Perhaps she could salvage something from the rubble of her effort with Sam and Willow. If Willow was no longer interested in Sam, she and Pastor Adam could be a good match.
But what about Sam?
No, Sam and Willow were the couple they had to bring together now. Sam was obviously still in love with Willow. After the Widows completed that task—which had turned out to be much more difficult than she’d expected—they’d undertake finding a wife for the preacher again.
For now, she needed to meet with Mercedes and Winnie. They’d lost every bit of momentum and better get busy PDQ. She’d be jiggered if she couldn’t make at least one match.
Chapter Fifteen
At nine o’clock, Maggie stuck her head into Adam’s office. “Do you have your tickets, Preacher?”
His sermon for Sunday was in terrible shape and needed a significant amount of spiritual intervention to rescue it. Alas, that hadn’t happened yet. For that reason, he welcomed Maggie’s intrusion. He glanced up at her and asked, “Tickets for what?”
The question staggered her. She froze in shock, incredulity obvious in her expression. She held her hands over her heart as if she wasn’t sure it was still beating. “For the football game.” Her voice held the distress of a woman hearing her minister hadn’t prepared for the second coming.
“Is that tonight?” he asked.
Obviously the wrong question. She gaped at him.
“It’s the first home game of the season,” she enunciated clearly so he could understand.
Texas football. Nothing like it, everyone told Adam—over and over and over. He’d thought the huge high school arenas where Kentuckians flocked for basketball were something, but high school football was even bigger in this state. In Texas, football was the number one sport and there wasn’t a number two. Maybe way down the list at number five, basketball or baseball or volleyball would show up, but only as an afterthought.
He turned to look outside. “But it’s hot, supposed to be ninety today.”
She tilted her head. “So?”
“Who plays football when it’s this hot?”
“Are you kidding, Preacher? This is Texas.” She waved her hands around her, pointing at, he guessed, the entire state. “It’s always hot here at the beginning of football season. The temperature drops a little after the sun goes down, and by October it’s downright chilly.”
Maggie wore a bright gold T-shirt with BCHS LIONS embroidered on it in black. The abbreviation made sense. BUTTERNUT CREEK HIGH SCHOOL would be hard to fit across anyone’s chest. As a mascot, a lion sounded okay. The animal was, obviously, the color of butternuts.
He should’ve noticed Maggie’s apparel when she’d entered the office. Blame that oversight on his surprise at her words. He’d been brought up to go to football games when the leaves changed and temperatures fell. By late October, Midwesterners didn’t think they were having fun until snow covered them and they shivered in nearly zero weather, bundled up in blankets and heavy coats, knit caps, and electric socks. In fact, that was one of the reasons why Kentuckians all looked forward to basketball, a game played inside by people in shorts.
“Don’t the players get sick in the heat?”
“Hydration,” she explained as if he were a little slow or, maybe, some kind of an alien, which he believed anyone from outside the state was during the fall ritual called football season. This reaction showed that as much as people wanted to believe they were alike, deep down an enormous chasm existed between football people and basketball fans.
He’d have to adapt.
He’d also have to buy tickets. And a T-shirt. Probably a sweatshirt for those chilly October evenings.
Maggie left after giving him exhaustive instructions about how to accomplish all this, where to go and who to talk to and that the school board office where tickets were sold closed for an hour at noon. She drew a map and made him write everything down, clearly certain an outsider couldn’t figure out how to undertake the mission by himself.
Not that the instructions were helpful. She said things like, “Next to where the post office used to be,” and “Down the block from where Eddie and Susan Parker—you know, from the Methodist Church—lived before her mother died.”
Shortly after Maggie left and before he could get back to performing CPR on that sermon, Miss Birdie called.
“Do you have your ticket for tonight?” she asked before he could even say hello.
“I’m fixin’ to,” Adam said, delighted he’d worked that Southern expression into the conversation.
“Because,” she continued without waiting for a response, “my granddaughter Mac is going to lead the middle school band.”
