The Essay A Novel (17 page)

“Uh-huh. He was feeling in a particularly Christian mood, huh?”

“Apparently.”

We both laughed, which caused further pain in my testicles. “He can be a son of a bitch. No doubt about it. How're your balls?”

I peeked under the sheets. “One looks like a plum. The other isn't too bad.”

“Think you'll be able to play Friday?”

“I'll be all right. I'll take a couple of aspirin before the game.”

“I talked to Mom before she left for work. She said you thought I was the one who ripped you off.”

I shrugged, embarrassed that Edgel knew of my original suspicions. “Polio hadn't been over for a while and I didn't think Mom or Dad would take it.”

“You didn't think the old man would take it? There ain't nothin' beneath that man. Trust me, I know that for a fact. Have you been asleep at the switch for the past seventeen years?”

“I guess.”

“Don't worry about it. I was the most likely suspect. Mom said you were saving that money for college?”

“That, and Miss Singletary was going to take me to get some new clothes to wear to school and the writing competition.”

Edgel reached into his front pocket, produced a neat wad of folded bills and tossed it on my chest. “There's two hundred and thirty dollars.”

I picked up the cash and folded it into a neat pile. “Edgel, I appreciate it, I really do, but I can't take your money.” I tried to hand it back to him.

He smiled. “I wouldn't give you my money. That's yours. I took it out of the old man's pants pocket. He's passed out and dead to the world.”

“He'll kill you, Edgel.”

“Nah. I didn't spend nine years in prison to come out and take a whippin' from him. I'll tell him I took it, straight up. He'll huff and puff, but that's all he'll do. Put it where he can't get his hands on it. Now, get your ass outa bed and I'll give you a ride to school.”

Chapter Thirteen

T

here are some truisms about doggers and one is this: There is no slight or insult of pride too insignificant that it can't start a major incident. Obie Fithen shot his seventy-two-year-old twin brother to death in a dispute over which television show to watch. Angel Tate threw hot bacon grease on her sister Hazel because she had used Angel's hairbrush and didn't clean it afterward. To an outsider, these acts of retaliation would be considered egregious acts of violence. But to many doggers, the actions of Obie and Angel were justified.

Earlier in the summer, during one of our visits to the penitentiary to visit Edgel, when I had mentioned that Coach Battershell said I might be able to earn a college scholarship to play football, my dad had laughed at the thought. In his mind, it was distant and unlikely. Even if I was a good football player, that didn't mean I was smart enough to get into college. I was, after all, a Hickam.

However, the previous night, when I told him that Miss Singletary said I had a gift and she was going to help me get into college, it was a dagger to my dad's pride. Suddenly, the possibility that I would go to college wasn't so distant and he stood in fear of one of his sons succeeding in life where he had failed so miserably. I knew it would trouble him and that's exactly why I said it. I was emotionally hurt that he had stolen my money. I was physically hurt after he kneed me in the groin, and I wanted to hurt him back. The easiest way to inflict the most pain was to let him know that someone believed in me and wanted me to succeed.

This all came to the front of my mind as I walked into Miss Singletary's classroom for our tutoring session that afternoon. Before taking my seat, I stretched and looked out at the parking lot where I spotted Nick Hickam storming toward the school, arms pumping, his face darkened by a three-day growth of beard, hair combed to the side with his fingers, the cuffs of his untucked denim work shirt unbuttoned and flapping around his wrists.

“This could be a problem,” I said.

“Pardon me?” Miss Singletary asked.

“Miss Singletary, I need a favor. I need you to hold this for me.” I handed her the folded bills that Edgel had secured for me. “And, I need you to put it away, right now.”

I suppose Miss Singletary was familiar enough with my family to understand that some events defied explanation, even having a dirtpoor dogger hand her a wad of cash that could choke a horse. And, bless her heart, she didn't hesitate or ask questions. She unzipped her purse, dropped the cash inside, and pushed it back under the desk with her toe.

No sooner had I taken my seat than my dad charged into the classroom and went directly for Miss Singletary, his index finger wagging in her face. “Lady, I got a bone to pick with you.”

