Heart-strong

by Bonnie McCune

  Wait! Jim wasn’t sure if she was the wife and mother for him. Jim had experienced his share of rejection, wasn’t eager for another incident. He didn’t know why, but several times when he and a beautiful woman had teetered on the edge of commitment, something had gone wrong. Once the woman had preferred a career to a family. Once the woman couldn’t overcome her need to flirt with anything in pants. Once the woman proved to be a conglomeration of deceit—false wig, false eyelashes, false falsies. The woman he settled down with had to be close to flawless. There was no reason to settle for less than that.

  * * *

  Drifting from date to date—a movie, a dinner for three, an art gallery opening—and day to day, no crisis interrupted the couple’s harmony. Until the final soccer game of the season. Two low-ranked teams were battling it out for last place. Rachel knew how much Scott wanted to win, having heard no less than twenty-five times each day that his team was going to cream the other. Jim relayed some final playing tips to Scott while Rachel packed a tote bag, a wheeled cooler, and two grocery sacks full of necessities—oranges cut in quarters, cans of soft drinks, first aid kit, water, paper cups, tissues, hand towels, blanket. She lugged them to the door.

  “Ready,” she said.

  Jim rose from the couch, head still bent toward Scott. “Now, remember, stick to your position no matter what. Your coach has given you a zone to cover, right?”

  “Yeah,” answered Scott. “But what if the guy in front of me isn’t doing his job? Some of the team are still afraid of getting hit. Not me of course.”

  “Of course. In that case, you may have to assist. But just be careful.” Jim stopped mid-sentence, stunned by the amount of supplies heaped around Rachel.

  “What on earth are you doing? Moving your whole apartment?”

  “It’s my turn to bring stuff. I only have the absolute essentials.”

  Jim reached into the bag and pulled out the tissue box. “Tissues are essential?” He looked further. “And hand towels for the entire team? How do you expect to get all this there, wagon train?”

  Rachel glared at him, a woman defending her home territory. “I expect us to carry it. It is only a few blocks.”

  The trip was made in silence, broken only by the clicks of Scott’s cleats on the sidewalk. Since the day was uncommonly warm, perspiration soon ran down their foreheads.

  At the soccer field small boys pulled off their sweatshirts, added head bands and wrist bands, punching each other on the shoulder all the while. Some stretched or jogged their nervousness out, while others kicked red, white and blue soccer balls back and forth. A father, gangly as a stork, stroked his mustache as he explained to another man the team’s season record. Next to a woman with a blonde pageboy, Rachel dropped the tote bag and cooler then motioned Jim to bring the grocery sacks. He did so with a scowl. Kneeling in the grass, Rachel unloaded the supplies.

  “You’re certainly in a good mood,” she said to Jim without looking at him.

  “It’s embarrassing,” he replied. “We look like tramps.”

  “No, we look like a family.”

  Rachel stood, grabbed the water jug and some cups and walked to the team now gathered around the coach. She missed Jim’s instinctive recoil as the impact of her words sunk in. A family, Jim thought. He wasn’t ready for that. He still was young, still had time to find the perfect woman. Maybe one who wasn’t quite so outspoken, who didn’t get slightly hysterical. He stared off across the park at the leafless trees and missed the start of the game. Rachel’s shrill yells brought him back to reality. Jim looked at the crowd of young bodies in the middle of the field. Team uniforms were indistinguishable, primarily because of the mud puddle in which the boys were rolling. Jim groaned. Scott had forgotten to stay in his position.

  As the boys stood and resumed play, Scott trotted off the field rubbing his arms and smearing mud. Rachel rushed to him, tissues in hand, and wiped as she lectured. Jim studied the two unemotionally; they looked a lot alike, solidly built, wild hair. Scott was downcast now and sent longing glances at the action on the field. Rachel marched over to the coach. Jim couldn’t hear what she was saying, but by her gestures and head motions, he could tell she was arguing to get Scott back in the game. The coach shook his head, pursed his lips, and finally gave up, waving Scott in. Scarf in hand, Rachel walked back to Jim. The wind had risen, and she wrapped the pink and yellow square around the rat’s nest her hair had become.

