Return to Plum Creek

Mrs. Frasier insisted on complete silence when it was reading time. She clapped her hands sharply two times and gave the third graders a stern look. Recess was over, coats and scarves hung on hooks. The chatter and jostling was dwindling but not yet done. Two more claps. Chairs scraped across the linoleum floor as the children settled, and all eyes turned to Danny Green who was frozen in a robot pose near Mrs. Frasier’s desk, his dark eyes wide with mock fear, his mouth in an O.

           “Books out!” called Mrs. Frasier, ignoring Danny. He broke his pose and grinned at his classmates, strolling with a swagger to his seat.

           Barbara Purcell did not join in the laughter. She was astonished that Danny didn’t get into more trouble than he already did. Her book was open on her desk: A Little House on the Prairie. She had almost finished it, so she knew Mrs. Frasier would send her to the library while the others in the classroom continued to push their fingers across the sentences of their books, mouthing the words, looks of consternation on their faces. Maybe Barbara could find another Little House book. She liked those a lot. She had read the one in the Big Woods already and seen herself in those pencil drawings of Laura with her wispy hair and a single line for her mouth. Barbara was a sketch herself, not filled in or colorful like other kids, brave only in her imagination.

           She walked down the dim hallway to the library with the wrinkled note from Mrs. Frasier in her hand. Her feet were damp and cold. She’d outgrown her shoes and worn her rubber boots over tights most of the winter. “Please tell Barbara to return to the room for Math at 10:45,” the note said. She hardly needed it anymore. Mrs. Carlyle the librarian had a large clock over her head, and if Barbara was lucky, Mrs. Carlyle wouldn’t glance at it until 10:48 or 49, when she would pick up her cup of tea for a noisy sip before notifying Barbara.

           But Mrs. Carlyle was not at her desk today. No one was. Barbara stood there for a moment and then peered around the corner of the non-fiction section. Nothing was out of order there except one gold-colored unshelved book lying on the floor. Off into Space was the title. Barbara picked up the book and set it on the shelf closest to her. She decided to proceed as if Mrs. Carlyle would soon return from wherever she went – the office or the restroom most likely. Barbara put her note on Mrs. Carlyle’s desk and headed to the shelves of fiction where she would look under the W’s for Wilder.

           Barbara had been visiting the library regularly since first grade when her teacher had noted that the girl had read through nearly all of the picture books at the back of the room. Miss Andrews had grabbed the P volume of the encyclopedia from behind her and flipped opened it to a random page – “Persephone-Persepolis.”

           “Can you read this, Barbara?” asked Miss Andrews.

           Barbara had stared at a picture of a statue draped in sheets with ringlets emerging from an elaborate headdress.

           “Perse - phone,” Barbara said, pronouncing the name in two syllables. “A goddess in Greek mythology known for being the queen of the underworld. . . .”

           “Oh my,” said Miss Andrews, frowning at Barbara. The next day Barbara met Mrs. Carlyle, who told Barbara she could choose up to three books every day and sit in the low upholstered chair by the window to read until she was told to return to her class.

           This soon became Barbara’s favorite part of school. Sometimes a swatch of sunlight lit up the whole library, and Barbara would stare out the window at the Minnesota landscape for as long as she wished. Here she could see most of the world beyond the fir trees in the school yard. She could see the big silent homes across the street, and if she pushed her forehead against the windowpane and tilted her head, she could watch the birds at the feeder outside the fifth-grade classroom. Usually it would swarm with sparrows, though sometimes a bright cardinal might swoop in and scare them all away. Today it was empty. Lumps of gray snow matched the solid gray sky and lined the puddle-covered sidewalks just as they had for most of the month.

           “Hello, dear. May I help you?”

           Barbara looked up into dark shining eyes within a face of many wrinkles. The woman was hunched over in the S -W aisle, gripping a shelf with one shriveled hand. In her other hand was a large book. Her white hair was in bun, and a fuzzy shawl hung from her shoulders, fastened together over her collar by a glittering pin in the shape of a cat. Her skirt, a soft lavender print, hung to the floor so that her shoes were not visible. This was not Mrs. Carlyle.