On my death bed, one of the images that I will see before I die is Amanda Singletary's green eyes lighting up like lasers while her face turned burning crimson. When she stood, her wheeled chair shot backward and spun across the classroom. With her jaw tightening, she leaned into my dad's face and said, “Excuse me, but just who do you think you are barging in here like that? In the future, when you wish to enter my classroom, you will first knock and request permission. And for the record, my name is not “lady,” it is Miss Singletary and you will address me as such. You also will get that finger out of my face or I will be happy to remove it for you. Furthermore, you will not use that acerbic tone when you speak to me as I am not the neighborhood mutt. This is my place of employment and I am a teacher and you will treat me with the respect accorded that position. If you are unable to conduct yourself in such a deferential manner, Mr. Hickam, then this conversation is over. Are we clear?”

A look of complete stupefaction consumed my dad's face. I'm not sure his poor, pickled brain was capable of comprehending the words as they flew out of Miss Singletary's mouth, and I was positive that he didn't know the meaning of a few of them. Sweet Jesus, I wanted to stand up and cheer, and I would have had I not been hindered by good sense and a swollen left testicle. Never in my life had I seen anyone back down Nick Hickam the way Miss Singletary did on that October afternoon.

For a long moment, my dad could not respond. He finally took a step back, began to raise his index finger, thought better of it, and planted both fists on his hips. “Okay, here's my beef: I'm tired of you putting crazy ideas in that boy's head.”

She smiled, a little wickedly, I thought, as though anxious to hear my dad's reasoning. “Really? And what crazy ideas are those, Mr. Hickam?”

“You know darned well what I'm talkin' about. You've been tellin' him that he can go to college.”

“Why, that's not crazy at all. Jimmy Lee is an extremely intelligent young man. He has the potential to go to college. I think it's only proper that someone is putting that idea in his head.”

“All you're doing is setting him up for a big disappointment.”

“Well, I must say that I find that an interesting outlook. Why do you say that?”

He was chewing on his lower lip and looked hard at me. “He just don't need it, that's all. Neither of my other two boys went to college.”

“I'm not sure we want to be holding up Edgel and Virgil Hickam as role models for Jimmy Lee. Perhaps they could have gone to college, but they would have had to finish high school, first.”

I choked back a chuckle.

“I'm telling you to leave it alone,
Miss Singletary
,” he said in a condescending tone.

Miss Singletary crossed her arms; a broad grin consumed her face. She had the old man on the ropes and was enjoying it. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Hickam. Do you know what a talented son you have? Not only is he the star of our football team, but he's a fine writer, one of the best I've ever had in my class. With a little support, he could go a long way—in college and in life.”

“That's not your job to decide.”

“Are you telling me not to educate your son or present him with the opportunities available to him? Is that what you're telling me, Mr. Hickam? Did you even read the essay? It was excellent. You should be proud. Instead, you're down here degrading me for trying to improve your son's future.”

“All you're doing is filling his head with craziness.”

“You have a wonderful son, Mr. Hickam. You should make an effort to get to know him.” I ducked my head. “If you have nothing of substance to offer, Mr. Hickam, then Jimmy Lee and I have work to do. Good day.”

The muscles in the side of his face rolled like ocean waves and the grinding sound of his clenching teeth came in terse, popping bursts. He looked toward me and said, “I'll talk to you later,” then left, a defeated man.

After he was gone, she walked across the room and fetched her chair. The red began to fade from her face and recede down her neck. She took two deep breaths and another minute to compose herself. “I understand the financial concerns, but is there another reason why he doesn't want you to go to college?”

“He doesn't want me to be his better.”

“Excuse me?”

“If I go to college, that means that I accomplished something that never even entered his radar space. It's an insult to his pride.”

“That makes no sense at all. Parents are supposed to want better for their children.”

I smiled. “Welcome to life on Red Dog Road, Miss Singletary.”

