But the dry whispers lighting the fires of blame were licking far more furiously. That fall I learned that sometimes even if you’re not guilty, you still pay a price.
ELEVEN
After the flames died, the smoldering odor and damaging gossip hovered like a smoky haze.
“I’m not going to let it stop me from going to his game, and you shouldn’t let it stop you either,” Mom told Dad the morning of Matt’s last game. Mom said we needed to go on with our lives and that this would prove we believed in the results of the investigation.
Pop Keeney Field was not only the site for the town’s Fourth of July fireworks but also the home of the Bethel Springs High School Mustangs football team. That night, as team players ran behind the charging horses to break through the cheerleaders’ paper banners, followed by the BS marching band in blue and green uniforms, I decided football games were better than fireworks.
“Regrettable.” Mom sighed, studying the Bethel Springs acronym emblazoned across the uniforms of the musicians, athletes, and cheerleaders. “Regrettable,” she repeated, as if that were the word for the evening. But for me this was not an evening for regrets: Dad had come to the game. Looking like a mysterious mountain man long in hibernation, his angular face covered by a closely shaven beard, Dad would be unrecognizable to most of the fans.
“Third and ten,” Dad said, holding his cup of coffee to warm his hands. Second and eight, first and ten, fourth and fifteen, it never added up. I couldn’t understand the numbers and the scoring, which didn’t matter since I was more entertained by the cheerleaders’ antics than what was happening on the field.
“They’re on the forty yard line and they’ve got to make ten yards,” Dad explained, his arms extended as if line markers. My need for a tutorial must have been obvious.
“How come there are two forty yard lines?” I asked. “Why doesn’t it go from zero to one hundred?”
“Each side has their own fifty yards. Each side counts down to the goal line,” he continued. “You have four chances. They are called downs. …” The more he explained about chances and downs, and how sometimes a kick is worth one point and sometimes three, the less I understood.
The cheerleaders jumped and climbed until they formed a pyramid, blocking half my view.
“What about stealing?” I remembered when Matt’s Little League team started doing illegal things and being cheered on for it. “Is that legal?”
“No, but there is a lot of hitting,” Dad admitted with a smile.
“Too much. It’s okay, Abby. Just watch for a while.” Mom shook her head.
“GET on the good foot, uh-huh,” the cheerleaders chanted in rhythm. “GET on the good foot, uh-huh. Get it, get it, get it ON. Get it, get it, get it ON. GET on the good foot, uh-huh.”
“What does it mean to ‘get on the good foot,’ Mom?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They can’t even tell we don’t have the ball.”
The girls stopped as if they had heard us, gazing up at the stands and searching the faces of their loyal spectators. They waved at their friends, giggled into their white gloves, and tossed their ponytails. With their backs to most of the game, I wondered if they knew what was going on. Even when they turned to watch, they couldn’t see over the heads of the team members on the sidelines. After the cheerleaders huddled, they determined their next play.
“We’re s-u-p-e-r, super is what we are. We’re g-r-e-a-t. We’re great as you can see.”
At least they could spell. That was super. S-u-p-e-r.
Matt had been in the entire game except for a few plays. I could easily track him by the MCANDREWS and 72 across his back. I tucked our red plaid blanket closer, and Mom offered me the cup from our thermos. That hot chocolate tasted better than any I’ve ever had. Dad handed over a long red licorice rope and a bag of popcorn. I felt safe pressed in between them.
“This is a big play,” Dad said. “We’ve got to score on this series.” I looked away from the cheerleaders long enough to see my brother run on the field. Mom took out her binoculars. We were behind twenty-seven to twenty, and each second meant one last chance for our team to score, however they did it. Four downs, four quarters, everything seemed to be cut in fours. The way the clock on the scoreboard ticked down made my heart race. The teams rushed at each other harder and faster, the pounding clash of helmets and shoulder pads audible in the stands. Then everything changed and both teams were pointing fingers at one another. Flags flew and whistles blew and the men in the jailbird suits ran out to break up the problem.
