by Anne Mateer
I didn’t remember those incidents, but I’d heard about them all my life.
Daddy’s eyelids fluttered closed. His breathing evened. And I felt only relief that I didn’t have to reveal the current state of my life.
Don drove us home on Saturday afternoon. We waved good-bye to him from the porch, and then I hurried to church to practice for the next morning’s service. Tears pushed at my eyes, blurring the notes on the page, while all the pain of the visit with Daddy seeped out through my fingers. After I finished the final song, I dabbed my cheeks dry with my handkerchief while a now familiar shadow slipped out the church door.
Sitting behind my desk early Monday morning, I brushed some paste onto squares of cardboard. To each one I was affixing a photograph cut from Spalding’s Official Basket Ball Guide for Women. Examples of side throw and high ball, bad playing and line foul. I blessed Miss Elizabeth Richards of Smith College for her suggestion in the pamphlet to use the pictures in this way. If not for the girls’ sake, for mine. Otherwise, how would I know if they were executing the moves correctly?
During the noon hour, I stayed in my classroom and studied the rules once more. Even though Coach Vaughn and I had agreed to help each other, I had no desire to appear ignorant from the outset.
All through the day, I fought a wooden gait, a squeaky voice, stiff fingers. When the final bell rang, my heart leapt into my throat. My hands suddenly itched to press the piano keys that created the notes that meshed into a piece of music. Something that stirred my soul and made me forget my fear of looking like a fool in front of these girls, this town. From what I’d seen when I peeked into the gymnasium, at least our audience would be minimal. God had granted me that small grace.
I gathered my books and the mounted basketball photographs and headed to the gym. My step quickened, my heart pounding against the confines of my corset. You’re doing this for Jewel and the kids, I reminded myself over and over.
Warm, heavy air met me inside the mostly bare room with the high ceiling, musty with a smell that reminded me of JC after he’d run home from the livery. My eyes watered. I put a hand to my nose. My gaze trailed the afternoon sunshine as it streaked the wooden floor from the windows in the west end of the rectangular building. Electric lights hung dark from the ceiling. The painted lines on the floor extended almost to each wall, with the exception of the east end, where a stand of tiered benches filled the space. Two poles towered on opposite ends of the floor, each with a rim and netting attached.
A gaggle of feminine voices approached, and I set my things on one of two benches along the north wall as the girls rounded the corner from some room in the back. They were all wearing black stockings and shoes, bloomers, and sailor middy blouses, hair tied up in knots behind their heads.
Nannie broke from the group. Her freckled face had never seemed so relaxed in our mathematics tutoring sessions as it did now. Deep dimples sank into full cheeks, framing her wide smile. She reached for my hand, pulled me into the circle of girls.
“Miss Bowman, meet the team. Gracie. Elizabeth. Rowena.” She pointed to each in turn. “This is Mary, but we all call her Bill.”
“Bill?”
Mary grinned. “It’s my brother’s name, but Pa can’t ever seem to remember I’m not him.” She giggled.
I suddenly felt at ease. “I know how that is. Mama was forever running through the list of my older sisters’ names before she’d get to mine.”
Nannie continued her introductions. “This is Foxy, or rather, Hilda.”
“Your older brother’s name is Foxy?”
They all laughed now. Except for Hilda. Her cheeks turned crimson.
“She doesn’t say much, but she’s cunning,” Nannie said. “In a good way, of course.”
I spied Hilda’s grin before she ducked her head. At least neither of the girls seemed to despise their nicknames. But then I’d thought Fruity Lu endearing until I understood what people really meant. Scatterbrained. Stupid. Irresponsible. Everything I’d been fighting to overcome.
Nannie draped her arms over the shoulders of the two remaining girls. “This is Dorothy, and the baby of our group, Bess.”
Bess, Rowena, and Elizabeth were in my music classes, but the other girls were as unfamiliar to me as basketball itself. What would they think of a coach who’d never even seen the game played?
