I remember it like it was yesterday, can still smell the old stove in the corner of the schoolroom if I put my mind to it. I was sitting next to Freddie Lytton, my very best friend in all the world, cursing teachers and arithmetic. I looked at the hieroglyphics on the board and at my slate and started using my chalk. After a few minutes Freddie nudged me and hissed. ‘I can’t do this sum.’ Without looking up from my slate I hissed back. ‘Neither can I.’ ‘Then what are you doin?’ he asked. I leaned back and moved my arm which had been shielding my slate. When Freddie saw what I’d been doing he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. It was a picture of our teacher. I’d always been good at drawing (good for nothing else my Pa said) and our teacher, Miss Hester Baumgartner was a subject no artist could resist. You see, Miss Baumgartner was ugly, stop in the street and stare ugly God help her and I was about as cruel as an eight year old boy can be. For the benefit of those who do not own an eight year old or cannot remember being one let me assure that is very cruel indeed. Let me describe her. She was tall and narrow. If you couldn’t see her head (which was a blessing) you wouldn’t know front from back unless you noticed which way her canoe-like feet were pointing. She had a yellow, pockmarked face, her hair was scraped back into a bun as big as a roundshot. My Pa said her eyes were like two wormholes in a coffin lid and her nose looked like a blind cobbler’s thumb. To finish off the picture she had a puckered, hens hole of a mouth that somehow managed to contain the teeth of a donkey. Irresistible to a nasty eight year old with clever fingers and I’d captured her perfectly. Freddie, having controlled himself, whispered. ‘That’s the livin’ image of her Billy but she’ll skin you alive if she sees it.’ Pride in my handiwork gave way to bravado. ‘She won’t see it,’ I declared. Pride truly does come before a fall. A hand descended on my shoulder. I looked sideways in horror at the bitten fingernails on that hand. Fingernails gnawed to the quick by donkey teeth. ‘What won’t she see Billy?’ Miss Baumgartner asked. Her voice was low and sweet. A lovely thing and totally at odds with her appearance. She sounded like an angel when she spoke and sang. I crossed my arms over my slate. ‘Move your arms please Billy,’ she said. Freddie was leaning so far away from me in his chair that I thought he would topple off. His eyes were out like like organ stops, his breath caught in his throat. I could feel the eyes of the whole class crawl over me like ants. I swallowed a lump as big as a melon and slowly moved my arms. There was silence. Then Miss Baumgartner’s hand left my shoulder and I flinched awaiting a blow but none came. Instead her hand reached down and plucked up my slate. Unable to move, I glanced sideways at Freddie. His eyes were shut tight and his lips moved as if in silent prayer. ‘This is very good Billy,’ Miss Baumgartner said, her tone as level and mellifluous as ever. ‘You really do have a God given gift for sketching.’ Her hand patted my shoulder and she walked away up the aisle toward her own desk clutching my slate. As she walked she said. ‘Y’all run along outside for lunch now children.’ You can be sure that I led the charge out into the yard followed by the rest of the school. They surrounded me, aching to know what had happened and Freddie, my right hand man, was aching just as hard to tell them. ‘Oh you should’ve seen it!, Billy drew a pitcher of Miss Bumgarter that was so real I thought it was gonna talk and she seen it!’ There were gasps. Some of the younger kids reached out to touch me as if I was some lucky relic that could pass good fortune through my pores along with the greasy sweat that covered me. I even drew an admiring glance from Jeb Garrison and his small coterie of apprentice bullies. I couldn’t enjoy my fame however, my stomach was in knots. As the telling of my tale grew with each repetition I slipped away and back to the schoolhouse. Miss Baumgartner, for all her ugliness was not mean, she spared the rod more than she administered it but I dreaded whatever punishment she might be dreaming up for me. If she sent another letter to my parents I’d be dead meat. I sneaked around the side of the building and crept to the window of the little room where Miss Baumgartner ate her lunch. Taking a deep breath I peered in at the window. The room was empty. My stomach dropped. Had she taken the slate right around to my house? I dashed to the back of the schoolhouse where I could see the little road that led to town. That too was empty; unless she had flown she would still have been in sight if she’d gone that way. I sighed with relief but the curiosity still ate at me. Where was she? The only place left was the classroom. I went to the window and looked in. Miss Baumgartner was sitting at her desk at the front of the class. My slate lay before her. She was weeping. I was appalled. I’d never imagined that teachers could cry but there sat the proof. Her narrow shoulders shook with sobs and tears ran down her pockmarked cheeks. The artist that I hoped to become could never capture an image of despair as poignant as the sight of Miss Baumgartner crying over that chalk portrait. I never felt as wretched as I did then. I would have given worlds to be able to turn the clock back ten minutes and sweep my arm across that slate and undo the damage. Suddenly, she looked up and saw me standing outside the window. Her wormhole eyes widened, her mouth unpuckered to form a big startled ‘O’ and those nail-bitten fingers fluttered to her throat. She was no longer the ogress. She was a young woman doing a thankless job out of love who did not deserve the treatment she had received from a cruel and precocious eight year old. I burst into tears myself. There we were blubbing at each other, separated by a pane of dusty glass. I think something passed between us in those awful seconds, an understanding, an apology and a promise more eloquent in that pained silence than any words could have expressed. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. I made use of my sleeve and the tail of my shirt. She replaced the handkerchief and smiled at me. Then she wiped my slate clean. Miss Baumgartner was beautiful in that moment. I’m not going to say that I changed my ways from that day on because things like that don’t happen in real life. Me and Freddie were holy terrors and we acted up like all kids did. What I can say is that I learned a great and valuable lesson that day. From a great teacher. © Mark Tomlinson All Rights Reserved www.millionstories.net |
A Lesson From Miss Baumgartner
Mark Tomlinson
Mark Tomlinson
| We like this story because: It reminds us that growing up is hard to do at any age, and if you happen to own an eight year old boy, good luck! |
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