When the Men Were Gone

by Marjorie Herrera Lewis

  “The hardships shadow us forever, Moose. How we respond—now, that’s what tells us who we are.”

  “You’re right, Miss Tylene. Sometimes in life, we find ourselves in situations we never anticipated, and we end up asking ourselves, ‘Why me?’”

  Suddenly, I began to sense the tables turning.

  “But you know what, Miss Tylene? The boys need to play football, and they can’t do it without you.”

  He had me cornered with my own words.

  “Clever, Moose,” I said.

  And then I thought of what John had suggested. Suddenly, I felt a little trapped, a little confused, and a lot of excitement.

  Friday

  The next morning, I was holding a cup of black coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other as I walked from the kitchen to the living room and back, thinking about what Moose had suggested, yet dismissing it just the same. John was sitting on his favorite oversized, stuffed chair, reading a magazine and drinking coffee, too. It was a typical weekday morning, except for the decision I had to make.

  Because John and I loved mornings, we had always gotten up early, by five thirty; we enjoyed time relaxing together before beginning each workday.

  Like I did every morning, I sat on the corner of the sofa, closest to John. I crossed my legs, the sound of nylon hose rubbing leg-to-leg breaking the silence. Then I adjusted my dress so it wouldn’t wrinkle above my knees.

  “Thousands and thousands of men stationed at Camp Bowie, just a stone’s throw from the football field, and I’m entertaining the notion of coaching the boys. How crazy is that?” I said.

  “Seems to me, if you don’t do it, it’s over,” John said.

  Over. Hearing that word reminded me of how much I despised it. Over. John knew that word got under my skin, especially when things in life were prematurely over, and I knew he’d used the word deliberately. I could have gotten after him for goading me with it, but strangely, I reacted just as I knew he wanted me to.

  “Can I do it, John? Honestly, can I do it?”

  He put his magazine aside, leaned forward in his chair, rested his forearms on his knees, and looked at me. “Without a doubt.”

  I got up and started pacing. In the moment, I thought of Moose and how he had reacted to my encouragement in the same way, and I nearly began to laugh. Finally, I told John of my similar conversation with Moose, and John laughed.

  “Clearly, you have nothing to be afraid of, Tylene. You know kids. Heck, you were the middle-school English teacher for a few of them back in the day, and they loved you. They know you love football. Did you ever miss any of their middle-school games? They respect you. They listen to you. They admire you. What’s the problem?”

  “The dress?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “And the pearls, Tylene. Don’t forget the pearls.”

  Then he smiled.

  “Nothing that we can’t handle, Tylene” he said. “You’ve been preparing for this moment since your father first tossed a football your way. Your father loved you enough to change his life. These boys are your kids. Can you love them enough, too?”

  I spent the day thinking of what John said and how Moose had encouraged me, too. I questioned myself, I doubted myself, and I convinced myself that Mr. Redwine would never appoint me as the school’s football coach. And still, I couldn’t stop mulling over how the boys and the school might react to the mere suggestion.

  I paid special attention to how my peers interacted with me. I took note of how Mr. Redwine treated me. I analyzed every interaction I had with the boys.

  That night, I told John I had scheduled an eight o’clock morning meeting with Mr. Redwine. I was on the brink of suggesting something crazy.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday

  Saturday meetings were rare, but this one had to take place on a Saturday, a day with no phones ringing, no teachers knocking at the door, no students sitting outside the office awaiting disciplinary actions. No, only the two of us.

  All I had told Mr. Redwine when I requested the meeting was that Moose had quit, and we needed to talk. I knew he would be blindsided by my suggestion, so I had to be fully prepared. I had to make a case for myself, so I had gotten up early. By four o’clock I had already eaten breakfast and had begun poring over my notes. While I prepared, the only sound I heard was the hum of the light fixture hanging above the kitchen table. Even the birds who sang outside the kitchen window each morning had continued to sleep.

