Although Betty Raye was a last-minute replacement and had never bowled or played any sport before, to her surprise, unlike the other Oatmans, she seemed to be a natural athlete. She was graceful and coordinated and after a few lessons from Doc turned out to be a pretty decent bowler. Ada and Bess and their younger sister, Irene, who they called Goodnight Irene, were good too. But nobody was better than Tot Whooten. Just the mention of her name struck fear in the hearts of all the other teams. She was known throughout the county as “Terrible Tot, the left-handed bowler from hell.” Tonight they were driving all the way over to the huge new bowling alley in East Prairie. Tot’s next-door neighbor Verbena was staying with Darlene and Dwayne Jr. and watching her mother so Tot could go. The county championship was at stake.
Hours later it was down to the wire at the bowling alley. The Elmwood Springs Bombers had matched New Madrid’s Wildcats strike for strike, game for game. But the last Wildcat had missed her point and now there was a chance that victory would be theirs.
The atmosphere was tense. Goodnight Irene had just picked up her spare and if Tot could get this last strike and score the extra point, they would win. A hush came over the large, usually noisy, air-conditioned room. Tot, wearing brown slacks with her hair freshly permed for the occasion, stood up, all eyes upon her. She squinted at the pins, put out her cigarette, walked over, picked up the chalk bag, threw it down, hoisted her ball and lifted it high in front of her, concentrated on the spot with all her might, took a deep breath, and let her rip.
The moment the ball left her hand and spun down the alley toward the pins she knew what had happened. In the intensity of the moment and the pressure of knowing that this one throw could mean the championship, she had jammed her fingers into the holes so hard that her wedding ring went down the alley with the ball. Not only did she miss the strike and sprain her finger, but the entire team had to spend hours after the game searching for Tot’s ring. They had searched almost four hundred bowling balls with a flashlight before Betty Raye spotted it. But once they had it, the ring would not come out for love nor money and Tot had to buy the bowling ball just to get her ring back.
Even that was no small task. The bull-necked owner of the bowling alley eyed Tot suspiciously. “And just how do I know this is your ring, lady?” Tot could not believe her ears. Hands on her hips, she looked him right in the face and said, “Well, mister, just how many people do you know that have JAMES AND TOT WHOOTEN FOREVER written inside their wedding ring?” Betty Raye knew it was not funny but she broke up at Tot’s remark and had to walk away while Tot stood there and went at it toe-to-toe with the owner. She was not going to leave without her ring, even if she had to wait all night, she said. Finally, he sold her the ball and she left in a huff, as the team trailed behind her, vowing never to bowl again. Nobody dared laugh on the drive back to town but they were all dying to.
When Betty Raye arrived home it was late. Dorothy, who could not really rest well until she knew everyone was in for the night, safe and sound, heard Betty Raye come in, laughing all the way to her bedroom. They must have won, she thought, and rolled over and went to sleep.
The next day Tot carried the bowling ball over to the hardware store, where Macky tried everything he knew to get the ring out, from every size screwdriver to hammer and pliers, but nothing would work. Finally he said, “Mrs. Whooten, I don’t know what to tell you but this sucker’s stuck for good.”
She said, “Thank you anyway, Macky,” and took her ball and went home.
True to her word, that ended the short but eventful career of Tot the Terrible, the left-handed bowler from hell. “Wouldn’t you know it,” she said later, “the only sport I was ever good at.” But not only was her career as a bowler over, she lost almost two weeks of work.
“You cannot do pin curls with a sprained finger,” she said.
The Contest
WHEN BOBBY called the drugstore, Bertha Ann answered the phone with “Rexall.” Bobby said in a voice he thought sounded like a man’s, “Do you have Prince Albert smoking tobacco in a can?”
“Yes, we do,” she said.
“Well, you better let him out before he suffocates.”
Bertha Ann heard Monroe laughing in the background before Bobby hung up.
They were clearly bored. Other than he and Monroe getting caught in his father’s den going through his National Geographic magazines looking for pictures of native women with their tops off, and having three cavities filled by Dr. Orr, the summer was turning out to be uneventful. But fate can turn on a dime and fortunes change and one event can alter a child’s life forever. Or if not forever, it can certainly change the way he views himself in the world, good or bad. For Bobby that day was here, although to others it might not seem special.
