Playing by Heart (24 page)

C
HET

I ran.

Fast.

Hard.

Over the darkening roads, out of town.

Ran until every breath knifed my chest and my heart felt as if it would explode.

Then I stopped. In a random field. Hands on my knees, seeking air for burning lungs before dropping knees to the ground, hands cradling my head.

“No. No. No. No.” Each word a moan. Each moan a prayer. All while the scene replayed, over and over and over again.

I'd motored home after school. “Hurry up, Ma! The girls' game will start in a little while.”

“You don't have to shout,” she said from the stairs, her hand on the rail, her feet searching carefully for each step. A hat I hadn't seen in years sat at a jaunty angle on her head, and she wore her best Sunday dress. In the old style, hem brushing the floor. For the second time today, she'd surprised me.

“Don't you look nice.”

“Oh, pshaw.” But her cheeks grew bright all the same.

I grinned. Maybe I'd spent the night worrying over nothing. Maybe today's games would usher in Ma's transformation and I'd simply been given notice in advance.

“Let me get my handbag. Then we can go.” She lifted her skirt just a bit and headed to the kitchen.

A knock at the door turned me in the opposite direction.

“Yes?”

A wide-eyed boy extended a yellow envelope. A hollow feeling plunged into my middle. I fished in my pocket for a coin, dropped a nickel into the boy's empty palm, then took the telegram. He tipped his cap and dashed away.

“Who was—” Ma's voice died as her eyes locked on the envelope. Her hand crept to her throat. Her face turned gray. “What does it say?”

“I don't know.”

Ma wobbled to the sofa. I eased down beside her, lifting the yellow flap.
Please, dear God. Please not Clay.
I couldn't form any other words, any other thoughts.

Sliding the sheet from its envelope, the typewritten words stared up at us, stark and black.

Deeply regret to inform you that Lieu Clay P. Vaughn died of a respiratory illness Feb. 28th. McCain, Adjutant General.

Ma grabbed the sheet of paper and crumpled it in clenched hands as her high-pitched wail filled the room over and over and over again, like the cry of an agitated hawk. My teeth ground together, the ripping agony of my heart as great as Ma's but without the freedom to let loose.

She fell into my arms, her body quaking with every labored breath. I stared over her head. My steady focus on the horn of the Victrola anchored me to earth. Clay was gone. Gone. He'd never return to Dunn. My chest cinched, Ma's small fists beating against it. But I couldn't feel her anger. My entire body had gone numb. I couldn't even find tears to cry. Only a hard stone of aloneness in the center of my belly. And a smoldering fire to
do
something
—anything—to avenge Clay's death.

Ma pushed me away, red-rimmed eyes as lethal as a bayonet on the end of a rifle.
It should have been you.
The words in her eyes were as clear as the ones on the telegram from the adjutant general.

And perhaps she was right. If I'd gone instead of Clay, Ma would still have the one son who mattered to her. But neither Clay nor I had been given a choice. The draft notice had come. Addressed to my brother.

“Can I get someone for you, Ma? Pastor Reynolds? One of the Red Cross ladies?”

She grabbed the lapels of my jacket. “I. Need. My. Son.”

She didn't mean me. She meant Clay.

“I'm so sorry, Ma.”

“You aren't,” she spat back. “Clay's dead and you're smug that you're here, out of harm's way. Just like your father. No courage.”

My body stiffened. She had no idea the courage it took to stay behind. To accept a different path than the one of adventure and glory, even if it did mean the possibility of death. It had been right for Clay to go. And right for me to stay.

She slumped back on the sofa, covering her face with her hands. I sat stiff beside her, waiting for whatever would come next, wishing I could escape to grieve my brother on my own.

Suddenly, she calmed. An eerie calm. Like the eye of a storm. “He committed suicide. Did I ever tell you that?”

