The Teacher's Funeral by Richard Peck Page B

me.
    â€œTansy, you don’t mean—”
    â€œThey’re a big tribe,” she said, “with a bunch of kids.”
    â€œBut they don’t send them to school, Tansy.” My heart was in my mouth. Nobody messed with Tarboxes. Tarboxes had two heads apiece. Was I along to protect Tansy? Could I look after myself?
    It was slow going, veering along in dry ruts. J.W. was all over the wagon bed behind us. “Tansy, let’s find us a place to turn around.”
    We were coming past Tarbox territory, weedy hay-land and rough cropland, seen through fallen fences. Lines of old corn stubble planted in some earlier year rode the eroding rises. We smelled their home place before it came into view: the never-shoveled-out barn, the never-shifted pigpen.
    Siren balked and showed unwilling. But Tansy turned her up the lane. The smell now would water your eyes. Chickens wilder than hawks flew at us. Gaunt, hopeless cows stood unmilked in the field. At least two corners of the barn needed jacking up. The well was downhill from the barn lot.
    Busted implements littered the landscape. Whose implements they were was anybody’s guess. The Tarboxes never knew the difference between Thine and Mine. Whatever went missing in Parke County, from a handsaw to a heifer, people said the Tarboxes got it.
    â€œHere, there’s room to turn around,” I said because we hadn’t been spotted yet. A couple of people were in the privy. You could tell because it had no door on it. But they weren’t looking our way.
    The house was in worse shape than the barn. Tansy drew up and climbed down, and I had to follow. J.W. was on his hind legs, peering over the wagon side. The gate to the yard was off its hinges. You wanted to be real careful where you stepped. Tansy made for the house.
    A rusted-out cream separator stood on the porch. It was said the Tarboxes strained their milk through an old shirt. There it was, wadded up on the peeling porch floor. A washtub webbed to the wall stood on a rickety table. In place of an oilcloth, the table was covered by a map of the world. A woman gaunt as her cattle appeared in the door. She shook off the kids clinging to her apron and stepped out.
    â€œWell, skin me for a polecat,” she said in the Hoosierest accent I ever heard. “Company! We don’t get many people up this way if you don’t count the sheriff.”
    In her hand was a length of pigtail chewing tobacco. She bit off about an ounce and returned the plug to her apron pocket.
    â€œWhat can I do you for?” From behind her, eyes peered out of the gloom of the house.
    â€œI’m the new teacher,” Tansy said.
    â€œWe heard the old one kicked the bucket.” Mrs. Tarbox spoke muffled. She had no teeth, and it took her some time to take control of her chaw. “But you look a good deal like Tansy Culver to me,” she said. “Didn’t you turn out to be a great big girl!”
    Mrs. Tarbox gave Tansy the once-over. Her gaze lingered over Tansy’s new hat with its bunch of artificial grapes spilling off the brim. It put several years on her. I don’t suppose Mrs. Tarbox ever had a hat.
    â€œWho’s the squirt?” She meant me.
    â€œHe’s one of my brothers,” Tansy said. “Russell. He’s along to—I like to keep an eye on him.”
    â€œI see what you mean. He looks shifty,” Mrs. Tarbox said. “What’s on your mind?”
    â€œI want you to send your children to school.”
    â€œYou do, do you?” Mrs. Tarbox placed a hand on her bony hip. “The ones that isn’t in jail is either too young or too old.”
    â€œYou’re never too old to learn,” Tansy said.
    â€œTell them that.”
    â€œIf any of them are between six and sixteen,” Tansy said, “the law says they go to school.”
    â€œWhen did they put that law through?”
    â€œ1901,” Tansy said.
    Mrs. Tarbox’s lip curled.