Muckers (25 page)

THE LATE-DAY SUN CAN BARELY
cut through the stained-glass windows in the rectory as I kneel to get out the envelope from my gym bag, watching the trail of dirt from my cleats cake onto the carpet. Mrs. Robinson ended up buying Maw’s pearls for the jewelry store, so now I can pay for the pew. There’s no way Father’s taking Bobby’s nameplate away from us.

I didn’t expect anyone else to be here, but there’s a younger priest sitting beside Father Pierre in the front pew. I keep kneeling and listen to what he’s saying.

“I’m afraid there won’t be any money allotted for the leaky roof,” he says. “Not with the mine closing. As difficult as it is, Father, you have to accept that this town is dying.”

“You’re wrong!” Father says in a harsh tone. “The people in Hatley depend on this church. That’s more important than any mine.”

“I’m sorry, Father. But with so many parishioners leaving, the diocese has to consider how long the parish should remain open.”

I start coughing and they look my way.

“I brought the money for the pew,” I tell Father Pierre. But he’s distracted. “Leave it by the statue of Mother Mary, where it will be blessed,” he says. Then he looks at my uniform and frowns. “You’re still playing without a coach? What for?”

“Because we’re gonna win the championship.”

Father Pierre shakes his head. “See how my work is needed here with such cockiness?” he says. “When the town believes in football instead of God?”

The young priest smiles. “I think they call it spirit, Father. Team spirit.” Then he turns to me. “You said the money’s for a pew?” he asks.

I nod.

“No one pays for going to church anymore, son,” he says. “There’s plenty of room. You don’t have to worry about leaving money for your pew.”

I almost feel sorry for Father Pierre, looking so stunned, except he’s so self-righteous. Even when his church is crumbling.

“You should be at the game,” I tell him, but I don’t stay and wait for his reaction. I know Father Pierre’s hold on this town is slipping and it’s got nothing to do with football.

MID-WEEK EDITION

Hatley Coach Ben Wylie Hansen Dies

Ben Wylie Hansen, head coach and director of physical education of Hatley schools, passed away yesterday in the Cottonville hospital where he was taken after suddenly becoming ill earlier this month. A
meningitis infection aggravated by a condition resulting from a head injury received while in military service was said to be the cause of death.

Services will be held tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 in the Hatley High School auditorium. Father Pierre LaSalle will officiate.

Coach Hansen was born March 4, 1917, in Missouri. He was graduated from Springfield Union High School in 1934 and attended Southwest Missouri State Teachers College, where he received a bachelor of arts degree and a master of arts degree. His first assignment as a coach was in Fort Apache, Ariz., and in 1940 he came to Hatley.

On leave in 1943 to enter service with the U.S. Infantry, Hansen received severe head injuries when a gasoline motor on a moving target exploded at Fort Benning, Ga. He returned to his coaching duties at the Hatley schools in 1945.

Survivors include his wife, Eleanor; a son, Homer Wylie, age 4; his parents, Mr. and Mrs. R. O. Hansen, Springfield, Mo.; three sisters and a brother.

Mine Closes. Last Copper Ingot Poured

For the first time in 20 years, no dense plume of white smoke arose from the smelter stack at Cottonville, and the shovels were silent in Hatley’s open pit. The last charge of copper was poured at the end of the day shift at 3:30 Tuesday, the oil flow to reverberatories was stopped and fires were pulled at 6 o’clock. Approximately 500 Eureka Copper mining employees will be transferred to Ajo or Bisbee, with Cottonville schools set to close also.

Full story, p.2
.

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PIANO TO TRADE—
Willing to trade nearly new spinet piano for sewing machine or comparable trade. See Mrs. Featherhoff. Upper Main, Hatley.

CHEAP
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THERE
’
S NO WAY THE SACRED
Heart of Mary could have held us. As it is, folks are leaning against the sides of the bleachers in the auditorium, clinging to their kids and telling them to hush.

Cruz is beside me, staring at his knees. Tony’s on my left, too wide for the chair. He’s leaning forward like he’s set for a tackle, only his knuckles are clenched and he’s wearing a collar so starched it’s cutting into his neck and chafing it red as chopped meat.

We just mumbled “Sorry” to Mrs. Hansen when it got to be our turn and watched Homer squirming around her ankles, his hair combed and spit-polished in place, while he played with his football until his grandmother took him away.

Now we’re in the front row—they’ve kept it open for the team—and it hurts even more watching Mrs. Hansen from here, standing there alone, the black veil covering those
swollen eyes and her bottom lip trembling as her hand gets shook by the steady stream of newcomers. Some of them were supposed to be in Ajo already. And then there were the Cottonville Wolves, and coaches who traveled a whole lot farther than from Flagstaff to pay their respects.

“Look who’s here,” Lupe Diaz says from a few seats over.

Rudy
. He’s in line like everybody else, with Mrs. Hansen about to shake his hand as if he wasn’t a murderer and didn’t kill Coach.

“No way he should be here,” Cruz says, grinding his teeth.

How could Rudy show up for this?

He walks past us looking for a seat and I stare him down. Tony pounds his fist on the empty chair beside him and Rudy’s face twitches. He goes around and slips into the row behind us.

