“Everyone said Abraham was too old and feeble to have more children,” the girl continued, “but he believed he could, and because of his faith, God gave him a child,” Dara reported in a somber, quiet voice.
These were not ordinary children, Dara decided. Did Bobby play with trucks? Did Angie and her dollies have tea parties? Did they splash in their tub, dunk cookies in their milk and make snow angels? Something told her they did not. Dara could almost picture them sitting inside, noses burrowed in the pages of some edifying book, peeking up only now and again to watch the fun going on outside.
Of course youngsters should pray and read the Word, she acknowledged. They should respect their elders and do their chores and work hard in school. But they should never be made to forget that Jesus loved the little children, because of the innocent playfulness born into them! What kind of parent was Noah Lucas that he had seemingly discouraged his son and daughter from doing what should come naturally to all kids—enjoying life!
“When is Mrs. King coming back?” Tina interrupted.
Dara sent a quick prayer of thanks heavenward for the question that diverted her from her thoughts. “Well, she’s so excited about being a new mommy I don’t think even Mrs. King knows the answer to that question.”
“Are you going to be our teacher?”
She inspected the wide-eyed, expectant faces of her students. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Silence blanketed the classroom. “Good,” Pete muttered to the boy behind him, “‘cause she’s really pretty.”
Dara clasped her hands. “Now then, I had intended to talk about the Golden Rule today. Who knows what the Golden Rule is?”
“Jesus said, ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,’” Angie offered.
“Very good,” Dara said. “Can anyone tell me what that means?”
“Don’t do stuff to other people that you wouldn’t want ‘em doin’ to you?” Pete chanced.
“Absolutely! Someone give me an example.”
The children thought about that for a moment. Then Donny shouted out, “Oooh-oooh! I know, I know! Like…if I don’t want my sister hogging the swing, I shouldn’t hog it, either.”
“And if I wouldn’t like my brother changing the channel in the middle of a show I’m watching,” Lisa added, “I shouldn’t do it to him.”
Dara walked to the supply cabinet and swung open the doors. “That’s right!” She stood in front of shelves that housed colorful stacks of construction paper, bluntedged scissors, bottles of glue and boxes of crayons. “But it can also mean doing good things.”
“Like what?” Marie asked.
“Like helping people finish chores so they can get outside and play sooner, or sharing the last slice of chocolate cake.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she winked and gestured toward the cupboard. “Or making greeting cards that will let Mrs. King know how happy we are that she and Mr. King finally got that baby they’ve been praying for.”
Giggling and squealing with glee, the first and second graders grabbed materials from the cupboard and began working on their cards.
“How do you spell congratulations?” Tina wanted to know.
Dara was about to print the word on the chalkboard when Bobby Lucas said, “C-o-n-g-r-a-t-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s.”
“Not so fast,” Pete complained.
How many first graders could even read the word? Dara wondered as Bobby spelled it again. It was beginning to look like Noah Lucas had the discipline part of fathering down pat. But what about the loving part? she asked herself.
“Thanks, Bob-oh,” Pete said, grinning. “How’d you get so smart?”
Dara thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at the comers of Bobby’s mouth when he shrugged.
“His name isn’t Bob-oh,” Angie corrected. “It’s Bobby, which is short for Robert.”
“You mean robber,” Pete stuck in. “Your brother stole my pencil.”
“Didn’t steal it,” Bobby defended. “I only borrowed it” He handed it back to Pete, then crossed both arms over his chest.
“‘Thou shalt not steal,’” Pete teased, wagging a chubby finger at his classmate.
The statement made Dara think of her father. Heart pounding, she looked around the class, saw that Angie was looking directly at her. For an instant, Dara wondered if the little girl had read her thoughts, for her understanding expression seemed far too old and wise for one so young. But she said, “My mother called him Bobby, right up to the day she died.”
Dara wanted to wrap her in a hug—something she suspected her father didn’t do nearly often enough—but Angie had already turned her attention back to the artwork. She glanced at Angie’s younger brother, who shrugged again and in an equally matter-of-fact voice announced, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She says things like that all the time.” He raised one blond brow, looking amazingly like his father when he did. “Father says she does it to shock people.”
Father says? Dara forced a laugh and ruffled Bobby’s honey-blond hair. “Well,” she whispered, “it works. I’m shocked!”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. “Pete’s right.”
“About what?”
The smile that lit his face was contagious, and for a moment, she almost forgot there were a dozen other children around her.
“You’re very pretty.”
Angie, who had been hunched over Mrs. King’s card, sat up straight and gave Dara a once-over. “Yes, yes,” she agreed. “You are rather pretty.” Furrowing her brow, she added, “Are you married?”
The enrollment forms clearly stated that Bobby Lucas was six years old and Angie was seven. Because they’d been born in the same calendar year—Angie in January, Bobby in December—the children had been in the same grade since preschool. But surely there had been a clerical error, Dara thought, a typo on their registration forms, because neither child behaved even remotely like first graders.
“Father says ladies can sometimes be sensitive to that question. Since you didn’t answer, it must mean you aren’t married.” Angie tilted her head slightly, as if considering all the possibilities. “Have you ever been married? I mean, you’re not divorced or anything, are you, because Father says divorce is a sin.”
Why would his children even be asking such a thing, let alone asking it frequently enough to require adult discussion on the subject? Dara could answer Angie’s questions—questions that would not have seemed overly personal or inappropriate if they hadn’t been asked in that eerily controlled voice—or she could divert the child’s attention. Her father may choose to speak to her like a miniature adult, Dara thought, frowning slightly, but here in my classroom, she’ll be treated like a seven-year-old!
“The card you’re making for Mrs. King is lovely,” she said in an upbeat, friendly voice. “I especially like the pretty house you’ve drawn there.”
“It’s like the one we lived in up in Pennsylvania, when my mother was alive.” She tucked in one comer of her mouth. “It was a very nice house.”
Angie took a deep breath, then said, “It happened when I was four.” She put the red crayon she’d been using back into the box, and withdrew a blue one. “It was cancer, you know, the kind that eats your blood.”