SEPTEMBER 1972
Dickie and Jesse and I planned an end-of-summer bike ride on Labor Day. We were riding to the end of the road no matter what the weather, and Daisy rode in Jesse’s back basket. I don’t know how Jesse pedaled up those hills with the added weight, but she did.
“You think he’ll be able to do it?” Dickie said as we walked our bikes up the biggest hill. They were a little ahead of me and I hurried to catch up.
“Who will do what?” I said, intruding on their conversation.
“Jerry Lewis,” Jesse said. “You think he’ll be able to stay awake until the end of the telethon?”
“He always does,” I said.
“Yeah, and then he sings that song at the end and cries every time,” Jesse said, throwing back her head and singing, “‘I did it my way!’” She had a surprisingly good voice.
“Do you think that crying is real or fake?” Dickie said.
“It’s not ‘My Way,’” I said. “It’s ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ It’s from Carousel.”
Dickie ignored my correction. “I think he cries because he’s exhausted and wants to go to sleep but people expect him to sing.”
Jesse looked straight ahead as she walked. “I think it’s because he sees all those sick kids and wants to help. I’d cry too.”
The road went for miles. I had never ridden my bike to the end. My father had told me about families who had lived in the hills for generations, only coming to town when necessary. There were a few nice houses on the ridge, but most looked similar to Jesse’s, old and ramshackle.
Dickie had gone to Blake’s store before the trip and bought four Three Musketeers bars and distributed them. (He swore he didn’t steal.) Daisy held on to hers until it was a gooey mess inside the wrapper. Dickie carried his in his shirt pocket, and as he traveled a little fast on a downhill slope, the bar popped out and landed in front of me. My front tire hit it right on the M and Dickie slammed on his brakes and circled.
He picked up the candy bar and looked like he wanted to curse but held back. “This is a bad omen. A tire track in the middle of a candy bar is an awful way to start a new school year.”
“Just eat around it,” Jesse said, winking at me. “That’ll make it good luck.”
At the end of the road was a house Dickie swore was haunted, and from the bend in the road where we could finally see it, I felt he was right. It hung on the horizon through the trees. Jesse whispered that ghosts had been seen at the windows. Daisy whimpered and I took a picture with my Polaroid. Shutters hung at odd angles and barely covered shattered windowpanes. Vines grew on the side of the house, and briars and brush surrounded it. The place gave me the creeps in the middle of the day and I could only imagine what it looked like at night. The house in Psycho had nothing on this one, though I hadn’t seen the movie, just a picture of it in one of Dickie’s magazines. Daisy whined that she didn’t want to go any farther but she didn’t have a choice.
We rode past the house and up a little hill where the road ended at the cemetery and parked our bikes by an iron gate. We ate our lunches and Daisy smeared the candy bar all over her face while we stared at the crumbling tombstones. She wandered off into the cemetery, chasing a butterfly.
“If the road ends here,” I said, “where does that go?” I pointed to another gate that looked like it was to keep cows in. A two-lane path led into the woods.
“My dad said it goes all the way to Gobbler’s Knob,” Dickie said.
Jesse cocked her head. “That road don’t go to no Gobbler’s Knob.”
“Does too. They closed it to keep people from taking the shortcut.”
“Shortcut, my eye,” Jesse said.
“What’s Gobbler’s Knob?” I said.
Dickie pointed. “It’s over that way—hard to get to.”
“I got kin on Gobbler’s Knob,” Jesse said.
“That road will take you to them,” Dickie said. “Otherwise you got to get on the interstate, take the next exit up, and wind back around. Roads are closed anytime it rains hard. We drove it once and I got carsick. Hung my head out the window and—”
“Please,” I said, my stomach turning. “I’m eating.”
“Sorry, I forgot you’re squeamish,” Dickie said.
“I never knowed you could get there this way,” Jesse said, studying the gate.
“Is it your mama’s kin or your daddy’s?” Dickie said, obviously knowing the difference it made.
