Playing by Heart (11 page)

L
ULA

Don drove to Dunn on Friday to eat supper with Jewel, her family, and me. I wished I hadn't burnt the crust of the chicken pot pie, but at least the filling tasted good.

“How about we pile in my motorcar and I'll take you to visit Daddy?” he said as he pushed away his plate.

My heart bounced in excitement.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
In spite of Daddy's sad condition, I ached to see his face, to talk with him. To know that he wasn't disappointed with me for temporarily halting my schooling.

I looked at Jewel. She bit her lip, glanced at the children. I could see the battle behind her eyes, wanting to go but realizing the effort.

“If you're not up to the trip, Jewel, let me take JC and Russell with me,” I offered. “Daddy would love seeing his grandsons. There'd be plenty of nieces and nephews to care for Russell. And JC would likely enjoy a day on the ranch.”

Both Don and Jewel agreed. Bundled in coats and blankets, the boys and I crowded into Don's motorcar and made the
two-hour drive north to Chickasha. As I suspected, nieces and nephews spilled from the house at our arrival. Don's wife, Audra, kissed my cheek and led me inside.

“He's not doing so well, Lula,” she whispered as we stood outside Daddy's bedroom door, just off the kitchen. “But I'm hoping the sight of you will cheer him up.”

My heart sank, but I forced my mouth to smile. Audra patted my shoulder. “Go on. Sit with him awhile. We'll see to the boys.”

I took a deep breath, sent up a silent prayer, then stepped to Daddy's bedside. I touched his shoulder, more bone than flesh. He turned his head. One side of his mouth lifted.

“Hi, Daddy.”

He grunted or groaned or something in between. I sat in a wooden chair, held his hand. “I know it's been awhile, but here I am. Your baby girl.”

Did he nod? I thought so. Best to keep talking, not think about the fact that he couldn't reply.

“I guess Don told you about Davy.”

His gaze shifted to the floor.

“Jewel's sad, of course. But she has her kids to think of. And the new baby coming.”

His eyes cut back in my direction.

“Didn't Don tell you about that?”

A garbled sound, as if his mouth were full of marbles.

I sighed. “Then I guess he also didn't tell you I'd come to help take care of her, did he?”

Frustration pushed air out my nose. Don would leave it to me to tell Daddy. He didn't like the unpleasant jobs. And though all my siblings didn't mind pulling me away from my studies, they'd known Daddy would be unhappy.

“But don't worry. I'll return to the university next fall, never you fear.”

A slight squeeze of my hand. All he could give me now, but it was something. Not like my growing-up years when I was the baby that interrupted his plans. He'd left me to Mama until she wasn't there anymore. Then he noticed me, gave me the opportunity to be the one child to satisfy his dream of seeing his offspring educated. How could I deny that to my only remaining parent?

His wrinkled fingers intertwined with mine. I wondered what he'd say if he knew the rest—about music and basketball. Would he rage like he had when Don had left school to work as a ranch hand in the neighboring county? Or when Janice had announced her intention to marry at sixteen?

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.”