The Long Journey Home (9 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: The Long Journey Home
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R
eturning to Carlisle, John fell back into the routine. Study, practice, run, compete, attend classes, study … .
He located young Will Penny, only a year or two behind him, and mentioned that Senator Langtry had inquired about him.
“Yes, I talked to him once,” Penny said. “After a meet, maybe. What does he want?”
“Nothing, I guess. Just likes to help athletes. He's interested in the Olympics. Been very kind to me.”
He did not add his private thought: And he has a daughter I would die for.
“All white men want something,” Penny suggested.
“Maybe just the satisfaction of seeing his pick out of the crowd becoming successful,” said John. “I think his heart is good.”
He did not reveal how close he had become to the Senator's family.
 
The months passed. Summer came and went. There were few classes, but some students remained on campus for special projects, and some, like John Buffalo, because he really had no place to go. He worked for the college for low pay, but it provided room and board. When he was not otherwise occupied, he spent time in the gym or on the track, running, exercising, lifting weights, keeping in shape for the coming football season. Some of the other athletes remained in the area, working at odd jobs or farm labor. One of these was Penny.
“John!” he greeted one morning. “You need a job?”
“I'm working here … . You have one?”
“Yes.”
“Farmhand?”
“No, even better. I'm playin' softball, over by Harrisburg. And I get paid!”
“For playin' ball? They pay you for
that
?”
“Sure. Want to come over with me and try out?”
He was sorely tempted, but …
“I better not, Will. I told Mac I'd stay on campus. I'm workin' out here to keep in shape.”
 
There was one marvelously bright event that summer. A neat white envelope arrived unexpectedly, addressed to John Buffalo, and a student who worked in the mailroom informed him about it.
“A letter?” asked John. He never received any mail. There was no one … .
“Yep … some kind of foreign stamps.”
There must be some mistake, thought John. Who would write him? The foreign postage, especially, made him certain that the letter was addressed in error, intended for someone else.
He stopped by the mailroom, actually asking someone its location to find it. Yes, the square white envelope was addressed to him. His name was inscribed with beautiful penmanship in a flowing hand, using blue ink. It was sealed with a neat blob of blue sealing wax, imprinted with a fancy-styled monogram. It took him a moment to decipher that letter: a capital L in English script. L …
Langtry
.
At about the same time, he realized that the envelope was faintly fragrant with an oddly familiar perfume … . Yes! The fragrance used by Miss Jane Langtry, suggestive of roses and lilies of the valley, with a hint of musk … .
He found a quiet corner and opened the envelope.
Dear John,
We are touring Italy this summer, my parents and I. Alan is in school. I think of you often, and our time together at The Oaks. I would love for you to be here to share the beauty of Rome and its many wonders.
I look forward to seeing you at Carlisle this fall.
Respectfully,
Jane Langtry
He was stunned. He had never received a letter before. The thrill of it was almost overwhelming. Alone in the study room, he read and reread the note, inhaling the faint perfume that invoked memories of the exciting time he had last experienced that subtle fragrance and, the content of the message. A solid
declaration of friendship, a strong suggestion of more, and a wish to see him again, soon. He felt that it carried a much deeper message than the words alone could tell … . A matter of spirit.
Now he thought of her even more often. He wished for time to pass, to bring on the football schedule for more than one reason, now.
 
It was a beautiful day in early fall when the crowds gathered for Carlisle's first football game of the season. The school had done well the previous year, and there was much interest. The crowd gathered early, arriving by train, by wagons, buggies, coaches, and on foot.
John had been awaiting the arrival of the Langtrys since dawn. He had heard nothing, but assumed that the family would be on hand, because of the Senator's absorbing interest. And, he hoped, because of a somewhat different interest on the part of Miss Jane Langtry.
When he did encounter the trio, it was completely unexpected. He was coming out of the locker room with the team to take part in informal practice before the final coaching session. As they crossed the running track, they encountered the flow of gathering spectators approaching the stands.
“John!” called a young female voice. “John Buffalo!”
He turned to face the trio. The Senator, Mrs. Langtry, and Jane … Had he forgotten how beautiful she really was? In some way, she had matured a bit, her face and figure even more striking than ever. She rushed toward him and gave him a quick embrace.
Startled, he returned her hug clumsily with one arm. His other hand was occupied with his helmet, dangling on its strap. But over Jane's shoulder, he could clearly see the expressions on the faces of her parents. Mrs. Langtry's was one of startled surprise and puzzlement. Maybe that was a logical reaction. However, the expression on the Senator's face was chilling. Not only surprise, but consternation, and an anger approaching rage. His ruddy jowls flushed as purple as the wattle on a turkey-cock.
What could be wrong?
“I … I have to go,” John mumbled. “I'll see you after the game?”
Senator Langtry gave a noncommittal harrumph that could have meant anything.
Mrs. Langtry said nothing. She was as pale as the Senator was florid, her eyes a frightened rabbit's.
Jane seemed not to notice anything unusual. “Of course!” she chirped happily. “We'll see you then!”
 