  “It really wasn’t Scott’s fault,” she said. “I pointed that out to the coach.”

  “So I noticed,” Jim commented. “But it was his fault. He should have stayed in his position.”

  Rachel wasn’t listening. She was jumping up and down, screaming as Scott’s team drove the ball toward the goal. Jim winced. The blonde woman next to them stopped mid-clap to turn and look at Rachel. Jim smiled slightly and shrugged.

  The teams battled up and down the field. They were evenly matched, both equally poor. The boys kicked wildly, elbowed each other. A header went awry when one boy hit the ball with his nose rather than his forehead. Rachel was pleased to put her first aid skills to use by holding ice to his nose. At half time, Rachel pressed Jim into service to pass out orange quarters to the glum group. The score was tied zero to zero, the boys were tired, and the coach was angry.

  “Your play is inexcusable,” he bellowed. “You’ve missed the easiest return passes. You’re not working together.”

  Exhibiting toward the coach none of her usual sympathy, Rachel said from where she was crouched between two boys, “I’m sure they’re trying their best. They almost made several goals.”

  The coach gritted his teeth. “Mrs. Kinsey, if you would like to take over this team, you may do so with my blessing. If not, please refrain from interrupting when I’m coaching.”

  Rachel seemed to shrink into her jacket as she murmured a faint apology. Jim rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “You are so headstrong,” Jim said. “Your way is not the only way.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m heart-strong. Whatever my heart tells me, I believe.”

  The game resumed. While Rachel picked up the paper cups tossed on the ground, Jim eyed the blonde. She was tall with high cheekbones and a straight nose. She looked strangely similar to Jim’s sketch of Rachel after their first meeting. Dressed in a khaki-colored pantsuit, the blonde stood calmly on the sidelines, following the action with slow turns of her head. Her hair brushed her cheeks as she moved.

  “Go down the field, down the field!” Rachel’s yells out-screeched the cacophony of parents from both teams.

  “Damn it, what now?” she continued as the referee called a foul. He signaled off-side.

  “Off-side? You’re crazy!” Rachel screamed, her face bulging an alarming shade of red like a balloon ready to explode. The referee stalked over to the sidelines.

  “Lady, if I hear one more peep out of you, I’ll penalize your team. Do you understand?”

  No words came out of Rachel’s mouth. She simply nodded. As the teams lined up, she snuck a look back at Jim. He wasn’t in the same place. He’d moved next to the blonde and was holding an animated conversation with her. Rachel unfolded her blanket and sat down. She spent the rest of the game in total silence, sometimes lying on her stomach, sometimes wrapping her arms around her knees. A newly separated father of twins on the team tried to initiate a soul-to-soul sob session, but indifferent Rachel gazed off into the distance until he abandoned the attempt.

  Jim spent the rest of the game chatting as animated as a sideshow barker with the blonde. She was the mother of one of the boys, he learned, divorced, working as a computer operator. Yes, she loved contemporary art. Yes, she thought the education system needed a major rehaul. She smiled and crossed her arms with satisfaction as her son made the team’s only goal to win the game one to nothing.

  The walk home seemed much shorter than the walk to the game. For one thing, almost all of the oranges and drinks were gone, so the loads were lighter. For another,
Scott bubbled about the team’s win, and his excitement covered the lack of conversation between the adults. Jim dropped the sacks just inside the apartment door. No, he didn’t want coffee. No, he couldn’t come to dinner that night.

  “I’ll call you,” he told Rachel, who figured he was pouting masculine-style over her inexpert, yes, even possibly disruptive support for the team. As Rachel mentally snapped her fingers under Jim’s nose, he ruffled Scott’s hair. “Good game, sport, See you later.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Over the next few weeks, Rachel wondered what had gone wrong. “I don’t know what to do,” Rachel complained one night to Sharon as they sat in the living room playing double solitaire and watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island. “I’ve phoned Jim several times. At his office he’s always in a meeting. At home he’s always in the middle of a project or just going out the door. I feel like I’m chasing him, and he doesn’t want to be caught. He was the one who was all hot and heavy at first. Remember? He wanted to see me every day.” Rachel reached for the popcorn and crunched down as if chewing lumps of coal.