           Barbara whispered “no, thank you” as she stared. The woman nodded, smiled, and then turned her back to Barbara, reaching for the bookshelf opposite to steady herself as she slowly made her way to the next aisle still clutching the heavy book, her finger inserted at a spot in the middle. She must be a substitute librarian, Barbara thought. She could not remember Mrs. Carlyle ever being absent before. A rustling noise came from the other side of the shelves, and then it was silent. Barbara stood by the W’s for a moment before squatting to find the familiar font of the Little House books near the floor. She plucked out On the Banks of Plum Creek and saw Laura dancing merrily on the cover, Ma in a windowsill below a grass mound. It was reassuring to see her old friends, and Plum Creek sounded beautiful to Barbara-- a color, a fruit, a trickle of river. Her body tingled with pleasure as she anticipated joining Laura for an adventure.

           At 11:05, Mrs. Carlyle looked up from her desk and was startled to see Pamela Burke in front of her, flipping her dark braid over her shoulder, a haughty look on her third-grade face.

           “Yes?”

           “Mrs. Frasier said Barbara needs to come back for Math,” Pamela announced.

           “Oh, of course,” Mrs. Carlyle said, glancing at the clock on the wall. She tsk-tsked to herself and turned in her wheeled chair to peer at the back of the room. “She’s usually in that chair reading.” Mrs. Carlyle raised herself part-way from her chair and winced as she tried to stand. “Go look for her, dear. She’s probably between the shelves.” Mrs. Carlyle sat back down with a sigh.

           Pamela took her time in the stacks. She was in no hurry to get back to Math, and Barbara Purcell was not one of her friends. Barbara rarely spoke to anyone and sat by herself at lunch. She had messy hair and was taller than the other girls, too, wearing the same clothes twice or more in a week -- clothes that fit poorly, tights with holes in them, and those awful boots. Pamela ran her index finger along the spines of books as she passed them by.

           “Did you find her?” called Mrs. Carlyle.

           “No,” said Pamela. She walked back to the librarian’s desk.

           “I’m sure she’s around somewhere. Perhaps the restroom?”

           Pamela blinked.

           “You check it,” Mrs. Carlyle said. “She can’t have gone far.”

           Sunshine warmed Barbara’s face as she lay in the thick grass. It was summer. Morning glories bent in the breeze and tickled her bare feet and legs when she sat up. A ladybug landed on her forearm, and she watched it crawl back and forth before it flew away into the wide blue sky.

           “Hello,” said a voice.

           Barbara turned. It was Laura standing in the grass, her legs and feet also bare. A necklace of braided willow branches hung almost to her waist. Her brown hair bobbed in the wind.

           “Hi,” said Barbara.

           The girls surveyed each other for a moment. Laura was shorter than Barbara and wore a muslin apron over her faded calico dress. Barbara’s plaid wool jumper was too heavy for summer, but the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up now. She stood up, brushed off some leaves, and scratched an itch on her thigh.

           “I’m getting some flowers for Ma’s vase,” Laura said. “Some black-eyed Susans, they’re over there.” She pointed toward the trees in the distance and started off in that direction. “And there’s milkweed and thistle by the creek.”

           Barbara followed Laura’s confident march down the gentle slope of the meadow. She thought she would pick some flowers too. Could she give them to her mother? Barbara couldn’t remember ever seeing any vases in their apartment. Maybe she would offer them to Mrs. Frasier instead. Barbara had seen a brass vase in Mrs. Frasier’s closet; it held a sunflower last fall from someone’s garden.

           Laura scampered ahead and then disappeared over a mound. Barbara heard the rush of water before she reached the top of the creek’s bank where she stopped to look down. A few big rocks and a fallen tree diverted its flow, but Plum Creek babbled cheerfully, covering everything in its path with white froth. Laura climbed sure-footed down the muddy sidewalls to the edge of the water and crouched at the base of a tree. She turned to Barbara with an excited expression.

           “Lady’s-slippers!” she said. “Come, look!”

           Barbara took a step down the bank and suddenly started to slide, landing on her bottom in the muck and skidding down to Laura, who was giggling at her. Barbara blushed. She had spattered mud all over herself and Laura.

           Laura didn’t seem to mind. “We’ll rinse off later,” she said. “Just look!” She was examining a cluster of flowers, tiny, pink-striped balloons crowned with delicate white petals. Barbara reached for one and felt Laura’s warm hand on her wrist.

           “They’re for the fairies,” said Laura, her serious brown eyes meeting Barbara’s. “We never pick them.”