Jimmy got up as usual at 4:30, lit his first cigarette, made the coffee, put on his white shirt and pants and black leather bow tie, and was down at the Trolley Car Diner at 5:00. Jimmy didn’t know it yet, but he would be the first one in the Smith household to find out what was happening that day. This morning he went about his business as usual. He had great pride in his diner and kept it spotless. Every morning the black-and-white tile floor was scrubbed sparkling clean. The silver chrome on the counters and on the base of all the round red leather stools was polished and kept as shiny as a new car in a showroom. He gave the doors and the light green cigarette machine on the wall a wipe-down as well. Next he cut the pies—chocolate, a sky-high lemon-meringue, apple—and a marble pound cake in slices and placed them on small white plates and put them in his display case. He chopped onions, put pickles in a small chrome container, and placed a handful of toothpicks with bright red and orange cellophane on the tops in a small thick glass. He then wiped down the grill and removed slices of cheese, plus eggs, bacon, hamburger patties, weenies, tomatoes, and lettuce from the icebox. He fried up a batch of bacon and got his potatoes for hash browns and sliced the tomatoes. Last, he cut open several loaves of Merita white bread and dozens of hamburger and hot dog buns and was ready to open.
Jimmy had learned to cook in the navy and was a short-order cook of the first order. He could fry eggs any way you wanted and make a grilled cheese sandwich to perfection, golden brown, just right with the cheese dripping down the sides of the crust, or make a bacon, lettuce, and tomato so good you wanted another one before you finished the first. At exactly one minute to six he put on a clean apron, his white paper hat with the red stripe, and opened the door for business. To his surprise, there stood Bobby.
“Hey. What are you doing downtown so early?”
Bobby said, “Couldn’t sleep, so I figured I’d come on down and have a cup of coffee with you. You know, the bubble gum contest is today.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, come on in.”
Jimmy knew that Dorothy did not let him drink coffee but he figured a little bit wouldn’t hurt him. Bobby climbed up on a stool and Jimmy put out a thick white cup and saucer and poured him a half cup. Bobby picked up the container and happily added four teaspoons of sugar.
“So what do you think your chances are, buddy?”
“I don’t know. I came pretty close last year.”
“Do you want something to eat?”
“No, I think I better not.” He added another spoonful of sugar. “You know, the secret is breath control. I learned that the last time—I ran out of breath right at the end or I would have won.”
“I see. So what’s your plan of attack this year . . . your strategy?”
Bobby took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve been practicing every day and trying to build up my breath control, holding my head underwater in the tub. But other than that, I don’t know what else to do. I was kind of hoping you might give me some last-minute advice.”
“Have you practiced any yet this morning?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d get in a couple of hours before nine.”
Jimmy opened a large can of chili and thought carefully before he spoke. “Well, here’s my advice. Now,
you can take it or leave it, but now, if I were you, I wouldn’t practice at all this morning.”
“Not at all?”
“I wouldn’t. You can pretty much figure that everybody else will, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“So if you walk in nice and rested you have an advantage. See what I mean?”
Bobby’s eyes widened. “Yeah . . . I see!”
“You save up all your energy for the big push—when you need it. And when you’re up there, concentrate. Remain calm and steady as she goes. Don’t look right, don’t look left, don’t let yourself get rattled, just stay the course, nice and easy all the way.”
Bobby listened intently. “Yeah. Don’t get rattled . . . nice and easy.”
“What’s the prize on this thing?”
“Twenty-five free passes to the theater.”
Jimmy was impressed or acted as if he was. “Hey, that’s a pretty good deal.” Just then two of Jimmy’s breakfast regulars came in the door.
“Morning, boys,” he said.
Bobby quickly finished his coffee and ran out the door. “Thanks, Jimmy.”
“Good luck, buddy.”
