When the Men Were Gone

by Marjorie Herrera Lewis

  Bessie Lee proceeded to tell me that Mom lost her balance when she stood up and tripped over her chair at the kitchen table. She said Mom did not lose consciousness and that she managed to walk to the bed with Bessie Lee’s help.

  “At first, I thought maybe she had just gotten up too fast and let the blood rush from her head, but she didn’t get up that fast, so I’m afraid it might be something else. I think the disease might be advancing.”

  “Had her head been shaking much while she’d been with you?” I asked.

  “Seemed more noticeable when she was looking down,” Bessie Lee said.

  “I didn’t notice anything yesterday,” I said.

  “It’s been inconsistent.”

  Bessie Lee and I went back to the kitchen. Shortly after, Doc O’Hara arrived. He had begun caring for my mother when she first experienced the involuntary tremors about two years earlier. Doc had instructed us to keep an eye on the tremors, and if they worsened, we were to call him immediately. The tremors had been most noticeable with her head and hands.

  Doc examined Mom and told us he wanted her admitted to the hospital and kept overnight for testing. He said the hospital had far more equipment than he had available in his office.

  “Do you have a hunch?” I asked.

  “I do, but let’s see what the tests reveal,” he said.

  “Level with me, Doc. It’s advancing, isn’t it?”

  “Seems so. We’ll have to determine how to keep her comfortable.”

  Even Doc O’Hara couldn’t bring himself to utter the words Parkinson’s disease in our presence.

  Bessie Lee said that there was no reason for both of us to take Mom to the hospital. She insisted that she and Dad would be fine, so I assured her that John and I would meet up with all of them later that afternoon. I then took John home and headed to school.

  Most of the school day was stressful for me. Between Mom’s fall, the threat of a Stephenville cancellation, and the lack of support from my own team, I had little ability to focus. I stayed away from Mr. Redwine’s office, though. I didn’t want him sending me home again. I had too much work to do, and I was determined to get it all done. As assistant principal, I was tasked with all academic issues, including the updating of curriculum, reviewing textbooks, hiring teachers, evaluating teacher performance, attending district meetings, and scheduling classroom utilization. Fall was always the busiest time of year, but Brownwood High School was known for its exceptional faculty, so I never had to look over anyone’s shoulder, for which I was particularly grateful.

  I did leave campus during the lunch hour to check on my mom, but I didn’t give any explanation for my departure. My mom had always been a private woman, and I was not about to breach that expectation.

  Dreading it, but knowing that one day I would have to return, I walked into the hospital for the first time since John and I left without our infant son all those years ago. My grief compounded with each step. At one point, I had to stop and close my eyes, but there was no disguising the smell of my surroundings, so I forged on.

  Finally, I found my mother’s room, a small single, but so cramped there was space for just one visitor at a time. My father was sitting on a chair at Mom’s bedside, so I stood inside the doorframe.

  “How’s she doing?” I asked my father.

  Mom opened her eyes upon hearing me.

  “I’m fine. Just tuckered out,” Mom said.

  “Where’s Bessie Lee?”

  “She’s in the lobby waiting area,” Dad said. “We’ve been taking turns.”

  I excused myself to find Bessie Lee.

  “Is my coaching affecting Mom’s health?” I asked her.

  “Don’t be silly, Tylene. We both know this has been coming on for some time.”

  “I know,” I said. “I just don’t want to put any undue stress on her. We both know she’s a bit fragile.”

  “Physically, but not mentally. She’s proud of you, Tylene. She bragged about you so much on the ride up, I’d had it up to here,” she said, resting her right palm on the top of her head.

  We laughed.

  “I’m proud of you, too,” she said. “Don’t put undue stress on yourself. Mom’s health has nothing to do with you.”

  Reassured, I returned to my mother’s room.

  “May I?” I asked Dad.

  He got up, hugged me, and waved his palm upward toward the chair.

  “It’s all yours,” he said. He grabbed his cane and said he’d be with Bessie Lee.