           Barbara understood. She touched one of the rosy sacs with the soft tip of her index finger. “They look like peppermints,” she said.

           “Mm,” agreed Laura. She rose and skipped ahead to cross the bridge of planks over the creek, her willow necklace swaying from side to side. Barbara had trouble keeping up with her. Now Laura was bending over a spot between the trees. Barbara saw water bubbling up from the ground when she got there, and watched Laura use both hands to drink from the spring. Barbara did the same. The water tasted better than anything she’d ever had from a faucet or fountain. She drank as much as she could and then got up, seeking Laura again, who had run into the woods.

           “Laura!’ Barbara called. Sunlight streamed through her hair and heated the back of her neck. As she headed into the trees, the warmth gave way to cool shadows that made patterns at her feet.

           “Boo!” Laura laughed as she popped out from behind a small tree. “Want a plum?” she asked. She reached up into the tree and pulled down a small rosy fruit, pale green near the stem. Barbara took it and bit into the tart flesh.

           “Sour, huh?” Laura said, noticing Barbara’s squint. She giggled. “They’re not ripe yet. We pick them in late August.”

           Barbara wiped the juice off her chin. Now Laura was standing at the edge of a wider, stiller part of the creek. She grinned over her shoulder at Barbara, her eyes flashing as she stepped into the water. When Barbara hesitated, Laura grabbed Barbara’s elbow and yanked. Splash! Barbara shrieked as they both tumbled into the water. Laura laughed and began smacking the surface with both hands, sending up a spray that showered Barbara’s head. Barbara shrieked again and then began to laugh and smack the water herself. She watched Laura’s hands expertly aim the splashes and imitated this as best she could. They played in the water until they were cold and then helped each other to the bank and hiked back to the meadow where they whirled around in the sun to dry off their clothes.

           “I’m hungry,” said Laura after they plopped down in the grass, panting. “It must be almost lunch time. We better get the flowers.”

           With little conversation, the girls bent to their task and gathered a variety of wildflowers, sharing their finds so they each had the same amount, Then they began to trudge back to the spot where they’d first seen each other.

           “Bye,” said Laura with a smile. She lifted the willow necklace over her head and placed it over Barbara’s.

           Barbara was grasping a bouquet when Mrs. Frasier opened the door of her closet. No one else was in the classroom.

           “Oh my goodness!” said the teacher, then she turned her head and called out the open classroom door. “Mr. Kent! Mr. Kent! She’s here. It’s all right!” Then she turned back to Barbara.

           “We were just going to call your mother! What on earth were you doing, Barbara?”

           Barbara climbed out of the closet and looked down at herself. She was wearing her tights and boots again. Her sleeves were buttoned at her wrists, and the willow necklace was gone. She held the flowers out to Mrs. Frasier.

           “Wuh-why, thank you!” stammered Mrs. Frasier, staring at Barbara.

           The principal, Mr. Kent, swung into the room and strode to where Barbara and Mrs. Frasier stood. Light bounced off his glasses.

           “Where was she?” he asked.

           “Right here!” Mrs. Frasier pointed to her closet. “I was just going to get out my lunch and there she was!”

           “Do you know that we’ve been looking for you all over the school, young lady?” asked Mr. Kent, glaring at Barbara. He looked at his watch. “For almost an hour!”

           “Barbara,” said Mrs. Frasier, bending over to look into Barbara’s face. “This isn’t like you. How did this happen?”

           “I don’t know,” said Barbara.

           Mr. Kent and Mrs. Frasier looked at each other.

           “At least she’s back,” said Mrs. Frasier to Mr. Kent with a shrug.

           “This won’t happen again,” Mr. Kent said firmly. He turned and left the room.

           “Well,” said Mrs. Frasier, gazing at Barbara. “We both need to eat lunch. How about you get your bag and eat at your desk today?”

           Barbara was happy to do this. As she began to eat, she watched her teacher unscrew a thermos and pour coffee into the red plastic lid. Mrs. Frasier took a sip and then a bite from a sandwich. When she was done with her lunch, Mrs. Frasier trimmed the stems of the wildflowers with her large scissors and arranged them in the brass vase. She set the vase on the corner of her desk and squinted at the flowers.

“Where did these flowers come from, Barbara?” asked Mrs. Frasier. Barbara was swallowing the last bite of her banana.

           “The library,” she said.