Our players huddled in a circle around somebody who wasn’t getting up. Then each member on the other team dropped to one knee as if in prayer.
The coaches ran on the field. “Who’s down?” was the murmur from the crowd. It was someone in blue and green. Somebody said it was #12, but for a minute it looked like #72, until I found Matt on his knee. Everybody looked at their programs and “Danny Allemeier” was whispered throughout the stands. A man and a woman stepped down the bleachers and headed toward the sidelines. “That’s his parents,” I heard from behind me.
“Would Dr. Edmund Greenfeld report to the field?” the announcer called over the loudspeaker, more as a command than a question.
Something felt familiar in a bad way, and that made me want to run. The crowd, the circle, the stretcher. But then as they took #12 away, he lifted his arm in a feeble wave, the crowd cheered in relief, and the game continued, electrified by angry parents.
“That was our quarterback…. Now it’s going to be tough to move the ball…. That looked deliberate….”
The referee returned and put his arm in the air, lowering his hand by his face, then crossed his arms above his head and pointed at the other team as if putting a curse on them.
“Roughing the passer!” blared over the loudspeaker. “Fifteen yard penalty and an automatic first down.”
The scoreboard changed and the players took the field again, but this time they pointed fingers and punched their fists, and so did the people in the stands. It felt like the tense day on the playground when Brian Anderson and Karl Gorski started calling each other names and hitting each other and a crowd formed around them yelling, “Fight! Fight!”
Mom focused on Matt as the play began, but even without binoculars I could see something was very wrong. The players charged one another, but when the whistle blew and everybody stopped, Matt kept running into the player across from him, his helmet pounding against the other player’s numbers. Flags were thrown and somebody pulled Matt off of the other player—the same guy who had hit the quarterback. Mom stood quickly to survey the field and I rose next to her.
Someone from behind us yelled, “What’s wrong with him? Play’s over!” To which someone argued, “That’s the one that took out our quarterback!”
“Unsportsmanlike conduct?” someone speculated. “We just lost our gain and maybe the game.”
There was a lot of booing from both sides of the field. It seemed everybody was mad at Matt, who now sat on the bench until the assistant coach took him out to the locker room. For him the game was over and so was the season.
“Where’s your dad?” Mom asked as she sat back down and we both realized he was missing.
The referee held one arm out and struck it with his other arm.
“Unnecessary roughness!” blasted out across the field for all of Bethel Springs to hear. “Fifteen yard penalty.”
Now with three minutes remaining, the coaches kept calling time-outs, the referees shaped T‘s, and the clock stopped over and over. But there was not enough time for the Mustangs. When the clock ran out, the horses didn’t race onto the field in victory. Instead our guys limped off as losers, and our mighty mustangs were quietly loaded back in the horse trailer.
That night, as I pulled on my flannel nightgown, I could hear Mom and Dad’s voices coming up through my bedroom vent. Matt and I had long since discovered that after the weather turned cold and Mom and Dad no longer snuggled on the porch, they m
oved indoors. When the fan wasn’t blowing white noise, we could easily hear their kitchen chatter.
We’d lie on the floor with our chins resting on our hands, hearing more than we wanted to learn.
“Abby lost another tooth; it’s your turn to be the tooth fairy.”
“What’s the going rate?”
“A quarter. Matt keeps calculating inflation.”
“You look more like a fairy princess—how about if you do it.”
“Thanks, but you’re not getting off that easily.”
And at Christmas we discovered the truth about Santa.
“I thought I might ring a few bells and leave footprints on the hearth. Joel and Abby’ll get a kick out of that.”
“Just make sure you eat the cookies we put out.”
“No problem, Mrs. Claus. Somehow you always know what Santa likes.”
I would stare at Matt wide-eyed. But he was never surprised. For me it was bittersweet. The truth meant I had to outgrow imagination and dreams. And so I held on to the love in their words. So much love.
Tonight the words floating up from the vent were just sad.
