Playing by Heart (3 page)

C
HET

Ma leaned her shoulder against mine as the congregation struggled to sing on Sunday morning. “Even God must be plugging His ears,” she whispered.

I covered my mouth and coughed down a laugh. I didn't appreciate Mrs. Wayfair's piano playing, but I did enjoy the unusual camaraderie it sparked between Ma and me. I'd come to think of it as a gift, especially since we'd come home from Davy Wyatt's funeral to find a letter from Clay. He'd be shipping out soon, wished we could be in New York to see him off. While he hadn't meant to, his news had brought an awkward silence between Ma and me. Both of us missing Clay. Neither of us able to share our feelings with the other.

The painful hymn ended. Pastor Reynolds rose to preach, but I couldn't focus on his words. I thought of Clay, on leave in New York City. What was it like? Would I ever see it? Maybe after Clay returned from the war, I'd get to have my adventure. Until then, I had work God had given me here. I blew out a long
breath and glanced at Ma. Her mouth dipped in a frown. Not at the sermon, just in its usual repose.

Clay and I had hoped when I took the job at Dunn High School three years ago that relieving her of the need to work would lighten her spirits. But it hadn't happened. In fact, she seemed to sink more deeply into her own woes. When America went to war, she joined the Red Cross and tended her victory garden. Lots of activity—but none of the peace of spirit we'd hoped she'd find.

Help her, Lord. Help her to find what she
needs in You. Help her overcome the shame of the
past and fear for the future. Help her to see
Your hand in her life right now.

The words I prayed slammed into my chest like a basketball I hadn't seen coming. Had I looked for God's hand in my life right now? Was I wallowing in the past? Anxious about the future?

I wished I could answer no, but I knew that wasn't true. I shifted in my seat, remembering how many times lately I'd envied Clay, wished it had been my name on that draft letter.

Forgive me, Lord.

Ma elbowed me. Pastor Reynolds had dismissed the service.

Before Ma could scold me for my inattention, Mrs. Adams steered her toward some other Red Cross ladies. I ducked my head as Miss Morrison passed by, only to look up and see Janet Green, the telephone operator, wiggling her fingers at me with a shy grin.

I lifted my hand but turned away as quickly as I could. Tried to look occupied. I skimmed the crowd, looking for . . .

My gaze stopped on a face that caused a glimmer of recognition. A young woman—older than my high school students but younger than most of the congregation. A shapely form. A slender neck. Defined, classic features. She ought to be dressed in bright colors. Instead, her coal-colored dress spoke of suffering.

The funeral.

That's where I'd seen her.

She'd walked with Mrs. Wyatt to the coffin, held her steady.

She bore some resemblance to the widow, with her dark hair and creamy complexion. Was she a relative? Niece? Sister? Friend? She stepped even with my pew, affording me a closer view of ivory skin, dark eyes, pert nose. I rose. She turned and reached behind her. JC appeared at her side.

He spied me. I smiled and nodded, wondering if I could wrangle an introduction to his companion. But they slipped past me without a word.

What had I been thinking, anyway? With the distraction of Miss Delancey out of the way, I had no desire to add another.

Outside, I greeted Mr. Glasscock from the dry goods store and Mr. Leland, who taught with me at the high school. But my eyes kept wandering back to the pleasing face sheltered beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her lashes lowered as she chatted with several longtime Dunn residents. Then she hefted one of the little Wyatt girls into her arms. I inched closer even as I told myself to steer clear. Then Mrs. Wyatt was there, though I hadn't seen her earlier.

She leaned toward the younger woman. “Did you hear that, Lula? The high school needs a music teacher. You could stay with me and do that.”

The woman—Lula—shook her head, her full lips pulled tight.

“But you'd be perfect in that job.” Mrs. Wyatt's wan complexion brightened a bit. She shifted the little boy draped across her arms. Then she
looked
at Lula. Pursed lips. Raised eyebrows. Widened eyes.

The look that said,
I know
best what you should be about.

A look I'd seen too many times in my life.

Ma appeared beside me. “If we don't hurry, our dinner will be burnt.”

I offered my arm and a smile, remembering my resolution to be more patient, more kind. More attuned to what God had asked me to do here. But I couldn't help wishing to see Mrs. Wyatt's friend once more before we left. I twisted around. Mrs. Wyatt and her brood were coming in our direction. I slowed our pace, heart pulsing in my ears. Then a man in uniform jogged up from the opposite direction. The one from the funeral.

Tall and stiff, he yanked his wide-brimmed campaign hat from his head. Mrs. Wyatt gestured to Lula, who nodded, then looped her arm through the soldier's. Their unusual brigade retreated in the opposite direction.

The next three days, I walked to school instead of drove, relishing the smell of leaves crushed underfoot. Some would call it the smell of death. But not me. Autumn propelled us closer to winter. To basketball season.

I'd taken to sitting on the bleachers in the gymnasium before school, early morning sunlight casting gray squares across the rectangular floor. I wished the school board could provide a better facility for basketball. We needed space between the walls and the out-of-bounds lines. More seating for spectators. When this building was built about three years ago, few schools played basketball as anything more than a physical education activity. Now we traded games with the high schools in the towns around us. If we ever hoped to boast a winning program, we needed a proper place to play.

But the nation was at war. There could be no extraneous construction. Materials, money, and manpower were commit
ted toward making the world safe for democracy, not bolstering athletics programs.

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, head bowed, I begged God for inspiration. He directed the path of my life. Of that I was sure. So was there some greater purpose for me here in Dunn? Something bigger than myself or my mother?