  I did not expect Mr. Redwine to ask me what kind of defense I planned to run or what I thought of the single-wing formation, although I was prepared to answer if he chose to ask. I was certain I’d face pedestrian questions, such as “Why do you want to do a man’s job? What makes you think you can handle the boys?” And “What does a lady know about football?” I prepared for him to come at me from all sides.

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the school ten minutes shy of our eight o’clock meeting, I spotted Mr. Redwine’s car in the lot. The side door of the building leading to the principal’s office was unlocked. I put my unused key back in my purse, walked in, and headed straight to Mr. Redwine’s office, a soft sunlight bouncing off the lockers and the sound of my black one-inch pumps echoing in the empty hallway.

  “Morning, Mr. Redwine,” I said.

  “So why am I here on a Saturday morning?” he asked while he fussed with the coffeepot. “Moose is out. Now what? If you’re going to try to convince me that we have time to find a replacement, Tylene, let me tell you something, we don’t.”

  I noticed he hadn’t a clue about what to do, so I gently took the pot from him and began making the coffee. Not looking at him as I dipped a spoon into the grinds, I said, “The boys need to play football.”

  “Give it up, Tylene,” he said. He hunched his shoulders as if to say he’d had enough. “We’ve gone over this. Give me something new. Why did you have to tell me this today?”

  “We’re running out of time, and I want to do this. Mr. Redwine, let me coach the boys.”

  I wasn’t prepared for his response.

  “So he was right,” Mr. Redwine said.

  “Who? Right about what?”

  “Gil Duenkler. He stopped by the office yesterday and warned me. Said you’d do exactly this. He called it a coup.”

  “A coup? Seriously? You believe anything Moonshiner has to say? What else did he tell you—that he’s been following me? Saw me taking notes in the parking lot?”

  “Notes that he says undermined Moose.”

  I was livid. I’d known Moonshiner had spied me in the parking lot, but he must have zeroed in on my notes when he’d stood over my shoulder. I had tucked them away from his view, but apparently not in time.

  “‘Boys don’t pay attention,’” Mr. Redwine recited. “‘Jimmy needs to learn to pass and not throw.’ ‘Receivers don’t watch the ball into their hands.’ ‘Backups not engaged.’ What was that? A list of grievances to get rid of him? Make it look like you hired him knowing he wasn’t capable so that you could step in at the eleventh hour and force our hand? Is that it, Tylene?”

  “I’m speechless,” I said.

  “Don’t do this to me!” Mr. Redwine formed a fist with his right hand and extended his pointer finger, pounding it twice on the table and nearly knocking the coffeepot over. “Tylene, you know I respect you. You’re a fine teacher and administrator. And frankly, there’s no one else I’d rather have in charge of academics. You’re the best in town. No question. But Tylene, this is 1944, not 1984. Women might coach football in the future, but they do not coach football now! Not even in a time of war. And they never do a man’s job unless a man is not available. Get Moose back, Tylene, or drop it.”

  “Mr. Redwine, I wasn’t undermining Moose,” I said. I maintained my composure. “I was helping him. I kept notes of what was going wrong, and after each practice we’d meet at my house. I’d let him know what I saw and how things could be improved. Yes, I kept notes. Lots of notes.”

  I turned toward
the coffeepot and stared at it while I waited for the water to warm up. The room had fallen silent but for the humming of the machine.

  In the silence, my mind harkened back to the day that put me on the path to this moment with Mr. Redwine.

  “What was it like for you on that December morning?” I asked.

  When Mr. Redwine did not answer, I turned back and saw him looking at me as if I weren’t there. I waited.

  “Tell me. What were you doing when you heard?” Again, I waited.

  “Just come home from lunch, the Mrs. and me,” he said. “Mit met us at church and took us out to grab a bite afterward.

  “Had the radio going. Angie likes to listen to music after church. Keeps her uplifted. Then, just like it must have been for nearly everyone in town—heck, everyone coast to coast—a live report interrupted the music. I turned up the radio and called her into the living room. We sat on the sofa listening to the reports.

