MONDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1984
I sat in the parking lot of the Dogwood Food and Drug trying to figure out which car was Jesse’s.
There wasn’t a spot in town that didn’t spark vivid images. The gas station on the other side of the grocery, for instance, had been an Esso. They had changed the sign to Exxon, but the inside remained the same. Dickie had found a copy of the Green Book behind a shelf when we went inside for a pop. The smell of gasoline and oil hung heavy as he leafed through it. Underneath the title were the words Negro Traveler’s Guide, 1964.
“Bet you never had to use one of these,” he said.
Dogwood Food and Drug had eventually run Blake’s out of business. It was evidence of the slow economic encroachment. Dogwood Feed and Implement still stood on its original site, but most farmers drove farther east to a supply store. There was also fear that bigger churches would siphon off members of other congregations with revivals or special speakers. My father believed that faith was meant to be lived where you did. It wasn’t a spectator sport. As a child, I’d agreed with him.
I closed my eyes and listened to the birds preparing for their flight south. A train whistled and rolled under the overpass. Tires on pavement lulled me and I drifted off, a trickle of sweat dropping from my underarm. A soft, leaf-laden breeze blew through both of my open windows and I felt a sense of contentment, wanting to bottle these sounds and feelings and smells.
A week after stealing from Blake’s store, Jesse had turned to me as we rode by the railroad tracks. We were searching for signs of her father’s missing arm. She spat in her hand and held it out.
I looked at it with disdain and horror. “What are you doing?”
“Go on and shake,” she said.
Not understanding the native ways and not wanting to offend, I held out a tentative hand and Jesse grabbed it. “There, you satisfied?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” I said, wiping my hand on my shorts.
“Dickie and I talked. You was right about Old Man Blake. We promise not to do it again. Cross our hearts and hope to die.”
“Dickie said that too?”
“He said he never liked stealing. He did it so I wouldn’t feel alone.”
That made me smile.
She stared a hole through me. “A promise is a promise. I give my word, you can bank on it. No more stealing from Blake’s or anywhere else.”
“Okay,” I said, looking at my hand. “Thank you.”
Jesse curled her top lip, something that always reminded me of Elvis, and poked me in the chest. “But don’t go trying to change me. What you see is what you get.”
So many memories flooded now, the good and bad flowing together in a torrent until I opened my door and walked into the Food and Drug like Odysseus returning from battle.
A cashier at the front didn’t look up. You had to take the long route by the deli to get to the meat department. I had worked here as a bagger in high school. I knew every aisle, every rat in the back room, and where the “mystery item” was that went on sale each Tuesday.
“Matt Plumley?” someone said to my right.
I turned toward the canned goods and Gwen Bailey smiled at me.
Gwen had been a bright bulb in our class. She had excelled at Latin, biology, and physics and everyone saw her as most likely to become a medical doctor. Her family faithfully attended our church until they had a run-in with Blackwood. I shook her hand and her mother waved from the canned corn.
“What are you doing here?” Gwen said. “I heard you were in Chicago.”
“I’m back for a visit.”
Life has a way of circling. While I had looked at Jesse as an unrequited love, Gwen had looked at me the same. She had played Emily Webb in the production of Our Town, opposite my George Gibbs. Backstage in rehearsals she had invited me to her house to run lines. She was having trouble keeping her scenes straight, she said, and I obliged, showing up on the appointed evening at the appointed time.
Gwen’s parents were out and I could tell she wanted to do more than practice the play. She wore loose terry-cloth shorts that crept up when she sat on the couch. She’d extended her bare feet and stretched them like a cat, touching my leg.
Gwen was not a homely girl. In fact, she was quite pretty. She had been on the plump side in junior high, like I had been in my early teens—all that studying and little interest in sports had given her a full figure. Now she smiled and again I saw the difference money and orthodontia can make.
“Do you ever think of our school days? All the fun we had?”
