A Troubled Dream

 

*I left home at 18 years of age. I had a high school diploma and that was good enough. I answered an ad and applied for the job of teaching school as far away from home as I could manage. I had some savings. Enough to resettle in the primitive little wooden town.*

A Troubled Dream 

Cordelia Monson is stretched out on her narrow bed. She tosses fitfully, first one side, then another. She cries out briefly.

Outside the sky is a sullen emerald green. Light seems to emanate from the clouds as if they contained some sort of innate illumination. Far over the hills outside town she hears slight mumblings of thunder and perhaps a sort of echoing call.

Her mother will be grieving. She finds herself walking in the basement of her old home in Washington. It is very dark down there with the spare bed and dressers and other old forgotten things. She feels her way around, hands outstretched. She hears dull rumbles and mutterings from the small basement windows, which are open, strangely.

How did she get here, she wonders.

She walks from room to room calling, whispering “mother….mother.” The storm nears. She can see lightning flashes, but they are strangely colored. Lightning is not green, surely.

Something large and black with a huge wingspan flies near her head suddenly and she swings at it with all her strength! Large black wings brush her unbound hair, and she sits up suddenly in bed, shuddering.

Cordelia decides to write a letter to her mother tomorrow. Sighs.

She thinks of Franklin Lewis, arises to close her bedroom window almost reflexively, and hops back into bed. Tomorrow is a school day. Dawn is hurrying to her.

* 

After she has dressed for the day and eaten a hurried little meal of bread and butter with sweetened tea, she gathers a few things into her school bag.

When she opens her front door fresh morning air with some dew still in it washes over her. She takes a deep breath and looks at the sky and the mountains. She can smell various resinous plants, sage I suppose. There is another woodsy essence aloft also. A slight breeze teases her carefully arranged hair. Out of the corner of her eye she sees some great bird with black wings fly by and disappear behind her house. She does not know it, but the word omen begins moving toward her conscious thought.

She squares her shoulders and thinks of the 15 children that she will be meeting with today. This brings a smile for she is a careful and kind school mistress. It is her second year as school teacher here. The town’s people are pleased with her.

Walking back towards town and the school, the road is dusty as is usual for summer. She passes a man on the road who takes his right hand out of his jeans pocket and tips his black hat as she passes. “Good morning,” she whispers, chin up, eyes down.  No casual flirt is our Cordelia. She has a polite, remote manner, as she was taught is correct, but she has seen him anyhow. 

She unlocks the front door of the little school building. There is no bell for her to ring as there is no bell tower. A coat of white paint would help a lot here. 

She doesn’t need to make a fire today. The stove in the corner will stay cold. At her desk she waits until all 15 students have arrived and taken their own seats. She glances out the window and down the street, but she doesn’t know what she is looking for out there. In any case, the man is not visible from the school.

She says hello and good morning as she stands there. The morning sun defines and highlights her fresh pleasant appearance. Cheeks are pink, eyes are dark blue, hair is nearly black and swept up. She leads a simple morning prayer and the pledge. She goes about her lessons and the morning passes cheerfully. The room is noisy but orderly.  She does not require the children to be silent as some do.

The littlest children make her lonely in a way she doesn’t quite perceive. Their tender earnest foolishness touches her heart.

The children run home to their mothers for an hour at noon for lunch and a little rest. After lunch, at school Miss Monson, as they call her, watches over some outdoor play. Then everyone goes back inside for a couple of hours more schoolwork, and the day is done.

* 

No one escorts Miss Monson home. She has no anxiety about being alone. Nothing untoward has ever happened to her in Legrande. By herself, carrying her school bag, she retraces her steps from this morning to her little house. There is no lawn here, but just a path through some random vegetation. Walking to her door, she notices a black feather lying there beside the path. It was not there that morning.

* 

She doesn’t know if her letter will open more wounds than it heals, but she writes it anyway. Mr. and Mrs. R. Monson, 160 Poplar Ave, Spokane, WA. Roger and Amelia. Perhaps they will have thought she was dead somewhere. For the first time she considers her cruelty. She walks to the tiny post office in the drygoods store and posts her letter, for better or for worse. She is very glad that she will not be a witness to the reception of her letter.

* 

There he is again. This time exiting the drygoods store at the same time she is. What is he doing here anyhow, she wonders, as he walks away toward the busier downtown of Legrande. Cordelia doesn’t like to feel awkward.