Read The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell for Free Online

fit.
    “Maple,” said Mr. Stevenson proudly.
    I gave a nod. “So I see.”
    I asked about the rent, and Mr. Stevenson replied with a modest sum. I tried not to act like I thought it low, but he saw my face. “I’m glad to do what I can,” he said, “for any friend of Daniel Blandin.” We shook hands again, and I left quite pleased. I had, it seemed, stumbled upon a great secret society—a world in which everything is accomplished by a wink and a nod.
    I walked back to town and went to the offices of the Honesdale Democrat, where I placed a small advertisement that would appear the following Tuesday.
    Joseph I. Lobdell, Professor of Dance, announces the formation of classes in dance, voice, and violin for Students of all ages. Those interested should come at four in the afternoon on Thursday to the meeting room at the Dyberry Glass Factory.
    I was back at the glass factory the next day. I had given myself only a week, so I had no time to burn. Instead, I burned rubbish. After that, I swept the floor and cleaned the windows. On Monday, I borrowed a mop from the tavern and washed the floor three times. The next two days I spent on my hands and knees, putting wax on the maple. The wood glowed yellow, and the wax put a civilized smell into the room. It also put dirt under my fingernails. I thought about leaving some to roughen my appearance as it would aid in my deception at the tavern, but I didn’t, because it wouldn’t help me as a music teacher. I was looking over one shoulder, then the other.
    I had, of course, started my journey with a greater fear of men—that I would do or say the wrong thing. So far that hadn’t happened, but men are not known for noticing things. Women, on the other hand, notice near everything. My fear began to grow that one of them might catch some detail that a man would never see—a book held to the breast, a button unfastened with two fingers, an eyebrow lifted in doubt. But in spite of that fear, I stopped along Dyberry Creek on the advertised day and picked a bouquet of purple phlox that ended up on the table by the door.
    At the appointed hour, eight or nine mothers arrived, coming in twos and threes. There were children of various ages. I was formal with the mothers but did my best to make them feel at ease, speaking with humor and not condescension. I think I charmed a few.
    Some older girls arrived. They put their names on the list but did not engage me in conversation. Instead, they stood off in a corner, whispering and casting glances in my direction. I wondered if they thought me handsome.
     
    * * *
    My room upstairs at Blandin’s was adequate but not more than that—just a place to sleep. I might on occasion sit there and read the Democrat , but usually I would do that downstairs. And there was little to see out the window except for the piles of coal and the privies in the alley. From my bed I could hear their doors creak at all hours. I didn’t feel any danger when I went there. Aside from the drunks who piss into the canal, men and women do their business in private, and visitors don’t come calling. And it’s not a comfortable seat whoever you are, what with the cold drafts and smells that ain’t lilacs.
    As far as washing, I would do that in my room with a bucket of water made warm in the kitchen below. I would use the same water to wash things that could not go to the woman down the street, picking a day when the sun was coming through the window and the cotton would dry on the back of the chair.
    All of that was easy enough. The evenings downstairs were less so. Mr. Blandin made it known that I was there at his request, but I still felt out of place, as one might expect. I was unpracticed at the banter, and I often found myself forcing awkward laughs a short moment after those around me. I sat at a table off to the side and soon had a chair that was considered mine. I was shy at first about playing the violin, but the men seemed to like it and began making