Jesse frowned. “My daddy’s. I never knowed them as well as his other relatives. I don’t think they liked him very much. They stayed on their side of the mountain and we stayed on ours.”
I thought about Jesse’s family, her house, and Carl underneath it. When there was a lull, I said, “Why do you keep your dog on a chain?”
Jesse took a bite of a pickle and pimento spread sandwich I had packed. “Blackwood.”
“He chained him up?”
“Might as well have. Carl would wander over there and chase cows and chickens. Eat the food put out for Blackwood’s dogs. Mama chained him up because Old Man Blackwood said he’d shoot him if he caught him again. Been that way since I can remember.”
“That’s sad,” Dickie said. “That’s like chaining the wind. Dogs are supposed to be able to run free.”
The conversation stayed on Old Man Blackwood for a while. When Gentry came up, Jesse bristled and changed the subject. She asked Dickie how his mother was doing since the funeral and he said she was better.
“She don’t talk much,” Dickie said. “Sometimes I catch her crying and I try to cheer her up. When anything comes on the news about the war, she shuts it off. I’ll tell you this, though. If my number ever gets called, I’ll go.” He looked at me. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“If you were drafted, would you go to war?”
I glanced at Jesse, then at my sandwich. “Sure. I guess.”
“Can you imagine Matt with a gun?” Jesse said.
“I can imagine him with a Polaroid around his neck taking pictures. You could become a famous war photographer.” Dickie paused. “I wonder what would happen if the Mothman’s draft number ever got called.”
“One day they’ll draft women,” Jesse said.
“No way,” I said.
“Don’t you think we deserve equal rights?”
“Women don’t belong on the battlefield,” Dickie said.
“And where do they belong? In the kitchen?” Jesse said.
Dickie winked at me, knowing he was pushing her buttons. “It’s okay for women to be nurses and cook food and stuff, but they shouldn’t be carrying grenades and shooting at people.”
“And why not? I can shoot just as well as you can, and I can carry—Daisy, get back here!”
“See. You’d be out in some rice paddy, looking for a land mine or a trip wire, and some little kid would come along and you’d yell at them to watch out and you’d get blown up.”
“I can do anything you two can do and probably better. There’s no reason I can’t fight in a war.”
“You’re already fighting one with Blackwood,” Dickie said. “I’d concentrate on winning that before you ship out.”
“My dad’s fighting a war with Blackwood too,” I said.
“How’s that?” Dickie said.
“My dad likes to do expository preaching. And Blackwood—”
Jesse scrunched her face and interrupted. “Suppository preaching?”
Dickie laughed. “I’ve heard messages like that. Ones that make you go find the bathroom till they’re over.”
“Expository means you preach the Bible verse by verse. You explain what the words say instead of jumping around and doing one topic this week and another topic the next.”
“And Blackwood’s got his underwear in a bunch over that?” Jesse said.
I wadded the wax paper I’d wrapped our sandwiches in and stuffed it in the paper bag. “He wants my dad to preach more about the dangers of rock music and talk about prophecy and how the world’s going to end.”
“How does your daddy think it’ll end?” Jesse said. “Is somebody gonna set off a nuclear bomb and make it explode?”
I shrugged, unable to think of an answer before Dickie spoke.
“There’s a preacher on the radio that says the Beatles are trying to hypnotize us and turn us all into Communists. I was listening to ‘Hey Jude’ the other day and I had the urge to move to Cuba, so there might be something to it.”
“Blackwood said they might hire a preacher who will speak about that kind of stuff to come in and have a revival,” I said.
“I told you from the get-go about him,” Jesse said, frowning.
“I got a question for the preacher boy,” Dickie said. “My mama’s got this one Bible—some of the words are in red and the rest of them are in black. Why is that?”
“The words in red are things that Jesus said,” Jesse said. “Everybody knows that.”
Dickie nodded. “That’s what I thought. But what does that mean? Are those words more important than the rest?”