  I sat and held on to my mother’s left hand while she fell in and out of sleep. I looked down at her hand as it rested in mine, and I zeroed in on a tiny scar just below her forefinger knuckle. The scar, vertical like her fingers and barely visible, couldn’t have been more than a couple centimeters in length. It caught my attention only because I knew it was there, and staring at it took me back to the day she got the scar, something she immediately referred to as her “first sports injury.”

  I couldn’t have been more than ten years old when my father and I were outside tossing a baseball one spring Saturday afternoon. We owned only one baseball mitt—the one my father had used when he was a teenager—and it was well worn. My father insisted I wear the glove when we played catch, so he always caught bare-handed. My mother didn’t know much about football, but she loved baseball, my second-favorite sport. I noticed she had stepped out onto the back porch and was watching us play catch, so I shouted to her, asking her to throw with us. She had never done that before, so I was surprised when she decided to join in.

  “Here, take the mitt,” I said, running up and removing it from my left hand as I approached her. She slipped it on.

  “Haven’t had one of these on in years,” she said.

  “In years?” I asked. “You’ve worn a mitt before?”

  She went on to tell me that during physical education class in high school, the girls sometimes joined the boys for a watered-down version of baseball—easy, slow pitches and four strikes per at bat. The school was so small, she said, that the boys needed a few girls in order to field two teams.

  I was impressed, and I figured she was ready for her first catch in years. I ran back to my spot and threw the ball to my mother. When I heard the sound of the ball hit the mitt, I couldn’t believe I was playing baseball with my mother. The three of us threw for several minutes when I got a hankering to “run the bases.”

  I told my father to throw to Mom while I attempted to steal third, which I asked her to imagine she was covering. I was halfway to third when my father threw to my mother. She caught the ball and began to lean down to tag me as I slid onto the makeshift base—nothing more than a gathering of dirt—but my boot caught the mitt, knocking it off, and my heel jammed into the back of her left hand. Blood began to pour from a tiny but deep gash. I was mortified and immediately began to cry.

  My mother reassured me she’d be fine as she walked up to the house with me trailing closely behind her. As she bandaged her injury, she explained that she had lost her grasp while swinging her arm down to tag me. She insisted that she’d made a tactical error and the injury was no fault of mine.

  She healed quickly, but the scar never disappeared.

  I smiled as I rubbed the scar. A short while later, Mom was awake and fully alert. We had a nice visit, so I was a bit surprised when I got up to leave and she whispered to me, “I’m scared.”

  “Mom,” I said. “We’re all here for you. Bessie Lee will be at the house tonight with Dad, but I’ll be here with you all night. I’ve already gotten the okay to stay past visiting hours. We’re all squared away.”

  Mom insisted that because there was no room for a rollaway bed, there would be no need for me to stay. It was a tepid protest—I knew she wanted me with her. I told her I would arrive late, but I’d be back. She smiled and closed her eyes.

  As I drove to work, I thought of those words I had never before heard my mother utter: I’m scared. I was rattled by those words, even though I knew she wou
ld be scared. Of course she would be scared. Who wouldn’t be scared? But my mother? A woman who could snap a chicken by the neck, pluck it, and cook it up for supper? A woman who was as natural with a shotgun as with a skillet? A woman who had survived the 1896 Sherman tornado that killed seventy-five people and the 1909 Zephyr tornado that killed thirty-five?

  Still, with each tumble—and there had been three others—the subsequent recovery time extended and her energy level tapered off. On that day, she was weak and frail, and selfishly I worried that my own memories of my mother’s more youthful years would someday fade away.

  But they hadn’t yet, and I smiled to myself, reflecting on my earliest recollection of the impact she had made in my life—on my first day of school, when my mother walked me, hand in hand, into the classroom and met with my teacher. I was standing to her left, looking up, listening to each word she spoke.

  “Tylene is a smart girl,” my mother told Mrs. Kennedy. “I take education very seriously, and she already knows her ABCs. She can read some, too.”

