Playing by Heart (5 page)

Jewel stared at the table. Janice and Don stared at Jewel.

“What?” Don barked. “You didn't think you could simply go on as you are, did you?”

Jewel shook her head but didn't look up.

“Now, Don, this has all happened so fast. She needs time to adjust.” Janice patted Jewel's hand. “We just want to help you find your feet again.”

Jewel lifted her head slowly, as if it weighed a hundred pounds. Her desperate gaze traveled from my face to Janice's to Don's. Tears swam in her eyes, and she swallowed hard. “I need y'all to know I'm in the family way.” Her cheeks glowed as red as ripe tomatoes. “Three months.”

Don and Janice gaped at one another, their eyes blank. Then Janice turned to face me. Don turned, as well.

“That's . . . wonderful, dear. Why don't you let us chat with Lula for a few minutes?” Janice nodded to Don, then took my arm and guided me into the front yard.

Don paced back and forth, head wagging. “No more arguing,
Lula. Even you must see now that you have to stay and help. I have no room for her, nor does Janice.”

“Besides,” Janice chimed in, “you're the only one who can handle her. I love her, but I have no patience with her.”

I craned my neck toward the house, the one Davy had bought and assembled for Jewel the year after Mama died. Davy had been my sister's whole world. He'd petted and coddled and romanced her. He'd indulged her love of music and laughter. And he'd made sure Don and Janice and Ben didn't goad her into doing their bidding. Now she only had me.

But was that enough?

Jewel eased out on the porch, her face swathed in sorrow. She and her children needed my help. They needed to keep their home. They needed time to grieve, time to adjust, time to figure out what life looked like without Davy. I wouldn't let Janice and Don push her to do anything before she was ready. My resolve became as hard as the granite atop the Wichita Mountains. “I'll stay with her. At least until the baby comes. But we'll be living here. In their home.”

Don crossed his arms and lowered his voice. “She can't afford to stay here, Fruity Lu.”

I lifted my chin, pulled back my shoulders. My sister might have lost her husband, but I wouldn't let her lose the house, too. “I'll get a job.”

Janice glanced at Don with an almost pleading look. He rubbed a hand over his bulging jaw. “Fine. I don't care what you do, just as long as someone keeps her out of the poorhouse. Now, if we have this settled, I need to get back to Audra and Pop.”

Jewel walked down the steps. Don kissed her on the cheek before striding toward his automobile without another glance at me. My blood went hot, and my hands tingled. I stalked
after my brother. “Just because I'm staying
now
doesn't mean I'm staying forever. Just you get that through your thick skull, Donald Bowman,” I hissed, thrusting my hands onto my hips to punctuate my point.

Don patted my head. Chucked me under the chin. “Maybe while you're here Jewel can help you catch a husband. Then you won't have to go back to school again.”

Janice swept up beside me, her hand on my back. “Don's right, dear. Daddy wasn't thinking straight when he encouraged you with all this college stuff. He was out of his mind with grief over Mama. It's time you got married, settled down. You've wasted your best years and oodles of money and time on that nonsense.” She climbed into the seat beside Don.

I pressed my lips together, holding back the tears that threatened to rise. I thought I'd cried them all in the past three weeks, but apparently those were only the ones reserved for Jewel and her children. These were engraved with my name.

C
HET

“Watch out!” Ma's hand gripped my arm. I glanced in her direction. Her eyes were closed, her shoulders tense. Our usual Saturday routine. I shook my head and continued motoring down Main Street. The bustle of town on Saturdays made Ma nervous—bicycles, motorbikes, automobiles, and horse-drawn wagons all vied for space along the newly paved road.

I, on the other hand, found downtown Dunn on a Saturday too tame for my taste. I wanted to be in the middle of this changing world, the energy of the crowd surging through my limbs like an electric current. I glanced at Ma again, eyes open now. A little more relaxed. Maybe if I'd opted for the touring car with a back seat instead of the roadster she'd have been more comfortable. But I couldn't remedy that now.

I eased my Tin Lizzie behind Mr. Glasscock's dry goods store and stilled the engine. “I'll meet you here in an hour. Is that enough time?”

Ma nodded as I helped her from the motorcar. She'd shop while I took care of a few errands and socialized a bit. After
escorting Ma into the store, I stepped back onto the street, dodging in front of an automobile and then behind a wagon. I found myself walking in front of the post office and wondered if Clay had written.

The familiar ball of jealousy pulsed in my chest. Ma would have been happier for me to have been drafted instead of Clay. Me too, come to that. But though Clay knew Ma depended on him, his eyes had lit with a surge of pride when the notice to report had arrived, even as he'd apologized for leaving us. And in the end, I couldn't begrudge him the opportunity to restore our family honor. Not after all we'd endured.