“That's unbelievable.” She handed me a blue notebook, shaking her head all along. “We're going to do this, Jimmy Lee.” She pointed to the notebook and said, “In two sentences, tell me about your favorite tree. You have two minutes.

On the banks of Red Dog Creek, on a soggy piece of bottom land where the stream turns hard to the west, is an oak tree that grew tall long before the first white man walked across what is now Vinton County. One branch bends toward the ground, its bark worn smooth by the shoes of a thousand climbers, offering easy access to its interior, a place ideal for spying on the Nazis, hiding from pirates, or ascending the precipice of Kilimanjaro.

“Time,” she said.

“Done,” I answered.

She kept every blue notebook and had been flipping through them as I wrote. She gave me advice after each essay, telling me to write simply, and to be assertive. “In one paragraph, tell me about someone who has been a positive influence in your life. You have three minutes.”

Coach Battershell extended me an invitation to play football. It was the first time in my life that someone outside of my family had taken an interest in me. He gave me an old pair of cleats—I didn't have the money to buy my own—so I could play. He would stay after practice and work extra with me. Coach Battershell not only gave me an opportunity to play football, but he gave me an opportunity to be accepted. His faith and concern for me has given me the confidence to excel on the field and in the classroom.

“Ready.”

“Write three sentences on an event that you will someday want to tell your children about. You have three minutes.”

Uncle Boots and Aunt Stephanie took me to Kennywood Park when I was nine. I had never been to an amusement park and was mesmerized by the squeals and screams and the smells of popcorn and cotton candy. Uncle Boots played a dart game and won a ceramic lamp in the shape of a hula girl, and I cried the first time we rode the roller coaster because I thought for sure that I was going to fall out.

“Okay. Done.”

“In one paragraph, tell me about a place you've visited that people say is haunted.”

The Headless Conductor haunts the Moonville tunnel. There are many ghosts haunting the tunnel, but sightings of the Headless Conductor are the most prevalent. For almost a hundred years people have seen the headless figure walking along the abandoned rail bed of the Marietta and Cincinnati Railroad, carrying his lantern and, supposedly, looking for his missing head.

“Grammar and spelling counts,” she said. “Make sure you have a dictionary on the day of the competition. Watch your use of commas. Parenthetical phrases must be enclosed with commas. Did you read that copy of
The Elements of Style
that I gave you?”

“Most of it.”

“Read all of it. Now, in two sentences or less, tell me why one of my students asked me to hide a wad of cash in my purse.”

Chapter Fourteen

I

t was early on Saturday morning and the sky was a sea of dismal gray that stretched as far as I could see in every direction. There was a bite in the air and the wind whipped over the hilltop and cut hard across the front porch, whistling and tearing at the vinyl that had been tacked to our front windows as a makeshift barrier against the cold. It had finally stopped raining by the time I walked out on the front porch, eased the warped front door back into its place, and headed down the pockmarked drive, mud-slick from the rain storm that began at noon Friday and didn't let up until just before dawn.

The rain had contributed to our first loss of the season to Brilliant Memorial the previous night on our home field, which the rain turned into a giant mud hole and icy water slopped over the tops of our shoes. Our defense played stellar, holding the Blue Devils to minus thirteen yards in total offense. But our offense couldn't get on track in the muck and a Brilliant Memorial defender intercepted a pass and returned it for a touchdown and the only score of the evening in a 6-0 defeat. The muck slowed down the pace of the game, which was fine with me, as I was still pretty tender in the groin. Fortunately, Brilliant Memorial was not in our conference and Coach Battershell, who didn't normally take losses with grace, said we had played a good game but the weather and the breaks just didn't go our way.

As I gingerly traversed the steep drive, searching for exposed rocks and gravel for footing and hoping to avoid a tumble, a white Pontiac Tempest drove past my drive and did a three-point turn in the road as I completed the last leg of the descent. I scraped the mud from my shoes on a patch of loose gravel along the berm of Red Dog Road before sliding into the back seat of Coach Battershell's Pontiac. Miss Singletary was grinning. “Good morning, Jimmy Lee.”