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.
Chapter Fourteen
On Saturday morning, Dodd Cunningham hunkered down in the driver’s seat of his El Camino, examining the grocery store while he tried to think of something to buy. A reason to go in.
An old woman hobbled out, and Ruthie crept behind her pushing a grocery cart. The woman talked as she unlocked her trunk, and Ruthie leaned in to hear her soft words. As Ruthie placed the bags in the trunk, Dodd heard the tones of their laughter floating across the lot in the morning air. Ruthie shut the trunk with a gentle snap and rested her elbows on the cart as the woman poked her shoulder. Ruthie opened the driver’s door and waited while the woman lumbered in, and then she pressed the door closed and fluttered her hand in a wave.
Only then did Ruthie hurry, shoving the cart toward the entrance and jogging a few steps before settling into a steady pace. As she neared the building, she moved in front of the cart, walking backward to pull it through the doors, and just as she stepped into the store and out of view, she glanced at Dodd.
His insides tightened as if he’d been punched.
What had he been thinking? Of course she would notice him. Most likely he drove the only El Camino within a fifty-mile radius.
He grabbed the car door handle and jerked so hard it snapped off in his hand. With a grumble, he tossed the mangled metal onto the floorboard and rolled down the window noisily, reaching outside to free himself.
Ruthie didn’t pause when he entered the store but continued with her work, swishing a broom around the registers.
“Good morning, Miss Turn—Ruthie.”
She lifted her chin in greeting but didn’t look at him. He wasn’t surprised. She’d been giving him the cold shoulder ever since the unfortunate incident with his cell phone last week.
“Have you seen JohnScott yet?” he asked.
“He sat in the emergency room half the night. He’s probably sleeping in.” She worked her way across the front of the store, sweeping dust into a pile while Dodd pretended to study the magazine display. He had seen her mother sweeping the floor at the diner, and their similarities were remarkable. Petite with dark eyes and long hair. Same smile.
Dodd shoved his hands into his pockets. “I hope JohnScott makes practice next week.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Luis sauntered toward them and sprawled on the counter. “The players make the team, not the coach.”
Ruthie jerked upright. “Then why have the Panthers improved every year since JohnScott’s been here?”
“Well, yeah. There’s always that point of view,” Luis said, dodging the question. “But I don’t see why he can’t come to practice.”
Dodd squinted. “Most likely he’ll be back at practice on Monday, but because of the concussion, he’s got to take things easy.”
“What about the broken ribs?” Ruthie stored the broom behind the Coke machine. “Think if he got hit again.”
“Broken ribs are no big deal.” Luis pulled himself up from the counter, evidently tired of the conversation. He stalked away from them, calling over his shoulder. “They don’t even put a cast on them.”
Dodd cringed at the thought of JohnScott taking another hit. His friend had given everyone a scare the night before. After the final touchdown, the opposing team’s frustration got the best of them, and they began taking shots at the Panthers. JohnScott attempted to stop the fight and got smashed between two players in full pads. The medic revived him within seconds, but because he was disoriented, an ambulance whisked him away to the emergency room in Lubbock.
The door slapped open, and a pigtailed girl ran in. “Ruthie, Ruthie!”
“Hey there, Bethany.”
“I got new shoes.” The girl stomped her feet, and lights blinked near her soles.
“Well, they’re precious, aren’t they?” Ruthie placed a quick kiss on top of Bethany’s head as her mother called her
away.
“You like kids?” Dodd asked.
Ruthie took a deep breath and blew it out with a huff before looking him straight in the eye. She only made eye contact for a fraction of a heartbeat, but it still caused Dodd’s stomach to do a somersault—even though he suspected she gritted her teeth.
She was so much like her mother. Whenever Lynda waited on him at the diner, she had the same disdainful attitude as Ruthie. Dodd had a feeling it had something to do with the Blaylocks, and he sensed Lynda’s animosity transferred to his own family by association. Ruthie’s mother didn’t even attempt to hide her enmity, and Ruthie barely did.