Bobby ran back home and made a big production of resting, lying in the middle of the living room floor so everybody had to ask him what he was doing lying in the middle of the floor. When Princess Mary Margaret would not stop barking and running around him in a circle, he complained to his mother that it was very important for him to rest and to come and get her. However, she took the dog’s side and said, “You get up off that floor. You’re upsetting her. She thinks there’s something wrong with you!”
At exactly 9:00 A.M., a dozen boys, all at least two inches taller than Bobby, stood in a straight line on the stage of the Elmwood Springs Theater, each in various stages of nervous breakdowns. Ward McIntire, the man from the Bazooka bubble gum company, stood holding a glass bowl filled with gum all wrapped in shiny wax paper, each containing a shiny wax-paper cartoon inside. As he stood there, Bobby kept repeating over and over in his mind, Don’t get rattled . . . don’t look right, don’t look left, but it was hard. Claudia Albetta was sitting in the front row with two of her girlfriends. Ever since Mr. Yo-Yo had come to town he had wanted to win a contest. Last month he had lost the Bat the Ball contest by only three bats but coming in second was not good enough. Following his mother’s motto—If at first you don’t succeed, try again—he had tried over and over but without success. Bobby was beginning to wonder if he was destined to always be second at everything for the rest of his life.
This morning he had gotten to the theater an hour early so he could be first in line. He knew the longer you held the gum in your hand and warmed it up, the softer it would get. He had been first in line until three minutes before they opened the doors, when Luther Griggs and three of his friends pushed in front of him, so he wound up fourth in line. There was some consolation, however, because when the man started walking down the line so everyone could pick out their gum, he started at the other end and after all that pushing and shoving, Griggs wound up being last. Bobby heard Monroe let out a big donkey hee-haw from the audience when it happened. After everyone had a piece, Mr. McIntire then walked back to the side of the stage where the microphone was and announced in a booming voice, “Gentlemen, unwrap your gum.” Bobby’s heart was pounding and his hands were sweaty as he struggled to unwrap the slickly sticky paper and get his gum out. He kept repeating to himself Nice and easy . . . don’t get rattled. Soon the boys stood at attention with huge marshmallow-sized chunks of white powdery sugary hot pink bubble gum in their palms, waiting for the next signal from the man. Mr. McIntire looked at his stopwatch, then said, “Get ready . . . begin!” In unison twelve boys jammed the gum into their mouths and furiously began chewing it like it was something they were trying to kill. Bobby forced himself to remain calm. He knew that part of the secret of a good bubble is not to start blowing until all the gum has been chewed properly . . . not too soft . . . not too hard. . . . Timing was everything. Wait, wait, he repeated over and over in his head. Don’t get rattled, don’t get rattled, wait, wait. He could hear that some of the boys had already started blowing but he waited until the moment he felt it was just right. Bobby started to blow, slowly at first, then as the bubble grew larger he increased his breathing, deeper and deeper each time, until his shoulders were heaving up and down with each breath. All around him bubbles were popping one by one, up and down the line, but Bobby kept going until he was the only one left. But he didn’t know it and just kept on going. He was alone on the stage, all alone looking at the world through the soft pink gauze of a now vast bubble that was growing still larger and larger. There was complete silence in the theater. The entire audience was holding its breath. Will it ever pop? But it kept growing until the bubble covered his entire face and head—and more. All the audience could see was an immense pink bubble with a boy’s arms and legs below. It grew larger and larger until Bobby felt like he might float up in the air . . . out the door, over the buildings, and out into the world, never to return. Then it happened. He heard an amazingly soft slow pop and there he stood with bubble gum covering his entire face, including his ears and the top of his head.
“The winner!” screamed Ward McIntire and the audience was on its feet applauding. What glory. What a triumph. Five minutes later Bobby ran into the Trolley Car Diner with gum still sticking to his eyelashes and ears, waving his free-pass book in the air, yelling, “JIMMY . . . I WON. . . . I DIDN’T GET RATTLED. I WON!” But before Jimmy had a chance to congratulate him he had run out the door, headed for the drugstore to tell his father. When he got home his mother had to use kerosene to get all the gum out of his hair, and he used up all twenty-five passes in less than a week taking everybody to the movies but he didn’t care. He had blown the biggest bubble in the history of the contest, people said. Maybe the biggest in the entire state. From that day on he felt special.
