Miss Barton's Wait

Every day at four in the afternoon, Miss Barton would straighten the corrected math papers on her desk, freshen her lipstick, lock her classroom, and walk the half block to the park. She would hurry to the bench near the biggest oak tree far away from the playground, look around anxiously for a minute, then perch herself on one end of the bench. There she would sit for about an hour or so, peering around with a concentrated curiosity at anyone who neared her on the path. She did not read or knit or speak to anyone. She just sat, as if waiting for someone or something.

At five o'clock, Miss Barton would stand slowly, take one last longing look around, and gracefully exit the park.

This went on every day for years, rain or shine. In fall, she would brave the falling acorns and shiver through the icy rains of winter. Spring would find her sniffling into her kerchief when the jasmine was in bloom. Even when summer's baking winds would drive everyone else to seek the indoors, Miss Barton would endure the hottest hour of the day on that bench.

Our grandparents all said that this behavior had started shortly after the War, when Miss Barton's hair was still jet black. She was barely out of college when she had come to our small town to teach math at the high school. It wasn't long before someone remarked that they had noticed Miss Barton in the park “around the same time” a few days the previous week. In such a small town as ours, anything new and different was soon The Thing to gossip about. Here was the new teacher, just past being a girl herself, out every afternoon in the park, waiting for who knows what. Speculation ran the gamut from Miss Barton being part of a spy ring to suggestions of mental illness running in her family.

Some of the ladies of the town ratcheted up the scrutiny into Miss Barton's daily life only to find nothing else that could be considered out of the ordinary. Miss Barton lived by herself first in a room rented from Mabel Mettler, then in a modest apartment on Church Street, then in that smallish house on the corner of Pine and Lee with the roses and the crepe myrtle. She shopped for groceries at the right stores, and attended the big United Methodist Church downtown with regularity. Her clothes were modest but tasteful, even stylish. She was active enough in many groups except for the choral society, citing a tin ear for her disinterest. She was pleasant to talk to, and a firm but fair teacher who was genuinely and equally both loved and feared by her students. Many of her graduates came back to visit her with stories of how her help and instruction prepared them for their college math courses. When Dr. Weiss spoke at Career Day about his time in NASA and working on the space programs, he always credited Miss Barton's letters of recommendation as the real reason he got that scholarship to Stanford.

The only black mark against her for a while was when she refused to give that Eldridge boy a passing grade so he could play in the division championship. Legend has it that when Mr. Eldridge stormed into Principal Gorman's office demanding to have her job, Miss Barton simply showed him his son's tests emblazoned with all her corrections and his dismal grades. She especially relished pointing out Mr. Eldridge's signature scrawled where she had embossed each paper with her “Parent's Signature” stamp. Having a dummy for a kid was one thing; having one that made you look like an idiot was something else.

Over time, new scandals piqued the interests of the loose lips around the town, until Miss Barton's afternoons in the park became just part of the background noise that made up the daily hum of our lives.

By the time I was old enough to notice, Miss Barton's hair was no long jet black but a striking silver. She was nearing retirement when I had her for Algebra my Sophomore year. The mythos of her afternoon may have died down among the adults and elders of our community, but, like every other new batch of students, we were eager to immerse ourselves in the urban legends of our school. We wanted to drink in all the scandals and horror stories, to feel that we would part of that huge complex organism known as High School. Granted, Miss Barton's daily trip to the park bench was low hanging fruit, but it was a narrative we all felt we could be a part of. Now, I often wonder what she thought of the great migration of students who suddenly found the park to be the most interesting place to be those first weeks of school each and every year. Some of the braver and crueler ones would even approach her, only to be swiftly and efficiently cut down to size. Slowly, we all lost interest as teenagers will. By the time Columbus Day rolled around, Miss Barton could make her trips to the bench in unmolested peace.

And so it went on. More students went through her classes, the years ebbed and flowed as they are wont to do, and Miss Barton aged gracefully and quietly. Even when the new campus was built just outside of the old town limits, Miss Barton drove each day to the park to sit.

At reunions, Miss Barton was remembered for her generosity and patience, and her sojourns to the park were mentioned only in passing. When Miss Barton's retirement was announced, some spoke aloud the passing thought we all must have had: “Will she still go to the park?” but no one dared ask her directly. Miss Barton took a few trips here and there, and spent time visiting her nieces. She also joined a yoga class and volunteered at the library for their adult literacy program. But if she were in town, Miss Barton kept her solitary appointment at that bench every day.

When the Parks department announced plans to upgrade the park, many noted but did not say that the one section of the park that did not get completely changed was the area of that big oak tree farthest away from the playground. More than one person remarked that so many of our city workers and officials had been students of Miss Barton's.

Miss Barton continued her trips to the park as her hair grew from silver to white, even after she broke her hip. The one time anyone ever heard Miss Barton truly raise her voice in anger in public was when the Vogel's youngest girl was working as her home health aide. Oh, did Miss Barton's tongue grow sharp when that snappy little thing tried to tell her that they were not going to the park that day, and in the middle of the produce section at Apple's Groceries to boot! Needless to say, the Vogel girl didn't last long in Miss Barton's employ after that.

Miss Barton's funeral was one of the biggest our little town had ever seen. The Mayor had been one of her students, as had most of our doctors, lawyers, and the vet at the county zoo. Her nieces and their families all seemed taken aback by the love shown for this quiet spinster. The eldest niece, who also had that striking black and silver hair, was heard to remark more than once that she didn't know why so many people asked about the park. She had no idea what any of us were talking about.

Afterwards, a quiet collection was taken in the community, and a new bench under that biggest oak was dedicated one fall afternoon. Its handsome plaque simply read her name and the words, “Every afternoon, 4-5 PM.”

About a year after Miss Barton's passing, an elderly man was spotted standing in front of the new bench. Witnesses say he was dressed in a proper suit and tie, and holding a bouquet of red roses in the his hands. He appeared to read the plaque and then, incredibly, to start weeping. Before anyone could find out who he was, he gently laid the flowers on the bench and walked away. No one ever claimed to know who he was.

It's said that the new thing for the high school kids to do is to leave flowers for their crushes on what we have always called Miss Barton's Bench, in the belief that those unrequited loves will turn into something reciprocated. It's also become a popular place to get engaged, or experience that first kiss. However, at four in the afternoon it's a lonely spot. It's as if we all agreed to let it be left for her to continue her waiting during that hour each day.

Word count: 1488