  “It didn’t seem real until she began to cry, and we both knew that life in America would never be the same—not the way it had been when we’d gone to bed the night before. I guess that darkness was like a curtain. Pulled back that morning, and everything we’d known was gone.”

  “You did know Jack McSorley was stationed there, right?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  In that moment, I sensed that Mr. Redwine finally understood what it meant, even to him, to keep the boys playing, to keep them home for one more year.

  “Tylene, I get it,” he said. “But I’m not the problem. So I give you the okay, what then? Have you really thought this through? You’re trying to protect those boys, and that’s mighty fine, Tylene, mighty fine, but I’m trying to protect you.”

  “I have thought it through, Mr. Redwine,” I said. “And I appreciate your protection, but I’m not facing war. I can handle myself. You know what else? I can handle those boys, too. And I can coach football.

  “Look, if Jimmy had flipped the football to the halfback on the triple option on third down on the last possession against Abilene last season, knowing the linebacker had already bitten on the fullback dive, we would have won the game. If we had stuffed the box, and our middle linebacker had stunted on Abilene’s last touchdown, we would not only have stopped the run, we would have sacked the quarterback. Our punt return team can’t find the lanes, and our blockers need to improve their torques.”

  Mr. Redwine didn’t say a word. He stood motionless as if paralyzed by fear. Then he began to pace with his eyes fixed on the floor. He ran his fingers through his hair, looked up at me, and appeared prepared to speak, but he stopped himself. He began to pace again, not looking up at me this time. Finally, he took a loud, deep breath, and then exhaled. He turned to me.

  “Dagblastit, Tylene.”

  I waited. He paced some more. He was taking so long I nearly broke the silence, but I waited. Finally, he spoke.

  “I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” he said. As if he were afraid of what he was about to say, he stopped once more and again began to pace.

  “What time will you need the field?” he asked.

  I smiled, extended my right hand, and said, “The usual—three o’clock to four thirty, Monday through Thursday.” As we shook hands, I asked, “So why the change of heart?”

  “Because I have no idea what in Sam Hill you just said.” He paused, and under his breath he whispered, “Can’t wait for Moonshiner, not to mention the Winslow brothers, to get wind of this.”

  Everyone in town knew the Winslow brothers. All three attended Brownwood High. The oldest, Mac, going on twenty, dropped out of high school after the tenth grade to rodeo in San Angelo full-time. A hip injury set him back, and he returned home. The army wouldn’t take him—injury aside, he was classified 4-F, thought to be neurotic and not fit to serve—so when he discovered work was scarce, and there was nothing much to do about town, he went back to high school. His two younger brothers, Tom, seventeen, and Sam, sixteen, somehow ended up in the same grade. I was fairly certain Sam started first grade at the age of five. Now, the three brothers were all seniors, and none had ever played football. Too structured, they’d say. Instead, they were known to entertain themselves by looking for—if not starting—trouble. Often, their favorite targets were their own classmates. And now those classmates would be playing for a lady.

  I looked at Mr. Redwine. “Are you afraid of the Winslow brothers?”

  “Look, Tylene, my foolhardy decision doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy on you. Moonshiner, the Winslow brothers, and who knows who else will all be coming out of the woodwork. They will be pouring out of the woodwork. Friends will turn on you, Tylene. Honestly, I don’t get why you’d want to do this.”

  “Mr. Redwine, you know it’s about the boys. And the seniors? We can’t send them off to war before their time. Anyone who can’t see that, well, I have no reason to pay them any mind.”

  I then poured Mr. Redwine his coffee and handed it to him. He sat down, and in a barely audible whisper he said, “Godspeed.”

  In an effort to lighten the mood before I left, I turned to him and said, “By the way, the O’Keefe & Merritt range in the home economics classroom needs repair.”