I could think of them, but Gwen’s days had been pool parties and majorettes and pizza after football games. Compared with Jesse, hers was an easy life with an intact family and a paved road with college at the end.
“Are you finished with school?” I said, changing the subject.
“I finish grad school in December.”
“Something in the medical field, I suppose?”
“Anesthesiology,” she said.
“Bless you,” I said.
She laughed. “Oh, I miss that quick wit of yours. You were always so funny.” She touched my shoulder. “One of these days I’m going to get up to Chicago and see you in a play.”
I looked behind me at the meat counter, but there was no one there. “I haven’t exactly broken into the big time. In fact, I’m mostly counseling young kids—”
“You were always such a success. Do you have a girlfriend up there?”
I winced but tried to hide it. “Still looking, I guess.”
Someone pushed a cart past us and we moved closer to the stewed tomatoes.
“‘Does anyone ever realize life while they live it . . . ?’ Do you remember that from Our Town?”
I nodded.
“‘Every, every minute?’”
I pulled the dialogue from memory. ‘No. Saints and poets maybe . . . they do some.’” I said the line as a good-bye.
Gwen smiled sadly. “It’s a shame about us. We would have been good together. Maybe we still can be.”
I thought of some quick-witted joke about being married to an anesthesiologist, that you never had to worry about insomnia, but I held back. It was my quick wit that she loved.
“It was good seeing you again, Gwen.”
She followed her mother toward checkout and I glanced behind me at the bloody meat counter. Gwen’s life had been high heels and dance shoes and I couldn’t help comparing her to Jesse’s rough feet. Gwen waved from the front of the aisle and I turned to the back of the store.
The meat counter was empty but I noticed a fresh chicken on a wooden slab with a cleaver next to it. Dexter Crowley, a boy two years ahead of me in school, pushed a load of laundry detergent toward a far aisle and stopped.
“Matt Plumley,” he said, sticking out a rough hand.
Dexter had the frame of a football player but not much coordination. He was all arms and gangling legs and a blank stare that felt like menace to opposing teams but was more Dexter trying to remember who he was supposed to block.
I shook his hand and he wiped his nose with his sleeve. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m back for a few days. Is Jesse working today?”
His mouth was open as he glanced at the counter. “Yeah, she was there a minute ago. She works all this week except for Saturday. Did you know she’s getting married?”
“I heard.”
“First time I heard it, I thought they was funnin’ me. But she showed me the ring and said it was true. And Earl, he comes in here—why, there’s Verle now.”
Verle Turley was cut from the same cloth as his brother, and if there had been a sound track for his approach, it would have been a cross between the banjo from Deliverance and the strings in Jaws. He walked up to Dexter with a John Deere hat pulled low.
“Verle, you remember Matt Plumley, don’t you? He was in those plays at school.” He turned back to me. “You know, the one I remember was when you played that guy who sees the ghosts at Christmas. Remember that?”
I nodded as Verle gave me a slack-jawed stare. He crossed his arms and planted his logger boots. “I didn’t know you was here.” His voice was as flat as a skipping rock.
“I didn’t know I had to file a report.”
After an uncomfortable silence, Dexter threw back his head and laughed. He was slow but exuberant. “That’s a good one, Matt.”
“When I tell Earl you was in here, he’s not going to be happy,” Verle said.
“I doubt I’m as committed to his happiness as you are.”
Verle drew a little closer, and judging from the bulge in his lower lip, he had only a couple of minutes before he needed to spit. “I’m watching you, Plumley.”
“I see that,” I said, matching his tone.
I turned and took one more look at the empty meat department. I didn’t want to put her in the middle. Not now.
“Nice seeing you again, Dexter,” I said, clapping his shoulder.
I went back to the car and drove through the parking lot to where Dumpsters lined the alley and the loading dock sat empty. I waited a few minutes, hoping she might appear behind the plastic liners over the door. When she didn’t, I drove to my parents’ house and slipped inside without notice. I closed the door to my room and fell into bed still dressed, burrowing my head into the pillow.