I sank into a kitchen chair someone brought outside. Women fluttered around, offering tea and sweets until I could stand again. Each time I felt weaker. When the tremor didn’t come, some got back in line for better luck next time. I worked until dusk, when Henry came. “You all go home now, and let Miss Renner rest.” The crowdleft slowly, some muttering: “Easy for him to say. It worked for him.” Others consoled me: “Don’t feel bad, we’ll come back.” Henry helped me into my house, reluctantly agreed to take money left by seekers to the Galway Benevolent Society, and then turned back.
“It’s yours, Hazel. You earned it.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Well, maybe not,” he said thoughtfully, “if the touch comes from the Lord, like Agnes says. I wonder what Reverend Collins thinks of all this.”
“I don’t know.” Finally he left. I could barely recognize myself in the mirror. Was I Hazel the schoolmarm or the Lord’s vessel? Did Margit Brandt, catching sight of herself in Heidelberg, Dogwood, or New York City, ever wonder: Who is this woman? I dreamt of men in scarlet jackets chasing me through an endless hall of mirrors, calling for Hilde.
Of course I came to school tired and poorly prepared, with no clever learning games or contests. We passed the day in dreary drills. “Like when Miss Clay was here,” Frances whispered. I’d have to do better. The students shouldn’t suffer because farmers’ joints ached. Seekers did come after school, seven who hadn’t been helped on Sunday, and another five. Tremors came for half of them. When night fell, I excused myself to work and stayed up late planning better lessons for the week.
The next two weeks took their toll on my house and me. Even if no “cures” were attributed to the paint alone, great patches of it were being chipped away. The boards themselves grew nicked as if gnawed by mice. In cold or rainy days, people took to waiting on my porch or in the house, tracking in mud, sometimes helping themselves to food left as gifts or to my own provisions. Those who hadn’t been helped perhaps felt their pains and disappointments merited this recompense. Each day I grew more weary and drained, as if both cures and failures were sucking away my strength.
In mid-November, Reverend Collins presented himself at the schoolhouse, waiting impatiently until the last child left to announce that I was driving people from the church. “They’re saying the schoolteacher will cure them if the Good Lord can’t. Edna Fuller abandoned her husband because of you. Is that holy work?” He crossed his arms as he often did during sermons, letting minutes crawl by as the congregation squirmed.
“Reverend, I never claimed divine powers.”
“Never? Didn’t you tell the Burnetts you could cast out devils?”
“No, I never said that. Alice has epilepsy. I noticed that Henry and Agnes felt better, and because I was so worried about Alice—”
“You told her parents you could cure her.”
Put thus, of course I seemed a charlatan with claims buoyed by hysterical faith or lucky coincidence. “Reverend, I don’t know what’s happening or why. Sometimes a sort of tremor runs through me and people are cured, or seem to be helped. Why? Because of me or John Foster or Ben or the house? Maybe the paint? I don’t know. I just try to—do some good.”
“This is a Christian town, Hazel. Or it was, until you came. Does your power come from Satan?”
“I don’t deserve that question.”
Still a pastor despite his anger, he softened. “I’ll walk you home, Hazel. The ways of the Lord are beyond our understanding. But consider, if these are unholy powers, you must pray for the Lord to remove them. And if they are from the Lord, you must pray for wisdom to use them wisely.”
“Yes, Reverend.” On the way home, we managed a little conversation about the Christmas program. He did acknowledge that school attendance had never been higher.
“I’m glad. I enjoy
“It’s yours, Hazel. You earned it.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Well, maybe not,” he said thoughtfully, “if the touch comes from the Lord, like Agnes says. I wonder what Reverend Collins thinks of all this.”
“I don’t know.” Finally he left. I could barely recognize myself in the mirror. Was I Hazel the schoolmarm or the Lord’s vessel? Did Margit Brandt, catching sight of herself in Heidelberg, Dogwood, or New York City, ever wonder: Who is this woman? I dreamt of men in scarlet jackets chasing me through an endless hall of mirrors, calling for Hilde.
Of course I came to school tired and poorly prepared, with no clever learning games or contests. We passed the day in dreary drills. “Like when Miss Clay was here,” Frances whispered. I’d have to do better. The students shouldn’t suffer because farmers’ joints ached. Seekers did come after school, seven who hadn’t been helped on Sunday, and another five. Tremors came for half of them. When night fell, I excused myself to work and stayed up late planning better lessons for the week.
The next two weeks took their toll on my house and me. Even if no “cures” were attributed to the paint alone, great patches of it were being chipped away. The boards themselves grew nicked as if gnawed by mice. In cold or rainy days, people took to waiting on my porch or in the house, tracking in mud, sometimes helping themselves to food left as gifts or to my own provisions. Those who hadn’t been helped perhaps felt their pains and disappointments merited this recompense. Each day I grew more weary and drained, as if both cures and failures were sucking away my strength.
In mid-November, Reverend Collins presented himself at the schoolhouse, waiting impatiently until the last child left to announce that I was driving people from the church. “They’re saying the schoolteacher will cure them if the Good Lord can’t. Edna Fuller abandoned her husband because of you. Is that holy work?” He crossed his arms as he often did during sermons, letting minutes crawl by as the congregation squirmed.
“Reverend, I never claimed divine powers.”
“Never? Didn’t you tell the Burnetts you could cast out devils?”
“No, I never said that. Alice has epilepsy. I noticed that Henry and Agnes felt better, and because I was so worried about Alice—”
“You told her parents you could cure her.”
Put thus, of course I seemed a charlatan with claims buoyed by hysterical faith or lucky coincidence. “Reverend, I don’t know what’s happening or why. Sometimes a sort of tremor runs through me and people are cured, or seem to be helped. Why? Because of me or John Foster or Ben or the house? Maybe the paint? I don’t know. I just try to—do some good.”
“This is a Christian town, Hazel. Or it was, until you came. Does your power come from Satan?”
“I don’t deserve that question.”
Still a pastor despite his anger, he softened. “I’ll walk you home, Hazel. The ways of the Lord are beyond our understanding. But consider, if these are unholy powers, you must pray for the Lord to remove them. And if they are from the Lord, you must pray for wisdom to use them wisely.”
“Yes, Reverend.” On the way home, we managed a little conversation about the Christmas program. He did acknowledge that school attendance had never been higher.
“I’m glad. I enjoy
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