Playing by Heart (12 page)

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?”

C
HET

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 toppled 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.

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.”