“No,” I said. “It just means those are things Jesus said.”
“Well, when the teachers write red stuff on my papers, it’s more important. If those words aren’t more important, why call attention to them?”
“Dickie, you ought to buy stock in the Paper Mate company,” Jesse said. “With all the red pens teachers go through, you’d be rich.”
I had never thought of the red words of Jesus quite like this, and I put it on a growing list of questions my friends had posed. Was the antichrist alive? Where did the dinosaurs go? If God made only two people, how did all the rest of us get here? But the list was not just theological in nature. It was also practical, the biggest question being when we might be moving into the parsonage that was being prepared. That led me to wonder when my father might grow a backbone.
“What’s the difference between Protestants and Catholics?” Jesse said. “I’ve always wondered that.”
“I got that one,” Dickie said. “Catholics get to wear robes and swing incense and Protestants wear normal clothes. I think we’re partly jealous.”
“You’re Protestant, right?” Jesse said.
I nodded. “But how do you know about Catholics? There aren’t any Catholic churches around here.”
“I seen them on TV at Christmas,” she said. “Some big church and a guy with a big hat talking funny.”
“That’s the pope,” Dickie said. “The better question is, what’s the difference between a Baptist and a Pentecostal?”
I waited, wondering what might come out of Dickie’s mouth. Since he was of the Pentecostal persuasion, I figured he might have something snarky to say about Baptists.
“What’s the answer?” Jesse said.
“They both got their dos and don’ts. But a Baptist sings out of a hymnal and ends Sunday services at high noon. A Baptist believes in the Holy Spirit, but only if he keeps quiet. They don’t yell or jump around, they just sit there and soak and try not to fall asleep.”
“And what about Pentecostals?” Jesse said.
“They do pretty much anything they want. You can holler or get all excited and they don’t call you down for it. The way I look at it, going to a Baptist church is like riding a school bus where they’re trying to get you from one place to another while keeping you quiet. And going to a Pentecostal church is like going on the same trip, only they make it more of a parade.”
Jesse jumped up and ran to Daisy, who was lying back on a tombstone with her arms and legs spread wide. Dickie and I followed.
“You can’t do that,” Jesse said. “You got to show respect for the dead.”
“Where’s Eva?” Daisy said.
“She’s over there.”
Jesse pulled her sister down and they walked hand in hand to a stone on a flat patch of ground. The grave had settled over the years and was sunken rather than showing a bump.
“Is that your sister who got polio?” Dickie said softly.
Jesse nodded, staring at the words on the stone that had worn and faded. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it.
“I want Mama,” Daisy Grace whined. “When’s Mama coming back?”
“I didn’t know your mama was gone,” Dickie said.
“She went on a trip,” Daisy said.
“She did?” Dickie looked at Jesse. “To where?”
Jesse put her hand on the stone. “She’s with some relatives.”
“Is she feeling any better?” Dickie said.
“I reckon she’s feeling a lot better.”
I looked at my watch. “Hadn’t we better start back? We’re going to miss Jerry crying.”
“Yeah, I’ll pack the stuff,” Dickie said. “But when’s your mama coming back?”
Jesse looked at Daisy Grace, running toward the road. “Not soon enough.”
Dickie left, and Jesse squatted down among the graves. “Why does he let things like that happen? Why do little kids get polio? Why do little kids lose their mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, if there’s a God, of course, and he’s supposed to love us, why does he allow it all? If it’s to make us stronger, I don’t want to be stronger.”
It was another question for the list. My father had talked about God allowing bad things to happen for the greater good. He preached about Lazarus and how Jesus waited in another town until his friend died so he could raise him from the dead. Romans 8:28 was quoted like an old story in the family—all you needed was the first few words and everybody finished it. “We know that all things work together . . .” But the verse didn’t help Jesse.
“If God knows everything that’s going to happen and it’s all going to be bad, why did he make this old world in the first place?”
