“Because we’re gonna win the championship.”
Father Pierre shakes his head. “See how my work is needed here with such cockiness?” he says. “When the town believes in football instead of God?”
The young priest smiles. “I think they call it spirit, Father. Team spirit.” Then he turns to me. “You said the money’s for a pew?” he asks.
I nod.
“No one pays for going to church anymore, son,” he says. “There’s plenty of room. You don’t have to worry about leaving money for your pew.”
I almost feel sorry for Father Pierre, looking so stunned, except he’s so self-righteous. Even when his church is crumbling.
“You should be at the game,” I tell him, but I don’t stay and wait for his reaction. I know Father Pierre’s hold on this town is slipping and it’s got nothing to do with football.
MID-WEEK EDITION
Hatley Coach Ben Wylie Hansen Dies
Ben Wylie Hansen, head coach and director of physical education of Hatley schools, passed away yesterday in the Cottonville hospital where he was taken after suddenly becoming ill earlier this month. A meningitis infection aggravated by a condition resulting from a head injury received while in military service was said to be the cause of death.
Services will be held tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 in the Hatley High School auditorium. Father Pierre LaSalle will officiate.
Coach Hansen was born March 4, 1917, in Missouri. He was graduated from Springfield Union High School in 1934 and attended Southwest Missouri State Teachers College, where he received a bachelor of arts degree and a master of arts degree. His first assignment as a coach was in Fort Apache, Ariz., and in 1940 he came to Hatley.
On leave in 1943 to enter service with the U.S. Infantry, Hansen received severe head injuries when a gasoline motor on a moving target exploded at Fort Benning, Ga. He returned to his coaching duties at the Hatley schools in 1945.
Survivors include his wife, Eleanor; a son, Homer Wylie, age 4; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. R. O. Hansen, Springfield, Mo.; three sisters and a brother.
Mine Closes. Last Copper Ingot Poured
For the first time in 20 years, no dense plume of white smoke arose from the smelter stack at Cottonville, and the shovels were silent in Hatley’s open pit. The last charge of copper was poured at the end of the day shift at 3:30 Tuesday, the oil flow to reverberatories was stopped and fires were pulled at 6 o’clock. Approximately 500 Eureka Copper mining employees will be transferred to Ajo or Bisbee, with Cottonville schools set to close also.
Full story, p.2.
WANT ADS
STILL LOST—Black-and-white hound branded T over C on right rump. Last seen at Carsen’s Lumber near Bitter Creek. Has Casillas on brass plate of collar. Does not bite. Answers to Chalupa. REWARD. Phone 186-H.
PIANO TO TRADE—Willing to trade nearly new spinet piano for sewing machine or comparable trade. See Mrs. Featherhoff. Upper Main, Hatley.
CHEAP—Extra-good 2-wheel trailer, or will swap for firewood. Vince Palermo. Hogback Bakery.
Chapter 24
TEARS WON’T COME
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 19
2:15 P.M.
THERE’S NO WAY THE SACRED Heart of Mary could have held us. As it is, folks are leaning against the sides of the bleachers in the auditorium, clinging to their kids and telling them to hush.
Cruz is beside me, staring at his knees. Tony’s on my left, too wide for the chair. He’s leaning forward like he’s set for a tackle, only his knuckles are clenched and he’s wearing a collar so starched it’s cutting into his neck and chafing it red as chopped meat.
We just mumbled “Sorry” to Mrs. Hansen when it got to be our turn and watched Homer squirming around her ankles, his hair combed and spit-polished in place, while he played with his football until his grandmother took him away.
Now we’re in the front row—they’ve kept it open for the team—and it hurts even more watching Mrs. Hansen from here, standing there alone, the black veil covering those swollen eyes and her bottom lip trembling as her hand gets shook by the steady stream of newcomers. Some of them were supposed to be in Ajo already. And then there were the Cottonville Wolves, and coaches who traveled a whole lot farther than from Flagstaff to pay their respects.
“Look who’s here,” Lupe Diaz says from a few seats over.
Rudy. He’s in line like everybody else, with Mrs. Hansen about to shake his hand as if he wasn’t a murderer and didn’t kill Coach.
