He then kissed me on the forehead and left the room. I finished the dishes, and we left for the scout drive.
UPON ARRIVING AT the salvage drive, John and I found a packed parking lot—another reminder of how our town, which had swelled upward of fifteen thousand, banded together during times of need. John and I headed in different directions—John caught up with Vern McSorley and the school’s handyman, Wendell Washington.
Vern and his wife, Mavis, were our dearest friends, and John and I often spent Saturday nights playing dominoes at either their home or ours. Vern was a tall, large man and somewhat intimidating. He had never run for public office, but he pulled sway on all the biggest decisions in town. He was well respected, and all business during the week, but on Saturday nights, over dominoes, he’d unleash a sense of humor that I suspected would have left Jimmy Durante envious.
Wendell, the high school’s handyman and groundskeeper, was from Pennsylvania. His kin, originally from Mississippi, found freedom in the North, aided by the Underground Railroad. Wendell arrived in Brownwood in 1942 when his son was stationed in Camp Bowie. Wendell often said that he had just enough money to get to Texas to see his son but no money left for a train ticket home. I’ve always suspected he never intended to return to Pennsylvania, that the memories of his wife and young daughter, who perished in a house fire years earlier, cut too deep. Wendell’s son married soon after his discharge less than a year ago and moved to New Orleans, his wife’s hometown. Wendell had made Brownwood his home.
Wendell, Vern, and John joined the other men in a parking lot corner designated for the collection of rubber, typically tires no longer drivable, and scrap metal. Boxes also had been set up to collect tin cans and various forms of aluminum.
Although the Boy Scouts sponsored the drive, mothers of current and former scouts organized the collection of paper products. Mena had organized this year’s paper drive, but with Burl’s funeral set for the next day, she had handed the reins over to Mavis, who was not only a former scout mom but was the high school freshman composition teacher. Mavis also knew Mena’s pain. Vern and Mavis lost their son at Pearl Harbor, and since that day, Mavis had sought every opportunity to keep herself busy. Her biggest fear, she’d said, was having nothing to do.
I’d known Mavis since middle school. She was a kind but timid woman, small-framed and no more than five feet tall. She was often overshadowed by Vern’s loud and domineering personality, but it suited Mavis. Because we had developed a friendship at only thirteen years old, I had come to understand that, even as a schoolgirl, she preferred a place in the shadows.
I hightailed it into the gym to find Mavis and dozens of other ladies collecting and organizing the paper products, including cardboard milk cartons, cardboard boxes, and newspapers.
Two years earlier, Boy Scout troops across the country had begun sponsoring drives, brought on by labor shortages that resulted in reduced quantities of virgin pulpwood. Paper products were needed for several purposes, including the boxing of K rations, artillery shells, and canned goods. Metal was needed for building airplanes.
Brownwood Boy Scouts sponsored drives twice a year. The drives tended to uplift the community, providing an opportunity to contribute to the war effort—something other than sending their sons and fathers off to battle. As volunteers continued to pour into the gym, I took a twenty-minute break to tutor three students who had counted on me every first Thursday of the month.
Typically, three seniors struggling with English classes—Bobby Ray, Lula Ann, and Katharine—arrived at my house by six o’clock for a one-hour tutoring session. All three seniors struggled with literature and composition, so late in their junior year, I began tutoring them even though as assistant principal, I no longer taught English. A week into their senior year, we all picked up where we’d left off, only on that night we had planned to meet in my office and keep it brief.
The class was reading Little Women, and Louisa May Alcott’s writing must have resonated with them because they—the two girls, at least—said they were pleasantly surprised by the assignment. Bobby Ray said nothing, but I knew he enjoyed the book because he wasn’t sitting back yawning as he had so many times before. I also knew he would never admit to enjoying the book. Certainly wouldn’t want word to get out. But he appeared as engaged as the girls. Though he didn’t speak, he sat up straight and leaned in on the discussion.
About to wrap up the session, Bobby Ray reminded me of the spiral I had thrown to him a day earlier.