“My dad says if you ever doubt God’s love, you should look at the cross.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If I doubt God’s love when my mama is spitting up blood on the linoleum, it’s supposed to help that Jesus was up there bleeding? That’s not much of a comfort to me.”
“I’m not explaining it well. Bad things happen so that good can come out of it.”
“You mean like Grissom and Chaffee and White?”
I didn’t get the reference.
“Dickie can tell you. He’s got a magazine with pictures. Three astronauts that burned up on the launching pad. So we went to the moon. Was it worth it to sacrifice those men? Is that how it works? God gives somebody heartache and trouble and somebody else gets to go to the moon and back?”
She stood, leaving a handful of wildflowers on top of her sister’s grave. “I don’t get it, Matt. I’m not seeing it. Tomorrow I’m going to take that little girl to a stranger’s house and leave her. Why would he take our mama?”
The next day I was at the end of my grandmother’s driveway early, waiting for the bus and hoping to see Jesse and Daisy pass, a sick feeling in my stomach. My mother had taken me to school for a tour of the classrooms, but the smell of the hallways and the imposing high ceilings still gave me a feeling of dread.
My father walked to the end of the driveway. He had been distant since the incident with Gentry Blackwood and though I still held it against him, I kept remembering the death of Dickie’s father, and that softened me a little. I didn’t want to keep my promise never to forgive him, but I didn’t see a way around it, or a way toward him. He retrieved the newspaper and opened to the sports page. “Your Pirates did well yesterday. Won a doubleheader against Philadelphia. That’s eight in a row. They might win a hundred this year.”
“Going back to the World Series,” I said. The Pirates had played the Reds again in late July and only won one of three. But they were almost twenty games over .500 and a sure bet for the postseason.
“Not if the Reds can help it. They split with the Dodgers.”
“Wish we could see a doubleheader,” I said.
He looked back at the paper. Mark Spitz had won his seventh gold medal at the Olympics in Munich. My father lingered a little, then finally put a big hand on my shoulder.
“I know going to a new school is not easy.”
“It helps that I have a couple of friends.”
He nodded, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He looked like he wanted to say something, wanted to give some encouragement, but finally he nodded again and patted me. “You have a good day.”
I kept looking up the road, expecting to see Jesse’s bike. My eye fell on the brick structure by the drive, something my grandfather had begun years earlier to hold the mailbox. He’d never finished it and it sat as a monument of sorts. I spotted a rock perched on it with an envelope underneath. I opened it and found a scrap of paper with pencil scrawl that read, PB, save me a seat. And watch out for Blackwood.
I stuffed the paper in my pocket, smiling. No matter what happened at school, Jesse was my friend.
The bus rumbled by and turned around somewhere up the hollow, and when it appeared again, there were already ten kids inside. I sat as far away from Gentry as I could. The bus wound along the country road and up another hollow and finally plunged toward Dogwood.
To everyone who passed in the aisle, I put a hand down and said, “It’s saved.” I hoped Dickie would be able to sit on my right and Jesse to my left. A boy with a fresh haircut who looked like he had no business anywhere near a junior high looked at me with such terror that I let him sit by the window. I knew Dickie would understand.
“Thanks,” the kid said, his eyes darting around the bus. His clothes smelled faintly of smoke. “I’m Alan Thompson. What’s your name?”
I told him and he nodded, then turned to watch the passing scenery.
My strategy of saving a seat for Jesse worked until we reached Brookwood Estates and a nicely dressed group got on. A smiling girl with short, dark hair bounded down the aisle. I recognized Gwen Bailey from church. She had introduced herself to me and sat by me on the first day of Sunday school. Before I could tell her the seat was saved, she plopped her generous figure down and laid her notebooks on her lap.
“Morning, Matt.”
“Hi,” I said nervously, trying to figure out how to tell her she needed to move. She was dressed immaculately and her perfume was like some exotic island, all coconut and pineapple. “Um, I was going to save this for—”
“If you need any help your first day, I’d be glad to show you around. Shadow you to your classes. It’s hard being the new kid at the start of school. If you come in the middle of the year, everybody knows you’re new. But if you start in the fall, you get lost in the shuffle.”