“No way he should be here,” Cruz says, grinding his teeth.
How could Rudy show up for this?
He walks past us looking for a seat and I stare him down. Tony pounds his fist on the empty chair beside him and Rudy’s face twitches. He goes around and slips into the row behind us.
Francisco comes up with Paradiso and sprinkles the coffin with his holy wand. “Darn mule,” Mrs. Dearing sniffs, saying it shouldn’t be allowed. But Francisco’s never hurt anybody, and he won’t go anywhere without Paradiso.
Homer runs up and gives the burro a hug. He starts crying pretty hard and won’t let go of Paradiso’s peppery mane until Francisco hands him a few pecans to feed the burro. “It’s my birfday next week,” he tells Francisco. “I’m gonna be five.”
Faye Miller’s behind them with her boy. “I’m seven,” he says.
“Silly goose, you’re not that old.” Faye blushes, rubbing his curly head.
Francisco nods at Faye and gives her a slight smile.
Then Father Pierre steps from behind the stage curtain and lowers his palm for the band to be seated, and I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.
Bobby’s coffin was closed, too. Coach is too beat up for us to see, I know that, and he’d never want us to, not looking that way. But with Bobby everyone knew he wasn’t inside. That his remains were never recovered. Manny said that meant he was either blown to smithereens or stuck in a cave they couldn’t get to without burning up and dying.
Why’d they have a coffin anyhow? I’d kept asking Maw. Bobby never came back. But all she told me was to sit up straight, and that Father Pierre knew what was proper. And I suppose it was there for something to look at, to make it seem real for us, and everyone behind our pew feeling sorry, but mostly glad they weren’t O’Sullivans.
I’d come home from school and found the screen door wedged open and Cussie’s mom crying inside while Father Pierre stood over Maw, her head lying sideways on the kitchen table like it wasn’t part of her anymore.
He’s the one who told me about Bobby. It came out all echoed, like the Father wasn’t really talking to me or about Bobby, the syllables passing over my head then floating up to the ceiling. Haven’t millions of soldiers gone to war? That’s what I could really hear, the voice inside my head, telling me how common the names Robert and O’Sullivan must be and how could they know for sure? But then the words killed and dead ricocheted off the tin, slapping me in the face so hard and sudden my knees buckled.
Cruz was there. He took my shoulder and walked me down the Barrio to his house. I must’ve slept awhile on the little cot by the fire, because when I came to, Francisco was smiling at me with his corn-kernel teeth.
And Mrs. V, she fed me soup with golden noodles. That got my tongue all fiery, and Cruz’s brothers and sisters laughed, especially Angie, who said my hair must be made of carrots. I didn’t mind any of it. For the first time since they’d told me about Bobby, I’d felt something.
They found me a black coat, wrapped a cross around my neck along with a medallion of Saint Christopher, and hoisted me up on Paradiso.
Francisco led the procession up Gulch Lane to my house, the Vs on either side of me, stopping only to let the women with their rosaries add sacks of food to my burro. Then a man called out, “¡Viva Roberto!” and the cavalcade raised their candles or pictures of Bobby with their sons and grandsons holding up the Northern Crown.
They left them on the steps while Francisco gave our house a good splash with his holy water.
When Maw came to the door, Mrs. Villanueva handed her a loaf of warm bread covered up in a towel. “Thank you for coming!” Maw said, smiling the way paper dolls do, like she was having a party or going to the Elks Ball at the Lodge, back when Pop was the Exalted Ruler. And I wanted to go back to the Barrio with the others right then, to that little house flickering with candlelight, where it was safe and warm and alive. Where they talked about Bobby like he still mattered without going into hiding or keeping anything in.
“There’s a bounty on Rudy’s head,” Cruz whispers. “It wasn’t no meningitis that killed Coach. It was Rudy. If he steps one foot in the Barrio, they’ll shoot him in the heart, I swear.”
Tony leans back and tilts his chair toward me. “He can stay up on the hill but he can’t hide,” he says. “And there’s no santos who will save him.”
