A Time to Dance

  In the tender places of their hearts, the single heart they once shared, Haley Ann still lived. But now . . . without the two of them taking time to remember, everything about her would fade into the cold night.

  Haley Ann, baby, we love you. No matter what happens, Mommy and Daddy love you . . .

  Tears spilled onto her cheeks, and Abby reached her gloved hand out toward the water again, trying to somehow grasp their tiny daughter and everything they’d lost since then. Everything including each other.

  “I can’t hear it, John . . .” Her choked, whispered words hung like icicles in the air above her. “The music isn’t playing anymore.”

  She had always known she could survive the darkness because something about being near John gave her strength to go on. But now she was just a woman in her forties with a head full of memories of a little girl that no longer existed. A woman cold and afraid and alone in the night, sitting on a pier by herself where once, a very long time ago, she was loved.

  Fourteen

  RUNNING WAS GOOD FOR THE SOUL, AT LEAST that’s what Coach Reynolds always told his players. But it was a brisk afternoon in early February, and this time John wasn’t sure he’d survive the workout. His breathing was hard and labored, as though he were jogging with the stadium bleachers fixed to his back. Even worse, there was an occasional tightening in his chest, much like the feeling he’d had on Super Bowl Sunday . . .

  John wasn’t really worried; he knew there was nothing wrong with his heart. Not physically, anyway. He was too fit, too careful about what he ate. No, the pains were purely stress-related, the result of being married to one woman while falling in love with another.

  He rounded the corner of the Marion High track and considered using this time to pray like he’d done in his younger days, like he’d done for a while even after he stopped going to church.

  You wouldn’t like much of what I’m thinking about these days, God.

  Repent! Flee immorality, My son . . . draw near to Me and I will draw near to you.

  The verses rattled around in his heart and drifted off like birds in flight. There was truth in the Bible words; John knew it as surely as he knew his name. But nothing about them applied to his current situation. Nowhere in Scripture was there wisdom for a man who was making promises to a woman other than his wife.

  A passage from Proverbs flashed across the screen of his mind. Avoid the harlot; stay clear of her doorway.

  Ridiculous. John shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the idea. Charlene was a beautiful young woman without a friend in the world. A fun-loving woman who admired everything about him and was willing to wait patiently while he and Abby worked out the details of their divorce.

  She was hardly a harlot.

  John picked up his pace and in the distance, in the trees that lined the creek adjacent to the school, he saw a hawk hanging in the wind. Bits and pieces from Kade’s report on the eagle came to mind and seemed to hit him for the first time.

  “The eagle allows the storm to take him to a higher place . . . the eagle finds a rock when he’s in trouble and lets the sun cleanse him from any poison. The eagle doesn’t flap around like the chickens and crows and sparrows. It waits patiently on the rock for the thermal currents, and only then does it take flight. Not by its own effort, but by the effort of the wind beneath its wings.”

  Again the analogies nearly screamed at him. With Christ, he soared like an eagle, not by his efforts but by the strength of the Holy Spirit. On his own . . . well, he was barely more than a chicken. Flapping and scuffling about in the dirt and never getting off the ground.

  I want to be an eagle again, Lord. Show me how. When this mess is behind me, help me be the man for Charlene that I wasn’t able to be for Abby.

  Stay clear of the harlot, My son.

  It wasn’t the answer John wanted and he shifted his gaze. Forget about the eagle. If he was doomed to the chicken pen, at least he’d be a happy chicken. The idea of fighting with Abby all his life was unimaginable. Unthinkable. Divorce was the only option left, even it meant he might never soar again. Besides, his flying days with Abby were long over. At this point they needed separate chicken coops if they were going to survive.

  Together they were pecking each other to death.

  John rounded another corner, appreciating the way the fresh air cooled his sweaty skin. In summer the track would be busy with people all day long. But now, months before spring, it was often just him. He cleared his mind and let his thoughts wander.

  Oddly enough, the person he missed most these days wasn’t Abby, but his father, Sam Reynolds. Invincible both on the field and in his faith. John drew a deep breath and kept running. Dad, if only you were still alive, I know you could make sense of all that’s happened.

  His father had been there through the tragedies of losing Haley Ann and Abby’s mother in the early ’80s. And again in ’85 and ’86 when Marion High opened and he left Southridge for the job as the Eagles’ head football coach. There were days when John hadn’t thought he’d survive the trials of building a program from the ground up. But his father had always been there, ready with words of wisdom, willing to lend balance to a life that seemed out of control.

  Thoughts of eagles and harlots and an angry God faded as John drifted back to his first seasons as head coach at Marion —but instead of memories of his father, there was image after image of the one who had been there in an even more tangible way.

  Abby.

  Football reigned in Southern Illinois, where the magnetic pull of the pigskin was, for most people, greater than any other. The idea of Southridge’s successful coaching staff giving up their top assistant to head the brand-new program at Marion High was at first welcomed by the townspeople. Especially since many of them still remembered him as Michigan’s Miracle Man, the quarterback who could do no wrong. But when the varsity team went 0-11 its first season, a rumbling of community voices made their feelings known. Editorials appeared in the local paper questioning whether a young assistant with no head-coaching experience was the right choice for the prized new program at Marion.