Something was wrong, and John was not certain what. It must have something to do with Jane's overt display of affection on the track. Yes, that was probably
it … . The Langtrys were an affectionate family, except for the Senator himself. He always seemed a bit too pompous and formal to exhibit affection. Such a display as that on his daughter's part would probably be considered inappropriate. He rather dreaded the meeting after the game. He feared that he would be chastised, though he had had little to do with the public display of affection. Jane might be due some severe criticism, and his heart was heavy for her.
 
The game was a disaster. John's thoughts were far away. He was clumsy, inattentive, missed signals, and at one time nearly ran in the wrong direction after a spin to escape the grasp of the opposing tackle. In another generation of football, the coach would have benched him for a substitute. But at that time, substitutions were only for injury.
He played on doggedly, looking to the stands to try to locate the Langtrys from time to time. He finally located them, halfway up the stands at the fifty-yard line. They seemed very quiet, but then so was the rest of the Carlisle crowd. There was nothing to cheer about.
“What's the matter with you, Buffalo?” the frustrated coach demanded at half time.
The score was 21-0 in favor of the visitors, a team that Carlisle was favored to defeat easily.
“I don't know, Coach.”
“Are you sick?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, let's get in there! You're not playin' your usual game! And you others … Just because Buffalo's havin' trouble, no reason you should quit.
Help
him! You got to try even harder. This isn't a one-man show, you know … . We're a
team
!”
 
After the half-time break, they played better football, but not by much. They were completely outclassed and outmaneuvered by a lesser team, and any recovery was too late and too little. It was the upset of the season.
 
John's own performance was even worse in the second half. He
must not
keep looking to the stands at the fifty-yard line. Even when he did manage a glance, it was not comforting. Possibly, this could be sorted out when he met the Langtrys after the game. He'd apologize, assure her parents that he had no ulterior intentions where their daughter was concerned, and maybe things would be all right again. Anyway, he hoped so.
They left the playing field in disgrace, heads hanging in defeat. But at least it was over. The embarrassment would last awhile, but was less urgent at the
moment than this misunderstanding with the Langtrys. With these thoughts in mind, John made his way to the track in front of the stands, trying to phrase an apology in his mind.
The sullen, disappointed crowd was dispersing quickly and quietly, unaccustomed to the indignity of such a defeat. John looked and waited as the last of the spectators trickled out of the stands and through the alleyway to the street. He had not seen the Langtrys leave. Maybe they were outside … . He hurried to the street, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Then it occurred to him that during the last quarter he had consciously avoided looking at the stands. They must have departed early, with some of the other disgruntled fans. He would have thought this unlike the Senator.
Maybe he had missed them at the track … . He hurried back into the stadium, but it was almost empty.
He encountered a dejected Coach McGregor, who tried to put a better light on a bad day.
“There'll be better times, lad. I don't know what your problem is, but come in tomorrow. Let's talk about it.”
“Yes, sir … . But I was looking for the Senator. I was to meet them after the game.”
“Oh … I don't know, John. I think they left early. Maybe some government business.”
“Did he get a message or something?” John blurted clumsily.
“I don't know. I was watchin' the game, unlike some I could name.”
McGregor used sarcasm as a teaching tool.
“Yes, sir … . I'll be in to see you in the morning.”
 
Charlie Smith had seen the Langtrys leave, and had wondered, but knew nothing more. Little Horse, who had seen the spontaneous embrace on the track, attempted to tease him about that, but met with such sullen fury that the subject was dropped quickly.
 
The conference with McGregor was brief and to the point.
Get back to work and forget distractions
. John was unable to share his thoughts and fears, but promised to do better. He plunged back into training with all the pent-up energy of frustration, but found little help. His heart was too heavy.
John considered writing a letter of apology to the Senator, or to Jane, or to both. He rejected that approach for a number of reasons. Primarily, he felt that he had nothing for which to apologize. There was no one to whom he could talk about it, to share his doubts and fears. He withdrew into his protective shell, becoming more and more alone.
 
 
A few days later, John was called into the office of the Dean, an unusual circumstance. Coach McGregor was seated in a chair by the desk, looking very uncomfortable.
“Mr. Buffalo,” began the scholarly, stiff-starched administrator, “you have been selected to transfer to another college to further your athletic career.”
“But why … Where? I don't understand.”
He looked to McGregor in consternation.
“It's none of my doin' lad,” the coach said, his anger barely controlled. “I need ye here.”
Mac's brogue always became heavier in times of emotional stress. The athletes had joked about that. But this was no joke.
“This is an official request, through the Bureau,” the Dean went on. “I suppose it's an effort to distribute talent—in this case, sports talent—to some of the lesser schools.”
“But in mid-season—,” McGregor sputtered.
“I don't understand, either,” admitted the Dean. “But, we must honor the request. We'll miss your talent on the gridiron, Buffalo.”
It was a halfhearted statement. The tolerant dislike of the academic community for athletics was a familiar joke.
The Dean continued, “You'll transfer to Haskell Indian Institute.”
“Where in hell is
that
?” McGregor erupted.
“It's at the edge … Let me see”—the Dean peered over his spectacles at the papers on his desk—“Kansas … Lawrence, Kansas … Hmm … A two-year
junior college?”

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