I glance over at Melvin, pale and scrawny, sitting next to Verdugo and his broken collarbone. If Rudy doesn’t play, we’ll have to bring Melvin in, or we forfeit the championship. But Melvin Sneep could cost us the game.
“It’ll be a waste if we don’t win it,” Cruz says. “May as well be in that coffin.”
I tell Cruz that we’ll win because we have to. There’s no way Phoenix United’s got the same kind of pain stuck inside. Our speed will carry us, and we can work the slag to our advantage. It’s what Coach wanted for us.
Angie, too.
I found a note from her in my locker this morning. I don’t know how it got there. “Win or lose,” it said, “you’ve given Hatley hope.” She said Ajo isn’t so far, just a hundred miles past Phoenix.
Hope. That’s what you need to get through the pain.
Homer’s still burrowing his head into Paradiso, and I wonder what it’ll be like for Coach’s boy. He’s got a good mother. I suppose she’ll move on, too.
I try to get a picture of Bobby back in my head, but his face changes into Coach’s and then Angie’s, and that’s not supposed to happen at a funeral.
Homer finally lets go of Paradiso. He throws his little football and it hits the coffin. Father Pierre stops then stutters, adjusting his glasses as Homer runs into his mother’s arms and buries his face in her bosom.
* * *
Faye Miller’s on the porch when I get home from the funeral and the pot roast she’s holding is just about the best thing you could smell. Her boy Samuel’s on the settee petting Whitey—the side of his suit jacket’s covered in fur.
“I thought Whitey would have bit the dust by now. Must be the oldest burro left in Hatley.” Faye smiles, trying to keep her purse away from Whitey’s gums. “Why don’t I put this roast in the Frigidaire before Whitey gets it.”
“I want a burro,” Samuel says. He giggles as Whitey nibbles at his curls.
“Careful, he just might follow you home,” I say. “That burro’s too stubborn to leave Hatley—he’s got the grazing rights to the whole town.”
“Well, stubborn’s okay,” Faye says. “It helps you keep track of what’s important in life.”
“Do you and Whitey eat my mom’s food all by yourselves?” Samuel asks.
“Well, I got a pop who lives here. But to tell you the truth, I don’t always know when he’ll show.”
“Is he up in heaven, too, like your coach?”
Faye blushes. “Samuel, hush.”
“Naw. I had a brother. He’s with Coach.”
Faye strokes Samuel’s hair.
“Does he have orange hair, too?” Samuel asks.
“Yeah … but he got all the looks.”
Faye comes closer and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Bobby would be so proud of you,” she whispers. “And …” She hesitates.
There are things I want to ask her, too, like where her husband is, but I don’t.
“I brought something else,” Faye says. “I think it belongs to you.” She takes a box from her purse. It’s from Robinson’s. “You ought to save these pearls for someone special in your life, Red,” she whispers. “And when you do, don’t ever miss a chance to let her know how you feel.”
“I wanna see the trophy you get for winning the game,” Samuel says. “I bet it’s bigger than Whitey.”
“We’ll have to find out, won’t we?” I say.
Faye takes Samuel’s hand. “We’ll be at the game on Saturday. Win or lose, it’s just about the greatest thing to happen to this town.”
Samuel gives Whitey a kiss before leaving, then Faye turns back and looks at me. “I’m proud of you for Bobby,” she tells me. “How’s that?”
“That’s just fine,” I say softly, putting the box from Robinson’s in my pocket and holding on to it—tight.
Chapter 25
GOLDEN WINGS
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 20
5:57 P.M.
I COULD STILL SHOWER IF I wanted to; my locker’s not far from the stalls. But I’d have to pass Coach’s office, and that doesn’t seem right with him not being here. None of the guys felt like doing much after practice, so they headed home to get some rest. Even Cruz. He kept going on about having to wash his car but he did that yesterday. I think he needed to be alone with his thoughts, and I suppose that’s true of me, too. Funny how this jersey itches like crazy once the sweat gets into it, but I don’t want to take it off just yet and keep looking at the trophies in the case across from my locker.
Somebody put our Northern Crown on the top shelf. Not in the center, but off to the left a bit, like whoever placed it there’s saving a spot for the Yavapai Cup. It wouldn’t have been Wallinger, that’s for sure. He doesn’t care enough, and there’s no way he feels what we’re feeling. It had to be someone who wants that Cup as bad as we do, or who understands us wanting it that much.
