by Anne Mateer
I shuddered. Yet it wasn’t contemplating my own mortality that made me pause. I’d settled that long ago in the little Baptist church in Wetumka, Oklahoma. My eight-year-old chest had felt as hollow as JC Wyatt’s eyes had looked on Wednesday evening at prayer meeting. Losing a father could do that to a boy. But then Mr. Slicer, the principal of our school, had invited me to church. I’d grabbed the lifeline he offered.
Mr. Slicer and I remained friends until he passed away. A strong man with a strong faith. Without his influence, I’d never have been able to overcome my grief and look toward the future. Nor would I have aspired to teach school, to influence the lives of my students for eternity like Mr. Slicer did for me.
I shook my head and continued down the sidewalk. Likely we wouldn’t see another barber in town until at least spring. Give people a little time to forget. Though I doubted it would leave my memory any time soon. Not with JC around. Or his attractive aunt crossing my path at school and church.
I stared out over the bustle of shoppers, mostly farm families plus a few men in uniform with girls on their arms. I forced Lula from my mind and thought of her nephew instead. I wanted to be his friend as Mr. Slicer had been mine. JC still sought out my company at church. And the afternoon we’d spent together at the soda shop had been good. But only time would build a deeper friendship.
A horse whinnied on the street in front of me, making haste to the livery stable at the end of the block. I’d heard Mrs. Wyatt had sold the business. I hoped Davy had left his family in a decent financial state. One less thing for JC to feel responsible for.
The man in the buggy wrestled to unhitch the horse. I shook my head, feeling no regret over giving up an animal to board and feed in favor of an automobile, even if it did eat more gasoline than I desired it to.
A boy dashed from the shadows into the weathered livery. JC? Was he in trouble? My concern formed quickly into a prayer. And yet he didn’t appear to be running away from anything. He seemed to be running toward something.
I stepped into the street behind a wagon, turning my head to avoid the trail of dust.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the barn. Mr. Timmons, the livery’s new owner, groused at the young man returning the horse and conveyance while JC brushed down the mare. I held myself to the shadows, watching, listening. Mr. Timmons and JC didn’t speak to each other except for a grunt or two on Mr. Timmons’ part. Had he given JC a proper job?
“Help you, sir?” Mr. Timmons’ gravelly voice startled me.
“No, I—” I shoved my hands into my pockets and shut my mouth. Best to think before I let words flood out. I nodded toward JC. “Good little helper you have there.”
“He’ll do till he tires of it.” Mr. Timmons sighed. “All the lads do.”
JC didn’t pay us any mind. He picked up a shovel almost as big as he was and began mucking out a stall.
“I’ll just say hello to the boy, then be on my way.”
Mr. Timmons shrugged. “Whatever suits.” The man tottered away without a glance back.
At the stall where JC worked, head down, intent on his task, I leaned my arms on the half wall and wedged one foot in the gap between the horizontal boards. “That’s a man-sized job you’ve got there.”
JC’s head jerked up. He blinked, then grinned, drew up straight, small hand gripping the shovel handle until his knuckles whitened. “Yes, sir, Mr. Vaughn.”
I pushed away from the stall. “I thought perhaps if you finished up soon, we could run down to the drug store for another soda. I heard they’ve got some of that Dr. Pepper from down in Texas.”
The boy’s eyes widened and his mouth stretched across his face. “Yes, sir! I’d like that.”
“Meet me at the drug store, then. Fifteen minutes?”
His head bobbed, and he attacked the soiled hay like a Tommy going at a Hun.
I chuckled, sauntering back into daylight. Ma wouldn’t begrudge more time in town to catch up on the gossip and to brag on Clay. And at the soda fountain, JC and I could converse on our own terms, man to man. Maybe JC was another reason God wanted me in Dunn, Oklahoma, instead of in a trench in France.
Mozart’s Symphony no. 41 kept Ma and me company in the long Sunday afternoon hours. I enjoyed the rest those hours afforded, but by evening, I found myself ready for Monday morning, ready to work again. After a cold supper, I dropped another recording into place on the gramophone. Ma rocked and knitted. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back, and thought through my week. Math classes. Basketball practices. Church.
