Playing by Heart (9 page)

C
HET

The coolness that had been so refreshing turned bitter on Sunday when a north wind barreled through town. So Ma and I motored to church instead of walking. Just after I got the motorcar parked, a knickers-clad figure hunched at the perimeter of the graveyard caught my attention.

“I'll be there in a minute,” I whispered to Ma at the church door. Then I trotted toward JC. We stood side by side, both of us with coat collars flipped up over bare necks, shoulders rolled forward against the blast of early winter air.

“Getting late,” I said. “You coming inside?”

He glanced toward the building, then shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Come on, then.” I started walking. He fell into step beside me. I expected we'd part ways at the top of the aisle, JC to sit on the right side with his mother, me to the left with Ma. But he slid into the pew beside me. I glanced around, hoping Mrs. Wyatt wouldn't see it as betrayal, as Ma had when I'd shadowed Mr. Slicer after Pa died. When Mrs. Wyatt smiled at me, I relaxed.

In the preservice quiet, JC talked. I listened, just as Mr. Slicer
had done for me. I nodded when he complained about school. Laughed at the story of the fish he caught on Saturday. Prayed when his eyes roamed in the direction of the cemetery. Then the music called us to worship.

Good music.

Music provided by Lula.

I closed my eyes. The melody relieved the weightiness in my soul.

Opening my eyes again, I glanced to my right, at Ma. She was warbling the words of the hymn, her expression sincere. I prayed for her again, that she would let go of the past—of the shame of my father's death—and live in the light of today. Of sons who loved her, not a husband who'd abandoned her.

Shifting my focus to JC, I followed his gaze to the piano. Did Lula see the boy's pain? Did she comfort him? I slid my arm around his shoulders. He looked up. Smiled.

And as with my commitment to Ma, I knew my being here mattered to this child, whether he realized it or not.

The rustle of the congregation's sitting eclipsed the final note of the song. Miss Bowman scampered somewhere out of sight. Next to her sister, I supposed. I kept my eyes trained on Pastor Reynolds, but my mind wandered to brown eyes set in a milky complexion. A dainty nose with just the right slope at the tip. A mouth—

No, I couldn't think about that mouth.

JC squirmed beside me. A grieving boy, yes. But also her nephew. Could he help—?

Cold shivered down my back. To use the boy in my matchmaking scheme seemed as chickenhearted as my father's sneaking out of Fort Riley, Kansas, after his regiment was ordered to Puerto Rico during the Spanish-American War.

I winced. At least JC's father hadn't committed a dishonorable act in his death. Davy's accident was tragedy, pure and simple. JC's memories would be of a man everyone liked, everyone mourned. Would that make it easier or harder to live without him?

Pastor Reynolds asked the congregation to bow their heads in prayer. My chin dropped to my chest. I hadn't heard a word the man said. When my head rose again, my eyes locked on Miss Bowman at the piano, her graceful fingers gliding over the keys. What a gift to be able to make music instead of just imbibe it.

Ma touched my arm as Pastor Reynolds dismissed the congregation. “I need to speak with Mrs. Reynolds about this week's Red Cross meeting.”

I nodded, turned to JC. “Did you enjoy the service, son?”

He looked up at me with solemn eyes. “Yes. It's better with Aunt Lula playing the piano.” He crooked his finger, beckoning me closer. “Mrs. Wayfair hurt my ears.”

I chuckled, slapped the boy on the back, and guided him out of the pew. Davy Wyatt could be proud that his son had an ear for good music. And I could praise God for yet another common interest with the boy to build a friendship upon. “How about you and I go get a soda next Saturday?”

“Oh boy! Could we?”

I nodded. “We'll ask your ma.”

JC pulled me toward Mrs. Wyatt and Miss Bowman, my mouth suddenly dry as I searched for a way to open a conversation with Lula. But as we neared, Lula's delicate jaw tightened.

I slackened my steps, angled myself away from her conversation with her sister, not eager to intrude. Yet Mrs. Wyatt's words carried clearly.

“But Lula, I specifically asked him so y'all could spend some time together.” I didn't have to see Mrs. Wyatt's face to gather she disapproved.

“I told you, I don't want to spend time with him.” Words solid as stone.

Mrs. Wyatt huffed. “If you don't spend time with a man, you won't find one to marry.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she hissed. “I'm not marrying anyone.”

I couldn't help but glance at them now. Not marrying anyone? A woman like Lula? It didn't make sense.

Mrs. Wyatt's hand swatted the air. “Oh, pshaw. You say that, but no girl means it.”

Lula swung her gaze away from her sister, slamming it into me.

I took a step back, my collar suddenly tight. Her revelation should have set me to singing
hallelujah
. But for some reason it didn't. I felt something more akin to disappointment.

With a quick smile at JC, I patted my pockets and headed to the front of the church as if I'd forgotten something. I wished I could tell her I knew how much energy it took to fight the plans someone else had for your life.

Thursday evening, I copied figures onto one more piece of paper, blew on the ink to dry it, then set the page in the stack with the others. Numbers added, checked, and rechecked. I laced my fingers behind my head and leaned back in my chair, imagining a modern gymnasium, built to encompass a basketball court as well as bleachers along the sides. Either the school board would catch my vision, or they would not. I wasn't asking for a new gymnasium right away. And who could reject a
plan that would ensure the people of Dunn did their part in funding the war?