Ruthie removed an empty Snickers display box from a display on the front wall, then stretched for a replacement carton on the top shelf, standing on tiptoes to nudge the corner.
Dodd reached above her head and handed her the box, noticing her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo. “So, about JohnScott … You guys are pretty close, right?” He hated himself for asking. Hated himself for wanting to know. His plan had been to stay away from Coach Pickett’s girlfriend. Some plan. He hadn’t figured on Ruthie’s strawberry-scented hair … or her defiantly masked fragility.
He might as well find out how things stood between her and JohnScott. Find out if he even had a chance. He glanced at the ponytail falling down the back of her United shirt and held his breath as he waited for her answer.
He didn’t get one. They were interrupted by the coach himself, pushing through the glass door, and Dodd wondered for the hundredth time why he didn’t simply ask his friend. Maybe he feared losing him. Maybe he feared the answer. Definitely he feared exposing himself.
Ruthie gasped when she saw JohnScott hunched forward, protecting his rib cage with his left hand.
It hurt to look at him.
She crept forward, placing one of her delicate hands on each side of JohnScott’s battered face. “You have not been a good boy, JohnScott Pickett.”
He glanced at Dodd. “She’s such a mother hen. Let’s call her Henny Penny, shall we?” And then in falsetto, he drawled, “I am going to bake some bread. Will Ducky Lucky help me?”
When he put his hands in his armpits and flapped like a chicken, Ruthie slapped him gently on the shoulder.
“Hey, woman.” JohnScott’s mouth hung open in feigned shock. “How dare you hit an injured man—and in front of a witness, too.” He turned to Dodd. “Sir, may I call you to testify in my defense?”
“I am forever at your service.” Dodd waved an arm in the air and bowed.
“Don’t encourage him.” Ruthie’s gaze bounced between the two of them before her smile melted.
Dodd got the impression Ruthie disapproved of JohnScott’s friendship with him, but he didn’t understand why. What did she have against him?
JohnScott leaned against the counter next to her. That should have been answer enough to Dodd’s question. He suddenly felt intrusive. “I’d better be going.”
“See you Monday,” the coach said.
Five minutes later, Dodd found himself in the El Camino, fingering the rough nub of handle left on the door and contemplating the Ten Commandments. When he learned them as a child, the tenth commandment, do not covet, had always meant he shouldn’t want his friends’ Hot Wheels cars. At twenty-six, it meant he shouldn’t want their real cars. And he didn’t. He took pride in being content with what he had, but as he peered through the plate-glass windows of the United grocery, where Ruthie laughed at something JohnScott said, the tenth commandment took on a whole new meaning, and he felt as guilty as any convicted felon.
He coveted something belonging to JohnScott Pickett.
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday I planned to discuss my college plans and desperate scholarship search with JohnScott, but when I nudged the teachers’ lounge door open at noon, I saw my cousin huddled at the back table with Dodd and the ag teacher. Right where he’d been every day this week. JohnScott caught my eye and beckoned me to join them, and Dodd looked between the two of us with that curious expression he seemed to reserve just for me.
I waved my fingers and stationed myself at the front table instead. A radio rested on the counter, and I tuned in a Lubbock station to drown out their conversation. I didn’t care what the men were talking about, but as I tapped my foot, I considered the possibilities. On Monday I had speculated they were discussing football—JohnScott’s number-one topic of conversation at any given time—but on Tuesday I ruled it out. If they’d focused solely on sports, the ag teacher would have bailed already. Now that Wednesday had rolled around, several other options ran through my mind. Politics, education, women.
As I picked at my bologna sandwich, Maria Fuentes came through the door balancing a cafeteria tray. The Family and Consumer Science teacher hovered near the corner of my table and evaluated the three men, but when none of them noticed her, she turned and settled into a chair across from me with her back to that side of the room. Bless her heart. Of all the female teachers who had come to spy on Dodd that first day, she was the only one who hadn’t returned to her usual routine. I took a sip of Sprite. “Hey, Maria.”
“What’s up, Ruthie?” Her tone screamed, No offense, but I’d rather be sitting with the men.