And Lula.
Ma started another recording, just as tranquilizing as the last. Then a pounding at the door bolted me upright. Ma stood, the half-finished sock trembling in her hands, her mouth turned into a deep frown.
Clay.
My first thought. Hers, too, I imagined.
I yanked open the door, expecting to see a telegram delivery boy.
Instead, it was Blaze. Blowing on his hands. Almost blue with cold. I pulled him inside and stood him next to the heater, then shoveled another load of coal inside it to ignite more warmth.
Ma quietly climbed the stairs. Was she still shaken with fear for Clay or had she thought to give me privacy with my student? I wanted to believe the latter, but I guessed it was the former.
Blaze toasted his large hands and shuddered before turning his backside to the warmth.
“Where is your coat?”
“Left too quick to get it.”
“Left where?”
“Home.” He turned to face the heat again.
“Had supper?”
He shook his head before his chin dropped to his chest.
“Sit at the table. I’ll heat up the rest of the soup we ate earlier today.”
A few minutes later, I ladled the steaming broth and vegetables into a bowl. Blaze almost inhaled it. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and blinked up at me as if he’d forgotten anyone occupied the table with him.
“So what happened?”
He shrugged. “Pop’s growling about me spending time at school and at practice. When games start, it’ll get even worse.”
I had my own feelings about Archie Clifton. I couldn’t endorse Blaze’s complaints about the man, but I wouldn’t defend his pa, either. “Are you doing your part? Getting your chores done? Being respectful?”
“Yes, sir. Every day. Even if I have to get up at dawn or stay out till midnight. Nannie ’bout tore my head off when I fell asleep in history class last week, but I couldn’t help it. What with working at home and studying and basketball—” He shrugged again.
Guilt pummeled me. I should tell Blaze to quit basketball, to focus solely on finishing high school. But I knew if he quit the one thing he enjoyed about getting an education, he’d never survive until graduation.
His slender fingers raked through his hair. “Maybe I should join up now. A soldier’s life is better than what I got. Even a rat-infested trench in France!”
I rubbed a hand across my mouth, more to keep it shut than anything. I didn’t blame him, really. The idea of putting an ocean between himself and his father probably seemed much more appealing than finishing school. But I knew Blaze well after three years of basketball. If I gave my opinion on the subject now, he’d determine to do the opposite, just because he could.
“It’s always an option. ’Course they won’t take you until you’re eighteen without a signature from your pa. And as much as it rankles him for you to spend time at school, he isn’t going to want to lose you to the army yet, either.”
Blaze’s jaw clenched. He knew his pa wouldn’t let him go just as surely as I did. Too much work on their farm, and Blaze did most of it. But beyond that, Archie Clifton seemed to take some perverse pleasure in snatching away every vestige of happiness from his boy. As if he begrudged him every good thing.
It almost made me wish Blaze wore JC’s shoes. Losing a father—growing up without him—seemed an easier lot than the one
Blaze had been given.
19
LULA
By the Monday after Thanksgiving, my team of girls seemed to be getting the hang of the drills. Nannie, her feet spread wide on the floor, stretched her arms high as Bill tried to throw the ball around her to Gracie. Nannie managed to knock the pass out of bounds.
“Good job.” I approached the girls, motioning for the others to join us. “Did you see how she watched the ball the entire time?” Everyone nodded. “That’s what we must do when playing defense, but of course when we are the ones with the ball, we have to find a way around a player like Nannie.”
“How?” Bill asked.
I frowned. While I was starting to understand the fundamentals of the game, I had yet to grasp the game as a whole. I needed to ask Coach Vaughn how the girls should balance the differing skills of defense and offense. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
“But our first game is in a little over a month and we’ll miss a week of practice for Christmas!” Rowena whined. I glanced behind me, thankful, for once, for the distraction of the boys clamoring into the gymnasium in their shorts and sleeveless shirts.
