Chapter Thirteen

“Meet me outside the field house, little cousin. I’ll bring your mum before I start the boys stretching. Mom wants you to have it on before you hit the stands.” JohnScott’s telephone call should have lifted my spirits, but it only served to remind me how pitiful I was. A mum from my aunt? Delivered by my cousin?

“Will do.” In spite of my humiliation, I wore my favorite blue jeans and hoodie, even a little makeup, for the big game. As I walked briskly through the parking lot, I passed Fawn and Tyler arguing. She turned her pointed nose away from him, but he snatched her by the arm, pulling her back. The victimized look on her face sent a tiny ray of justice streaking across my hardened heart. The bully was getting a mouthful of her own medicine.

JohnScott was waiting for me by the brick wall of the field house. He bent down, then raised the lid of a white box and pulled out a large chrysanthemum draped with yards of blue-and-white ribbon and scores of trinkets.

I lifted it to my shoulder, fingering a tiny cowbell as the cool petals nestled my neck. “Smells like homecoming.”

He rubbed his chin as I pinned and repinned the mum. “Everything hitched up all right?”

“That should do it.” The mum held secure at my shoulder, with ribbons falling down to my waist. I gave him a sideways hug. “Thanks, JohnScott.”

He leaned so close I could smell the mint of his toothpaste. “You’re welcome.”

I picked up the box as Dodd jogged past, diverting his gaze as though embarrassed to look our way.

“Ignore me, then,” JohnScott called after him. “I’m hurt. I’m cut to the core.”

Dodd pivoted, walking backward. “You’ll learn to live with the disappointment, J.S. Carry on.”

The two coaches pushed through the door of the field house, leaving me perplexed. The Cunninghams had been in Trapp only two weeks, and already the preacher had a nickname for my cousin. It didn’t seem natural. JohnScott hadn’t been to church a day in his life. I’m not sure any of the Picketts had. Momma only ever went to church because Daddy led her there.

I wandered toward the bleachers while the band’s warm-up tones bubbled across the field. Uncle Ansel and Aunt Velma were camped on the fifty-yard line, already settled into their folding bleacher seats. My aunt nestled under a quilt, and my uncle held an empty Dr Pepper can in which to spit tobacco juice, but my mood soured when I saw the Blaylocks right behind them. I wouldn’t have paid them any mind, but when I went to sit down by Velma, Neil’s boot perched on the edge of my seat.

“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my eyes on his footwear.

He waited a good five seconds before sliding his boot out of my way, and the gritty scrape rubbed my pride like sandstone rock against an open blister.

Velma patted my knee as I sat. “Ruthie, you want to share my quilt?”

“I’m all right. And I love the mum, Aunt Velma. Thank you.”

“Aw, it was nothing.” She waved her hand through the air as though swatting a horsefly. “Looks right nice on you, though.”

Ansel didn’t speak, but he leaned forward and smiled. My uncle didn’t use many words to convey his thoughts, but I knew his smile meant Good to see you, sweetheart.

I smiled back.

Twenty minutes later, we rose to our feet while the band played the national anthem, and we remained standing for a prayer led by none other than Trapp’s new preacher. But he didn’t pray like a preacher at all. In fact, he sounded like he did any other time, citified and stuffy. I didn’t pay attention to the entire speech, but I heard him mention something about forgiveness. Strange. Most of the men prayed for safety and sportsmanship. Occasionally one of them would be so bold as to request a win. Forgiveness was something new.

I put it out of my mind until I spotted Milla Cunningham headed toward our section of the bleachers. She climbed toward us, but I studied the field, assuming she would ignore me right along with the Blaylocks. No such luck.

On the contrary, she slipped her arm around me and gave my shoulders a light squeeze. I instantly imagined a blaring megaphone instructing every fan to look my way and make note of the irony of the situation. “Hello again, Ruthie,” she said.

Her hug startled me, and from Velma’s expression, I’d say it surprised her as well.

“Hello, Velma.” Milla reached across to grope my aunt’s hand and then focused her attention behind us.

“Thanks for saving me a seat, Neil.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” he said as he traded places with his wife so the women could sit together. Milla hugged both of them before sitting down, and I giggled under my breath. I hadn’t witnessed such a public display of affection since the rodeo dance last summer.