I turned toward the street, as if somehow I would see Clay, in his khaki uniform, strolling down the sidewalk. A child flashed past me, shoes kicking up dust, shirttail flying in the wind. A horse shied. A motorcar jerked to a stop. The boy ran on, disappearing into the livery stable.

JC.

Shared experience pulled me in his direction. Would he remember our encounter at the funeral? Would he accept my offer of friendship? I knew what he felt. And I knew what it had meant to me to have Mr. Slicer to turn to.

But as I reached the other side of the street, Blaze climbed down from a wagon in front of the Feed and Seed. He stopped as if wanting to talk. I glanced toward the livery. JC could wait.

“Ready to play some ball, Blaze? Only three weeks now.”

“Yes, sir. I'll be glad to be on the court instead of digging in the dirt.” He glanced down at his overalls, speckled with sod.

“Long day already?”

He nodded. “Been at it since sunup.”

“You finding time to get your schoolwork done, too?”

Blaze ducked his head. “I don't know, Coach. I'm trying. I
really am. But . . .” He glanced at the wagon, and I read all his unspoken words. His pa worked him hard, leaving little time for pursuits of the mind.

I sighed. “Don't give up. You've got six weeks behind you already. Only a few more months to go. And this year, there'll be a diploma at the end.”

Blaze stared past me. His jaw ticked. “You might be seeing graduation, Coach Vaughn, but I'm not lookin' further than basketball season right now.”

I clapped the lanky senior on the shoulder, noting that it seemed more solid than last year. He might not like helping his pa plant and harvest, but it strengthened him all the same. “I hear ya. It won't be long now.”

Like Blaze, I yearned to be out on the court, teaching the boys teamwork and strategy, tenacity and focus and giving your all. But until November, I'd be content with my classroom full of students grappling with numbers.

“Don't worry. We'll get you through, just like we did last year.”

He didn't respond. His focus had fixed on the opposite side of the street.

I glanced behind me, expecting to see Blaze's girlfriend, Nannie, and a cluster of her friends. They often arrested his attention in class. But my grin fell away as I saw he'd fixated instead on three men in uniform. My gut clenched. With Fort Sill nearby, soldiers weren't an unusual sight in Dunn, but I didn't want Blaze to get any ideas about enlisting before he finished school.

Blaze shifted his weight, cleared his throat. Apparently this wasn't a subject he wanted to address. He darted a glance back to the Feed and Seed, then to me. “Gotta go, Coach. Gotta get home before Pa thinks I'm slackin'.”

I jerked my head toward the store. “Get your work done. I'll see you Monday.”

As Blaze dashed away, Ma handed me a package—brown paper tied up with twine. “Was that Archie Clifton's boy?”

“Yes. Blaze Clifton. You remember.”

“One of your ball players.”

“And one of my students.”

She snorted. “What kind of person calls their child Blaze?”

“It's his nickname, Ma. The kids at school call him that because he's fast. Reed's his given name.”

She grunted. We reached the car in silence. Once I navigated us off Main Street, Ma seemed to relax.

“A cantankerous old cuss.”

I jerked the wheel in surprise, then straightened us out again. “Who?”

“Archie Clifton.”

My jaw tightened. I'd tussled with Blaze's ornery dirt farmer of a father over his son's need for a high school education since I'd started teaching at Dunn High School Blaze's freshman year. But our battle in August had been the worst yet. Mr. Clifton had made it clear he valued his son for his physical labor, a hired hand without the necessity of letting go of a dollar. I'd purchased Blaze's court shoes for the coming season myself since his father refused to part with the money.

My hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “It's amazing that the boy's still in school, to be honest. But Blaze—Reed—will graduate this year.” And no one would be able to take his education away from him.

“Then he'll go scratch out a living with Archie, I suppose.”

“I doubt it.” We rounded a corner. I waved at Mrs. Wayfair on her front porch, dreading the thought of her piano playing
in the morning. Couldn't Pastor Reynolds find some way to gently relieve her of her service?

“Surely the boy won't go to college.”

I pulled myself back to our conversation. “No. I imagine he'll join up.”

Ma blew out a breath. “Maybe the teacher should take a lesson from his student.”

Archie Clifton's determination to sabotage his son's education had nothing on Ma's resolute belief that both of her sons must engage the enemy and atone for their father's cowardice.