  Mr. Redwine leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  ALTHOUGH I HAD preferred to meet with the boys before word of my coaching hit the town, John and I knew something like this would never stay quiet. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Moonshiner had followed me to Mr. Redwine’s office and listened at his door, just to nose into whatever I may have wanted to discuss on a Saturday morning. In any case, John and I knew it wouldn’t be long before word reached every corner of Brownwood. And because I figured the news might not be well received, we considered looking for a café off the beaten path for our Saturday night out—so as not to have to face the public until I’d spoken to the boys. We decided against it. We chose to eat at the Underwood Café. Best not to run from those we’d eventually have to face.

  “So, Miss Tylene, Ma Ferguson have to look over her shoulder now?” asked a longtime acquaintance, referring to Texas’s first female governor who had held office nearly twenty years earlier.

  “No, Mr. Briley, it’s all about the boys,” I replied as I wiped my fingers on my napkin. “Will you be out supporting the team Friday?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Tylene, you bet. Me and the Mrs. will be out there like we have been every football Friday night.” He then leaned in toward me and said in a soft whisper, “Don’t you think you got in a bit over your head?”

  I leaned back slightly, away from his face so uncomfortably close to mine. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see now, won’t we?”

  Mr. Briley stood up straight, smiled, and nodded his head as if to say goodbye, but instead only said, “John, Miss Tylene,” and continued on to his seat. His wife, Naddy Marie, looked uncomfortable with the exchange but said nothing.

  I stared down at my plate, trying not to look around, but I figured John and I were surrounded by the usual Saturday-night crowd—a cordial group, typical of Brownwood. Seldom did the town engage in dissent, and when it did—over things like municipal price hikes, water rights, or school board members—Vern McSorley would step in, make his voice heard, and put an end to the controversy. Figuring I would have our dear friend Vern in my corner gave me comfort.

  Not a minute later, I was interrupted once again.

  “Can’t say I support this, Tylene. No offense.”

  “None taken, Howard,” I said.

  John, who had promised me he would not interfere, sat silently.

  As Howard walked off, I turned to John. “Will you pass the pepper, please?” I asked.

  John picked up the pepper shaker, looked at it, held on to it for a moment, and then passed it to me. His silence told me he was contemplating a tough road ahead.

  BY SEVEN THIRTY, John and I had returned from dinner, and we were prepared to host Vern and Mavis for our twice-monthly game of dominoes. Those Saturday nights with the McSorle
ys had become a tradition, and we eagerly anticipated and enjoyed each gathering. Usually the evening was lighthearted and relaxing, but that night I could tell something was different. We sat around the dining table playing as usual, but silent tension—made more noticeable by rare and superficial conversation—filled the room.

  “Hasn’t been too hot lately,” Vern said.

  John replied with a simple “Yep.”

  More silence.

  Finally, halfway through a game, Vern cut to the chase.

  “So, Tylene, is it true what I’ve been hearing around town?” he asked.

  I didn’t like his tone. “Yes, Vern, it’s true.”

  “Ah, come on,” he said. Then he muttered, “Ridiculous.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Mavis said as she turned toward me. “Vern promised not to mention it.”

  Vern mumbled under his breath something I couldn’t make out. We continued playing, but clearly the mood, already noticeably tense, had taken on an even more unpleasant feel.

  “I’ve heard a rumor that the government has an excess of rubber now and the tire ration might be lifted,” Vern said, prompting another superficial conversation. After all, we were well aware of the earlier rubber shortage. Until 1943, roughly 90 percent of the country’s rubber supply had been depleted, after the Japanese conquered heavy rubber-producing territories like Malaya and the Dutch East Indies a couple years earlier. Those of us outside the trucking industry, and without travel being an economic priority, had driven on dangerously threadbare tires. We all had to make do with what we had before the war broke out.

  “Ours had gotten awfully thin,” John said.

  The topic died, and we returned to silence. Our game strategies were off, and I knew we all had lost our focus. I thought it might be best if we called it a night, but instead of wrapping up the evening, Vern once again called out John.

  “John, what are you going to do about this?” Vern asked.

  “Me?” John asked. “I plan on cheering on the boys and supporting my wife. Why would I do anything else?”