Winning that contest meant he had been chosen to become a man of destiny after all.
Success
AS BOBBY FOUND OUT, sometimes in life you just get lucky and hit the right combination. After years of trying, one day you press the lever of the slot machine and all three cherries line up in the right order and you’ve hit the jackpot. Such was the case the day Beatrice Woods joined the Oatman Family Gospel Singers.
They had been together for only a few months when a producer from Hallelujah Records heard them sing in Atlanta. After they cut their first album, things started to happen. When Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven climbed to the top of the gospel charts, offers started coming in from everywhere. The Singing News soon wrote that they were becoming the hottest new group of the year.
Soon their second album, Once I Was Lost but Praise the Lord Now I’m Found, named after a song Minnie had written inspired by Chester’s disappearance, shot to the top of the charts as well. This combined with their appearance on the Arthur Godfrey show and they suddenly became the number one gospel group in the country. To Beatrice’s delight, this sudden popularity meant traveling to almost every state in the Union and within six months they had even sung in the White House. By the end of 1949 they were booked fifty-two weeks out of the year and had their own big silver bus with THE OATMAN FAMILY GOSPEL SINGERS written in big, bold, black letters on both sides.
Although this meant she did not see the family very often, Betty Raye was very happy for their success and equally happy that she was not involved in any of it. As far as she was concerned, her life was perfect. Quiet and peaceful. She did not have to be onstage performing every night and have to pack up and drive somewhere else for the next one. She got to sleep in the same bed in the same town week after glorious week. She had a nice little job she liked, all the books she could read, and went bowling once a week. For the first time in her life she was able to do the same old thing day after day and she loved it. At last she was beginning to feel as if she really belonged somewhere. She wanted it to go on forever. But one day Hamm
Sparks walked in the door.
Hamm Sparks was an ordinary young man in most respects—smoke a little, dance a little, drink a little, flirt a little. Ordinary except for the one thing. Ambition. When the Ink Spots sang “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” the lyrics failed to apply to him. Not that other young men were without ambition but Hamm Sparks burned with it. If he had been a car it would have been racing on all sixteen cylinders and running hot. So hot you got the feeling he could explode at any minute.
But unlike some men, who were sick and driven with ambition, he’d never felt better in his life. Hamm thrived on it like it was mother’s milk. Some would say later that he even glowed in the dark with it. And he had a plan, a goal in life, and at the moment it involved going to college on the G.I. Bill, waiting on tables in the dorm six hours a day, and selling Allis-Chalmers tractors on the weekends and during summers to help support his mother and two younger sisters. Work was something he was not afraid of or resented. He had been working since he was ten years old. Work for him was just a means to an end. In America, no matter how poor you started out or where you came from, you could go as high as you wanted if you were willing to work for it. Hamm thought this was about as good a deal as you could get. It gave him hope for a bright and shining future and he was on his way. He did not know exactly where yet—he would figure that out later; all he knew was that he was in a hurry. He had to make up for lost time. He ate fast, talked fast, walked fast, and hardly ever slept. He shook hands, patted backs, and never missed an opportunity to introduce himself to everyone he ran across. What brought him to Elmwood Springs that one particular day was Bess Goodnight. In 1942 he had passed through town on a train headed to Fort Leonard Wood and, like a lot of the other soldiers, had thrown his name out the window, hoping to get someone to write to him. Bess Goodnight wrote to him throughout the war. Like so many of Bess’s wartime pen pals, Hamm came to visit her whenever he was near enough to make it over to Elmwood Springs. He got a big kick out of Bess and loved to take her out to the cafeteria for lunch. Hamm loved the idea of good food in a hurry but this Saturday, while going through the line, he slowed a bit when he noticed the pretty girl in the glasses standing behind the steam table waiting for him to tell her what vegetables he wanted. Usually he passed right by the vegetables, on to the desserts, but today he stopped. This girl stood with a spoon in one hand and a small brown plastic bowl in the other, waiting for his order. He looked down at the steam table at the choices.