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Monday, June 3, 1918 … The Substitute
“Children, it’s Mo- … Ah, children, quiet down and go to your seats quickly. I am your substitute teacher today. My name is Mr. Pearson!” Sluggishly the rather noisy students arrived at their assigned seats in the one-room schoolhouse.
“Today is Monday, June 4, 1918. And for you little ones, yesterday was Sunday, and tomorrow will be Tuesday. This month is called June, last month was May, and next month is July. As you probably know, it’s the last week of school.” The spartan classroom was warm and humid as fourteen boys and girls aged 7 through 17 settled down at their desks.
“So, boys and girls, your young teacher has taken ill this fine day, so here I am back at what used to be my desk before I supposedly got too old and tired to teach every day.” The words rang out from the tiny mouth of the ancient-looking schoolmaster. His tall, wiry frame towered above the pupil desks as he paced in front of the first row. His thoughts drifted to last June, when the powers that be in Jacksonport decided he should retire. Hugo Pearson was well into his sixties but no one really knew how far into that decade of age he really was. Saddened to leave his post of over twenty years, he recalled that his health was very fine indeed, at that time and even now. He always had a hunch he was shoved aside since the new and young lady teacher was hired from the city of Madison, and apparently she was related to someone in the town who carried a big stick. He shrugged his bony shoulders and got the class day started.
Ber and Ben Bailey, sitting in that first row of wooden school desks, whispered quietly, unheard by the other pupils thanks to the creaking of the roof, walls, and windows at the edge of the downtown Jacksonport schoolhouse. The nasty rain of recent days was gone, but wild winds swept the small village like a banshee. Usually the smaller children were assigned to the front row in school, but with Ben’s poor eyesight, he needed to be as close to the front as possible. He was a lanky lad of 14 years.
Ber could think of only one thing today, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with sitting in this class. She yearned to walk the beach along the shore of Lake Michigan, just steps away from this little prison of a room. She wondered how big and noisy the waves would be, since these were straight easterlies, coming in with a vengeance. Ber loved when the waves crashed on the shore. There was really no other place she’d rather be, and this had been the case with her since the tender age of three.
“Miss Berserk Bailey, stand please,” wailed the elderly gentleman as he sat hunched over a pile of papers on the large teacher desk. He grimaced as Ber looked at him, startled by his voice and taken aback by his menacing countenance. “Berserk,” he continued, “would you please be so kind as to begin our class lessons today by reciting the twos multiplication table, beginning with two times two? You need not come to the recitation desk.” Ber stuttered a bit and then began rather hesitantly. “Two times two equals four, two times three equals six, two times four equals eight … “ She finished and sat down. She didn’t like being put on the spot, but thankfully she knew most of her multiplication facts. Mr. Pearson grinned slightly and called on another pupil to recite the threes table. “Miss Pristine Parker, stand please,” he bellowed.
The morning dragged on; the children demonstrated a lukewarm response to just about every lesson the teaching veteran attempted to present. Having a substitute teacher was ok, but they really weren’t that fond of Mr. Pearson, whom they privately called “Prickly Pearson the Pickle”.
Finally, it was recess time.
Bursting out of the schoolhouse, Jacksonport’s finest youth bounced into the front yard and began their usual play routines. The boys gathered in smaller groups and chatted or played marbles in the dirt, while the girls formed a large circle and undertook various skipping and singing games. Lately they had been learning a new game called “Bear in the Pit”. Forming a circle and holding hands, the children would try to prevent the child who is “the Bear” from getting out. Eventually the bear finds a way out, under the children’s joined arms or between someone’s legs. Once out, the bear is chased by the children until tagged. Whoever tags the escaped bear becomes the next bear in the circle. But today it was simply “Ring Around the Rosie”, which Pris’ mother had told her had something to do with some plague that happened in the olden days.
“Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posey, ashes, ashes, we all fall down” the high-pitched chorus sang out. The girls were holding hands, jumping up and down, and pulling each other in a vigorous counter-clockwise circle. The little children took great delight in falling down, laughing as they tumbled onto their bottoms into the weed-covered schoolyard.
Pris Parker did not participate in this game. She seemed to be aimlessly wandering around, looking somewhat preoccupied with her thoughts. She drew the attention of a trio of younger boys who were watching her rather curiously. “Prissy Parker, she’s a barker, Prissy Parker, what a barker!” the chant was heard. The boys pretended they were going to chase her, gesturing in her direction with their bodies. Pris frowned as the boys started to move in on her. There was no supervision of the children, as Mr. Pearson had stayed inside the building. Pris liked it better when the teacher came out and played with them.
Pris turned on both heels, looked quickly at the ground to check her footing in the wet grass, and took off running, away from the three shabbily-dressed little boys with smirks on their lightly-freckled sixth-grade faces. As she distanced herself from them, she glanced over her shoulder to get a glimpse of their antics, which, as always, meant they were down on all fours, climbing over each other, growling like dogs and whining incessantly. “Not again,” Pris thought to herself.