  Sharon studied her cards and placed a red seven on a red eight. “I wondered what was wrong with him,” she said. “You always head for the guys with some fatal flaw. At least he’s not an alcoholic or borrowing money from you. Is he?” Sharon stared hard at Rachel, who shook her head.

  “This I don’t need,” said Rachel. “A boyfriend I have to humor. Be careful around. I have one child. I don’t want a second disguised as an adult. I need a stable guy as well as a romance.”

  Sharon blinked. “Wow! You’ve been evaluating this guy, I can tell.”

  “Yes. He’s soooo normal in most ways, I wondered what his attraction is. Then I decided that’s his appeal. He can hold an interesting conversation, he shows up when he says he will, he’s got a great sense of humor, and he’s gorgeous. Once I accepted the fact of his normal-ness, the oddball or erratic guys didn’t interest me anymore.”

  “Know what I think?” asked Sharon. “I think he’s running scared. Afraid of commitment.” Sharon had never been married but had had lots of boyfriends, all of whom had proposed, some even proposed marriage. “That’s that. I can’t play anymore.”

  “You mean you can’t cheat anymore. I saw that illegal move you made.” Rachel flung her cards down. “But go ahead. I don’t even care who wins. Life’s so boring with no men around.”

  Sharon picked through the popcorn old maids to find the last popped kernels and considered. “Boring, smoring. You need to think about what you want for once. For now, just leave him alone. If he doesn’t care enough to come back, you’re well rid of him. If he returns, ask yourself if you’re ready to move to the next stage. Consider that possibility.” She dusted her hands together. “Let’s go to bed.”

  * * *

  The truth? Jim was pursuing another interest, a less flawed woman. Donna, the blonde. She was everything Rachel wasn’t. Tall, not short. Thin, not plump. Calm, not hysterical. Quiet, not loud. He didn’t need to limit himself to one woman anyway, he reminded himself. That’s how he landed in hot water before. Exclusive relationships only led to unreasonable expectations from the woman—for engagement, marriage, kids. He wasn’t ready for that commitment.

  He was ready for ski season, though. Several of his friends were planning their annual outing to Vail, where one of them had a time-share condo. And fortunately Donna was a keen sportswoman. Unlike Rachel, who, when they discussed the activity in the fall, had admitted her lack of skills, then added, “Isn’t skiing terribly expensive? I couldn’t let you pay for everything, and I can’t afford it.” He mentioned the ground rules to Donna—chip in on expenses, companionship with no strings, share housekeeping and cooking chores. Donna said she made a good living, plus child support from her ex. She could cover her own costs. He and she set off for a long platonic weekend.

  * * *

  That was the same weekend as the soccer team farewell potluck. Rachel and Scott followed the scattered group of players ambling into the school lunchroom where long tables decorated with cut-outs of fall leaves and soccer balls waited for the hungry. As Rachel toted her beanie-weenie casserole to the buffet area, she surveyed the room. Somehow soccer and Jim were associated in her mind, and she’d hoped against hope he’d be at the event. Still their irregular dates convinced her the possibility was small. Most of the team and their parents had made the event. The tall blonde—was her name Donna?—wasn’t there. Her son, one of the star players, was with a man, probably his father.

  After everyone went through the line with the maximum courtesy, taking moderate servings and avoiding spillage, thanks to reminders from parents, Rachel and Scott joined several families to intersperse bites of food with reminiscences about the fall’s skirmishes. The boys compared teams on their roughness and toughness, how many oversized players they’d faced with courage and trembling in their hearts. The parents chatted about sportsmanship and team spirit. Rachel recalled, with a twinge of guilt, her scolding from the coach at the last game.