The little confidence I’d mustered shriveled like an old apple. My feet screamed to run, yet I stayed, conjuring up Professor Clayton’s shaky voice in my head. “Work the problem again, Miss Bowman. You almost have it.” My chin lifted, even as it quivered, and I addressed the team.
“Ladies, I’ve been given the task of stepping into Coach Giles’ shoes. And while I do not have his expertise, I will do my utmost to see that you understand the rules and forms of the game and that we play to the best of our ability.”
Nods. Then a suffocating silence. Now what? The girls glanced at one another. I could read the questions on their faces.
“Do you want our doctors’ releases now, Miss Bowman?”
I could have kissed Nannie. Instead, I nodded. “Yes, please.” Each girl handed me a piece of paper indicating a doctor had declared her fit to participate. Of course I knew from the Spalding’s guide that since we would play according to the girls’ rules—a line game—we’d lessen the risk of any “bicycle” hearts due to strenuous physical exertion.
“Calisthenics now?” Nannie asked.
That sounded right. I wet my lips. “Will you lead those, Nannie, while I arrange our next activity?”
The girls lined up and engaged in a series of stretches and twists while I chewed my bottom lip and studied the pictures on the cardboard.
Guards. Forwards. Centers.
Guarding. Shooting. Throwing.
I’d grappled to understand the pieces of the game but had no concept of the whole. It was like knowing the numerals but not the formulas to make use of them.
“We’re ready now, Miss Bowman.” Nannie rested her hands on her curvy hips, face expectant.
My mouth was as dry as a creek bed in August, but I managed to remember the first suggested practice activity: throwing.
“Make two lines facing one another, with about fifteen feet between you.” I retrieved a ball from under the tier of seats. It felt cool and smooth and heavy in my hand. I brought it to my chest, then pushed it toward Bill. Instead of making a straight line, like I’d imagined, it sank toward the floor and bounced to Bill’s feet.
My cheeks burned. I didn’t know much, but I knew that wasn’t correct. Then I heard the snickering and whispering behind me.
I whipped around.
A cluster of boys stood near the door, hiding smiles behind hands or turning laughing faces to the wall. I wanted to disappear. To crouch behind my team and let them shield me from the humiliation.
Fruity Lu would have done that. Lula Bowman would not.
I pressed my lips into a straight line as I put my back to the boys. “Chest throws, girls. Up and down the line.”
They seemed to know what to do once I’d given the instructions. The ball traveled from girl to girl, their throws much more authoritative than mine. And on target. Until the ball sailed over Rowena’s head, toward the boys. Rowena retrieved it from near the feet of a tall boy. He smiled down at her. She scampered back to her place and tossed the ball to Gracie, who had to lunge forward to catch it.
The sniggering behind me intensified. Mumbled words followed by loud bursts of laughter. I might not hold with the seriousness of a game with a ball in a gymnasium, but I wouldn’t allow my girls to be ridiculed. I whirled, fists finding my hips. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
The bounce of the ball on the wooden floor echoed in the stillness, as if adding punctuation to my statement. But it didn’t halt the boys’ amusement. Elbows poked at ribs, eyes rolled toward the sky, lips twitched. I stalked across the floor, but as I reached the boy in front, Coach Vaughn stepped into the gym. Eyebrows arched, his gaze
locked on mine. “What’s going on here?”
Before I could answer, he spoke again, his eyes never swaying from mine. “Blaze?”
The good-looking boy in the center stepped forward and swallowed hard. “We, uh . . . we, uh . . .” His head bowed. “Sorry, Coach.” He nudged the boy next to him. “Let’s go get changed.”
Tingles scattered through my chest, down my arms. Mr. Vaughn was only doing his job, I told myself. Yet he’d rescued me nonetheless.
“Miss Bowman,” Nannie called, “what should we do now?”
I turned back to my girls. “Side throws.”
We completed our drills, then I dismissed my team. The girls broke into groups, hooking arms, chatting, retreating from the gymnasium. Mr. Vaughn lounged against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. Our eyes met. He grinned at me as if I were a pie just pulled from the oven instead of a colleague who’d asked for his assistance.