Ma bustled into the front room and sat near the window, her basket of mending near her feet. I slapped my hands to my thighs and stood.

“I'll be home by nine o'clock, I imagine.” I swept the stack of papers into my hand.

She looked up, squinted. “Where're you going?”

“The school board meeting about the basketball program, remember?” I'd told her I'd be attending, though I hadn't explained the details. Not yet. Not until I'd secured approval.

Her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You play little boy games while your brother does a man's work.” She reached into the pocket of the apron still covering her clothes and yanked out an envelope. “Clay's last letter from the home shores.” She looked down and started reading aloud.

“‘Tomorrow we sail for France. But don't fret, Ma. I'll make you proud. You have a son helping to make the world safe for democracy.'” She folded the sheet, slipped it back into the envelope. “Nothing you do here can compare to the honor he'll bring to our family over there.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, ill-tempered responses battering my brain like whizbangs. But I kept my mouth shut tight, forcing my mind back to the day Ma sat with the telegram in her hand, tears streaming down her face. What mother should have to tell her young sons that their father had been shot for desertion? What wife should have to endure that mortification? Remembering helped me find the grace to forgive her harsh words.

The screen door creaked open. Giles crossed the room, greeted Ma. She smiled and patted his cheek. I looked away.

“Ready?” Giles asked.

“Ready as I'll ever be.” I picked up my hat.

Giles chuckled. “Don't worry. You have a way of making people come to see things your way.”

Right. Nothing I've ever said has made Ma come
around to my way of thinking.
Now, Clay, on the other hand, had a golden tongue. I grinned, wondering what disagreeable army tasks it had saved him from so far. I missed seeing him talk himself out of every jam.

“Let's go.” Papers in hand, I trotted down the front steps. Giles' shoes slapped the ground behind me. Once we put some distance between us and the house, I slowed. “Thanks for coming with me tonight. I know it isn't important in the light of world events, but—”

“Hey now! Basketball means a lot to these kids. As does contributing to the war effort. And isn't that what we're fighting for? The right to decide our own destiny?”

I shrugged. In a sense, I guessed he was right. But even with my plan to purchase liberty bonds, it did seem like a paltry task compared to Clay's—and now Giles'—sacrifice. Maybe Ma was right. Maybe I was hiding. A coward like my father.

Squares of light cut into the darkness, angling upon the sidewalk as we neared the high school. I breathed a quick prayer. I'd been willing to go to war, but I believed God had told me to stay here, to care for those who depended on me. I prayed He'd be with me as I dug my own sort of trench, ducked my head, and held my ground.

The school board discussed other business first. My foot tapped against the hard floor as I read through my notes again, rehearsing the arguments in my head. Then Giles' elbow bumped my ribs. When he had my attention, he nodded toward the front.

“Now we'll hear new business from Mr. Vaughn. Something about the basketball program, I believe?” Mr. Tanger's bushy eyebrows lowered, as if he'd already decided against my proposition.

I stood, cleared my throat, and handed the fact sheets to Giles. He distributed them to the school board members, his usual optimism giving him an air of nonchalance.

“I've come tonight not only on behalf of the Dunn Bulldogs basketball program but also on behalf of our community's desire to participate in the Great War being waged in Europe.”

School board members snapped to attention at the mention of the war. Now to procure their full support.

“Our town has embraced the young game of basketball, as have our students. But we have a problem. Our gymnasium.”

“Which was built just three years ago, as I will remind you, Mr. Vaughn.” The gravelly voice belonged to one of the older members of the school board.

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, when the gymnasium was constructed, the game of basketball wasn't on anyone's mind at all. When drawing out the court later, we were forced to put the out-of-bounds lines almost at each wall, with room for only one stand of seating along the end, behind the basket. Not the ideal spot for spectating.”

“So you want a new gymnasium—is that your request?” Mr. Tanger asked, jumping in.

“You know all unnecessary construction has been suspended due to the war,” drawled Mr. Morrison, the portly director of the only bank in town. If only he were as predisposed to like me as his daughter seemed to be.

“Now, Charles, hear the man out.” This from Pastor Reynolds. “Go on, Chet.” He smiled his encouragement.

“I'm not asking for a new gym. Not right this minute. I am asking that you consider a change of venue, which would be of twofold benefit.

“I would like to move our basketball games to the town hall for the time being. This would allow more court space. And we could seat more spectators, as well. This change of venue would not only boost our basketball team's ability to focus on the competition instead of the walls, it would allow more students and parents to enjoy the games.”

“I thought you said this would benefit the war effort,” Mr. Tanger said.

“Yes, sir. My idea is to charge a nickel for admission—two pennies for students—and use the money to buy liberty bonds. These could be held in trust, perhaps by Mr. Morrison's bank, to donate to the school district at maturation.”

Mr. Morrison leaned forward. “I'm not even sure we should indulge our young people with this foolishness at a time when we are at war.”

A murmur swept across the panel of men.

Mr. Tanger's head wagged. “You aren't proposing we send the girls to play in the town hall, too, are you? Such a public display would be . . . would be—”