“Go on, now. The boys need the court.”
The girls scattered. It took me a few minutes longer to collect my things. When I pushed open the gym door to leave, it banged to a stop, reversed, and collided with my nose.
“Ow!” I turned away, hand over my face.
“I’m so sorry!” Coach Vaughn turned me around, tipped my chin up. “Are you hurt?”
No moisture wet my hand, so I pulled it away and shook my head. “I’m fine, thank you.” When I glanced up, I almost lost myself in the endless depths of concern in his dark eyes—until I reminded myself that I was no longer a silly schoolgirl mooning over a good-looking boy. That was Fruity Lu, not me.
Besides, as the weeks had passed, Mr. Vaughn gave me every reason to believe I’d misjudged him. He no longer looked at me with that wolfish grin I’d seen at my first practice. He’d been kind. Respectful. Answered my questions seriously and without judgment.
In fact, I had two pages full of newly scribbled questions stuffed in an old geometry book, waiting to be discussed.
“Could we . . . That is, I have—”
“More questions?”
I nodded. I sincerely wanted to understand the game, to perform well in the role I’d been assigned. In fact, the more I learned about the game, the more I wanted my girls to win.
Just like I’d won the Donally Award.
Chet glanced at his wristwatch, then at the knot of girls just beyond us, their voices a frenzy of whispers. Heat rushed into my face as he leaned closer. “I’ll only be an hour or so if you want to wait.”
I gulped, nodded. He joined his team. Nannie raced to my side, her fingers curling around my arm in just the spot where Chet’s had been. The other girls swarmed around us, their giggles driving my spine ramrod straight. “Miss Bowman! Are you seeing Coach Vaughn?”
“No. Absolutely not. You know a teacher isn’t allowed such dalliances.”
“That didn’t stop Miss Delancey.” Gracie’s snicker set off the others again.
Burning heat bathed my neck and spilled into my face. “Coach Vaughn and I are . . .” I blinked. What were we? Colleagues? Yes, that was it. “We’re colleagues.”
Nannie’s round face wrinkled at the word. “Is that all?”
Foxy linked her arm around mine. Bess did the same on the opposite side. Then they moved forward, carrying me along with them.
“Don’t you think they’d make a striking couple, girls?” Nannie’s question sparked yet another twitter of laughter. And a lovesick sigh.
I couldn’t let them get such nonsense imbedded in their heads. I pulled free. “I appreciate your interest, girls, but I’m not looking for a relationship.”
Gracie’s eyes grew as big as two full moons. “But Coach Vaughn’s so . . . so . . .”
Bill’s mouth curled into a saucy grin. “Miss Delancey dubbed him a rake because he didn’t cotton to her attention.”
Miss Delancey had set her cap for Chet? Envy pricked, surprising me like the sudden jab of a pin. I didn’t like the feeling. Not one bit.
Chet locked the gymnasium door while I pulled my coat closer around me. The days had grown shorter. Darkness would accompany my solitary walk to Jewel’s house. But even as I warded off the December cold, I inhaled it, savoring the sharp, fresh scent with smoke lingering on its edges.
“It’ll be warmer if we walk while we talk.” Coach Vaughn’s voice startled me, reminding me I wasn’t alone.
I bit my lip and glanced at the few stars winking overhead. Was he asking to walk me home, or just walk? He hadn’t requested to walk me home since that first disastrous day of practice. The request I’d refused. Could I consent now without violating the conduct expected of a female teacher?
Surely it would be all right. He wasn’t taking me on a date or anything, just accompanying me while we discussed school business. I took a deep breath and let it out in a stream of white. “We can walk.”
His hand touched my elbow as we started forward. I stopped. “Coach Vaughn—”
“Call me Chet.” His eyes stared into mine, darker in the dusky evening, but softer somehow, too.
“All right. But Chet?” My heart beat double-time.
He sighed. “Yes, Miss Bowman?”
I took a deep breath. “Lula. Just . . . Lula.”