  The long-ago voices of discontent still rang clear in John’s mind. The school board had seen to it that the students at Marion had the best of everything: science labs, computer rooms, and teachers. On top of that, the school had a half-million-dollar stadium; it was better than any in the state. Why, then—the editorials asked—had the school district hired the first guy looking for a coaching job? Why not search the state for a man who could make Marion High the winner it deserved to be? Forget this building-a-program business. The Eagle parents and boosters wanted a winning tradition. Now. Not next year or the year after.

  The frustration of that season and the one that followed burned in John’s gut. Didn’t they know it took time to develop tradition? Couldn’t they see that the moment the doors opened at Marion, every boy who didn’t have a chance of playing varsity at Southridge transferred to the new school?

  Up front John had predicted it would take every bit of three years to acquire talent that could match up with that at Southridge. He couldn’t worry about the fact that the brand-new booster club and overanxious parents at Marion wanted results overnight—especially in games against the now rival Southridge Chieftains. He was only human, after all.

  One day midsummer between his first two seasons, Abby found him at practice and waited patiently until the last player and coach had left the field. He’d been alone on the bench, unaware of her presence, when she came up behind him and eased her arms around his shoulders. “I got a baby-sitter,” she whispered in his ear. “Let’s take a walk.”

  They spent an hour strolling the track—the very one he was running on now—and in that time she told him a dozen different ways that he was a gifted coach. “The parents don’t know a thing about play calling or creating a defense. They have no idea what type of dedicated athletes you need in order to compete with Southridge.”

  He listened, hanging on to every word.
It wasn’t so much that she shared any deep revelations that evening, but as she spoke he realized he’d forgotten the truth. He’d allowed the criticism of the community to tear at his confidence and heap upon him the pressure to make a better showing that fall than the previous one.

  At the end of their walk, she faced him, brushing a section of hair off his forehead. “Everyone in town, everyone in the world for that matter, might overlook your talent as a coach, John Reynolds.” She leaned into him, kissing him on the mouth in a promising way. “But I never will. What you have out there—” she waved her hand toward the field—“is nothing short of magic. A gift from God. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.”

  Abby’s pep talk restored his belief in himself and carried him through the off-season and into fall practice. But his second year proved to be even more disastrous than his first. Midway through the season they played Southridge and came up on the wrong end of a 48-0 beating.

  The next day’s headlines read “Marion High’s Only Chance— Dump Reynolds?” In the article, the press blamed him for passing too much, not knowing his personnel, and not having his team prepared.

  “You’re playing with Southridge’s bench, for goodness sake,” Abby cried when she saw the newspaper. “None of your kids would have made the team if they’d stayed at Southridge. What do they want?”

  It got worse before it got better. By the end of the season John found an anonymous typed note in his box warning him that the parents were circulating a petition to have him fired. Another note, signed by the overbearing father of one of the players, said, “I’ve never seen a more worthless coach than you, Reynolds. You might be a nice guy, but you’re hopeless out on the playing field.”

  John’s father offered advice that had helped him in the banking business: “There will always be naysayers, son. The key is to listen to God’s calling. If you’re doing that, then everyone else’s opinion amounts to little more than hot air.”

  John tried to keep his focus, tried to remember the words of wisdom from Abby and his father, but the season became unbearable as the weeks wore on. One night, after another lopsided loss, John stayed in the locker room an hour later than usual. The game had been a disaster, his players were bickering, and even his assistant coaches had seemed to disagree with the plays he called. Now that they were all gone, he dropped to his knees and gave his coaching game to the Lord, begging God to show him a way out. At the end of that time, he felt there was only one option: quit. Step down and let someone else give the people of Marion the winning program they wanted.

  It was after eleven o’clock when he locked up and walked out onto the field that night, but regardless of the late hour, Abby was there, waiting for him like she did after every game.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to wait.” He took her in his arms, rocked by how good it felt to be held and loved and supported on a night when it seemed the whole world had been against him.

  “I’d wait a lifetime for you, John Reynolds. Remember?” Her voice was soothing, a balm to his wounded spirit. “I’m the girl who’s loved you since I was ten years old.”

  He pulled away and looked deep into her eyes. “I’m turning in my resignation tomorrow.”

  John remembered the anger that flared in Abby’s eyes. “What?” She backed up several feet and faced him squarely. “You are not turning in your resignation.” She paced nervously, her mouth open, eyes locked on his. “You can’t do it. God brought you here to do a job. You can’t let those . . . those ignorant parents push you out of the very thing you were created to do. I won’t let you quit. Think about the hours of . . .”

  She had gone on that way for five minutes until finally she ran out of words.

  “That’s my Abby, shy and reserved.” He tousled her hair and smiled sadly. “I still think it’s time. They want someone else. Let ’em have their way.”

