Playing by Heart Read Free

profession instead of a husband hunter. But I doubted it. Every new, young female he’d hired had been more interested in her own future than that of her students.
    â€œChet? We’re already late!”
    I glanced at Ma and nodded, then returned my attention to Blaze. “You want to walk with us to the prayer meeting?”
    The boy sobered, then shrugged. “Sure, but I can’t stay.”
    We started off again, Ma moving at a faster clip than normal, Blaze beside me, looking as if he wanted to speak but dared not. At least not until we reached the church building, its whiteness stark and bright against the browning landscape.
    The congregation was milling about the yard, not inside the church. Escaping the heat? Or . . .
    Tight faces. Hushed voices. My gut twisted. Ma let go of my arm and hurried toward a group of older women. I lingered with Blaze, neither of us able to find conversation.
    Blaze cleared his throat and backed toward the street. “Guess I’d better get on home.”
    I nodded. He broke into a run, eager to escape whatever anguish had settled over those gathered here. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
    Ma returned to me, eyes wide. She clutched at my arm. “It’s Davy Wyatt. Nicked in the barber shop last weekend andsuccumbed to blood poisoning. Left his poor wife with those four little children.”
    I winced, my hand involuntarily rising to my neck. If a nick of the barber’s blade could end a life, what chance did Clay have in the path of bullets and poison gas? My gaze cut to Ma, wondering if she thought the same thing.
    Her features twisted, exposing both fear and pain. I’d prayed for years she could leave the past behind.
    I softened my voice. “Let’s go home, Ma.”
    She chewed her bottom lip, then shook her head. “I need to go to her, Chet. Make sure she’s all right.”
    â€œGo to whom?” I’d met Davy Wyatt—the affable guy who ran the livery stable—a couple times, but we’d had little contact since I’d purchased my Ford. Ma wasn’t overly acquainted with the Wyatts, either, as far as I knew.
    â€œJewel Wyatt. We roll bandages together at the Red Cross.”

    Pastor Reynolds grimaced and settled his hand on Mrs. Wayfair’s shoulder as she bumbled to the conclusion of the second verse of the closing hymn at Davy Wyatt’s funeral on Saturday afternoon. She ended with what I assumed she meant to be a triumphant chord. If only her fingers had hit the right notes.
    Ma’s head shook with displeasure. “You’d think she could get it right for once,” she whispered. I nodded, observing Mrs. Wayfair’s preening, as if she’d just played a perfect concerto. I’d been glad to wish Miss Delancey good riddance, but I already missed the way she made the piano music wrap around our congregational voices. Whether on my phonograph or in person, I did enjoy good music. It was the one thing Ma and I had in common.
    Mrs. Wyatt rose from her seat on the front pew, her gaze fixed on the window that overlooked the cemetery. She swayed. The young woman beside her, also clad in black, leapt to her feet and steadied Mrs. Wyatt. Together, they approached the pine box. Mrs. Wyatt pressed her hand against the unfinished wood, over the place where her husband’s heart rested. Then she turned and hurried up the aisle, the same hand now pressed to her mouth.
    The rest of the family stood and filed past the coffin with solemn faces before escorting the Wyatt children outside.
    Four men came forward and carried Davy Wyatt out the side door to his final resting place beside the church. I glanced at Ma, wondering if the scene brought back memories of her grief. Of our grief.
    Low murmurings accompanied the rustle of women’s skirts. I helped Ma to her feet, eager to escape the closeness of the large crowd. But before I could guide us toward the exit, a hand pressed against my arm.