Air disappeared from the room. Pa? Did she mean Pa? He'd deserted his army base and was shot for his cowardice. At least that's what Ma had always told us, the shame she'd tried to cover over every day since then.

“They were due to leave, to go fight. He got scared, lit out for home. Or so they told me. They caught him, brought him back to stand trial.” Her head traveled back and forth like a broken gate in a strong wind. “He wouldn't even face his own cowardice, wouldn't take his punishment like a man.”

“Oh, Ma.” From the time I knew of my father's fate, I'd pitied him. I'd believed him flawed, but not truly a coward. Until now. Hearing the truth was like losing Pa all over again. Only worse. Now I knew the full shame Ma had carried. Added to the grief over Clay, it was too much.

And so I ran.

I knelt in the dirt until the stars shone bright overhead and my limbs ached from strain, then disuse. I stumbled back into town like a cowboy on a Saturday night after payday, willing my mind to clear, my vision to focus. When it did, I stood almost nose-to-nose with Uncle Sam, his finger pointed at my face.

I want YOU for U
.S. Army
screamed the words beneath him.

I stared into the earnest eyes of the white-haired man, his top hat sporting a band of white stars on blue. My jaw tightened. My fingers curled into my palms.

I'd held to my convictions with a stubbornness that made the Rock of Gibraltar look like a dislodged pebble. But if Ma needed someone to make up for Pa's cowardice, I would be the
person to do it. For her. For Clay. Maybe even to prove to myself, once and for all, that I wasn't anything like him. I'd defend my country without fear. And if I died doing it, what would it matter? Ma would be vindicated. And there were very few people who would grieve me.

L
ULA

Bitsy bustled around her domestic science classroom, supervising the last-minute preparations for supper. A few minutes later, the Edgewise girls arrived, shy and awkward, to add what they'd brought for the party before all the girls would return to the town hall to watch the boys' game. Nannie chatted with her cousin, then with the others, until girls from both teams mingled like old friends instead of remaining separate.

I envied them that—their easy way with one another. I'd opened my heart to Chet, but he'd slammed the door in my face after making me think he'd flung it wide open. An ache pulsed in my chest. I wrapped my arms around my middle to hold the pain in place.

Chet would have joined his team by now, ready to finish out their season with a win. Proof that basketball was a viable sport, one the community should support with their presence and with their coins—and eventually with a brand new gymnasium.

“Miss Bowman?”

I spun to find Blaze motioning to me from the shadows beyond
the door. He should have been at the town hall, warming up. He had an important game to play. I stepped out of the room, fear snaking toward my throat. “What is it?”

He shifted his weight. “Coach hasn't shown up.”

“Hasn't shown up?” Alarm magnified my voice. I clapped a hand over my mouth, then pulled Blaze out of sight of the doorway. “What do you mean he hasn't shown up?”

Blaze frowned. “I don't know. I only know we need a coach. And we—the boys and I—decided it ought to be you.”

“Me?”

Blaze grabbed my hand, pulled me after him.

I glanced back. Nannie stepped through the door, wide-eyed. Both teams of girls clustered behind her.

“But, Blaze, I don't know anything about—” My feet stumbled to keep up with his lengthy stride. Out of the building, down the street. The speed of our pace tore at the pins holding my hair. The knot behind my neck drooped. Soon it would unwind altogether.

“Blaze! Stop!” At last I planted my feet and refused to move.

He jerked backward. His gangly hands settled on my shoulders. “We know what to do, Miss Bowman, but we're required to have a coach on the bench. Please, won't you be our coach? We have to hurry.”

The fear in his eyes killed any hesitancy I had left. After all Blaze had been through, I would not let him down now.

I hardly knew how I got in the door, to the bench, through the jump ball. Had Chet's motorcar overturned? Was he lying unconscious in a ditch somewhere? Had something happened to his mother? To their house?