I try looking at that Northern Crown one more time from another angle, thinking it might be a split in the glass or something, but it’s different from Bobby’s from this side, too. The guy punting the ball is kicking it up a vertical line, same as on the other trophy, but he’s made of copper, like my coloring, instead of bronze. By the time the copper reaches his forehead, though, it’s turned the complexion of Cruz and Tony and most of the guys on the team. And I wonder if the fellow who made it knew what he was doing, and if he figured on the face of that punter burnishing brown like a Mexican Mucker’s.
“Careful, if you stare at them long enough they just might come to life,” Mr. Mackenzie says. “Seems like neither one of us is ready to leave for the night, are we?” He’s lugging a box that looks heavier than a typewriter, and rests it next to my locker before coming over. “Charlie put the Northern Crown in there. Cleaned the rest of them, too, in case you were wondering. He told me he saw you pining over them, looking so forlorn that he went through every key in those stacks of lockboxes until he found the one to get it open.”
“Charlie.” I nod, leaning my hand against the glass in front of the Northern Crown as if I can touch it. Then I look over at Mr. Mackenzie. “We still don’t know where these are going yet, do we? When the school closes.”
“I’m afraid not,” he murmurs. “I wish I did.” He pulls his suit trousers up at the knees and sits on the box. “But what I do know is that it already comes polished. The Yavapai Cup. It’s at least a foot taller than any of these trophies, and is bronze and copper with golden wings on the soles of the kicker. Like he just sent his dreams soaring into the sky and when they finally landed on the field, they’d come true.”
I move my fingers along the glass slowly, to the center of the top tier where the Cup could be, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination or the light or what, but it gets really warm. I try to imagine the outline of that trophy. Those wings on the kicker’s shoes. “And if we win it, it belongs to us, right?”
Mr. Mac sighs. “Mr. Ruffner owns the property and the school.”
“But he wouldn’t have earned it.”
“No, he wouldn’t have.” Mr. Mackenzie runs a palm across his face and closes his eyes. “This is my last day at this school, Felix.”
I take my hand off the g
lass and think he’s got to be fooling. “What do you mean? Won’t you be at the game on Saturday?”
“I would never miss that,” he says. “But I’ll no longer be principal of this school. I’ve taken a job at the college in Flagstaff.”
“What happened?”
“It will be official on Monday, but it seems that Superintendent Menary has taken the Communist box seriously. Apparently, my name was in it several times. And he’s given me the opportunity to leave—his words. But I suppose it’s just as well with Cottonville closing, too, and all the surplus of teachers we’ll have.” Then Mr. Mackenzie takes out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “This is where I’ll be,” he says. “You call me if you need anything, you hear? Marilyn will stay until the end of next week to be with your mother.”
He turns to face the trophies. “It’s open, by the way,” he whispers. “For some reason Charlie’s forgotten to lock it, and he won’t be making the rounds again until tomorrow morning.” Mr. Mackenzie taps on the glass above the lock. “Remember, hope can never be taken away unless you let it,” he says. “The future is yours, Felix. And you don’t have to stay here either.”
GHOST TOWN BATTLES FOR STATE FOOTBALL TITLE
Clinging tenaciously to the side of the Black Mountains at the 5,000-foot level is a ghost town. Once the richest copper vein in the world, Hatley’s ore has run out, and the days when 15,000 people filled the streets and 4,000 miners spent their paychecks in wild flings are only a memory. Now the old-timers and their families—some 500 of them waiting for the school to close—live in the collection of weather-beaten houses that hug the steep mountainside, the view from their porches extending 60 miles all the way to Flagstaff.
But immediately over their balconies is a gaping open pit run dry—a reminder of what their lives used to be.
Today at 3 p.m. the town’s last football team, the Hatley Muckers, carrying a squad of only 12 and missing both their coach and the life of their town, will compete against the heavily favored powerhouse, Phoenix United, for the Yavapai Cup, on a type of field not seen in the southern parts of the state.
Muckers Page 19
