The Esther Vice House

By Wilma Smith

During the Spring of 1929, a terrible accident changes the life course of Esther Clark, a young teacher in rural Indiana. Hearing a scream, she races out the schoolhouse door, finding six-year-old Willie writhing on the ground, holding his bloody eye. A whirlwind of events carries the unwilling and skeptical Esther through revival meetings by a charismatic traveling evangelist and dumps her in despair when the school board unexpectedly fires her. What's more, her mother shames her into an unlikely marriage that propels her on a cross-country journey which challenges her faith, explores the hardships of poverty and loneliness, and ultimately provides testament to the perseverance of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wilma Smith
• Release date: Oct 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301856237

Wilma Smith

Wilma F. Smith is a retired educator who enjoyed a versatile forty-eight year career of teacher, principal, superintendent of schools, consultant, and senior associate for national network of schools and colleges. Publications include: Leadership for Educational Renewal, School-Based Management, Metaphor for Motivation, Instructional Leadership, How Principals Make a Difference, and Interaction Incidents for School Leaders. She is a member of the Skagit Valley Writers League. She participates in a creative writing group in Tucson, Arizona.

Book preview

Chapter 1

William Tell

Calmly writing grammar drills on the blackboard, my hand froze as I heard a shrill scream from the schoolyard. Heart pounding, I raced for the door, dreading what I might find.

As I emerged into the bright sunshine, Annie came running toward me, out of breath, her face ashen. Come quick, Miss Clark. Aaron’s killed Willie!

No, Annie, surely not.

I could see my students gathered around a figure writhing on the ground. I prayed, Please, God, help Willie. His inquisitive six-year-old face flashed through my mind—freckled snub nose, deep-set blue eyes widening with wonder as he caught onto the miracle of reading his primer.

The children stepped away wordlessly as I knelt beside Willie, his fist shoved tight against his left eye. As he sobbed and shuddered, I ripped off the sleeve of my blouse, gently moved Willie’s fist, and wrapped the cloth around his head, trying to staunch the flow of blood coming out of his eye. Don’t they say to put pressure on a hemorrhage? I pressed my fingers against the makeshift bandage. His body sagged limply against my knee.

I looked up at my students. What on earth happened out here? Did someone throw a rock?

No one answered. The children were suddenly quiet, frightened.

Trembling, I gathered Willie in my arms and carried him back into the schoolhouse.

Alice, I urged, bring me a wet towel.

I struggled to keep calm and think rationally even though my heart was fluttering and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I am the only adult here. I am in charge. No one could help me think this through.

What had I learned about first aid last year in teacher training? I wasn’t sure, but I was certain that Willie needed medical attention right away. Where was the nearest doctor? I thought that one maybe lived in a small town three miles away.

Fred, go tell the doctor in town that Willie is bleeding and has an eye injury.

Fred, a sinewy thirteen year old, raced out the door. A moment later I could hear him galloping away on his horse.

Paul, we need to get Willie’s parents here as soon as possible. Go fetch them at once.

Paul took off at full speed, but I knew it would be a while before he returned with the Amundsons. Their house was at least two miles from the school.

Willie grabbed my sleeveless arm, sobbing. Miss Clark, oooh, my eye hurts so bad!

I know, Willie. The doctor is coming soon. Can you tell me what happened? As I patted his back, his body stiffened.

When he fainted, I sent Annie to bring the water bucket. Carefully pouring the cool water over the towel that covered his eye, I realized that I had no idea of the nature of Willie’s wound. I couldn’t bear to look at it. Whatever scant courage I possessed had left me. What was my responsibility, my liability? I had been writing the afternoon assignments on the blackboard when Willie was hurt. How could I have been in two places at once?

It wasn’t long until Willie came to and began to shiver, so I covered him with a coat.

Come, boys and girls, I said, sit here on the floor in a circle. Let’s sing to help Willie feel better. What’s his favorite song?

Oh, Willie loves the kitty song, Annie piped up.

My young students’ sweet voices were augmented by the deeper voices of the eighth graders as we sang, their scared faces gradually relaxing just a bit.

"Once I had a kitty, pretty kitty-cat,

Dressed him up with boots on,

A great big cowboy hat!

Took him out a strolling,

On a summer’s day,

Along came Farmer Jones’ old dog

And chased my kitty away…

Let’s keep on singing until the doctor gets here, I urged, not knowing what else to do. We sang all the songs we could think of, and still no one came. We repeated a few of the songs I thought were the students’ favorites.

