Just Joe by Marley Morgan Read Free Book Online Page A

wrinkling her nose. "My vocabulary was
broadened considerably when you dropped your sunglasses into that tank."
    "Mattie—" Joe
began warningly.
    "And then when my
heel got stuck in that grid..."
    "Well, who wears high
heels to visit a sewage plant?" Joe demanded with perfect logic—male
logic.
    Mattie sat up straight.
"If you care to recall, you will remember that I was not informed that we
were going to visit a sewage plant. You told me we were going somewhere
'refined.' You could have told me you meant refined sewage! Anyway, it could
have been worse," she insisted cheerfully. "I could have made you
carry me back to the car when my shoe followed your sunglasses into the tank."
    "Mattie, I didn't
mean for that to happen!"
    "I know, you told me.
You were yanking at my shoe, and it just slipped-"
    "At least you weren't
still in it," Joe pointed out helpfully.
    "At least,"
Mattie agreed dryly. "All of which tells me nothing about where we are going."
    "Where we are,"
Joe corrected, pulling up in front of a large two-story house that appeared to
have been converted into some type of meeting center.
    "Jameson House,"
Mattie read the neat sign in front thoughtfully. "A Learning Center."
She turned to Joe inquiringly. "What kind of learning center?"
    Joe smiled slightly.
"I guess it's a place where children and their parents learn to deal with
what life hands them."
    Mattie considered that
briefly while they both got out of the car and headed up the walk. "You
come here often?"
    Joe turned to her
earnestly. "One of the things that I really enjoy about football is the
fact that it gives me the opportunity to become involved with community
affairs. This place was founded about three years ago to help children who had
been 'damaged' in some way adjust to that damage. From that sprang a counseling
program for their parents. It works, Mattie," Joe told her proudly, eyes
shining. "I mainly dedicate my time to the kids. It's very
rewarding."
    Mattie shook her head wonderingly.
"How did you get involved in this, Joe? And how often do you come here?
Where do you find the time? What do you mean by 'damaged'? And—"
    "Whoa!" Joe
laughed. "One question at a time. Okay. How did I get involved? The wife
of one of my teammates was killed in a car accident about three years ago.
Kevin and
    his son were devastated.
They were both so lost without Annie. That's what gave me the idea."
    "You mean you founded
this place?" Mattie asked incredulously.
    Joe shrugged. "Kevin
did most of the work. It was a kind of therapy for him, a way to keep busy but
still deal with the loss. You see, he was permanently crippled in the accident.
He'll never play football again."
    "So you provided the
financial backing," Mattie interpreted.
    "It was no big deal,
Mattie," Joe murmured slightly awkwardly.
    Mattie knew differently
but said nothing. She understood that Joe would be embarrassed by her
admiration, but in her own mind she marveled at his tireless efforts to help
children.
    Just the other day, she
had gone with him to a local television studio, where he taped a commercial for
the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation. As a local hero, he was inundated with such
requests, and from what Mattie had been able to gather by the conversations
around her at the studio, Joe had never refused to lend his time, money or name
to any worthy effort.
    She had just opened her
mouth to form another question when Joe opened a door leading into a huge
playroom full of youngsters. Mattie's eyes were immediately drawn to a few in
wheelchairs or wearing braces, and her tender heart went out to them. Now she
knew what Joe meant by "damaged." Still, the great majority of
children had no apparent physical handicap, and Mattie wondered if they
had—like Kevin Jameson's son—lost a parent and were trying to deal with that
loss.
    "Brace
yourself," Joe advised cheerfully, then called out a booming, "Hi,
kids!"
    Mattie was caught in the
middle of the pandemonium that ensued. There was a general