“That’s terrific. I didn’t realize she was a…” What did they call them? “… drum major.”
“She’s not. You know she plays in the high school band.”
As if Miss Birdie hadn’t told him several dozen times. “Yes, and you’ve also mentioned she’s great on the trumpet.”
“First chair.” Adam could hear the pride in her voice. “Well,” the pillar continued, more excited than he’d ever heard her, “one of the senior drum majors was going to lead the middle school but she got sick and the other one sprained his ankle so he’s staying on the platform this evening, not marching.” She took a breath. The torrent of words must have left her winded. “The director asked Mac to lead the middle school. He has a great deal of confidence in her.”
“She must be really excited.”
“Scared to death. She’s never done this, but the director believes she can.” Miss Birdie paused. “You’ll be there.” Not a question. A command.
“I’ll be there.”
“At halftime, after the high school band plays, the middle schoolers will march to the middle of the field and play the national anthem with the older kids. You’ll be able to recognize Mac because she’ll be out in front. And the band’ll be wearing their summer uniforms—no hats—so you can see her face.”
After he hung up, Adam realized how much he’d begun to feel like part of Butternut Creek. During halftime at the first home game of the long-awaited season, one of the church’s kids would be leading the middle school band.
At one thirty, Adam grabbed Maggie’s map—as if one could get lost in Butternut Creek—and made his way to the school board office to purchase season tickets. After that, he stopped by the sporting goods store to get a shirt. At six thirty, dressed like a proud BCHS Lions fan, he left home. Plenty of time to get to the stadium before the game started at seven thirty. Plenty of time to pick up a hamburger and fries at the band booster club’s tent and find a seat.
By seven twenty-five, the stands were packed. After greeting more church members than usually attended the service on Sunday morning, Hector and some of the basketball players, and other ministers who attended the game, he started looking for a place to sit in general admission. Fortunately, the Kowalskis were there and called for him to sit with them about halfway up the twenty or thirty rows of bleachers.
Excitement and anticipation radiated from the crowd. Most fans wore gold or black and many waved pompoms or noisemakers or large foam-rubber hands. From the end of the stands, the high school band played “Wabash Cannonball” and the cheerleaders jumped and danced. Their long blond hair—yes, six of the eight had blond hair—swayed with the tempo as they ran toward a huge hoop in the middle of the field with HENSON TIRES ROLL WITH THE LIONS painted on the paper covering it.
Then thunderous shouts erupted from the crowd. The band began to play something peppy—the fight song, Adam guessed—when the team burst from the locker room. The players stopped for a moment to jump up and down together. He had no idea why they did that but everyone in the stadium greatly appreciated the action and shouted even more loudly. After all that exercise, the team broke through the paper on the hoop and ran down the field to nearly deafening cheering, the tooting of air horns, and the sound of feet stomping against the metal bleachers.
Aah,
Texas football. A dizzying and deafening experience.
By halftime, the sun had set and the temperature dropped to seventy-five but the enthusiasm built every time the team scored. After the first half, the Lions led twenty to sixteen.
But nothing that had gone before prepared Adam for halftime. First, the band of the opposing team came onto the field and very nicely performed country music tunes. The band played and marched, the flag team waved their banners, and the drill team strutted out and performed.
Once the visitors marched off, the Lion band took the field to the roar of the crowd. Here and there, Adam could make out a football player, without pads and jerseys, marching with the band.
Of course, in their cowgirl outfits and the hats they used as part of their dance, the BCHS drill team was definitely superior to the other one. And the banners of the flag team floated higher than those of the visitors had. Adam wasn’t sure what banners had to do with football, but the BCHS young women twirled them remarkably well. Noisy applause and cheering swirled around the field and ascended into the darkening sky.
But he hadn’t seen anything yet.