  I remember how proud I felt listening to my mother boast about me. I also remember how proud I felt while standing beside her, still holding her hand, certain that my classmates had already determined that I had the most beautiful mother of all. She was thirty-six years old that day, with her stunning five-foot, seven-inch frame draped in a flower-patterned dress, with eye-catching shoulder-length dark-red wavy hair, rosy cheeks, and naturally fire-red lips.

  Before she left, she squatted and looked directly into my eyes.

  “Mind your teacher, Tylene. And always remember, learning is fun.”

  She then stood up and turned to leave. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run after her. I wanted her to stay.

  I realized while arriving at the high school two hours late that, other than time, nothing had changed for me. I still wanted my mother to stay—to be healthy and young and happy and strong and beautiful. And I walked to my office still wanting my mother to be proud of me. It was, after all, my mother who had instilled in me the love of learning. Had she not boasted of me to Mrs. Kennedy that day so many years ago, and had she not encouraged me to study hard all along the way, I know I’d never have become a teacher and school administrator. I owed all of that to my mother. The thought forced me to choke back my emotions. But it also made me smile, for in my mind, I had just seen my mother at thirty-six again.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON, I was fully immersed in preparations for a curriculum meeting when Jimmy stopped by my office. He had only a couple minutes before his next class, so we talked briefly about the article in the Brownwood Bulletin.

  “We’re going to play, Jimmy,” I said.

  “No one is as sure of it as you are, but I did manage to convince the fellas to come out this afternoon,” he said. “Just a heads-up, though. They may show up more out of curiosity than commitment.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said.

  I didn’t tell him about the note I’d found on my windshield the evening before. I figured it wouldn’t take long for me to determine if it was placed by a football player or not. I naturally suspected Mac Winslow, but I couldn’t be sure, so I intended to evaluate the attitude of each player during practice.

  I was outside the field house a little before three o’clock, and as each boy entered, I told them to prepare to begin practice with some solid running around the track. Shortly after the last boy entered, Jimmy made his way to me.

  “They’re complaining, right?” I asked Jimmy.

  “It is odd to run laps before practice,” he said.

  “Everything has a purpose,” I assured him, but I could see in his face he wasn’t convinced. I felt no need to tell him my objective was to evaluate the boys, get a sense of their attitudes. I wanted to know who was on board and who wasn’t, and that included Jimmy.

  Jimmy waited with me, and as each boy emerged, I shouted, “Get started!”

  “This is crazy!” I heard Kevin say as he rounded a corner.

  I remained quiet, jotting down notes as each ran past me.

  Bobby Ray—having a good time

  Jake and Kevin—bad attitudes

  Jimmy—not yet buying in

  Charlie—not trying

  Roger—indifferent

  After a fifteen-minute run, I called the boys in to midfield. Save for Bobby Ray, all I saw was a blur of collective cynicism.

  I knew the first thing I had to do was discuss the article with them and determine if they were in this for the long haul or just in attendance out of respect for Jimmy. I asked the boys to form a circle around me and take a knee. I then looked at each one and asked, “Who would rather win than play?”

  No one responded.

  “Let me tell you something, fellas,” I said. “This is football. Seniors, you’re a year away from enlisting. And that will be war. Trenches will no longer be the line of scrimmage. Battle will no longer be four quarters. A bomb will no longer be a deep pass. Let that sit for a moment. A year from now, you’ll see things and do things that today you can’t even imagine—because today, you are in high school. You have one season. The last season. Do you want it?”

  The huddle remained silent.

  Then Charlie whispered something under his breath, and I was reminded of why this was not an easy decision for the boys.

  “My brother’s off fighting a war, and I’ll be coached by a lady.”

  “Y’all catch that?” I asked the team. “Charlie reminded us that while your brothers are fighting a war, you’ll be coached by a lady. Is that the ultimate indignation?”

  I could tell from Charlie’s expression that he had not intended for me to hear his remark. Nonetheless, it was best that I did. Was the thought of playing for a woman more reprehensible because of, and not in spite of, the war?

  “Miss Tylene,” Jake said, “most of us got older brothers off fighting the Nazis, and you’re asking me if I’m willing to play football for a lady?”