  Abby’s eyes had filled with angry tears. “Those people are wrong, John. A couple of them are nothing more than frustrated, bitter old men who never amounted to anything in life. My guess is they couldn’t play sports as kids and they can’t coach sports as adults. So what do they do? They pretend to coach from the stands, making their sons and people like you miserable in the process.” She paused and John remembered the sincerity in her voice. “They want you to quit, John. Can’t you see that? They don’t know the first thing about coaching, but still they’ve spearheaded this . . . this entire community into a frenzy to have you fired.” She clenched her fists and swung at the air. “Don’t let those crazy parents win like that, John. You have a gift; I’ve seen it. Besides, you’re forgetting the first rule of being a Christian.”

  John could hear himself silently agreeing with her on every count. “What rule is that?” He moved closer to her, tracing his finger along her cheekbone, loving her for the way she believed in him.

  She stared deep into his eyes, her voice softer than before. “The enemy doubles his efforts when a breakthrough is right around the corner.” Leaning up, she kissed him long and slow before pulling back. “Don’t give up, John. Please.”

  Indeed, the enemy attacks had doubled that year. Both he and Abby received angry, anonymous letters—some even sent to their home address. “Why do they hate us?” she had cried that afternoon, ripping one of the letters into a hundred pieces.

  “They don’t hate you; they hate me. Don’t you get it, Abby? If they can hurt us bad enough, then maybe they’ll get their way and I’ll step down.”

  But every time he was tempted to scrap his efforts, Abby helped change his mind. In those early years she’d always known just what to say or do when he was hurting or tired or lonely for her touch. It was an art that had taken years to perfect.

  He remembered how quickly the team’s atmosphere had changed once that second season was behind him. That summer he could hardly wait for fall and the chance to show the town of Marion the fruits of his hard work. John hadn’t thought about that summer for years . . . but it felt right to do so now as though by drifting back in time he might find some of the strength and reason and guidance that was missing in his life.

  He remembered one hot afternoon when training had been going better than ever, and he’d called his dad to talk shop.

  “Sounds like you’re doing everything right, son.” It was a ritual, talking football father to son: a part of life John had known would always be there, the same way winter followed fall. “What’re your chances?”

  “This is the year, Dad,” he’d been quick to answer, the misery of the previous season all but forgotten. “You gotta get down here and see these guys. They’re bigger than most college players.”

  “Just as long as I’m there when they hand you the state trophy.” His dad chuckled confidently on the other end. “That’s a moment I wouldn’t miss for the world.”

  “It may not be this year, but it’ll happen, Dad. You heard it here first.”

  The news that rocked his world came the next day. He was in the weightroom with temperatures sweltering outside at just under a hundred and the humidity not far behind. Custodians rarely ran the air conditioner in summer and John and the other coaches didn’t complain. It was good for the guys to work out in a hot gym. Made them tough, ready for competition.

  John was going over a player’s routine, making sure the young athlete’s training regimen was increasing on schedule, when Abby appeared at the door. A darkness in her eyes told him two things. First, the news was not good; second, whatever it was they would get through it together. The way they’d gotten through all the hard times they’d faced.

  Without words, she used her eyes to suggest that the conversation they were about to have should take place behind closed doors. John excused himself from the player, and in seconds he and Abby were alone, face to face.

  “What is it?” His heart was thudding so loud he wondered if Abby could hear it, too. “Are the kids okay?” After losing Haley Ann he never assumed that his children would be alive and well at
the end of the day just because they’d appeared that way at the breakfast table.

  He held his breath while Abby nodded. “The kids are fine. It’s your dad.” She moved closer, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Your mother just called. He had a heart attack this morning. Oh, honey . . . he didn’t make it.” The news cut through him like a hot knife, but before he had time to react, he noticed tears in her eyes. It was her loss, too. Feeling as though his heart were in his shoes, he circled his arms around her, strangely comforted by that fact.

  For twenty minutes she stayed there with him, holding him, assuring him that his father was with the Lord, in a better place. Promising him that the few tears that slid down his cheeks were okay, even there in the Marion High weightroom. When the news had sunk in, she left him alone and told the other coach on duty that John needed privacy, that his father and mentor had died that morning.

  When John was ready to leave, there were no students hanging around, no well-meaning teachers or staff members wondering what had happened. Abby had seen to that.

  He thought back now and realized how different the day might have gone. Abby could have left a “call home” message with the secretary or waited until after dinner to tell him. Instead she’d gone the extra mile, bore the brunt of the bad news, forced herself to grieve later, and immediately found a way to be with him.

  He tried to picture Charlene in that situation . . . but it was impossible.

  Charlene had never known his father, never loved him or respected him or looked forward to his calls. Charlene hadn’t borne his father’s grandchildren or lived with the knowledge that her father and John’s were best friends as far back as the beginning of time.

  What could Charlene possibly have said that would have touched him the way Abby’s presence had that afternoon?

  It’s a new day, Reynolds. Give the girl a break. You’ll make memories with her in time.

  The thought should have comforted him, but instead he felt the oddest chill run down his spine. He shook off the feeling and remembered Abby again—Abby whose father lay ill in a nursing home . . . a man who had been his father’s best friend.