“I just never seen a lady throw like that,” Bobby Ray said. “You got quite an arm there, Miss Tylene.”
“I’ve been practicing since I was about five,” I said. “I always knew I had no playing days to look forward to, but it’s a shame you don’t now, either. How are the boys holding up?”
“Not good,” he said.
I wasn’t surprised. I just shook my head.
With the need to return to the drive, I concluded the session by asking all three to give me one word that described why they most admired the Little Women character they collectively named as their favorite: Jo.
“Different,” Lula Ann said.
“Independent,” Katharine said.
Bobby Ray remained silent.
“Bobby Ray, what do you most admire about Jo?” I asked.
“If I have to pick, I guess, strong. I kind of like that,” he said.
We began to part ways. Bobby Ray told me he’d planned to meet up with two of his buddies, seniors Roger Duenkler and Kevin Mutz, but hadn’t seen them. He asked if I had. I hadn’t.
THAT NIGHT, JOHN and I were driving home when we saw Wendell’s truck, a 1927 Chevrolet Capitol 1 with a hardwood-sided bed he’d reconstructed himself. The truck was built for crop fields and dirt trails and was the only one in town with its wooden sides painted red, so it was easy to spot. Wendell had parked in front of the Duenkler house. While passing by, I glanced over and saw Roger with his head bowed. Wendell appeared to have been giving Roger an earful.
Chapter 2
Friday
Entering the school building, I caught a glimpse of Roger near his locker located down the hall. It wasn’t difficult to spot him among the crowd; he was the only student wearing his boiled wool letter jacket with a chenille B patch sewn onto its left breast. I walked his way and signaled for him to meet me in my office.
“Roger, why did Wendell take you home last night?”
“You heard?”
“Tell me what I have to know before word gets to Mr. Redwine.”
Roger didn’t speak. He also looked away from me.
“Roger?” I asked again.
After a brief pause, Roger turned toward me and looked me straight in the eyes.
“I got into my dad’s whiskey cabinet and stole a bottle. Then me and Kevin snuck out of the scout drive. We weren’t causing no harm, Miss Tylene. Just drinking out behind a tree. Mr. Wendell saw us. He ordered us to his truck. Kevin’s dad saw us getting into the truck and took Kevin home.”
“Roger, it’s near a hundred degrees outside and not much less in here. You’re sweating profusely and wearing your letter jacket. Why?” I asked.
Roger looked at me, then down toward the floor and whispered, “It’s football season, ma’am.”
“Roger, I’m patient. Just be honest with me.”
He made me wait. Finally, he took his jacket off, and I nearly froze at the sight of welts and bruises.
“Certainly Wendell didn’t do that to you.”
“No, ma’am. My dad. Took a switch to me the moment I walked in the house. Didn’t even know what I had done. He’d just seen me get out of Mr. Wendell’s truck and figured I was up to no good.”
I was horrified. Although I knew of his father’s short fuse, I couldn’t have imagined he was capable of such brutality, not on his own son. I had gone to high school with Roger’s dad, Gil, who was known back then for his short temper. His nickname was Moonshiner. Originally just Moonshine, but when anyone else f
ired up an illegal still, he’d land a haymaker smack-dab in the center of the fella’s right eye. Gil was a southpaw, and folks knew if anyone was seen about town with a right-eye shiner, it had come courtesy of Moonshiner. This was my first indication that Moonshiner was leaving marks on Roger, too. My first thought was to call Gil and have him come to the school.
“Please don’t, Miss Tylene,” Roger said. “I know my father. He’ll tell you what you want to hear, but it won’t change a thing at home.”
I was left dumbfounded. I knew Roger had gotten into trouble because he had found himself with nothing better to do. Although I knew I had no power to change Gil, I knew I did have the power to keep Roger out of trouble.
“Have you seen Kevin?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s fine.”
Once Roger put his jacket back on and left my office, I went looking for Wendell. I found him in the chemistry lab, where Mr. Hightower was explaining a blockage in the sink.