Francisco comes up with Paradiso and sprinkles the coffin with his holy wand. “Darn mule,” Mrs. Dearing sniffs, saying it shouldn’t be allowed. But Francisco’s never hurt anybody, and he won’t go anywhere without Paradiso.

Homer runs up and gives the burro a hug. He starts crying pretty hard and won’t let go of Paradiso’s peppery mane until Francisco hands him a few pecans to feed the burro. “It’s my birfday next week,” he tells Francisco. “I’m gonna be five.”

Faye Miller’s behind them with her boy. “I’m seven,” he says.

“Silly goose, you’re not that old.” Faye blushes, rubbing his curly head.

Francisco nods at Faye and gives her a slight smile.

Then Father Pierre steps from behind the stage curtain and lowers his palm for the band to be seated, and I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.

Bobby’s coffin was closed, too. Coach is too beat up for us to see, I know that, and he’d never want us to, not looking that way. But with Bobby everyone knew he wasn’t inside. That his
remains
were never recovered. Manny said that meant he was either blown to smithereens or stuck in a cave they couldn’t get to without burning up and dying.

Why’d they have a coffin anyhow?
I’d kept asking Maw.
Bobby never came back
. But all she told me was to sit up straight, and that Father Pierre knew what was proper. And I suppose it was there for something to look at, to make it seem real for us, and everyone behind our pew feeling sorry, but mostly glad they weren’t O’Sullivans.

I’d come home from school and found the screen door wedged open and Cussie’s mom crying inside while Father Pierre stood over Maw, her head lying sideways on the kitchen table like it wasn’t part of her anymore.

He’s the one who told me about Bobby. It came out all echoed, like the Father wasn’t really talking to me or about Bobby, the syllables passing over my head then floating up to the ceiling.
Haven’t millions of soldiers gone to war?
That’s what I could really hear, the voice inside my head, telling me how common the names
Robert
and
O’Sullivan
must be and how could they know for sure? But then the words
killed
and
dead
ricocheted off the tin, slapping me in the face so hard and sudden my knees buckled.

Cruz was there. He took my shoulder and walked me down the Barrio to his house. I must’ve slept awhile on the little cot by the fire, because when I came to, Francisco was smiling at me with his corn-kernel teeth.

And Mrs. V, she fed me soup with golden noodles. That got my tongue all fiery, and Cruz’s brothers and sisters
laughed, especially Angie, who said my hair must be made of carrots. I didn’t mind any of it. For the first time since they’d told me about Bobby, I’d felt something.

They found me a black coat, wrapped a cross around my neck along with a medallion of Saint Christopher, and hoisted me up on Paradiso.

Francisco led the procession up Gulch Lane to my house, the Vs on either side of me, stopping only to let the women with their rosaries add sacks of food to my burro. Then a man called out,
“¡Viva Roberto!”
and the cavalcade raised their candles or pictures of Bobby with their sons and grandsons holding up the Northern Crown.

They left them on the steps while Francisco gave our house a good splash with his holy water. When Maw came to the door, Mrs. Villanueva handed her a loaf of warm bread covered up in a towel. “Thank you for coming!” Maw said, smiling the way paper dolls do, like she was having a party or going to the Elks Ball at the Lodge, back when Pop was the Exalted Ruler. And I wanted to go back to the Barrio with the others right then, to that little house flickering with candlelight, where it was safe and warm and alive. Where they talked about Bobby like he still mattered without going into hiding or keeping anything in.

“There’s a bounty on Rudy’s head,” Cruz whispers. “It wasn’t no meningitis that killed Coach. It was Rudy. If he steps one foot in the Barrio, they’ll shoot him in the heart, I swear.”

Tony leans back and tilts his chair toward me. “He can stay up on the hill but he can’t hide,” he says. “And there’s no
santos
who will save him.”

I glance over at Melvin, pale and scrawny, sitting next to Verdugo and his broken collarbone. If Rudy doesn’t play,
we’ll have to bring Melvin in, or we forfeit the championship. But Melvin Sneep could cost us the game.

“It’ll be a waste if we don’t win it,” Cruz says. “May as well be in that coffin.”

I tell Cruz that we’ll win because we have to. There’s no way Phoenix United’s got the same kind of pain stuck inside. Our speed will carry us, and we can work the slag to our advantage. It’s what Coach wanted for us.

Angie, too.

I found a note from her in my locker this morning. I don’t know how it got there. “Win or lose,” it said, “you’ve given Hatley hope.” She said Ajo isn’t so far, just a hundred miles past Phoenix.

Hope. That’s what you need to get through the pain.

Homer’s still burrowing his head into Paradiso, and I wonder what it’ll be like for Coach’s boy. He’s got a good mother. I suppose she’ll move on, too.

I try to get a picture of Bobby back in my head, but his face changes into Coach’s and then Angie’s, and that’s not supposed to happen at a funeral.

Homer finally lets go of Paradiso. He throws his little football and it hits the coffin. Father Pierre stops then stutters, adjusting his glasses as Homer runs into his mother’s arms and buries his face in her bosom.

* * *

Faye Miller’s on the porch when I get home from the funeral and the pot roast she’s holding is just about the best thing you could smell. Her boy Samuel’s on the settee petting Whitey—the side of his suit jacket’s covered in fur.