Chapter Thirteen

The Franklin Hill R-I football team was considered a powerhouse in the small AA conference. An imposing team of strapping farm boys formed the forbidding offensive and defensive lines while agile running backs moved the ball. Year after year, the townsfolk from neighboring communities muttered in their beer on Friday nights after getting soundly walloped yet again by a Franklin Hill team.

“Well, hell. They don’t grad-gee-ate ‘em, they just rotate ‘em back in. Some of those boys are twenty-five years old!” was commonly heard from the parents at nearby Diggsville High School.

Football was the only sport in Franklin Hill that could actually come close to covering its own expenses, according to Homer Emerson’s ever depleted extracurricular activities budget. Franklin Hill football also covered the cost of soccer, baseball and a minimally effective basketball team that struggled to win a game every season. Grace loved a high school football game, particularly the few times she had seen her nephews on the field. Ellie, the ever-present football mom had proved herself a screamer of first water, firmly believing a little parental embarrassment was good for the soul. Her children, in their smiling, unassuming way, agreed.

The traditional rivalry game between the Franklin Hill Warriors and the Diggsville Muskies generally took place after the playoffs, as an exhibition game the weekend following Thanksgiving. The weather was generally cold but sunny, and while there were no tailgate parties, school-organization vendors sold bratwursts, burgers, funnel cakes and hot chocolate to fuel the crowd of six hundred that filled the small stadium. Grace walked among the throng, waving at teachers and speaking to students. Homer Emerson sat shivering under a stadium blanket with his wife Melba, a thermos between them. Both waved gloved fingers her direction. Grace noticed Homer was already sporting a fleece-lined orange hunting cap with ear flaps down and tied under his chin. Grace herself was wearing a tailored shirt and wool fisherman’s sweater to keep out the wind. It would be a long winter for Homer if thirty-five degrees was giving him the chills.

She passed by the funnel cake kiosk and was moving toward hot chocolate when she saw a young boy watching her, his slight frame leaning against the back of the burger stand. There was something familiar about that oval face, feathered black lashes and pointed chin. This was, no doubt, Derry Rodwell. Wearing a thin windbreaker and a t-shirt, knees torn out of his jeans, he approached her cautiously.

“Miss Phillips?”

Grace paid for her hot chocolate and motioned for another, handing a cup to Derry.

“Yes? You must be Gina’s brother. She told me about you.” Derry looked at the cup, puzzled, then realized it was a gift. He cautiously took a sip and closed his eyes, his body leaning into the steaming drink.

“Going to watch the game, Derry?”

“Naw, I’m waiting for Mama to get done over at the Home. I just came by to look at everything.”

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Grace urged the boy toward a seat in the bleachers and he continued to gulp the drink, a chocolate mustache forming above his lip.

“Oh, it was something, Miss Phillips! We had a great big old bird, bigger than Gina even. We had stuffing and pies this year, too.” Mama said somebody left a basket of groceries in her car with a note. She thinks it was from the nursing home but those people don’t—those people never—they won’t do nothing for nobody. See, she works all the time and she don’t—she hasn’t got a raise or even a Christmas present since she’s worked there.” Exasperated, the boy spit the words out. “But,” a fleeting brightness returned, “we ate till I thought I’d get sick. Gina had three pieces of pumpkin pie and I had one of each. We still got enough for two more meals, if we’re careful, Mama says.” It was an added caution.

Grace listened to the thin boy ramble, exclaiming over his meal. She knew the sponsor of the basket but kept quiet, as she had promised Bernadine. Grace wondered if he had a winter coat. He was shivering next to her, holding the steaming hot chocolate as close as he could inside the thin windbreaker. A winter coat was not likely.

“So you take care of the little ones for your mama while she works? That’s a lot of responsibility, Derry.”

“She don’t—she hardly makes any money. There’s the two of us and Willie, he’s just little-bitty still. He goes over to the church school. They let him go for free 'cause Mama cleans up there some nights. On Friday when I ain’t got—when I don’t go to school the next day, I take care of the little kids and stay up until she comes home.”

“It’s good to know she can trust you to watch out for your brother and sister, Derry. I know she must really appreciate it.”

“Well, the washer’s broke—I mean broken, and I don’t do so good with sewing. But Gina, she won’t hardly hold still long enough to fix anything. Mama was worried about those clothes you sent her home in, Miss Phillips. Did you really give ‘em to her?” So this was the heart of the matter. He was afraid his sister would have to give back the newly acquired wardrobe. Grace was not surprised. To a ten-year-old boy with nothing, it probably seemed like the world had changed when Gina came home warm, clean and with shoes that fit. Grace smiled reassuringly.

“No, Derry, I didn’t. We had a swap. Gina said she might be able to bring in something and that will be fair. We’re going to do a big swap at school, you know. I expect you to bring those boots Gina was telling me about.” She studied the boy’s face carefully. He was puzzled. The Rodwells had few handouts in their young lives.

“Just those boots? That’s all we need to bring?”

“That’s all. And if you tell me your brother’s sizes we’ll find something for him as well. Some things might be a little big, but that’s fine. Maybe we can come across a winter coat or two. That would help your mama out.”

“I’ll ask about the sizes.” He looked at his now-empty hot chocolate cup, a fleeting show of disappointment passed over the impish face. Grace handed him her cup and received a glowing smile in return. “Don’t you like hot chocolate, Miss Phillips?”

“Oh, I like it all right Derry, but hot chocolate likes me too much!” She patted her stomach and Derry laughed. The boy peered through the bleachers and jumped up quickly, nearly losing his hot drink at the sound of a loud muffler. ‘There’s Mama! I’ll talk to her, Miss Phillips, and I’ll get them—those sizes!”

One of the many teachers gathered around the hot drink stand looked at the boy’s departing back and called to Grace. “Grace! When’s the clothing drive going on? We should announce it here at the football game!” Grace looked at Homer Emerson still shivering in the stands. The superintendent had not yet rubber stamped her memo with his approval. Homer’s orange-capped head turned sharply her direction, voices carrying to him. A gloved thumbs-up gave his blessing and she approached the teachers, nodding her head.

“Let’s do it! It’s always better to give than receive, and it is nearly Christmas.” They would put that simple adage to the test in Franklin Hill.