“He was in my arms. Why not me? Did I do something wrong?” Dad asked too many questions. I wanted to be the only one with the questions, and I needed him to be able to answer them. I wanted this to be a fun evening, but it hadn’t been for Dad. Regrettable.
I didn’t like to think it could be anybody’s fault. And if Dad was blaming anybody, it ought to be the lady in the blue car. But maybe if Dad blamed himself, he wouldn’t have to blame God.
“I just keep asking, ‘Why? Why did it happen?’”
Mom didn’t answer. The plates clinked angrily as she wrestled them into the water. I hoped she wouldn’t turn on the faucet and drown out her response.
“Did you ever think there might not be a God?” Dad asked. Mom’s hands were silent. I held my breath, as if Mom and Dad could hear me breathe down the vent.
“John,” she said. “I wonder about a lot of things. About God, too.” She waited. “I can’t answer your questions. But even if I could, it wouldn’t be enough. Could my answer just be that I love you and that I want to make us work?”
I couldn’t hear anything. Were they whispering? Say something, Dad. Please say something. “I love you” was good. “I love you” would be enough.
“I lost Joel. I don’t want to lose you, too,” she added and waited again. What was Dad doing? I wished I could see them.
At last Dad answered, “Sometimes it feels like I’m in such a fog. I just can’t think straight.”
“I know. And it feels like our lives are unraveling,” she said, and I nodded in agreement. Life was unraveling, and somebody had to rethread the pieces. “Matt is so angry. You saw him at the game. And what about the drinking? How did we miss that? And then all that fire business.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with it, do you?” Dad asked.
“No, but your distance makes it seem like you think he’s guilty.” Mom turned the faucet on and I couldn’t hear if Dad responded. Then she shut it off again. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make it better,” she continued. “And Abby?” Mom asked. “I don’t know about Abby, but we need to find out. She’s not doing well in school and she has nightmares.” Long pause. And then my mom, who hardly ever cries, was crying and there was nothing I could do.
Mom didn’t know about me. I must be worrying her. I realized I was clutching myself, stifled by my own embrace, shrinking smaller and smaller. Dad couldn’t take care of Dad, and Mom couldn’t take care of Dad and Matt and me. What was going to happen to us?
“We just have to keep going, even if it feels like we can’t,” Mom said through her tears.
“I’m so sorry, Renee.” Dad’s voice sounded worn out and then he, too, was crying. Then he said something else I couldn’t understand, his voice muffled. I stood perfectly still, my eyes closed, trying to listen, my arms still wrapped around me in a hug. I hoped they were holding on to each other.
“John, let it go. It’s over.” Over? What was over? Was somebody giving up? “Stop blaming yourself. It’s over.”
“It’ll never be over, Renee. We’re still here. We’re still here.”
“I know. The pain never goes away,” Mom said. “I miss him, and I’ll never get over that until heaven.”
“And what if there is no heaven?” Dad asked. “What if this is it? What if we never see him again?”
Never see Joel again? I hadn’t thought of that. No heaven? How could that be? I hoped Mom had answers. I didn’t have to wait long.
“I know there is a God and a heaven and Joel is up there and one day I’ll be there to see him,” Mom said with determination. Then she paused and her voice thinned. “I just wish I knew we were going to make it here, without him,” she added, before the air ballooned my flannel nightie into a ballgown and their voices were lost in white noise.
TWELVE
On the day before Thanksgiving, school was out at noon but I still had my piano lesson. As I ran out the door with my books, Mom reached into the grocery money jar, grabbed five dollars, and slid it into an envelope, which explained how Mom was paying for my lessons. What else was going to come out of the grocery jar and who would refill it? Mom wrote Miss Mary’s name across the front. “Tell her I’ll give her the rest later this week.”
“It’s with an e,” I corrected. “Frances like her with an e and Francis like him with an i.” Mom erased the offending letter and corrected the envelope that didn’t hold enough money.