Milla settled onto the bench. “Do you guys know Ruthie?”

My back straightened, and my ears became high-powered radio antennae tuned to the most sensitive frequency.

Neither of the Blaylocks replied, so Milla repeated herself. “Are you acquainted with Ruthie? I bet Fawn knew her in school.”

After an endless silence, I peeked back.

Neil studied the scoreboard as if he had never seen one in his life, and his wife dug frantically through her oversize handbag. Milla’s gaze volleyed from them to me, her face a mask of confusion.

The nerves in my stomach exploded. “We know each other.” Maybe Milla Cunningham could read lips, because I’m certain no sound came from my mouth.

Facing forward once again, I exhaled as Velma muttered under her breath. “Pay ’em no mind, Ruthie. Not worth the trouble.”

Charlie Mendoza and his wife, Ellen, brushed against me as they moved from another section of the bleachers to squeeze in next to Milla. The five of them immediately fell into an obnoxious discussion about everything from Sunday fellowship meals to Saturday elder meetings.

I tuned them out to enjoy the game.

The sights, sounds, and smells of football exemplified the spirit of Trapp. The band played the school song, the cheerleaders chanted rhymes, and the buttery scent of popcorn wafted through the stands.

Laughter.

I thought about next year, and where I would be at homecoming time. When I got away from Trapp, I might not ever come back. Even though I enjoyed homecoming, one night at a football game didn’t make up for endless days working to support Momma. But she seemed to be getting better all the time, and by next fall, I’d be able to leave.

In the meantime, I enjoyed the evening with Velma. At halftime, we took a bathroom break, then waited in line for nachos, soft drinks, and a pickle for Ansel. When we returned to our seats, the group behind us hadn’t even stopped for breath, but their current discussion caught my interest.

“… in junior high school when he lost his hearing.” Milla was speaking. “He had hearing aids in both ears, and the doctors labeled it permanent damage. Claimed they couldn’t do anything. I tell you, his father gave them what for. He took the boy to specialist after specialist until he found someone to help.”

“What did they do? Surgery of some sort?” asked Charlie.

“That’s right. They repaired one eardrum, then six months later, the other. Now he has near-perfect hearing.”

“How bad was it before?”

“He could hear nothing at all for most of his seventh-grade year and half of eighth.” Milla’s voice trembled. “Now he says God allowed it to happen so he would have greater compassion for others.”

Yeah, right. I swiped the last of my nacho cheese with my finger as Ellen crooned, “Dodd is an amazing man, Milla.”

My attention snapped. Dodd?

I never would have dreamed Dodd Cunningham had been deaf at any time in his life. The man’s demeanor screamed confidence and capability. What must it have been like? Middle school is hard enough without a disability.

I located Dodd on the sideline. JohnScott had outfitted him in knit coaching pants and a school polo shirt a size smaller than the preacher normally wore. He stood with his hands on his hips, scanning the field. As I considered his medical history, I imagined myself unable to hear the band, the cheerleaders, the announcer, even the annoying voices behind me. Eerie.

Velma nudged me, drawing my thoughts back to the game. The team was lining up for the final play with ten seconds remaining on the clock. “Ansel says they’re running the Slide Ten, which always pushes us into the end zone.”

“Is that where they do the dipsy-doodle and run around to the side?”

“Sure enough.”

Ansel’s football intuition proved true. The Slide Ten resulted in a Panther touchdown as the final buzzer sounded, and our side of the stadium went berserk. Air horns screeched, fans screamed, and the band struck up the fight song as the remaining team members stormed the field. Bending over, I gathered my trash, but the clamor around me subsided like a wind-up music box running down.

Velma shuffled her Naturalizers next to me. “Ansel …”

I shoved a nacho container into my mum box, but when I stood to search the field, my heart stopped.

JohnScott lay motionless in the end zone.

My aunt and uncle pushed past me as I surveyed the scene through a fog. Grady sprinted across the field, followed by the medic, while the rest of the team clustered in a silent huddle. I became aware of Milla jostling my shoulder, but when she spoke, I couldn’t hear her over the ringing in my ears. Maybe that’s what it would be like to be deaf. Instinctively I found Dodd on the sideline, sitting on the bench with his forehead resting on clenched fists.

I gaped at him incoherently until I realized he was praying.