“Thinking about the pile of work I have to do this afternoon.”
“Not enough hours in the day, that’s what I say.” She picked up a small paper cup of ketchup, squeezed its contents into a bowl of gravy, and stirred the mixture with a chicken strip. “They don’t pay us enough for all we’re expected to do.”
I hummed in agreement as I monitored the back table. JohnScott leaned on both elbows listening to Dodd, while the ag teacher shook his head. The preacher had finally gotten a haircut that made him look less citified, and his new coaching pants made him look more athletic. The changes didn’t necessarily suit him, because he was losing his mysterious executive air.
Maria glanced over her shoulder. “What do you suppose they’re talking about?”
“Football,” I lied.
“They’re not.”
Tearing off a corner of my sandwich, I asked, “What makes you so sure?”
“Their hand gestures.”
I raised an eyebrow.
She dipped three french fries in her pink gravy before stuffing them in her mouth and speaking around them. “They can’t be talking about football because their gestures are all wrong.” She swallowed the mouthful of food like it was a horse vitamin. “First you throw the ball across to the receiver.” She held her arms apart and motioned like she was throwing a ball. “Then the receiver runs down the field.” She hunched with one arm curled against her stomach. “Then he gets tackled by the huge line-whatever, and they do it all again.” She circled one finger in the air, tornado-style.
Apparently Dodd noticed her dramatic attempt to gain his attention, and his gaze slid into mine as his lips curved up. Was it my imagination, or did he roll his eyes ever so slightly?
I pretended I didn’t notice.
“You’re right. They’re only waving their palms back and forth.” I looked her in the eye. “Health-care reform?”
“Yeah, maybe. Or terrorism.” She bit half a chicken strip. “So, Ruthie, is your cousin dating anybody?”
JohnScott continued to sit with Dodd and the ag teacher, and by Friday morning I had come to expect it. A sensation burned in my gut, which I first labeled as jealousy but soon recognized as fear—the unfathomable fear of losing my cousin. JohnScott acted normal, more or less, so I attempted the same as he and I monitored the students in the gymnasium before the morning bell. “How are the ribs?” I asked.
“Sore as the dickens. I hope they’re healed by Halloween. By the way, are you wearing a costume to the carnival?”
“Of course not.”
“I have to dress as a chick, you know.”
“So what? I do that every day.” I
shifted where I leaned against the wall, and my shoulder ground against the cinder blocks.
“You could wear a costume out of loyalty to Trapp High School.”
“They don’t pay me enough.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
Dodd came through the double doors and headed toward Grady on the other side of the gym. Once again he diverted his gaze from JohnScott and me. Why does he do that?
JohnScott called with a thick accent, “¿Donde está el baño, mi amigo?”
“Right next to the little girls’ room, my friend.” Dodd chuckled as he hurried by.
I frowned. “Why did you ask him where the bathroom is? In Spanish?”
“It’s a joke. He visited his parents in Mexico, and Where’s the bathroom? was the first phrase he learned, but he said it never came in handy.”
I massaged my temples.
“You know, Ruthie, we’ve been talking, Dodd and me.”
I nodded. “The Debate Club.”
“The what?”
“The two of you and the ag teacher, hunched over your deep-fried burritos in the teachers’ lounge. Talking, talking, talking. Maria Fuentes and I christened you the Debate Club because you look like you’re solving a complex mystery.”
“You’re not too far off, I suppose.” A weak smile played on his lips. “Dodd’s been telling us Bible stuff. It makes me think about how I treat people.”
Something like fear wrapped around my neck, forcing a small puff of air through my teeth. “For crying out loud, JohnScott. You don’t have to listen to that junk.”
“Aw, I don’t mind.” He pulled at his ear. “It’s pretty cool. He said Jesus forgave—”
I raised my hand to silence him, and his expression changed to guarded impatience.
“But later, Ruthie? Will you let me tell you later?”
I squinted into his eyes, one of which still had a yellowed shadow of a bruise.
He read my mind and answered softly, “I know, little cousin, but I trust him.”
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