Playing by Heart (16 page)

L
ULA

I fingered the telegram crumpled in the pocket of my coat as the edges of the world blurred around me. I'd fled the house, not sure where I was heading, hop-stepping every so often, almost like a hiccup in my feet. I stumbled over a tree root but caught myself before I hit the ground. My feet carried me onward, until I'd arrived at the church building, pushed open the iron gate, and threaded my way around the final resting places of friends and family and strangers alike.

The path to Mama's stone had seared itself into my brain on that awful day we'd laid her in the ground. My knees hit the hard dirt in front of it. I brushed away debris from the name carved into the granite.

Martha Lou Bowman. 1850–1909.
Beloved wife and mother.

I shifted, sitting with my arm draped over her marker, my head resting on the curve as if it were her shoulder. The cold of the stone bit into my cheek, mimicking the pain in my chest.

With a sigh, I pulled the telegram from my pocket, smoothed out the wrinkles, and read it aloud. “‘Donally Award yours if
you return for winter term. STOP. Week from Monday. STOP. Accept? Professor Clayton.'”

The first moment I read the words, I felt the kiss of God for my obedience in choosing to stay and care for Jewel and her family, for accepting the teaching positions that made me uncomfortable. He'd given me another chance to fulfill my dreams, my destiny.

But the exhilaration lasted only a moment before disintegrating like sugar in boiling water. The winter term. A week from Monday. Before the baby arrived. Before basketball season ended. Before I fulfilled any of my obligations.

I pressed my fingers into the sides of my head, wishing I hadn't left so fast that I forgot my mittens. I couldn't choose. Either way, I'd disappoint someone. I'd abandon something I'd determined to see through to the end. If I didn't accept the award now, it would be gone forever. The little—if any—money I might save from this year would never cover a year's tuition. Nor living expenses. Without the Donally Award, I'd need another year or two of work before I could afford another year of graduate study.

Help me, Lord. Help.
A ridiculously simple prayer, but neither my heart nor my mind could form a more complex thought.

The cold air blustered around me, as if irritated I stood in its way. I shivered, closed my eyes, and tried to picture Mama's face, her voice. But they refused to come. All I could hear was Daddy's proud bellow.
“Did you know my girl Lula
is getting her college degree? She's going to be
a professor, the first woman PhD in Oklahoma!”

With the end of my scarf, I wiped the dampness from my face. I'd done everything I'd thought was right and all I had to show for it was a handful of shattered dreams. I bit my lip and
let the icy wind slap me, hoping to dislodge some of the self-pity. But it only woke me up enough to notice the numbness of my body. I rose, stumbled toward the church. I needed sanctuary from the weather and the world.

“Please let it be unlocked,” I whispered as I pulled the iron handle. It gave way under my grasp. I stepped inside.

The piano drew me. Ignoring the hymn list on the wall, I blew on my hands, massaged some feeling into my fingers, then let them roam over the keys as my feet had the streets.

Scales came first, one key, then another, each more complicated than the last, engaging my mind as completely as manipulating a set of numbers and functions. Before I could assert control over the music, the notes organized into a melody. An old piece. Bach? Mozart? I couldn't recall the details, but my fingers remembered. They started slow, a bit unsure, then gained speed and confidence. I closed my eyes, gave myself to the music I'd denied for so long.

My heart filled to bursting with the beauty of the sound, with the joy of bringing it to life. Of filling the room, from wall to wall, rafter to floor, and every crevice in between.

I grew warm, wished to shrug off my coat. But I couldn't stop. Not yet. Not until the end.

What was it Mama used to say?
“Music washes away from the soul the
dust of everyday life.”
Mama had declared I had a gift, but after she'd breathed her last I'd abandoned music altogether. Devoted myself to Daddy's dream. Convinced myself Mama would approve. But would she condone my picking and choosing? Denying one gift to pursue another?

I slammed both hands onto the keyboard. Discordance assaulted my ears. I hung my head as sobs shook my body. If only Mama could tell me what to do now.

A rustle shocked me to attention. A familiar shadow in the last pew. My stomach squirmed as I squinted, trying to make out the form. My heart crawled into my throat. Had Jewel followed me?

“May I help you?” My reedy voice in place of the rich music. The shadow rose, then disappeared, the bang of the door echoing through the empty room. Until finally, silence. And in the silence, a breath of peace.

God had given me gifts—in my head and in my hands. But He'd also asked me to be caretaker and provider for Jewel and her children. I doubted He'd condone my leaving them to placate my own desires, even if those desires would honor my father's wishes. That wouldn't be following Jesus' example of leaving heaven on my behalf. No, staying would require an act of faith—something I'd practiced very little of late.

I withdrew the telegram and stared at the stark words once more.

I knew what I had to reply.

When I eased open the front door of Jewel's house, I noticed the quiet first. Had Jewel taken the children out in the cold? It didn't seem like something she'd do. I hurried inside, suddenly anxious about my sister.

“Lula?” A sleepy voice came from the living room. I blinked into the emptiness. Jewel's head appeared over the top of the divan.

“Jewel! What on earth are you doing?” I helped her sit up. “And you've let the fire die down.”