“Do you think they've found a new pianist yet?” Ma asked as we walked to church the next morning. It was the first time she'd spoken to me since our conversation about Blaze enlisting. In spite of all my explanations, she still couldn't accept my reason to stay in Dunn rather than go to war. She didn't believe that Clay and I had forged our agreement because we loved her. Because we didn't want her to live alone, working herself into an early grave.

“I guess we'll see. I haven't heard of a new music teacher at school yet, though. Maybe Pastor Reynolds is waiting to get a two-for-one, like with Miss Delancey.”

“Hmph. That girl knew the songs well enough, but her mind was never where it was supposed to be in God's house.”

Or
in the classroom.
I grinned, in spite of myself. I'd had no idea Ma had seen through the woman as easily as I had.

We slipped into our usual pew. I looked at my wristwatch. Right on time. But Mrs. Wayfair wasn't at the piano. I twisted around. Pastor Reynolds stood at the door with Mrs. Wyatt and—

Lula. Yes, that was her name. One corner of my mouth lifted.

Pastor Reynolds asked Lula something, and she shook her head, hard and fast, the ribbons on her hat whipping every which way. Mrs. Wyatt nudged her forward a step. Then Pastor Reynolds strode up the aisle and took his place on the platform in front of the church.

“I'm sorry to announce that Mrs. Wayfair, who so graciously took on the job of pianist when Miss Delancey . . . when we were in need, has had an accident and will not be able to continue in that capacity.”

Murmurs rose, Ma and the other ladies conjecturing as to the nature of Mrs. Wayfair's injuries. Likely nothing too serious or Pastor Reynolds would have asked for prayer. I crooked my arm over the back of the pew and looked at Lula. Her eyes stretched wide, as if she were afraid. Or maybe feeling exposed.

Pastor Reynolds cleared his throat and clutched a hymnal to his chest. “Thankfully, the Lord provides. Jewel Wyatt's sister Lula has just moved back to Dunn temporarily and has agreed to accompany our singing.” He motioned toward the back of the room. “Come on up. Don't be shy.”

She frowned, then tucked her chin to her chest and scurried to the piano at the left of the pulpit. Were her hands shaking as she turned the pages to the first hymn listed on the wooden board affixed to the front wall? She bent the hymnal's spine, set the open book on the music stand, and huffed out a breath.

Ma's elbow poked into my side. Was she already questioning the woman's ability? I concentrated on the slender fingers poised over the ivory keys. Almost anything would be preferable to what we'd endured since Miss Delancey's hasty exit.

The congregation stood and sang. Not a perfect accompaniment, but not bad, either. Her mistakes didn't seem to be
inability. More like rust from disuse. I studied her profile as she played, then followed Ma outside after the service ended, waiting as she visited with one lady, then another. But my gaze strayed to the cemetery, where Lula was sitting beneath a tree with Mrs. Wyatt's younger children while Mrs. Wyatt and JC stood hand-in-hand at the new grave.

I tipped my bowler hat back a bit and sauntered in Lula's direction. To talk to JC, of course. All while keeping watch on Ma so I'd know when she wanted to leave.

The little Wyatt boy—the baby—sat in Lula's lap, his hands hidden in hers as she clapped. “Patty cake, patty cake, baker's man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can.”

They continued through the rhyme, finally throwing the cake in the oven as Mrs. Wyatt and JC returned to them. Lula stood and brushed some dead grass from the back of her skirt. I tried to catch JC's eye to wrangle a formal introduction, but he turned away and kicked at the iron fence.

Mrs. Wyatt stood beside her now. “You did fine today, Lula. I knew you would.”

Lula's eye caught mine for the briefest moment. Not even long enough for me to encourage her with a smile.

“Chet?” Ma's tinny voice.

I spun around. “Ready to go?”

“Yes. Oh, wait. Let me speak to Jewel a moment.” Ma hurried past me. I wandered after her, not wanting to appear too eager. I reached Ma's side mid-conversation.

“Don't you think she should consider it, Louise?”

Ma pursed her lips, looked at Lula. “Might be best.”

Consider what? Being the church pianist? I grinned, picturing this woman at the front of the sanctuary each week. Admiring God's stunning creations was a form of worship, wasn't it?

Lula frowned. “I don't—”

“Mr. Vaughn?” A timid voice. A tug at my sleeve. JC looked up at me with solemn eyes. “I think that lady over there's trying to get your attention.”

I followed his nod. Sarah Morrison batted her lashes in my direction. I groaned.

“Don'tcha wanna talk to her? She's real pretty.”

I scratched the back of my head. How to explain the wiles of women to a boy? I leaned down, spoke behind my hand. “It's the pretty ones you have to worry about most.”