I had hoped we’d skip Thanksgiving this year since nobody was coming. We usually invited guests for Thanksgiving, but Dad said this year he didn’t want any “strays.” I looked at Mom in shock. What had happened to Dad? He had never used that word before. Mom took a poll about what we wanted for dinner, and Matt and I offered our suggestions—green bean casserole with the crispy things on top, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, Mom’s fruit salad with marshmallows, and please no sweet potatoes.
On Thanksgiving morning, Mom removed a leaf from our dining room table, bringing us closer together, and spread out a gold cloth that spilled over the shortened table. She found the thumbprint turkey place cards I had made in first grade and set out four. I don’t know what she did with the one with Joel’s name on it—the one I wrote with a backward J, before I really knew my letters. After she set out the Pilgrim salt and pepper shakers, she filled a cornucopia centerpiece and surrounded it with two candles, each cradled in a tiny pumpkin. Then she slipped napkins in the feather napkin rings Matt had made in third grade—the ones we had only four of anyway, because there were only four of us then.
The table looked beautiful but empty. Our table was perfectly symmetrical now—one side for everybody. I longed for our neighbors, Uncle Troy and Miss Mary Frances, Miss Patti, Rita, to make it full. Except for the decorations, this really wasn’t any different from any other dinner. And this year we weren’t giving thanks for much of anything.
Dad sliced into the turkey. That was always his job. Matt plopped a huge helping of mashed potatoes on his plate and began eating. That was always his job.
“Hey, we didn’t say grace,” I said.
“Grace,” Matt said and laughed, taking another bite.
“God is great. God is good.” I motioned for him to put his spoon down. “Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.” Then I started singing my kindergarten song to the tune of “Frère Jacques.” “God our Father, God our Father, we thank You, we thank You, for our many blessings, for our many blessings. A-men. A-men.” Mom joined in to make it a two-part round but not Dad and Matt.
“Thank You, God, for food and family, and …” I stopped. Nobody added anything. “And for our home,” I added. “Amen.” After overhearing some church members talk about the parsonage, I had questions that needed answering.
“Look at those sweet potatoes,” Dad said as if they were the only thing he was thankful for. “They’re
my favorite.” Matt and I exchanged frowns. No wonder Mom made them.
“Somebody said the parsonage isn’t really our house.”
“Of course it’s our house, but we don’t own it. It’s for whoever is the preacher,” Mom answered matter-of-factly as she spooned out ambrosia salad.
“Why can’t we own it? I don’t want to move. Ever.”
“I know, honey. And as long as Daddy is …,” Mom began and then stopped.
“But he’s not preaching …”
“Yes.” Mom sighed, setting down the bowl. “We have a dilemma.” Dilemma, the bad word for the day. Bad timing. Mom served me a huge helping of sweet potatoes, and then another scoop, staring down the table at Dad.
“I thought we were thankful for our home?” Dad said sarcastically.
“We are,” Mom countered. “For however long it’s ours.”
“Thank you, Renee, for clarifying that,” Dad said angrily, dropping the gravy tureen so hard it broke. Gravy flowed, dripping off the side of the table.
“You want someone to be angry with, and I don’t want to be that someone,” Mom said, tossing her napkin on the table as she stood. I stared at the pile of orange covering my plate. I had little room for anything else. “I thought the church and our home and us meant something,” she continued.
Dad didn’t seem to know what to say. Couldn’t he at least say, “It does! I love you so much! I’ll go back to preaching. We can make this all work out!” But instead he was silent.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Mom said sadly. The gravy had spread across the table, saturating the tablecloth.
“Nothing’s the same. We’ve all changed. Now’s not the time for this,” Dad said.
“When is the time? When is it time to stop running away and run toward something?” Mom continued, as if picking a fight. I almost wanted Dad to get really mad. I wanted to find out what made him tick.
“I’m not running away.”
“You don’t think so? You’re tinkering in the basement with old clocks, avoiding everything and everyone.” Dad scoffed and that seemed to incite her. “And this isn’t the first time.” She pointed her finger. “You also ran away from the farm.”
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