Ma would have said God had more important things to think of—like those in harm's way in Europe. But I couldn't shake the feeling that He cared about kids like Blaze, too. Kids seeking to find where they fit in life, a reason for their existence.

Not that that reason was basketball, of course. Or any athletic endeavor. But so much could be taught—and learned—through the discipline of the game. I glanced at my wristwatch. Still a few minutes before classes commenced. Maybe I should chat with Principal Gray. We hadn't had a private conversation for a couple of weeks.

No one was sitting behind the reception desk, so I proceeded straight toward the principal's office and poked my head in.

Principal Gray grinned. “Come on in, Chet.” We shook hands, then he clapped me on the back. “How are your classes going?”

I slid into the chair opposite his wide desk, then leaned back and rested my left foot on my right knee. “Still trying to settle the kids down after a summer running free.”

“Thankfully, we have this blast of cooler air today. I always found it easier to teach without sweat rolling down my face.”

“Or my back.” A companionable silence settled between us. I liked that about Ronald Gray. He didn't need to hear his own voice. He listened. Much like Mr. Slicer had in my boyhood days, Principal Gray filled a fatherly role in my life.

“I guess you heard I have to find a new music teacher.”

I grinned. “So Blaze said. Any candidates?”

“Not officially, though I heard a rumor of a possible applicant.” Principal Gray wiggled his eyebrows at me.

My gut twisted.

“Don't worry, son. No one has designs on you at the moment.”

“Right.” I couldn't keep the cynicism from coating my response. He didn't see the artillery pointed in my direction every week at church. Perhaps I ought to switch to the Methodist congregation, where he attended. Maybe the women were more settled there.

Principal Gray chuckled. “I wouldn't be too concerned. From what I've heard, you've become quite an expert at dodging women with matrimonial intentions.”

I shuddered at the remembrance of the previous music teacher's thrice daily jaunts from the music room at the west end of the basement to my east-side, second-floor math classroom. Much like Fanny Albright's visits to my basketball practices last season. Or Janet Conway, the domestic science teacher before Bitsy Greenwood, who arrived with hot cookies during lunch hour and always served me first. Those actions couldn't be disguised as anything but
interest.
Interest I did my best to kindly discourage.

Principal Gray leaned forward, a bit of a twinkle in his aging eyes. “One day you'll see a woman you won't want to run from.”

I started to protest, then remembered a pair of intriguing dark eyes and thought better of it. Thankfully, Principal Gray had moved on.

“What are the prospects for our Bulldogs basketball team this year?”

The tension of matrimonial talk ebbed into the comfort of athletics. “We should be in good shape. Blaze is back, along with Clem, Virgil, and Glen. Four strong seniors and some underclassmen who came along nicely last year. Of course, it would help
to have a legitimate gymnasium instead of that cracker box out there.” I nodded toward the rear of the building.

Principal Gray sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Oklahoma University's gymnasium isn't much better than ours. And with the war effort . . .”

“I know. Yet some of the surrounding high schools have managed to get nicer facilities.”

He nodded. “If we could just come up with a way to persuade the school board—”

I leaned forward, a spark of an idea gaining flame. “What if we asked to use the town hall? Some schools do. Much more floor space in there.”

“It's worth a try. I don't think there'd be much issue with the boys, but I don't know how people will feel about the girls playing in such a public venue.”

I thought of Blaze's girlfriend, Nannie Byrd, and her teammates. Those girls had spunk. And my friend Giles, their coach, would be up for any challenge.

“I feel sure we could persuade them once they agreed to a venue change for the boys. But we need another incentive. Football is still the bigger draw as far as spectators.”

What would bring people to a game in a time of war? Spontaneous energy pulled me to my feet. I paced the small space as my thoughts ran in circles, honing in on a proposition that would multiply our chances of gaining the town hall for our games as well as increase support for the basketball program.

I looked down. A flyer on the corner of the desk caught my eye.

If you can't enlist—invest

Buy a Liberty Bond

Defend your country with your dollars

I snatched it up, held it out toward Principal Gray. “Liberty bonds. A patriotic community initiative, spearheaded by the boys' basketball team. Nickels turned to dollars. Dollars that will defend our country. ”

“What?”

An excitement I hadn't felt since Clay boarded the train for camp and left me behind stirred my blood. “The new war bond campaign began two days ago. What if we convinced the town to let us use the hall without charge and donated the admission nickels toward buying liberty bonds at the end of the season? The town hall holds more people, so more money would be raised. Our team would become allies with those serving in France.”

I couldn't stand still. Already I pictured the community's support. “The war bonds could be held in trust for the school district to use when they mature. Thirty years, well out of range for when we'd need a new gymnasium, but it might give them an incentive to at least consider a new gymnasium when the war ends, knowing they have this bit of savings for the future.”

It could work. For our team. For our school. And if we had success on the court, it could be the reason God wanted me here in Dunn. Or at least redeem me in the eyes of my mother. Maybe even justify Blaze's time and effort in his father's estimation.

Principal Gray tented his hands and tapped them against his mouth. “It could work. It could actually work.”

I'd already leapt beyond the venue, beyond the money. Now I pictured Blaze's skill and leadership, the teamwork of the seniors and the burgeoning talent of the underclassmen. If I could inspire them with the idea, sell it as their contribution to their country and to future generations in Dunn, Oklahoma, perhaps we could do more.

I knew the schools we'd play. We'd be evenly matched—in
fact, I believed we could beat several of them. It could be our own challenge to ourselves: raise funds for the war, for our school, and leave a legacy of the first basketball team in Dunn to log more wins than losses.