“Thanks,” I said.
The bus rumbled ahead, the brakes squeaking as we stopped in town. I was about to ask if she could move when I saw Jesse at the back of the line of kids waiting across from the gas station. She had her head down and held on to a grocery bag.
“Your dad’s sermon was really good Sunday. I got a lot out of it,” Gwen said. “We’re not the type of people who have roast pastor for lunch—you know, people who criticize everything. Not that the church is perfect.”
“You’re the new pastor’s kid?” Alan said.
I nodded and watched Jesse board, looking for me. Finally she spotted me and her face tore at my heart. As she passed, I mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I could only imagine what the morning had been like as she dropped Daisy at day care.
“What you got in the bag, Woods?” Gentry said. “Horse turd sandwich for lunch?”
Jesse didn’t respond, just moved to the back and stood until the driver barked at her.
“Yeah, sit down, Woods,” Gentry said.
“You’ll learn quickly about our social order,” Gwen said, leaning close and lowering her voice. “Choose your friends wisely and avoid the miscreants.”
I had to give Gwen credit for her exemplary vocabulary, but the way she categorized Jesse turned my stomach. I glanced down at the notebooks on her lap and fear gripped me. “Are we supposed to bring notebooks?”
“I contacted my teachers ahead of time and found out what to bring. You don’t have to worry. They’ll pass out textbooks today and get everybody’s name. It’s low-key, other than gym.”
My heart sank. “Does everybody dress for gym?”
“You can sit out the first day if you forgot your stuff.”
I wondered if that was what Jesse was carrying in the bag. I looked back but couldn’t see her.
Dickie got on at the last stop. I raised my head to him and he waved.
“How’s it going, Dickie?” I yelled.
“Lookin’ for a breakthrough,” he said, then miraculously found a seat in front.
“I thought people like him are supposed to sit in the back of the bus,” Gentry yelled. Others laughed and Gwen shook her head.
“Obviously affirmative action has not reached the hills. The key to getting along here, Matt, is not to be different. You pay a price if you are.”
“But being smart is different, isn’t it?”
“You have to choose how you’re going to be different. Some things are worth the slings and arrows.”
We arrived at school and I was drawn by the tide of students. As I exited the bus, Gwen took me by the arm to introduce me to her friends. I mildly protested, turning to look for Jesse, but somehow I missed her. We had fifteen minutes before classes began, and Gwen pointed to the cafeteria in the lowest level of the school.
“They serve breakfast to the poor kids every morning,” she said.
“Show me.”
She took me there and I scanned the tables but didn’t see Jesse. After meeting a few of Gwen’s friends, I broke away, passing the gymnasium. Jesse walked through the doors, her hair dripping wet. She wore second-hand jeans and the same stitched shirt.
“Hey,” I said.
“You make new friends?” she said, deadpan and moving toward the lockers.
“I’m sorry about the bus. There was nothing I could do.”
“Didn’t you get my note?”
“I did. I tried to save you a seat.”
“I understand if you don’t want to associate with me.”
“Stop it,” I said, grabbing her arm. She pulled away quickly, but I locked eyes with her. “This is not about me associating with anybody. You think I’m ashamed of you?”
She clenched her teeth, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
Her chin quivered. “I just needed to tell somebody about this morning. It was awful. Daisy about scratched me to death when I left.”
“She’ll get used to it, don’t you think?”
Jesse looked at the floor. “That’s the story of our lives. We just get used to things.”
“Why is your hair wet?”
“No reason,” she said.
Then I put it together. Jesse had no running water. She used the school shower to get presentable.
“Did you get breakfast this morning?” I said.
“I’m all right.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and she felt like nothing but skin and bones. “One day at a time, okay? You’re going to make it.” I paused. “No. We’re going to make it.”