With every image, the weight in my chest intensified, doubled by the continual back and forth of the scoreboard. Chet was in trouble. I knew it as surely as I knew one plus one equaled two. And all I could do was watch his team win or lose. I couldn't even make a difference in the outcome.

Midway through the first half, I pushed aside my worry over Chet and focused on the game. We'd slipped behind by three points. Virgil crouched with one hand behind his back in the center circle, waiting for the referee to toss the ball and blow his whistle. He leapt at the sound and swatted the ball to Clem. Clem dribbled and then tossed it to Blaze. Blaze dodged one opponent, then another. He jumped, the ball rolling off his fingertips and swooshing through the net.

Edgewise's lead was cut to one.

Back to center court. Another jump ball, this time with Edgewise taking control. When the timekeeper announced the halfway mark, I let out my breath as the boys slouched on the bench, sweat trickling down the sides of faces red with exertion.

Blaze spoke softly to the boys while they rested, each one nodding gravely at his instructions. Blaze's intensity mesmerized me. Not just fervor for the game, but concern for each player. The corner of my mouth lifted. Whether Chet knew it or not, he had nurtured a heart like his own.

The thought bore down with searing pain as I noticed the crush of spectators, seated, standing, each of them having plopped their nickels into the coffers of the war bond fund. Chet had done it. He'd given the town a rallying point that supported both our boys in uniform and our future generations. What would keep him from witnessing his triumph?

The Chet I knew would not abandon his team, even in the most dire of circumstances. He'd have sent word, if nothing
else. Which meant something terrible had happened to
him
. A wave of nausea washed over me. I bit my lip, prayed the burning liquid would remain in my stomach rather than rising up my throat. The last thing these boys needed was for me to be sick on the court. But I couldn't think of Chet without becoming ill, even if he had spurned my attempt at friendship.

The game resumed. The score remained close. Clem dribbled off to the left, near our basket. Then he went down on the court, holding his ankle. The referee called time out. Blaze and Virgil hoisted Clem between them, helped him limp to the bench.

The boys circled around me, the scent of their sweat almost sending me into a swoon worthy of Fruity Lu. The referee approached. “You'll need to send your substitute to check in with me before play resumes.”

I nodded, looked to Blaze. “Felix,” he said.

The freshie jumped up from the bench, hopped in place, and tugged at his shirt, then his shorts.

“You'll do fine,” I told him, having no idea if he would or not. The boy followed Blaze and the others out onto the court, speaking to the referee before lining up to take the jump ball at the place where the time out was called.

I held my breath. Felix swatted, but missed. The tall boy from Edgewise batted it to a teammate. Up and down the court they ran, trading baskets. The timekeeper announced the three-minute mark.

Three minutes. Still down by one. With a win, our boys would secure a new gymnasium as soon as the war ended. With a loss, they would become just another Dunn Bulldogs basketball team, though one with substantially more wins than losses.

A basket for Dunn. A basket for Edgewise. A miss. A score. A score. A miss.

How many seconds remained? I felt sure I'd fly apart with the strain. Blaze held the ball. He turned. Jumped. The leather sphere left his hand and sailed toward the basket.

Thunk.

Off the rim. The whistle sounded. I hung my head. It was over. We'd lost.

When the boys came to the bench, I'd have to shoulder their disappointment somehow. Over the game. Over Chet. But the boys didn't arrive. I looked up. Blaze was standing at the free throw line. My heart jumped. The whistle had signaled a foul, not the end of the game! We still had a chance.

A movement caught the corner of my eye—someone stepping apart from the crowd. My head jerked left. Archie Clifton stared at his son, jaw bulging, every line in his weather-worn face etched as if in stone. A picture of agony—the anguish of a parent for a child he couldn't help.

My gaze swung back to Blaze. He lobbed the ball in an arc toward the net. It slid through the hole, hit the floor. Blaze shot again.

I let out a long breath. We were ahead by one point. I looked at the timekeeper. He held up a finger. One minute remaining.