  “Same here, ma’am,” Kevin said. “Coach Young, rest his soul, did his duty, and Coach Francis is off doing his. I know I’m still in high school, but where does it say that I gotta play for a lady?”

  “Miss Tylene, you know we all want to play football,” Jimmy said. “We’ve looked forward to this season since we were knee-high. But this isn’t what we expected. It just doesn’t feel . . .” He didn’t finish his thought.

  “The men are gone,” I said in a whisper. “There’s nothing I can do about that. Coach Young, Coach Francis, your brothers, some of your fathers. Your turn is coming, but it hasn’t come yet. You can play this season the way you’ve always wanted to or not. You decide.”

  I paused for at least a couple minutes. Relieved when no one walked away, I began splitting the duties among the squad. I had to keep us moving forward, so I assigned two-way players to work with teammates at their strongest positions. Linemen were assigned to pull weeds, backs and receivers to push mowers, linebackers to haul off rocks. Not long into our field chores, I noticed we’d attracted onlookers: the Winslow brothers, joined by a few friends, none of whom I recognized as Brownwood students.

  “I hear a vacuum cleaner works best on a dirty football field!” one yelled from his seat in the stands.

  “Are heels the new cleats?” shouted another.

  “Do they have football skirts in our school colors?”

  At first, I feigned deafness to the taunts, hoping the squad did, too. But as the jeers kept coming, I could no longer fend off my curiosity. I turned and looked at Jimmy. I could see he was furious. I also looked on as Roger started toward the stands, only to be held back by Jimmy and Bobby Ray. I chose to let the boys handle the situation on their own. No sense in giving the Winslow brothers more fodder, but I could hear it all.

  “Ain’t worth it,” Bobby Ray said.

  “I don’t know if I can take this,” Roger said.

  “It’s not easy on any of us,” Jimmy said. “Walk if you want to. No one’s got you by the ankle.”

  Wit
h both little fingers extended from his fists, a Winslow brother shouted to Roger, “Come on! You got dukes or pinkies?”

  “You have no idea how much I hate this,” Roger told Jimmy as he turned back to work on the field.

  “Yeah, I kind of do,” Jimmy said.

  I kind of do? I knew Jimmy needed convincing, but how deep did his discomfort run? I had to do something immediately, so I gathered the boys together to have them run through a few plays. I had hoped that playing a few downs of football might remind them of why they were there.

  I stood up, brushed off the dried dirt from my dress, blew my whistle, and walked toward midfield. I signaled with my right arm to come on in. “Hustle!” I shouted.

  “Hear that boys? Your mama’s calling you!” Mac Winslow yelled.

  Fortunately, no one turned his way. I hollered out to Bobby Ray, asking him to run to the field house and grab a football. I then split the team up—offense on one side, defense on the other.

  “We’re going to run a few plays before getting back to field cleanup,” I said. “Jimmy, take the ball.” I handed it to him. “Line up behind Charlie.”

  Up and down the line I went, calling out names and assigning positions. “Willie, H-back. Jake, left tackle.” As I yelled out each boy’s name, they took their positions. Once I had all starters in place, I began naming backups. In just minutes, I had everyone in position.

  “If you’re not a starter, move to the sideline for a few plays. We’re going to rotate assignments. Watch what we do at your position, and be ready to do it when I call your name. We’ll run the same offense and the same defense you’re accustomed to running, but we’re going to tweak a little of what you do. Watch closely. This is a walk-through, so no hitting, and certainly no tackling.”

  The boys ran a triple option and Jimmy ran a keeper around the right end. I had the boys run the play again, only this time, I had Jimmy pitch the ball to Willie. Willie took the pitch and ran hard down the right sideline where at about seven yards downfield, he was sucker punched by Roger. Willie slammed the ball down and went after Roger.

  “You trying to kill me?” Willie shouted as he grabbed Roger by the T-shirt. Roger then slugged Willie in the gut, and as Willie hit the turf, his left leg inadvertently kicked the football down onto the track.