“Don't worry. I have my own little heater.” She patted the bulge of her stomach. “Anyway, JC mentioned you got a telegram before you went out. I hope it wasn't bad news.”

I shrugged, wishing I could lay my head on her shoulder and pour out all my thoughts. Instead, I poked at the smoldering embers of the fire, then added more wood.

“I didn't know how long you'd be gone. I guess I feel asleep.”

“I'm sorry.” I sat beside her, my fingers straying to the crumpled paper in my pocket. I couldn't tell her, couldn't add my burden to her own.

The silence startled me once more. “Where are the kids?”

Jewel stretched with a pleasurable sigh, almost like the purr of a contented cat. “Bo came by after you left.”

“Bo was here?” He'd taken to showing up at the strangest moments. He seemed to finagle more leave from camp than other soldiers, but why? Was it loyalty to Davy, or did he have another reason? I tried to spy an answer in my sister's face but didn't see anything beyond a bit of tiredness.

“He took Inez and Trula to get some things I needed at the store.”

My eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Did he?”

Jewel's cheeks pinked as she shrugged. “He helps how he can. He certainly doesn't come because of your encouragement.”

“Jewel.” I hoped my tone warned I wasn't willing to travel that road at this moment. “I'm just surprised, that's all.”

She sighed. “He was Davy's best friend. He feels a responsibility to look after us.”

I grunted, still wondering if Bo's attentiveness to the Wyatt family had much to do with Davy at all. But I kept my observations to myself.

“Where are the boys?”

“Russell's upstairs napping and JC went to the picture show in Lawton with Mr. Vaughn.”

My heart jumped into my throat.

Chet.

Lawton.

How could I have forgotten?

I framed my face with my hands, unwilling to expose my disappointment to Jewel. I'd given Chet an impulsive yes last night. A Fruity Lu moment if ever there was one. Yet missing our date stung with the force of an army of fire ants, and I could only imagine how Chet felt.

Jewel looked directly at me now, the accusation in her face pushing my gaze to the floor.

“Did . . . did he explain why he'd come?”

My sister frowned. “No, he didn't. Seemed kind of odd, though. Were you expecting him?”

Relief surged through me, which ignited even more guilt. “I'll catch up with him tomorrow or Monday.”

“That's what he said, too.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, Chet Vaughn would make a mighty fine husband.”

I clenched my teeth to hold in a groan. I liked Chet. More than I wanted to. But even though I'd decided to stay and help Jewel, it didn't mean I'd upended all of my plans. I could still return to my education. Eventually. But that meant keeping myself unencumbered.

Still, I hoped Chet and I could continue to be friends. My forgetfulness had likely strained that tenuous thread. If Jewel poked her hand in the situation, I feared it might snap altogether.

I saw Chet from afar at church, but Sarah Morrison held all his attention. Then I waited for him on Monday, after practice,
but Jewel had asked me to hurry home and Chet hadn't arrived at the gym by the time I felt I had to leave.

Three days passed. The longer we went without speaking, the more I feared it would be that way forever. I wanted to send him a note, but where? At home, his mother might see. At school, the wrong eyes and incorrect interpretations could lead to serious repercussions.

At noon on Wednesday, Nannie and three other girls flung open my classroom door and bustled inside. Today these girls were looking to me for help with mathematics, not basketball. I might have forgone a prestigious prize paying for graduate school and a position teaching at a university, but it didn't mean I had to give up my ambition altogether. I'd redirect it, for now. Inspire at least one of these girls to look for more from life than pretty songs and ball games.

Yet even I had come to find value in music again. In friendship, too. Even in a nonsense game like basketball. I didn't desire these girls to fritter their lives away, but neither did I desire for them to live a life like the one I'd created for myself. One of loneliness. Of studying every night. Of self-reliance. There had to be middle ground.

Three quarters of an hour later, I pushed away a loose strand of hair with the back of my hand, hoping to avoid smudging my cheek with chalk. “Do you understand it now?”

Nannie's brow crunched. “I think so. But I still get confused finding the square root of a fraction.” She shook her head and glanced around at the other basketball girls who had expanded our tutoring sessions. “Maybe we're not meant to understand any of it. What good will it do when we leave school anyway?”

“In college, you'll build on this information to understand higher mathematics.”

“College?” Nannie's laugh trilled. “I'm not going to college, Miss Bowman.”

“Normal school, then. You could become a teacher.”

“No way.” The other girls echoed her sentiment.

I sighed. “Okay then, you might not need to find the square root of a number to calculate the number of jars needed to put up jam or to know if a length of fabric will be enough to fashion the dress you desire, but those things are numerical puzzles, too. The more you understand how numbers work, the better equipped you'll be to do the math you need.”

They didn't look convinced, but they didn't argue, either.

I set down the chalk and dusted off my hands. “That's enough for today. We'll go over this again before your next examination. When is that, by the way?”

“Friday, I think,” Rowena replied.

“I'll double check with your teacher.” My insides squirmed at the mention of Chet. I might have been avoiding him. He might have been avoiding me. I wasn't sure. But between tutoring his students and basketball games, our paths were bound to intersect very soon, and I'd need to apologize for missing our day together. “Go on now. Get to your next class.”