  The coach stood by his chair at the head table. Coach Duffy, a blocky balding man, had the demeanor of a former sports star, the epitome of masculinity, a man who paid more attention to physical fitness than wardrobes. His chest nearly burst the bounds of his light blue button-down shirt, and his muscled thighs strained the fabric of his slacks. As he began to talk about the soccer season and the significance of the game on the young lives he touched, a mom sitting next to Rachel told her something about Duffy’s personal life—how he’d lost his wife and son in a car accident several years ago. Rachel winced when she recalled her previous rudeness to the man. Could she have been more scummy?

  The final straw was the presentation of the award to the most improved player, which went to Scott. Now Rachel felt about two inches high. Coach Duffy deserved an apology. All he’d done was try to direct the team the best he knew how. She squelched the thought when Scott returned to the table after accepting his trophy. As she hugged him and gave him a high-five, he said, “I wish Jim could have seen this. He’s the one who helped me a lot.”

  Fat chance, Rachel thought. “I’m sure he’d be proud if he knew,” was all Rachel said.

  After the event, Rachel approached the coach where he was surrounded by well-wishers. She waited until the others left, then extended her hand while saying, “Congratulations on a great season.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Kinsey. I know we didn’t always agree on my approach,” Duffy said, but without a trace of malice.

  “I tend to let my emotions get the better of me. Sorry. The important thing is the team. We and our boys have been lucky to have you.”

  “I appreciate your comments. And Scott is doing well, considering.”

  Considering what? Considering he was so uncoordinated? Considering he didn’t have a father to work with him? Considering he has a pushy mother?

  “Considering this is his first year playing soccer, right?” Amusement crinkled the corners of Duffy’s eyes. “How about I drop by your house occasionally to kick a ball around with him? Keep him in shape for next season.”

  “We don’t have a house. We’re in an apartment. And do you make the same offer to other boys?” She looked, really looked at the coach with the sharpness of a laser beam, and noticed his total attention was on her. They could have been the only people in the spacious room.

  “No, you’re the first.”

  A suspicion crossed Rachel’s mind to which she immediately gave voice. “Are you trying to find an excuse to see me, Coach Duffy?”

  “I just may be doing that,” he said. “My life gets empty after soccer season.” The slightest curve to his mouth revealed humor.

  “You have our address and phone number on the team roster,” said Rachel. “Maybe I’ll finally learn all the rules.” As she turned to leave, Rachel thought, life might not be so boring after all.

  * * *

  The weekend in Vail had gone very well, Jim thought. Donna proved to be a competent
downhill skier and a congenial evening companion. In fact, when Jim had been unable to get the gas fireplace going, Donna accomplished the task within seconds. Of course, he reminded himself, she probably never had exploded a gas oven the way he had during a disastrous baking session as a teen.

  The sole ungenerous thought he had about her was his aversion to her backseat driving on the route home. As usual, I-70 headed east through the Eisenhower Tunnel was bumper to bumper, and the road was slick from a sudden snowfall. She didn’t screech or yell, but her careful enunciation and calm demeanor were almost as unnerving as having his mother in the car providing point-by-point commentary on road conditions.

  “Just to my right is a semi, coming up rather quickly, with an RV immediately in front of it. You’ll want to be prepared for the truck to attempt to pass by moving into your lane.”

  The monologue continued nearly one hundred miles, from Vail all the way downhill to Denver. Jim tried flicking on the radio and singing along with an oldie or two. Donna just rummaged through his CDs and pulled out a jazz recording, then resumed her guidance. It was enough to prevent Jim from suggesting a quick bite for dinner at a pizza place, although Donna’s slight hesitation before she got out of the car showed she may have been anticipating a dinner offer.

  Still he enjoyed her company enough to call her the following week and make plans to catch a movie. Donna selected a sentimental chick film rather than the action thriller Jim preferred, but that was to be expected from most women. He couldn’t help wondering if Rachel immersed herself in action flicks, their suspense, special effects, high energy. He imagined she did.

  * * *

  During the same week, Rachel prepared to meet Coach Duffy for a concert of local folk musicians at Swallow Hill Music Association. “One problem. I can’t keep calling him Coach Duffy,” she said as she brushed her hair into a loose ponytail. She was addressing Sharon, who had no date herself and was taking Scott-duty. “But I don’t know his first name.”