(2008) Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  I cried like a baby all the way to the hospital.

  I CONSIDER MYSELF A FAIR TEACHER. I DON'T ASK anything of my students that I wouldn't ask of myself. And one thing I would not ask of myself is to jump into a cold pool without sticking my toes in it first. Now, Amos, he's a different breed. It can be thirty degrees outside with a film of ice covering the surface of the water, and it's "Aw, just jump in. Get it over with. You'll warm up." Not me. Especially not when it comes to being cold.

  I like to get comfortable with an idea before I take it on. Give me time to ruminate, and I can face most anything, but don't allow me an experience, and then with the sweat still rolling off my face, ask me to interpret it for you. I don't know what I think until I've had time to look in my rearview mirror.

  The English department had structured my class around three papers, but it only cared about the third, the research paper. A passing paper was my student's ticket out of here. While the third paper had to meet certain length and style requirements, the first two were left up to the teacher's discretion, meaning I could tailor the assignment to need. Theirs and mine.

  They needed to get their feet wet, get their engines running, get comfortable, and I needed to get to know them. I needed to place a face with a writing voice and so have a starting line against which I could compare their other two works. I needed to know who could and who could not. Who did and who did not. The first paper was the plumb line against which I compared the other two. It would also keep them honest.

  The first assignment was an autobiographical essay. Easy enough. Everyone is an instant expert on the subject. No research needed. The only requirement is honesty, and sometimes a good sense of humor.

  I spent most of Saturday reading essays to Maggie at the hospital. From prom night to car crashes to summer nights with bronzed, big-breasted women, they gave me real and honest stuff.

  Marvin wrote about his last football game as a senior in high school. State champions. All-state player of the year. Marvin was no master of the English language, but he was able to get across his humor. He wrote the way he spoke, which to me is the sign of a good beginning. Good beginnings breed hope. And I had hope for Marvin.

  Amanda wrote about growing up in Digger, about her dad and his past. She wrote about her desire to be a nurse for the critically ill. She wrote about being pregnant. She had an informative voice, similar to her speech. Her paper told the reader everything you'd want to know about Amanda in three pages. Except for one detail.

  Alan wrote about his first car, a '69 Chevy Camaro. He bought it off a junk lot and set it on blocks for two years. He literally took it apart one piece at a time and put it back together again with new parts. Paint, interior, bodywork, engine, gears, transmission. It was all new, and he had built, rebuilt, or custom-ordered all of it. It sounded like a showpiece, and he provided me with proof. A certificate, "Best of Show," from the Walterboro Classic Car Roundup was stapled to the last page of his paper. Alan's voice was rough and his writing skills poor, yet he, too, got his point across. And judging by the erasure marks, he had put some real time and work into this. In some ways, it was clear Alan knew his writing skills needed taking apart and rebuilding, just like his first car. I had hope for Alan too.

  Eugene wrote about his experiences in last year's Freak- Nik in Atlanta. He described four days of bars, the backseat of a big Oldsmobile, and bad indigestion. His paper was essentially his personal chronicle of four days of booze, women, and a dirty hotel, and he didn't spare any details. Even down to the little machine next to the bed that required four quarters for five minutes' worth of bad decisions. Eugene's paper confirmed what I had suspected: here was a ladies' man who was interested in one thing. His paper also confirmed something else I had suspected: here was an intelligent guy who had yet to put his mind to something other than the next girl or the next good time. Eugene was an entrepreneur, and without his knowing it, his paper illustrated that. He had a unique ability to handle details, to turn a bad situation into a better one, and to say the right word at the right time. I didn't need to hope for Eugene. He'd get out of there, which was all he wanted.

  Koy, the silent one, hidden behind sunglasses and long hair in the back of the room, turned in a one-paragraph paper. I had specifically requested three pages. I don't understand why students do that. If the instructions say three pages, then at least make a go at it. If you want to run the race, then at least do it from the starting line. In Koy's one paragraph she attempted to hide herself the same way her sunglasses hid her eyes. Problem was, her ability to write was as effective a concealment as her glasses. Ironically, by her effectiveness in keeping the reader at bay, she revealed her remarkable writing ability. Her language skills surprised me. I wanted to hope for Koy, but I couldn't figure out what or why she was hiding.

  The rest of the papers fell in line along the same ideas. Most were informational and dry; the students gave me what they thought I wanted, hoping, no doubt, that I in turn would give them what they wanted: an A.

  The last paper in the pile was Russell's. I had little expectation for Russell because I have known and even played with a few Russells before. He was a gifted athlete, a walking Adonis, and he had no need for school because school was not his ticket. The NFL would be his ticket. Though he was only a sophomore, word was that scouts had been looking at him this year. For Russell's academic future that meant one thing only: he would transfer out of DJC, but he wasn't planning to graduate with a four-year degree. In his version of his prospects, Russell didn't need my class. At least not yet. If he blew out a knee, then he'd need it.