“Prissy Parker, she’s a barker, Prissy Parker, what a barker” the trio sang out. The grass in the shade of the old oak tree with its swing made from an old tire and a retired hangman’s rope was even wetter than the sun-drenched patch surrounding the schoolhouse. She slipped, lost her footing, and as she began her quick slide into a horizontal position, the eighth-grade girl let loose a flood of hot tears. Laying in the grass, Pris wondered how many more times she’d have to tattle on John, William, and Thomas. It had been a few days since she last complained to her teacher. She didn’t think she deserved to be bullied, especially by younger children.
“Well, what’s the use,“ she said aloud as she slowly lifted her body off the ground. But this time she decided she was mad as a hornet. “I’m telling him,” she added. “I don’t care if he’s only a substitute, maybe he’ll punish those troublemakers.”
But recess should be over by now, Pris surmised by a quick mental calculation of average recess time. After so many years, she had it nailed down pretty well. But now no bell was heard. Hmmm, she thought, was Mr. Pearson giving the children extra time today, she wondered. Not likely, she corrected herself. He must be writing a test on the board, she guessed, and he’s just behind in his preparations. “Well, maybe now is my chance to get this off my shoulders once and for all,” she whispered to herself.
With that, the exasperated Door County girl got up her courage and did a quick walk across the schoolyard with the gusty wind at her back. She darted up the three steps into the entry hall, practically stumbling over some child’s hat that must have fallen from the hook of the long rack of mostly brown attire. Mornings were starting to be chilly, and she made a mental note that a hat wasn’t a bad idea this time of year, especially with all the wind they’d been having.
“Mr. Pearson, Mr. Pearson,” Pris exclaimed, as she rushed into the large classroom. She was out of breath. “I know recess is almost over, and I do realize you are busy, but Mr. Pearson, please please listen … some boys are teasing me again. They are bullies … I need to have you put a stop to these boys, I’m just sick of being picked on, and … Mr. Pearson, are you sleeping Mr. Pearson?”
“Are you tired, Mr. Pearson?” Pris quizzed, her arms akimbo. “Did you not sleep well last night? If you could just look up and give me a minute please … Mr. Pearson? MR. PEARSON!”
Pris scooted around the desk and stood behind the slumped figure. She gently placed her trembling hands on the teacher’s motionless shoulders, desperately hoping he would not become startled nor offended by the gesture. But nothing happened, except that a low-pitched gurgling sound and then a loud burp came from the hunched man. Pris grabbed a better hold on his shoulders, squeezed a little harder, and shouted once again, “Mr. Pearson, if you’re not feeling well, I will go fetch some help … Yes, I can go get somebody!”
All of a sudden, Pearson’s hands left the desk, his long fingernails slowly scratching its slippery surface. His body fell sideways out of the chair and onto the floor. Pris now saw his face, and it was ashen and lifeless. She screamed.
Pris Parker had never felt her heart beat so fast, her hands shake so hard, and her mind race with myriad thoughts. She reckoned the man was dead, but she wasn’t sure, having never been near a person that was dead.
The children on the schoolyard saw Pris rush out of the schoolhouse and couldn’t help but hear her screaming her head off.
“Something’s wrong with the teacher! We have to go get help! Mr. Pearson fell on the floor. He might even be dead … I don’t know … You bigger boys, a couple of you go get help. The rest of you can help me get the little children home. I think school is over for the day … oh, no, this is horrible! The teacher wouldn’t talk to me and then I touched him and he fell over … out of the teacher chair and onto the floor,” Pris’ voice crackled as she ran out of breath to tell the quick story to whoever was in her hurried path.
By some sort of stroke of good luck, the boys didn’t need to look too far for an adult to help them deal with their new predicament. Running into town, Patrick Parker, Pris’ older brother, saw a man walking toward him. It was Jacksonport’s postmaster, Mr. Wagener.
“Mr. Wagener, Mr. Wagener, I’m so glad I found you. Come quick. Follow me to the school. Something bad has happened,” Patrick exclaimed, enunciating every syllable carefully.
“What is it, boy? You seem quite upset, son,” the gentleman replied calmly. “What is happening?”
“Just follow me please Mr. Wagener. Come with me quickly to the school,” reiterated the now out-of-breath tall, dark, fifteen-year old lad.
Pris and Ber walked home from school more than a bit shaken by the teacher’s collapse. Ber asked: “Do you think he is dead, Pris? Was he breathing when you left him on the floor?” Pris answered quickly. “I just don’t know the answer to either of your questions. But I do think it was a little strange that he called on you and me to recite the times tables, didn’t you?” Ber replied, “Yes, but maybe he was seeing us as much younger students because of when he used to teach here years ago.” Pris added, “Well, maybe that’s why he lost his job teaching. He could be gradually losing his memory.”
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No part of this work was created with Artificial Intelligence (AI). It is all the original ideation and writing from 2014 through 2023 by Stephen C. Allen.
Copyright 2023 Stephen C. Allen
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