After what seemed to be hours later, Willie’s parents rushed into the room, faces sharp with alarm. Mrs. Amundson fell to her knees beside her son.

Oh, Willie, my dear son, you’re going to be all right!

Mr. Amundson came up to me, speaking quietly. I’m trying to understand what happened, Miss Clark. How did Willie get hurt?

Since I didn’t know exactly what had happened, I asked the students to tell us about the accident. Paul, having just returned with the Amundsons, told us how it all started.

Aaron said he wanted to show us a new game called William Tell. He lined us up against the picket fence to watch. Then he said he wanted a first grader to be the most important person in this game. He pointed right at Willie and told him he’d be great because his name was William.

Paul took a deep breath. He told us that Willie would be a hero. Then he told him to stand in front of the walnut tree.

As Paul paused, Annie jumped in.

Aaron gave me an apple and told me to put it on top of Willie’s head. So I stood on my tiptoes and did it. I didn’t know what Aaron was going to do, honest, I didn’t. She shook her head vigorously from side to side, frowning.

Aaron picked up his bow and arrow, Paul continued, and he aimed right at Willie, like this. He stood up and showed how Aaron had stood, arrow aimed at Willie. Yes, he did. And he used a loud voice to tell Willie to hold his breath because he was going to shoot that apple right off the top of his head.

Yes, he did, the other children chanted, scooting up closer to me where I still sat holding Willie, his mother by my side.

Alice told us, We all saw the arrow fly at Willie. It hit him smack in the eye and bounced off to the ground. Willie fell down, screaming. It was awful.

And I came to get Miss Clark, Annie said. I thought Willie was dead.

The children fell silent, and I was speechless. I couldn’t believe Aaron would have made up such a game. He had always been a quiet boy, not one to get in trouble. How could he have brought that bow and arrow to school without me seeing it? He must have hidden it somewhere in the brush by the fence. And what made him choose to dramatize the William Tell myth that I had read to the children? What could I have done to prevent this awful accident? I bit my lip, shuddering, my mouth dry like sandpaper. Mrs. Amundson wordlessly patted my shoulder, trying to comfort me as well as her son who lay in my arms.

Just then, Fred arrived with the doctor. The children moved aside as Dr. Ashton knelt beside Willie, taking out his stethoscope and gently removing the towel and torn scrap of sleeve. His examination was completed quickly.

Willie, he said quietly, You are going to be all right—yes, you are going to live to be a grown-up. But I am afraid that you will need to learn to see with only your right eye.

Alice sniffled. Paul’s mouth fell open in amazement. No one spoke a word.

I groaned inwardly at the doctor’s verdict, but the Amundsons just nodded silently. They asked Dr. Ashton to help them move Willie to their buggy and to give them some medical advice. I couldn’t believe their calm and collected attitude. They hadn’t said one word of blame to me. Even so, I felt that I should have seen Aaron with his bow and arrow, or heard the commotion as he was lining up the students. I couldn’t hold back the tears that rushed to my eyes.

As the children made way for Willie’s family to leave, they began looking around for Aaron, who was nowhere to be found. I saw Paul rush outside, and it wasn’t long until he came back in the door, Aaron in tow.

He was shouting at Aaron. You need to come back in here right now. Willie’s family is taking him home and you had better own up to what you did to him.

The boys came toward us, Paul holding Aaron by the arm, steering him over to the Amundsons, who were moving Willie toward the door. Aaron pushed back the stiff black hair that hung down over his eyes. He paused, shoulders slumped in dismay, looking down at his scruffy high-top shoes.

I watched, holding my breath, as Mr. Amundson looked sternly at Aaron. Young man, he said in a soft, firm voice, you have severely wounded Willie today by your thoughtless act. He will never again be able to see out of his left eye, and he is in terrible pain right now.

I didn’t mean to hurt him, sir, honest I didn’t. I was just playing a game. I’m sorry, Willie. You are brave.

We know you didn’t mean to hurt him, son, and we won’t hold this accident against you. But we want you to tell your parents about it. Aaron, we hope you will be much more thoughtful and careful in the future.

Aaron nodded. I need to go home now, Miss Clark. I feel awful. I can’t stand to think about Willie losing his eye. He turned abruptly and headed for home, his chin down and his feet dragging.

The Amundsons loaded Willie into their buggy, leaving the rest of us standing in the schoolyard, stunned.

