The Baton Mom Twirled at Homecoming

The front yard

The Saturday before homecoming, I drove over to Teri’s house. She was out in the front yard raking leaves off the walk, under her big pecan tree, in Duncan’s old canvas jacket.

She saw me get out of the car and kept raking.

I walked up and took the second rake that was leaning against the porch and started on the other side of the walk.

We raked for maybe ten minutes without talking. That’s how we have always done it, Teri and me. We work side by side until one of us is ready.

“Kenzie told me about Purcell,” I said finally. “The seven hours. The parking lot.”

Teri stopped raking. She leaned on the handle and looked at the leaves.

“You weren’t supposed to know about the parking lot,” she said.

“I’m glad I do,” I said. “I wish I’d known in April. I’d have come and sat with you.”

She was quiet a while. A truck went by on the road and the driver lifted two fingers off the wheel, the way everybody does around here, and Teri lifted her hand back without thinking.

“I keep seeing her on those steps,” she said. “Every time I close my eyes. And now she wants to go out in front of the whole town and throw a stick in the air.”

“I know,” I said. “But she’s not on the steps anymore. She’s in the hayfield every night. She caught the toss nine times in a row Thursday. I counted.”

Teri laughed then, a little, a wet laugh. “Of course you counted.”

“Come Friday,” I said. “Sit in the stands with Kenzie. You don’t have to watch if you can’t. But be there. She’d want you there more than anybody.”

“She’s riding with you,” Teri said. And there it was, the hurt, plain as day. “She told me. She doesn’t need me to bother.”

“She heard you laugh,” I said gently. “That’s all. It’s not forever. It’s just what it cost.”

Teri nodded slowly. She didn’t argue. She went back to raking, and I went back to raking, and when the walk was clean she said, “I’ll be there,” without looking up.

Homecoming

Homecoming was the last Friday in October. It was one of those clear, crisp Oklahoma nights where you can see your breath by the fourth quarter and the stadium lights make everything look brighter than it is.

The whole town was there. The concession stand was selling Frito pie and hot cider, and somebody’s church had a bake sale table out front with pecan pies. The smell of popcorn was everywhere.

Eleven members of the class of 1966 came back. Eleven, out of the ones still with us.

They had a row of folding chairs set up on the track by the home bleachers, with little red ribbons pinned on.

Mom wore her red cardigan, white slacks, and her white sneakers, the ones she’d worn every night in the hayfield.

Her white hair was set that morning at the beauty shop. She looked slim and small and absolutely sure.

I wore a plain red hooded sweatshirt and my jeans. I didn’t even think about it until I saw that we matched. Neal took one look and said, “Well, nobody’s going to miss you two.”

Before the game I walked Mom down to the end zone where the band was getting lined up.

The kids were in their red uniforms, with the brass shining under the lights, and the drum line was tapping out time on the rims.