Warmth crawled up my neck, into my cheeks. Did he think me like other women? Like the ones who hovered around him at church, seeking the favor of his attention? Did he believe my request for assistance to be a ruse? A ploy to become more familiar with him? I bent over to gather my things from the bench, to hide both my discomfort and my anger. Then a pair of men’s shoes appeared in my line of sight. I looked up, found Mr. Vaughn’s maddening grin again.
“If you want, stay for my practice. I’d be happy to walk you home and answer your questions afterward.”
I pulled up to my full height, even though the tip of my head only reached his shoulder. “No, thank you, Mr. Vaughn. I’m doing just fine.”
Bitsy Greenwood poked her blond head through the door of my classroom at noon on Friday. “I’m sorry I’ve missed you lately. How are your classes going?”
“Fine.” Suspicion laced the word. While the pixie-like domestic science teacher had been nothing but kind in my few weeks here, I’d tried to avoid her. But she was like a butterfly, everywhere at once. Bitsy looked like a magazine model in her stylish blue dress, golden hair curled around her face. My dark locks had a more scattered look, and my most stylish outfit shouted 1910. “And how are your classes?”
“Piece of cake.” She trilled a laugh. “Of course, that’s the advantage of teaching in one school for seven years.”
I picked up my handbag, wondering if she would follow me down the hall.
After I’d shut my classroom door, she fell into step beside me. “Of course, one of my girls scorched her milk today. Not the most pleasant of smells—or the easiest pan to clean.”
Ah, yes. I knew that odor only too well. Cooking had never been my greatest talent.
She chattered about her students as we climbed the stairs to the first floor. She seemed genuine, not seeking my company to gather gossip or elevate herself, but I’d had so few female friends in recent years that I had no idea how to respond to her.
“Bitsy!” Another female teacher waved her over. I hurried toward the outside door, but Bitsy stopped me.
“Come on, Lula. Join us. We won’t bite.” Her arm curled around mine. “You remember Aggie. She teaches English. And Stella—she’s in science.”
“Of course.” I didn’t, but I should have. A woman science teacher was as unusual as one in the mathematics department. Maybe Stella and I could understand each other. I nodded, finally remembering to smile.
The women chatted about students I didn’t know. I didn’t pay much attention until they all fell silent, eyes fixed on a sight behind me. I twisted around.
Coach Vaughn was sauntering toward us. His face froze when he spied the group. Stella stepped into his path and talked with him a moment until he deftly slipped past her with a tip of his hat. I was pleased to discover he wasn’t a capricious flirt. Stella sighed as she returned to us, eyes dreamy and far away. “Isn’t he handsome?”
My mouth fell open. Had she, a science teacher, fallen victim to Coach Vaughn’s pretty face?
“Last year when my door jammed and I was stuck in my classroom, he sat in the hall and talked to me until they found someone to work it open again. Not many men would do that for a girl.”
Or maybe he was a flirt after all?
“That sounds like Chet.” Bitsy this time. “I know most women cotton to him for his looks, but there’s more to him than that. He’s a good teacher, a good friend, a good son. He’s loyal and trustworthy and dependable.”
“I wouldn’t mind just a pretty face.” Stella sighed.
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling, wishing I could take my leave and enjoy the noon hour alone.
Bitsy laughed. “You say that, but think about long nights in a house with a man who couldn’t make intelligent conversation. Would you really like to just sit and stare at a set of well-formed features for years upon years?”
Stella shrugged. Aggie smiled.
“So have you spent your heart on him too, Bitsy?” I wanted to clap my hand over my mouth. How had the words escaped without my permission?
“On who? Chet?” Bitsy looked as if I’d suggested she eat a worm. “He’s not my type.”
Was she the only woman in Oklahoma besides me to feel that way? Maybe Bitsy and I had more in common than I’d imagined.
Her elfin face turned serious. “I want a man who knows how to laugh, how to have fun. Not a stuffy mathematician. The one I want is—” She blinked fast, whisking away the moisture I thought I’d spied in her eyes. Then she cleared her throat, tossed her curls, and put on a wide smile. “Now, are you eating lunch with us today or not?”
