On that first day, Ben Honaker read aloud the “Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,” and his voice rose and poured forth a torrent of heroic deeds. When he finished, he closed his book with a satisfied thump and smiled at Flora. During the arithmetic lesson she finished quickly and he checked her work approvingly. He asked her to help the younger students. Later he gave us a geography lesson. He spoke of the fabled land of Persia where the earth quaked and buildings and rocks tumbled down about the heads of the people. I tried in vain to imagine an earthquake on Grapevine, the river roiling, the mountains moving like bones beneath the skin. But it seemed impossible that our land would turn on us.

He held Flora back after the others had been dismissed. I sat on the stoop to wait for her.

“Why are you still in school?”

“Because I like to learn.” Flora’s voice was soft and shy.

“A girl as smart as you should be off to the normal school, or maybe even to Berea.”

“I dont want to go way far off from home. Dont want to teach neither. Hit would upset me too much when the younguns did wrong. When I was helping them with their lessons today, I couldnt stand to have them make a mistake. I felt like hit was my fault. And I couldnt never fuss at them.”

“What do you like to do?”

“I like to grow flowers. I like to take care of the animals. And I like to read. I like to read a pretty word and say it out loud. Me and my brother and sister all likes to read.”

I took this as my cue to step inside the door and call attention to myself.

“That there is Carrie,” said Flora.

“Oh, yes. Carrie likes geography.”

I grinned. “I like to hear all them outlandish ways folks do.”

“Would you girls like to borrow some of my books?”

He opened a chest in the corner, just an old battered trunk, but a treasure chest to us. Flora chose a book of poems by Keats, and I picked Wuthering Heights because I liked the name. We hugged them to our breasts as we walked the two miles to the Homeplace. The trees were beginning to take on their autumn colors, frosted with bright reds and yellows as though spattered with wet paint.

“Florrie, that teacher is sweet on you.”

“Naw,” Flora said, and blushed.

But it was true. Ben Honaker wasted no time in courting her. Soon he took supper with us three times a week, and walked Flora to church on Sundays. I was glad to have him around, for he was a contrast to our daddy, Orlando Bishop. Daddy was a cold, quiet man; he was sparing with his praise and his expectations were high. He took for granted that we would do well with our chores and our schoolwork. Anything less than our best was reason for disdain. He seldom rebuked us with words, but his black eyes would be contemptuous. There was no approaching him then.