I thought we should talk about the accident and what we might learn from it, but I was too overcome with shock to lead a discussion. I had to clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking. After a moment of awkward silence, I asked two of the eighth graders, Amy and Charles, to help the students talk about what had happened. They took over, talking calmly about being more careful on the playground, and about ways they could help Willie when he came back to school. I sat silent in my chair, still shaking.

A while later I managed to collect myself enough to stand by the door as my students left for home, two hours early. I hugged each one and told them, Pray for Willie.

When the children had gone, I sat back down at my desk, head in my hands, and recalled the frightening scene over and over again. Once the details had all become clear in my mind, the story repeated itself over and over. I couldn’t clear the images from my mind, and I had no idea what to do next.

That day in April, 1929, marked my first year of teaching in this one-room schoolhouse in rural Indiana. On June first I will be twenty, I thought, but I feel more like fifty.

Chapter 2

Home on the Interurban

I mechanically went through my end-of-day routine, getting everything ready for another day of school tomorrow. To lay a fire in the pot-bellied stove at the rear of the room, I crumpled sheets of paper I had taken from my wastebasket, putting them on the bottom of the stove right under the grate. I gathered several sticks of kindling wood from the old metal tub in the corner and laid them criss-cross on top of the paper.

Lifting the coal scuttle from its place beside the kindling tub, I went out behind the schoolhouse to the coal bin. I filled the scuttle with several shovelfuls of the hard black anthracite coal, my mind wandering to tomorrow. In the morning when I arrived at the schoolhouse around seven o’clock, I would light the kindling before doing anything else. Spring mornings were still crisp. When the fire was burning steadily, I would add some lumps of coal and adjust the damper to make sure the fire would continue to burn, warming the room for the arrival of the first students around eight thirty.

My stomach cramped suddenly, and I groaned, thinking of Willie. Oh, how he loved to warm his hands by the stove. Letting out a sigh, I took a deep breath and continued with my chores.

I straightened the four rows of eight wooden desks affixed to runners to keep each row straight, one student sitting behind another. I stopped in front of the third desk from the right. Willie sat right here. Will he be able to come back to school soon?

Grabbing the dust mop from the closet next to the coat hooks, I swept under the desks and in the aisles, carefully gathering the dirt in the dustpan and dumping it outside. Oh, how I wish I could sweep my thoughts away.

Next, I erased the blackboard and wrote the next morning’s assignments for each of the grades—for reading, writing, and arithmetic. This would carry us through the noon recess, when I would erase the board and write the afternoon assignments for science, history, and geography.

I shook my head as though I could ward off the thought that this particular task was what I was doing a few hours ago. This task that was interrupted by students’ screams. Poor Willie.

My mind continued to replay this scene, and I said a little prayer for Willie as I forced myself to concentrate on finishing the tasks of the day.

I gathered up the arithmetic and grammar papers my students had placed on my desk, stuffing them into my cloth briefcase. I put on my coat, turned off the lights, and locked the heavy wooden door. I picked up my briefcase and my purse, and headed off walking about a mile to the last stop of the Interurban electric railcar, my way home.

Welcome aboard, Miss Clark. Did you have a good day? the conductor asked as I boarded the car. He punched my monthly ticket and tipped his hat.

I smiled weakly. Thanks, Charlie, I’m glad to be going home today.

I couldn’t talk about the arrow incident right then. Somehow I would manage to get through my story when I arrived home to meet the steady and unflinching gaze of my mother, Maude. Mom’s attitude had become unpredictable lately, sometimes accepting, sometimes stern. Would she blame me?

I settled into my seat by the window, watching the farmland pass by, still replaying the schoolhouse scene, still hearing the screams of the children. Thankfully, no one sat by me that afternoon. Each passenger who boarded the car walked past me, settling down in other rows and chatting with their seat partners, leaving me to fixate on the ponderous matters in my mind.

When we reached the center of Garrett, I got off the interurban and walked the remaining blocks home. I tried to focus my mind away from Willie’s accident, thinking instead about our neighbors as I passed by their homes.

Joe and Emma McCorkle lived in the blue house, where I used to baby-sit their children. Next door to them lived Mr. Burtch, the ice delivery man. Then I passed the beautiful garden of the Omohundro family. Generous people, they often shared their produce with us during the peak season. Sometimes in the winter, Mr. Omohundro would give my brothers and sisters and me a ride to school in his Model T Ford.

I focused my attention on these positive thoughts, bracing myself for the moment when I would have to tell my mother what had happened today. Will she understand what happened? Will she understand how I feel?