18
CHET
I stood in a shadowy corner of the gym on Friday afternoon, waiting for Lula’s practice to end and mine to begin. After she’d snubbed her nose at my offer of help—which she’d asked for in the first place—I’d deliberately stayed out of her path. I didn’t stick my hand in the same dog’s mouth twice.
And yet, as those wide eyes studied pictures on cardboard and then tried to demonstrate correct form for the girls, I wished she’d been a bit more receptive to my company. More like Miss Delancey. Not too much. Just a little.
“Throw the ball here, Foxy.” Lula stretched her arms in front of her, but as the ball neared her fingers, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face away. A short squeal preceded the bounce-bounce-bounce echoing throughout the high-ceilinged room.
She jammed her hands to her hips. A strand of dark hair dangling across her forehead flew upward with her huff. “Well, that’s not exactly how to do it.”
The girls looked at one another, Bill finally speaking up. “I think we can figure it out.” She motioned to the others to get into their places and the passing drill began in earnest. The girls didn’t have one bit of the trouble Lula did. I inched back into the shadows, laughter locked behind my lips, arms folded across my chest.
As the girls continued to pass the ball up and down the line, Lula dropped onto the bench. She chewed her bottom lip and swiped a hand across her cheeks. I pushed away from the wall, wanting to go to her, to help her, in spite of her infernal pride.
I thought of Ma’s insistence that she could care for herself if I joined the army with Clay. Yet we’d left her on her own once before, Clay bunking on the ranch where he worked, me in school fifty miles away. We’d both arrived home one Christmas to find the house filthy and her health declining. Clay had moved home immediately. The following year, we’d all moved to Dunn for my job. Last year, Clay and I had purchased the small house. If taking care of Ma had taught me anything about women, I’d learned that those who declared they needed help usually didn’t and those who claimed they didn’t usually did.
My boys trickled into the gymnasium, dressed for practice. The girls giggled and whispered as they readied to leave. Lula moved more slowly, as if her limbs were made of iron.
I could brush past her, ignore the tightening in my gut. But I’d experienced the sensation enough to know where it came from. I’d have no peace until I did what needed to be done.
One of her books topp
led to the floor, landed with a bang. I picked it up, held it out to her. She hesitated a moment before the tension in her face released and her full lips titled upward. “Thank you.” She set the book in her stack and stood.
“Nannie’s doing much better in class now. Thank you for your help.”
She nodded but wouldn’t look at me. Stubborn girl.
“I believe you originally mentioned a reciprocal agreement. You help Nannie, I answer your questions about the game.”
Her head jerked up, hope and wariness in a fierce battle behind her eyes.
I shrugged, hoping my nonchalance would shift victory in my direction. “You’ve done your part. Now why don’t you let me do mine?”
Her eyes pinched into a squint.
“Please stay. Watch our practice. Note any questions you have, and I’ll answer them whenever you have some free time.”
She glanced down at her books, at the bleachers, at the boys. She wanted to accept my offer, I could tell. Two white teeth gnawed her bottom lip. “If you don’t mind . . .”
“Hey, Coach!”
I flashed a quick smile, then jogged to join my team before she could finish her answer. When I glanced over at the bench later, I saw she’d chosen to stay.
While Ma meandered the aisles and talked with the other ladies who shopped on Saturdays, I strolled down Main Street, no particular destination in mind. Just enjoying the cooler temperatures and a few minutes of freedom from home and work. I stopped at the storefront boasting the white pole with alternating red and blue stripes. A shave would have been nice. I rubbed the stubble on my cheek and remembered Davy Wyatt’s fate.
Maybe not.
Cupping my hands, I peered through the dark window. Two chairs, wood-framed with leather cushioning, sat tilted backward, as if ready for a barber to apply his blade to a customer stretched from headrest to footrest. Davy Wyatt hadn’t had any idea a shave would usher him into the presence of God.