Edgewise won the jump ball. Passed to their left wing. Passed it again. And again. An off-kilter shot. Virgil grabbed the ball. From one boy to another it flew. A bounce here. A bounce there. Then suddenly the ball reached Blaze's hands. He raced up the court. Two boys from Edgewise blocked his view of the basket.

In a flash, Felix was on Blaze's left, the ball on the freshie's fingertips, and then in the air. The timekeeper's whistle blared as the ball sank toward the basket, cleared the rim, hugged the net.

The crowd erupted from their seats, rushed the court. Archie Clifton followed the surge. Reached his son. Greeted him with
a clap on the shoulder and a shake of the hand. The man's lips moved in speech, and a smile lit Blaze's face.

Only then did I slip away to find Chet.

I ran toward the Vaughns' house first, my hairpins pinging to the ground at an alarming rate. By the time I saw his Model T, my hair had streamed out around my shoulders, whipped and tangled by the wind.

No light shone from the windows. My hand brushed the cold metal of his car, clinging to the hope that its presence assured his safety. Then I charged up the steps and pounded on the door. “Chet? Where are you, Chet?”

I stopped. Listened. Was that a groan from inside? I rushed into the dark house. A shadowy figure rose from the sofa at my entrance, but the rustle of fabric told me it wasn't Chet. In fact, as the specter sat down again, head bowed, its size and posture struck me as familiar.

Was this the mysterious person who listened while I practiced at church?

Groping in the dark, my hand finally landed on a light switch.
Click.
The room brightened in an instant. Mrs. Vaughn's desperate eyes met mine, haggard lines creating furrows around her eyes and mouth, as if she'd aged six years in the six short days since I'd seen her last.

“What's happened? Where's Chet?”

Her gaze drifted toward the open front door. Everything inside me froze. Chet was dead. It was the only explanation for his absence, for his mother's despair.

And in that moment, I knew I loved him. No matter that it was impossible or that I'd told my heart no. I loved him, and
I didn't want to live without him. My legs gave way. I dropped to the sofa.

Like a child with a forgotten plaything, Mrs. Vaughn held out her hand, a ball of paper resting on her palm. I smoothed it flat and forced the typed words to pierce through my anguish.

Clay.

Clay was dead.

Not Chet.

My heart soared, then plummeted.
Oh, Chet. I'
m so sorry.
To lose his brother in a place so far away. No comfort in a body, a funeral. At least Jewel had that with Davy. A time to say good-bye, to digest the reality.

Instinctively, I pulled Mrs. Vaughn into my arms. I had only my presence to offer as comfort, but it was apparently more than Chet had given her.

Anger flared. How could he leave her alone? He didn't even have the excuse of feeling obligated to be with his team, for he hadn't been there for them, either.

“Where is he?” My words were quiet and calm, the opposite of those in my head.

She eased from my embrace, her focus refusing to leave the hands fumbling with a limp handkerchief in her lap. “I . . . I said terrible things, told him what I swore I would never reveal.” With a shuddering breath, she finally met my eyes. “I'd determined my boys would make up for what their father did, no matter what. I thought it would make me happy. But I've found that bitterness is a deadly disease, Miss Bowman. It spews its venom in the worst possible moments.”

What was she talking about? Make up for what? A wad of tears hung in my throat. My heart pumped faster. Maybe Chet had a reason to run.

Mrs. Vaughn clutched at me, clung to me. “Find him for me. Please. If I hadn't been such a stubborn old woman, I'd have only lost one son today instead of two.” She slumped into me as if she'd used up every ounce of strength.

I wanted to run, to do as she bid. But I couldn't leave her like I'd found her. I removed the hat askew on her head and helped her stretch out on the sofa. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead as if she were Inez or Trula, not a woman near to my mother's age.

She held my hand to her damp cheek, gratitude shining in her eyes.

“I'll find him and bring him home, Mrs. Vaughn. I promise.”