English Lessons

In bleak, frigid Western Montana, a high school on a poverty-strickenIndian reservation is the scene of a crime: a valuable pocket watchhas disappeared. The owner of the watch, a young white English teacher, plays detective attempting to reveal the culprit. His investigation yields unexpected results. A short story from our Nibs literary line.

"Someone has taken my watch," Mr. Bachmeyer said. From a back corner of the classroom, Ursula Rabbit Skins studied him secretly beneath lowered brows. The owner of the ugly name was attractive, For a Whiteman. Much easier to look at than others of his race at Crow Butte School: fat shop teacher, balding coach, bat-like science teacher, or stick man principal. Mr. Bachmeyer was only slightly older than Ursula, and was perhaps younger than some in class, who ranged in age from fifteen to mid-twenties. He was more than six feet tall, with a lean, athletic build. He had hair the color of harvest-ready wheat. His eyes recalled October sky before first frost and his cheeks were healthy-baby-pink on an open face like a bucket of fresh milk. His white teeth—so many, no gaps—often showed in a smile. His ripe-cherry lips always seemed in motion. Like all his kind, he didn't appreciate silence.
He wasn't talking now, though, and he wasn't smiling.
Mr. Bachmeyer stood behind his desk, leaning forward, fists braced on scarred wood. His gaze, As cold as wind from Arctic Canada, scythed across each face.
Ursula and her classmates didn't make it easy for him to establish eye contact. They inclined heads or looked away from his glare, though otherwise sat as still as woodcarvings. Tribal elders said once you locked eyes with a Whiteman, you began to lose your will.
No one made a sound for several minutes.
The Whiteman, naturally, was first to speak, once the big arm of the large clock above his head lurched forward again, showing the current time as 3:18 on Friday afternoon. "My watch was solid gold, about two inches in diameter, and quite heavy."
He waved large, birdlike hands, but the signs had no meaning. "The case was inscribed J.H.B. it belonged to my grandfather, Johann Heinrich Bachmeyer. I have the same initials, and I inherited the watch when grandpa died." He pointed. "The watch was kept in my desk top drawer."
When his statements produced no visible reaction, Mr. Bachmeyer repeated the story. He added greater detail, put more emphasis on certain words, more emotion in his voice, but the facts did not change.
Mr. Bachmeyer said someone in the room must have removed—he was careful not to suggest theft—the watch, because it had been present after his previous class. He had checked its accuracy against the clock overhead at 2:57 before putting his timepiece away. The drawer hadn't been locked and some person had taken advantage of that oversight. He guessed it had happened during the time it took for members of the previous class to make their way out And The new class to drift in and settle into seats.
If he expected sympathy for his loss, or a confession, he was doomed to be disappointed.
Disappointment was routine among this collection of misfits. The "special" class consistently failed to demonstrate a grasp of the rudiments of proper English, As taught by earnest newcomer Mr. Bachmeyer from an approved curriculum over the past twenty weeks. Most students could still neither read nor write, though that was not entirely their young teacher's fault.
A few were determined to utter only in Catamoc, though they understood the Whiteman's spoken language well enough. They wanted nothing from their pale-skinned keepers, and refused to give up the language of their forefathers. These reluctant place-takers were just marking time until they were eighteen, when reservation law said they could leave. So they attended classes to avoid legal difficulties or to obtain food and shelter, but made no genuine effort in any subject. Others had returned to classes after long absences—due to employment, childbirth, incarceration, or recovery from disease or injury—with vague notions of earning diplomas. They were too grown-up to be placed in lower grades where they belonged, according to their lack of acquired educational or social skills.
Some were habitual troublemakers transferred from one of four smaller reservation schools scattered over seventy thousand square miles of rugged west Montana country. For these, Crow Butte was a convenient way station on the journey to or from jail.
All of the students were causing trouble now, simply by keeping their mouths shut.
Frustrated by the lack of response, Mr. Bachmeyer took a harder line. "I'll keep you here until I get that watch back. I'll keep you all night if I have to. All weekend if necessary." He stepped To The door and snapped the lock then stood with arms folded as though daring someone to challenge him.
The dramatics did not impress anybody. The teacher could be easily overpowered with a concerted effort, if it should become desirable. No one said anything, though everyone in class had a unique story to tell. Many could be considered possible suspects For The alleged crime.
Take Jimmy Black Weasel, now twenty, slouched two seats in front of Ursula. He'd fallen behind in his studies doing time behind bars off the reservation for public intoxication, resisting arrest and assaulting a law officer. Jimmy could be considered a prime candidate for theft, since he did not have two Indian nickels to his name.