Marching in place as if waiting for a signal, the middle school band had assembled behind the goalpost at the north end of the field, to his right. In front of them, hands raised, stood Mac. When she turned toward the field, she blew three quick toots on her whistle and started marching, followed by about a dozen rows of musicians. Moving together, silently in step, they marched through the end zone and across the goal line. Everyone watched as they passed the ten-yard line, then crossed the twenty-, thirty-, forty-, and the fifty-yard lines. When they crossed midfield, Mac glanced over her shoulder for a second but kept moving.
Wasn’t it about time to stop their progress? The band filled the area between the two forty-yard-line markers. But Mac didn’t stop them. She tooted three times on her whistle, the same signal she’d given to start the band. The toots didn’t change anything. The musicians all kept marching along in perfect rhythm behind her.
Mac turned toward the stands. He could read her expression: panic, pure terror, covered her face. When she reached the thirty-five-yard line, Mac stopped.
Unfortunately, the band didn’t.
A large boy with a tuba bumped into her, almost knocking her down. The first two rows of musicians silently surged around and past her. Mac regained her balanced and ran down the field to get ahead of the band. Once there and marching briskly and smartly, the musicians followed her over the twenty-five-yard line and the twenty. As well as the confusion covering the faces of the junior high students marching along in silence with their instruments at their sides, he could see the increasing terror on Mac’s.
A hush filled the stadium. Would they ever stop and lift their instruments to play? If they didn’t stop soon, they’d push Mac against the chain-link fence at the end of the field, moving in perfect rhythm behind her, on and on until all were smashed against the fence, instruments crushed among them, still lifting their feet in perfect rhythm but going nowhere.
The crowd remained mute, watching the band march noiselessly down the field, keeping exact distance in front of them, marching in unison.
In one last effort, Mac stopped, turned toward the band, and shouted, “Stop!” The first two rows nearly mowed her down. The boy with the tuba ran into her again, but this time she kept her balance. Nimbly, she returned to the front, leading the group toward the edge of the field. Like lemmings, they followed her.
Just before Mac stepped onto the track, the sound of a whistle split the air: One long and three short came from the platform where the injured drum major stood. The band members stopped. The whistle sounded again, two short tweets. The students lifted their instruments. Mac turned, stepped onto the curb on the edge of the field, raised her arms and dropped them. On the downbeat, the band—still at the edge of the field and facing the scoreboard—started playing the national anthem. The high school band joined them. Silently, the crowd stood. Some placed their hands over their hearts, others removed their hats, but all faced the flag. A few sang, their voices wavering above the stands.
As the last notes faded, Mac ran from the front to the back of the middle school band and blew the whistle again in a pattern that must have meant, “Turn around,” because the band did. After her three toots, they marched toward the opposing goalposts with Mac leading to the wild applause of the crowd.
They had succeeded. They’d marched, they’d played, they’d departed.
Adam didn’t hear one laugh or snicker, only pride bursting from the people for their kids. Sadly, he wasn’t as respectful and had to struggle not to smile, but he, too, succeeded. After all, Mac was one of the church’s kids, and all of the musicians belonged to the community. He clapped and shouted wildly with the rest of the Lion faithful.
An occasion the town would remember forever. Probably one Mac wanted to forget.
After the game, Mattie and Adam and the most of the other ministers met up for something called the Fifth Quarter, an effort to keep the young people off the highway and sober after a game.
This was the biggest gathering place in town that didn’t charge a fee. Besides, the Presbyterians didn’t mind dancing as long as it was in good taste. The Christian Church, fearing a fight and a split, refused to discuss the situation, and the Baptists condemned the sinful practice.
For that reason, they’d ended up in the fellowship hall of the Presbyterian Church, a separate building so dancing—that wicked and corrupting behavior—didn’t actually take place in the church. Besides, with adult volunteers outnumbering the students two to one, any depraved acts would be quickly halted.
Miss Birdie stationed herself next to the punch bowl, daring any teenagers to attempt to spike the beverage. For a few minutes, Adam wandered through the room and greeted people. Hector introduced him to a couple of his friends. Looking a little shaken, Mac sat in the corner with a few girlfriends. She gave him a wavering smile. Bree danced with a young man he recognized from the band.
