Playing by Heart Read Free Page B

who’d grabbed his arm and threw himself into his mother’s embrace. Mrs. Wyatt knelt in front of him and pushed back his damp hair.
    â€œDon’t run from me, JC. Please.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead. When she stood, her gloved hand closed around his small fingers. She studied me for a moment. “I’m so sorry—”
    I waved off her apology. Her expression softened. “Thank you. Mr. Vaughn, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    A tiny smile curved her wide mouth. “I might have known Louise would have such a compassionate son.”
    I glanced at Ma. She looked away. Maybe I didn’t know my mother as well as I’d imagined.

3
    L ULA
    The surge of energy that got me on the train Wednesday night carried me through Thursday, Friday, Saturday. The minutes blurred into hours, my hands never stopping, my mind never settling. Not until the last mourners left Jewel’s house. The last unrelated mourners.
    If only Mama were here. But she rested near the new mound of Oklahoma soil that covered Davy. And we didn’t have Daddy’s guidance, either. He resided in a bed in my brother Don’s home, two hours north, half of his once-strong body rendered useless by a stroke. I pushed the image from my mind, unable to deal with my grief over Daddy on a day already filled to the brim with sorrow.
    My two brothers, two sisters, and I remained. Three of my siblings were old enough to be my parent. Jewel and I were closest in age, but even then, almost ten years separated us.
    â€œWhy don’t you and the children go on to bed.” My eldest sister, Janice, threw the statement at me.
    Long before her suggestion, I knew they didn’t want me intheir powwow. Even though I was twenty-five years old, they still considered me a child. I wanted to sass back that I could stay awake with the grown-ups, but then I figured seeing the children to bed would be more pleasurable than the ensuing discussion. Besides, Jewel looked done in. I’d hate for her to worry over one more thing.
    I managed a sad smile for Jewel as I shooed the children up the stairs.
    All but ten-year-old JC. Him I had to drag.
    We reached the bedroom my nieces and nephews would share until I returned to the university. JC sulked in the corner. I pushed up the sleeves of my dress, anxious for any relief from the warm night, before gathering the children’s nightclothes.
    Two-year-old Russell wiggled and laughed until I lifted him into his crib. Then he stared over the railing with solemn eyes, thumb jammed between his full lips.
    Eight-year-old Trula’s hair hung in limp strands around her face as I unbuttoned her dress. Had it been only this morning I’d pulled the rags from her locks and arranged the curls of gold down her back? She tugged the thin white nightdress over her head and crawled into bed.
    Four-year-old Inez whimpered, climbed up beside her sister, sighed, then stilled. I brushed my hand over the child’s damp face.
    JC remained huddled in the corner, arms crossed over his narrow chest, face twisted into a scowl. But I recognized the pain beneath the anger. I motioned him to me. He shook his head. “C’mon,” I whispered. “You need sleep, too.”
    His head shook again, more violently this time.
    I crouched down beside him. “I understand, JC, I really do.”
    The corners of his mouth quivered, and tears filled eyes thecolor of the walnut gramophone casing downstairs. So much of Davy in those eyes. I almost couldn’t bear to look. I pulled him to my chest.
    â€œWhat will happen to us, Aunt Lula?” The muffled question soft and wet against my dress.
    â€œJesus sees, JC. And you have your mama still.” I stroked back his dark hair, kissed his sweaty forehead. “Cry now, if you want. No one can see you here.”
    His body slacked, letting go of its grief in the circle of my arms. I stroked his hair, rocked us back and