He grinned. Tingles crawled down my arms and legs. I sucked in a chestful of air and prayed I could keep my heart from turning traitor to all my plans. I stared at the ground, swept almost clean of fallen leaves by the brisk north wind. “You don’t have to walk me home. We can find a time to discuss my questions at school.”
“True. But we’re here now. And you do have to walk home either way.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again. To decline his offer would be impolite. My feet fell into pace beside him. A new awkwardness stole between us. I wondered if he felt it, too. If he suddenly wished he hadn’t suggested walking with me.
A horse and buggy passed. Then an automobile chugged by, leaving its acrid smoke behind. I waved the smell away from my nose and coughed.
“Don’t you like the smell of oil and gasoline?”
“Not particularly.” I had no love for the smell of horse manure, either. I preferred things clean. I liked to walk to where I needed to go. Bicycle, if I decided to.
He slapped his hands on his chest and took a deep breath. “It’s the smell of progress. I love it.”
A street lamp pooled its light around us. Chet stared into the distance, as if seeing something beyond a dusty Oklahoma street. He caught me looking and grinned like JC with a shiny nickel in his possession.
I blessed the darkness that once again cloaked our faces from each another. Chet had dreams, too. I’d glimpsed shadows of them in that faraway look. But he had something else—something I didn’t have. He had peace about his current place in life.
I’d felt peace when Mama was alive. Then that peace had disappeared into the ground with her. The peace I’d imagined I’d find while accomplishing Daddy’s dreams for me had never quite come to pass. My college diploma was nothing more than a paper with my name on it. Perhaps the peace would finally come with my next degree. Or maybe at the end of my days, looking back.
Yet Chet had it now, shining naked from his face.
I cleared my throat, searching for some topic of conversation to erase my unsettling thoughts. Basketball. Yes. That’s what we were meant to be discussing. I knew the girls had to be protected from strenuous overactivity as well as the roughness of the boys’ game—or so the Spalding’s guide said. But there were still fundamental skills that crossed both games. Chet had taught me some of them, and I wanted to know even more to give my girls the best shot at winning.
We turned the corner. The blaze of another street lamp illuminated a poster attached to the brick of a building across the street. A white-haired man dressed in
red, white, and blue pointed his finger at us, the text underneath his image reading I want YOU for U.S. Army.
“I guess you miss the other coach.” As soon as I’d said the words, I winced. Bitsy had told me Chet hadn’t enlisted out of duty to his mother, and that it was a source of contention between them. I didn’t want to dredge up an awkward situation. I searched his face, wondering if my words had shaken the tranquility I’d glimpsed earlier. But his expression remained the same. Or almost. Did I spy a bit of wistfulness—or had the wind blown shadows across his face?
“Giles. Brian Giles. He’s a good friend.”
We moved forward. “Was it a good thing that he enlisted?”
Chet’s hands disappeared into the pockets of his coat. “I can’t think of any reason for it not to be.”
“Except that he could get killed.”
He frowned. “Except that.”
Fresh grief over Davy pushed tears to my eyes. At least Jewel hadn’t had to send him to war, not at his age and with a family dependent on him.
I wanted to understand Chet from his own lips, not the tales of others, so I asked, “And having your friend join up didn’t propel you to follow?”
He shrugged. “I have other responsibilities that preclude my involvement in the current crisis.”
The words sounded rehearsed, as if he’d said them a thousand times.
He ran a hand through the thick hair that curved away from his forehead, then threw me an almost apologetic smile. “I take care of my widowed mother. I’m all she has now that my brother Clay has shipped out to France. I feel quite strongly that it would be wrong to abandon her for the glory of going off to war.”
I let his words linger, thinking of Bo and the other soldiers I’d seen wandering about Dunn on leave from Camp Doniphan at Fort Sill. Did they make Chet feel as conspicuous as I felt among a gathering of new brides?
My heart bumped in my chest, and gooseflesh trailed down my arms. I stared at my mittened hands curled around my books—music, basketball, geometry. Quietly, I said, “I’ve often had to stand on the firm ground of my convictions when others thought I ought to be doing differently.”