“We’re just about done,” Mr. Hightower said as I entered the room. I knew Mr. Hightower had the weekly faculty meeting to get to, so I waited. Once he left the lab, Wendell turned to me.
“Saw you and Mr. Wilson pass by last night,” he said.
“Have you seen Roger today?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Got the switch.”
Wendell looked down and shook his head.
“I couldn’t just let it go,” he said.
“You did the right thing, Wendell. What did the boys say?”
“Said they was talking about getting out of here. Got no reason to stay. I’m pretty sure if nothing changes, they be signing up early. Said they ain’t afraid to lie about their age if their daddies don’t sign off.”
Wendell had served in the National Army during World War I. As a member of the Ninety-Second Infantry, he fought in France in 1918 on the Western Front—part of the Hundred Days Offensive in the Battle of the Argonne Forest. Wendell had told me tales of training in the trenches and of life on the front line. He was eighteen, living in Scranton, Pennsylvania, when he was called to war, and he struggled with the thought of the senior boys signing up early.
“Ain’t no place for no seventeen-year-olds,” he said.
“Same could be said for Burl’s funeral. Will I be seeing you there?”
“Yes, ma’am. Got to pay my last respects.”
“You’re a good man, Wendell,” I said.
I returned to my office, finished some paperwork, and then headed to Mena’s home, where she and her daughters—Doris and Sally—were preparing for a reception to follow Burl’s burial, scheduled for that morning at eleven.
I arrived to find John and Walter unloading tables and chairs from a truck bed. Mena had told us she had no idea of what kind of turnout to expect, but John and I figured it would be in the hundreds—upward of three hundred—so John put word out to families to drop portable tables off at his auto shop.
Mena had a modest house but a large backyard, so once John and Walter had the tables and chairs set out back, I began to lay out the tablecloths that I’d borrowed from a number of teachers. I’d also collected several vases, so I placed a small flower in each as table centerpieces.
While I set up outside, Mena and her daughters arranged the inside, making space for meals the guests would bring and opening up the rooms by pushing furniture against the walls.
Once we had the house ready, I left for home so I could change into the black dress I’d become accustomed to wearing for funerals of our fallen friends. Burl’s funeral would mark the sixth time I’d worn the dress within the last four months. Each time, another layer of anguish added to it. Though I loved each of our fallen soldiers, Burl was more deeply personal. My godson.
I remembered the day that Burl was born. Mena had Earl stop by our house early that morning.
“Tylene! Tylene!” Earl shouted while pounding on our front door shortly after sunrise.
Still in my robe and slippers, I dashed to the living room and opened the door.
“It’s a boy!” he said.
“Earl, you darn near scared me out of my wits!” I said. And then I called for John, and I asked Earl to come inside.
John joined us and congratulated Earl on the new addition.
“Mena couldn’t wait for y’all to know,” Earl said. “Asked me to hightail it here just hours after Burl was born.”
“Burl. That’s beautiful,” I said.
“A family name?” John asked.
“Mena’s father. He passed on before she was born, so she swore if she ever had a son, she’d name him after him. Makes her feel close, connected in a way, to both of them.”
I offered Earl a cup of tea, but he said he couldn’t stay. He had a few more stops to make. I hugged him and told him I’d be heading to the hospital just as soon as I could. I still had to get ready for the day and fix John’s breakfast.
Later that morning, I walked into Mena’s hospital room. She was sitting up in the bed, holding Burl tightly.
“Don’t think I’ve ever lived a happier day,” she said to me before I could say hello. “Want to hold him?”
I took Burl in my arms, and while I was looking down at him, Mena surprised me.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you this since the day the doc told me I was going to have a baby. Will you and John be his godparents?”
Still looking down at Burl, I said, “We’d be honored.” I looked up at Mena and smiled.
From that moment on, Burl had held a special place in my heart. Never did I imagine that one day I’d be driving to his burial.
I arrived at Greenleaf Cemetery just moments before John did. We joined up in the parking lot and walked to the burial site together. We had arrived with the early crowd and found a seat just behind Mena and the girls, who were already seated. Failing health had forced Earl to remain at home.
