa was makin’ you—”

  But I got no further.

  “Oh, Joshua,” she stopped me, reaching out one soft hand to lay gently on mine. “This wasn’t Papa’s idea.”

  I was totally lost. If it wasn’t her pa’s idea that we study and she didn’t wish to study, then what was I doing in her house?

  “I coaxed Papa to ask you,” she said frankly in response to my perplexed look.

  “You did?” I stammered.

  “Yes,” she said with a flip of her coppery curls. “I did.”

  “But why?”

  “Why?” She seemed a little annoyed at my question.

  “Why—if you don’t want to study—?”

  She looked at me like I was a child. But then she tossed her hair again and fluttered those long eyelashes.

  “I just wanted to get to know you better—to talk.”