The Baker's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

ability,” Mr. Joy continued. “You have been given much, and you have much to offer. I would like you to consider working at the learning center. You will be paid a salary. You would be a teacher.”
    Of all the things Ruby had dreamed for her future, she had never dreamed of being a teacher.
    â€œBut only men teach,” she said.
    Octavius Joy smiled. “I cannot think of a single reason why a young woman is not qualified to teach. Can you?”
    â€œNo, sir. It is just, I have not heard of it being commonly done.”
    â€œNonsense. Mothers teach their children to read all the time.”
    One month after her sixteenth birthday, Ruby began work at the learning center, assisting older, more experienced teachers. Never have students received more diligent, kindhearted instruction.
    Some of them came to the learning center, anxious and frightened. Others pretended to be rougher than they really were. Ruby greeted each one with a smile and told them how happy she was that they were there. Her manner and gender made learning a more comfortable experience for women. Men wanted to be in her presence. Children adored her.
    There was a patience in her face that led those who had been anxious to take readily to her. And she had words of encouragement for everyone.
    A young man about twenty years of age had a laugh that was more cheerful than intelligent. Given the fact that he had been a slow boy for the first two decades of his life, it seemed unlikely that he would ever become a fast one. Indeed, at his first session, he held his paper with the alphabet on it upside down, which seemed to suit his convenience as well as if he had been holding it right side up.
    â€œYou must never belittle yourself,” Ruby told him.
    A stout bald gentleman with a cheerful face had a tendency to stand with his hands in his pockets and whistle while admiring the writing on the wall as one might contemplate a painting by Rembrandt.
    â€œYour letters are beautiful,” Ruby complimented after he struggled through his first few letters.
    And to a girl of twelve who had tears of frustration in her eyes: “Queen Victoria, who sits upon the throne, began her learning with the same alphabet. She started with ‘A’ just like you. And it took her quite a while to work her royal way to ‘Z’.”

    Then tragedy.
    In Christopher’s fortieth year, he began to feel pain and weakness that should not have been in a man his age.
    There is a dread condition that prepares its victims for death. A disease that medicine has never cured and wealth has never warded off. It is an illness that sometimes moves in giant strides and sometimes at a sluggish pace but, whether quick or slow, is certain. A condition in which the outcome of the struggle between body and soul is so sure that, day by day, the mortal part of the sufferer withers away and the spirit, feeling death at hand, welcomes the end as a lightening load.
    Ruby comforted herself with the hope that Christopher would recover, as he answered with a quiet smile each day that he felt better than the day before. But he continued to grow thinner, and his eyes sank deeply into his face until his look was that of the gaunt starving man I had seen when he and Ruby first stood in the cold outside my bakery window.
    Marie asked often if there was something she could do for him. Christopher’s answer was always the same.
    â€œNothing.”
    For a while, he was strong enough to walk about with Ruby supporting him on her arm. They visited places that they rememberedfrom the past. Each one brought some earlier event to mind, and they would linger in the sunlight with a word, a laugh . . . a fear.
    One walk led them to the churchyard where Ruby’s mother was buried.
    â€œSometimes when I look at you,” Christopher told Ruby, “I see your mother’s spirit in your eyes. When I die, I should like to be buried as near to her grave as they can make my