Slowly, the seats behind us filled. By the time the preacher began his opening remarks, I figured more than five hundred townsfolk had gathered to honor Burl’s life. Ranchers, businessmen, mothers, teachers, commissioners, and mayors—both of Brownwood and nearby towns. The largest cluster was of students, including football players who wore their jerseys to honor their fallen leader. The high school had loaded up buses so students could attend.
Just minutes into the ceremony, the preacher turned the microphone over to Jimmy.
“Coach Young was a hero to me,” Jimmy said. “Not only for his sacrifice on the battlefield, but for his sacrifices for his family and for us. Leading up to my senior year, me and my fellow seniors looked forward to playing our last year for Coach Young.”
Jimmy then turned toward the casket, draped in the American flag.
“Coach, I’ll never forget the day you named me captain. You said, ‘Jimmy, I trust you.’ I’ll never forget that, Coach Young, and I’ll never forget you. You will always be my captain, and I’ll miss you for the rest of my life. We will all miss you, Coach. God rest your soul, O captain, my captain.”
Jimmy turned to his teammates as if looking for comfort. Bobby Ray and Roger walked up and hugged him. Jimmy then returned the microphone to the preacher, who went on to extol the virtues Burl displayed in choosing to fight for his country.
“We don’t know what drives evil in our world, but we do know Burl gave his life fighting it,” he said. That was about all I heard from the preacher. I was sitting so close to Mena that her sobbing drowned out much of what he went on to say.
She and her daughters were so shaken that I tried to remain composed in the event that they needed me. But once taps began, I knew I could no longer hold in my emotions. When the soldiers played the final note and lowered the bugles to their sides, I was overcome. First my infant son. Then my godson. Enough, I thought. My resolve was heightened. Through my tears, I promised myself: The senior boys would stay home. Their turn for duty would come soon enough.
Later that afternoon, I stopped in on Mr. Redwine.
“The boys need to pl
ay,” I told him. “Keep the boys out of war, out of trouble, and out from under a switch.”
“Switch?” Mr. Redwine asked.
Before he could say anything more, I reminded him of what FDR had said when Major League Baseball considered shutting down in January 1942, a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor: “‘Play ball.’ That’s what FDR said, Mr. Redwine. He said the country needed it, and he was right. Now we need to play ball. The boys need football, and the school needs football.”
“Tylene, you know I take no pleasure in canceling the season. But you know as well as I do, the men are gone. There is no coach out there, Tylene. No coach.”
I thought of what John had suggested the night before, and especially how I had responded.
“With all due respect, Mr. Redwine, I refuse to believe that. I know it. I know there is one coach out there. I just have to find him. And I promise you this, I will find him, and he will be on board by Monday morning.”
I then set out to form a committee of teachers I knew understood the value of football, even if they didn’t understand the game itself. My first thought was to corner a few teachers as they entered or exited their classrooms, so when I spotted Miss Ruth Mary entering her home economics class, I weaved my way through the rush of students heading to their lockers and caught up with her. I explained what I was looking for.
“I know nothing about football, but count me in,” she said. I was overjoyed, and still, I instinctively made a mental note that the O’Keefe & Merritt range she had begun fiddling with as we spoke was in need of repair.
I had just stepped out of Miss Ruth Mary’s classroom when I spotted Mr. Grassly, the physical education teacher and track coach, talking with a student wearing a scout uniform and walking in my direction. Mr. Grassly was my next target. I was elated when he agreed. Mr. Grassly was so highly respected that if he was on board with a project, several other teachers typically followed suit.
That proved to be the case this time as well. I got our biology teacher, Mr. Durr, to agree, followed by Mr. Beekner, who taught Spanish. I was confident I had formed the perfect committee because, as I had expected, no one I spoke to wanted to see the football season canceled. By three thirty, I had formed my five-member committee—three men and two women, including myself. We met in the teachers’ lounge, but before we began to brainstorm, we bowed our heads and said a prayer in memory of Burl.
When the Men Were Gone Page 3