Before Adam could move any farther, Miss Birdie grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the refreshment table. The grabbing and pulling actions were clues that she wanted to talk to him.
“Do you know why we do this?” Before he could say a word, she hurried on, as usual. “You know, there’s not much to do here in Butternut Creek. McDonald’s closes at nine.”
He nodded, then shook his head. As usual, he had no idea which response she wanted.
“The movie theater’s way over in Marble Falls. Twenty-mile drive on a dark, winding road. There are volleyball and football games and school-sponsored events, but not every night. So they”—she nodded at the group of about one hundred teens—“are in danger. We have these parties to give them a better choice, to keep them safe and sober and off the road.”
“Keg parties all over, nearly every night.” Mattie placed a plate of cake slices on the table. “Not just beer but hard liquor, too. You’d be amazed how many kids get drunk four or five nights a week—then drive. They think they are immortal, but I know better. I performed the funeral for Randall Sacks in May.”
“Had a basketball scholarship to Texas–El Paso.” Miss Birdie sighed and shook her head. “Coming home from a party last spring, driving eighty miles an hour on a country road, his car hit a tree. Killed him instantly.”
At that moment, they were diverted by the arrival of the football team. The crush of hungry players ate every bit of food in sight.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Miss Birdie said as the crowd thinned, turning away from the refreshment tables and toward their friends. She paused for a moment. The short silence struck fear into his very core. He never had any idea which of his weaknesses she’d attack next.
“Have you visited Sam Peterson?” She glared at Adam, certain he’d failed her again.
His spirit lifted. “Several times,” he said. “I bring pizza, we watch sports and talk.”
“Ummh,” she grunted, as if in grudging appreci
ation that he’d finally, finally done something right. “Did he say anything about… anyone in town?”
“Like who?”
She fluttered her hands, an action that seemed completely out of character. “Oh, any woman in town.”
“We don’t talk about women.”
“Pssh.” She emitted a sound Adam hadn’t heard from her before.
“His father’s coming,” he said, glad to have a morsel of information to impart. “Should be here by Wednesday.”
She glanced at Adam, eyes wide. “Wednesday? Oh, my! We have to get cracking.”
A wave of relief washed over him. Sounded as if the matchmakers were on the move for Sam and whoever the chosen woman was. Also sounded as if he was safe for the time being. Adam hated to throw Sam to the Widows, but, because nothing he could say would stop them, he rejoiced at the reprieve.
“He says you brought him a dobos torte.” Adam kept his eyes on her expression to see how she’d respond to the fact that he knew about her act of kindness. “He really appreciated that.”
“Hrmph.” She turned away, an action that signaled the end of the conversation on her part and also meant the end of the conversation on anyone’s part.
Adam picked up a cup of punch, filled a plate with cookies, and wandered away, feeling liberated until her voice echoed through the area.
“Pastor Adam, why don’t you dance with someone,” the pillar shouted in a voice so loud and demanding that everyone froze and turned toward her, then followed her eyes to study Adam. She pointed at the Presbyterian minister, then nodded. “Ask the Reverend Patillo to dance.”
Miss Birdie hadn’t given up. Why had he thought she would? He’d never be safe.
Chapter Sixteen
Birdie stood over Mac’s bed and searched for words of comfort. She couldn’t find any.
Missy was spending Saturday at Ouida’s, thank goodness. One worry taken care of. But Birdie had worried about her granddaughter ever since halftime at the football game and had come home to check on her after the breakfast crowd left. Once she talked to her younger granddaughter, she had to return to the diner to serve the lunch crowd. After that, she’d called a meeting with the other Widows. Lord, what a day. “Give me strength,” she whispered. “And I’d really appreciate it if You’d make this shoulder stop hurting.”
The Welcome Committee of Butternut Creek Page 19