Our modest white house was directly across from the Omohundros, set back from the street behind a yard with a lawn and several large oak trees. I went up the six wooden steps to the front porch and walked slowly to the front door. Usually, upon arriving home after work I would bound through the door like a schoolgirl, eager to share my day with Mom, who had herself been a school teacher for a short time before she married and was forced to quit. But today, my heart heavy, I slipped into the parlor, hoping that Mom wouldn’t hear me enter.

I smelled sautéed onions, guessing she was making potato soup for supper. Creeping past the kitchen door, I moved down the hall to the bedroom that I shared with my younger sister, Mary The room, luckily, was empty. Mary hadn’t come home yet from her housecleaning job, so I took off my shoes and coat and lay down on the bed.

I was startled by Mom shaking my shoulder. I sat up abruptly, disoriented. Esther, whatever is the matter with you? I didn’t know you were here until I brought Mary’s blouses to hang them up. Are you all right?

Oh, Mom. I burst into tears as she sat beside me on the bed, her arm around my waist. This has been the most terrible day of my life.

Mom listened intently as I related the incident, detail after detail. As I finished telling her about the reaction of the Amundsons, my sobs overcame me. Mom held me tightly, hugging me as though I were her little girl once again.

There, there, she murmured, lifting my chin to look into my eyes. Jesus will make you whole. He will take care of Willie and his parents—you know that, Esther. Just calm down now, take a deep breath, and come out to help me with the supper. We can talk some more in the kitchen.

Meekly, I followed her out to the kitchen, took up a paring knife, and began peeling potatoes for the soup kettle. Mom’s nurturing moment had struck me as surprising, and was uncharacteristic of her these days. She seemed to spend most of her energy exhorting her children to give up the pleasures of the flesh and for us to devote ourselves to following the teachings of Jesus, explained in detail by an evangelist named Mattie Crawford. Mom had been attending Preacher Crawford’s revival services in nearby Auburn as often as she could, and seemingly as a result she had become increasingly fervent about following this doctrine. When possible she took our entire family with her to these revival meetings—sometimes as many as four nights a week for three weeks in a row.

All of a sudden, it seemed, we were required to give up everything that my brothers, sisters and I thought was fun—reading the comic strips on Sunday, going to the picture shows, dancing, playing ball games, or acting in what she called a frivolous manner. Mom had been aghast one afternoon when Dorie burst through the front door and turned a series of cartwheels from one end of the parlor to the other. Shame on you, Dorie. Jesus would not be pleased about you showing your underpants like that.

I was fortunate to have my teaching job, because I could get away from Mom’s constant preaching. My sister Mary kept busy as well, with her housecleaning jobs in the town. She had dropped out of high school with the blessing of Mom and her revivalist friends, who scorned education as being too worldly, distracting young people from the ways of the Lord.

I had tried my best to persuade Mary to finish high school. Think of all the things you will miss. Mr. Green, my Latin teacher, was looking forward to having you in his classes. Just imagine what fun it would be to play your saxophone in the band. Oh, Mary, you would be able to get a good job if you had a high school diploma.

But Mary wouldn’t listen to my pleas. It’s the least I can do to work right now to help Mom and Pop. Maybe someday I will go back to earn a diploma.

I was deep in thought when Pop came home from work. He and Mom had bought a shoe shine and hat-blocking parlor in downtown Garrett when they returned from homesteading in Florida years ago. Until now, he managed to support our family quite adequately at this new business, and he took pride in giving people the gift of beautifully shined shoes or firmly-blocked hats that looked like new.

Pop wasn’t much for talking. I thought maybe he had become silenced by Mom’s constant preaching at all of us. But tonight he must have sensed that his eldest daughter could benefit from some comforting, so, after we finished our supper and my sisters Mary and Floride busied about cleaning up the kitchen, Pop beckoned me to the parlor where we sat side by side on the settee.

Why are you so sad and upset, Esther? He put his arm around me and listened intently as I related Willie’s story one more time.

Don’t be discouraged, he said gently, The Lord will help you out of this. He will help you get new insights into what has happened to Willie and his parents and to you. If you will wait and pray, and be patient, I know the Lord will take care of Willie and bring peace to your heart.

Giving me a hug, Pop went into the alcove just off our parlor to take care of my brother, Wayne, who was born a cripple two years before I arrived. When Wayne was about five months old, they noticed he could not hold his head up as a normal baby would. He had some deficiency that caused him to be crippled all of his life. Now he was twenty-two years old. Pop was very gentle to Wayne, trying to make his days happy by doing little things for him such as tickling him under the chin and calling him Buddy. He accepted Wayne’s condition as a