  I refilled my coffee cup and propped my feet up on the end of Maggs's bed, slowly swaying in rhythm with the hum of her monitor. A cool breeze blew in through the window and swept the parking lot clean. The almanac predicted the coldest winter in twenty years. Maggs liked cold winters. One of the things she missed about Virginia was the snow. I liked to watch it fall but not stick, drift, or melt. Not Maggs. She loved being snowed in.

  I picked up Russell's paper and began to read. To my surprise, it bled honesty. It seeped through the pores and bubbled over. And Russell didn't need to be honest. Why should he? Being honest showed that he could be vulnerable. And to show that he could be vulnerable showed that he could be touched, even beaten. Football players on their way up cannot afford to show what Russell's first paragraph showed me. Or so I thought. Two pages in, and I felt myself wanting to offer Russell an apology. I had misjudged him. He hid nothing.

  Russell wrote about his folks and last year's homecoming game. His mom and dad drove from Roanoke, checked into their hotel, went to the game, and stood in the rain while their son played football. That night, Russell's dad caught a cold. The next day they all drove home to Roanoke for Thanksgiving. Russell wrote about his dad's lifelong work with the railroad. Several times, he flashed back from the action of the football game to times spent with his dad playing catch, fishing, saying "Yes sir," and just hanging out together.

  I'm not sure Russell was aware of the extent to which it came across, but his paper made it evident that he and his dad had something most fathers and sons do not: a friendship. Without sounding cliched, these two guys loved each other. Following Thanksgiving in Roanoke, Russell's dad developed pneumonia and died in the hospital two days later.

  Two things struck me. One was that I couldn't possibly put a grade on it. It was one of those rare papers that existed outside of a grade. Two, it was apparent that Russell and his dad shared tenderness, intimacy, and trust. They probably hugged each other good night. Russell's description of his father's death was vivid and convincing: the sound of his cough, the color of the mucous, his dad's wrinkled face, the fear in his mom's eyes, the last time he kissed him.

  I put down the essay, picked up my coffee cup, and watched the clouds roll past the window. Russell had put his heart on that page. All 280-plus pounds of it. Russell, whom I had wrongly put in the proverbial football player's box, with his big shoulders and deep vo
ice and eyes always looking disinterestedly out the window, had done something no other student in my pile of papers had done. He had touched me.

  I WOKE UP IN A CHAIR NEXT TO MAGGIE, WHERE THE air smelled like magnolias. The Sunday morning sun was bouncing off her face, which had regained its color.

  Amanda poked her head into the room and said, "Good morning, Professor. How about some orange juice?"

  I nodded and wiped the sleep from my eyes. "Thanks."

  She returned, placed it on the table, checked Maggie's IV and her blood pressure cuff, and then rubbed Blue between the ears on her way out. Around ten o'clock she returned, carrying some antiseptic and gauze pads. She motioned to my arm. "Professor, I'm cleaning that before it gets infected."

  I looked at my arm and rolled my sleeve back down. "No thanks. It'll be fine."

  "Professor, if I had a problem with my paper, I'd expect you to help me out. Same goes here, only it's reversed." She pointed to my arm. "Whatever was here is long since gone. You can quit now."

  She pulled a chair up beside me and rolled up my shirtsleeve. Amanda worked quietly and quickly. She doused me with hydrogen peroxide, cleaned out all the dirt, and then poured some brown stuff all over it that stung so bad I almost cussed.

  "Professor." Amanda studied my arm, dabbing it periodically with a Betadine-soaked cotton ball. "My daddy's having a baptism down at the river this afternoon. You're invited. Your deputy friend will be there. Daddy asked him to help the older folks down to the river."

  "You think I need help getting into that river?"

  "No, sir. I just thought you might want to come. It's a good time. Always lots of food." She smiled.

  "How's the baby?" I said, nodding at her stomach.

  "Healthy and growing," she said with a smile. "I'm eating everything that's not nailed down and some that is." She continued working on my arm.

  "Do you talk to God at your daddy's church?" I asked bluntly.

  Amanda didn't bat an eye. "I talk to God most everywhere and most all the time." She thought for a minute. "And yes, one of those places is my daddy's church." She fiddled with her hair, a little self-consciously. "Professor, do you ever talk to God?"

  "No. Not since He quit listening."

  She gathered her dirty pads and antiseptic and headed for the door. "At the river, down below my daddy's church, at two. You'll see the cars." She disappeared around the corner.

  "Amanda?"

  She poked her face back around the door. "Yes, sir?"

  "You think I need to get in that water?"

  "No, sir. I just thought you might like to come. Lots of people. And if you haven't had Mrs. Baxter's chicken, you haven't had fried chicken."

  "You think I need to get cleaned up?"

  She walked over to the head of the bed. "Professor, it's not just you. Everybody needs to get cleaned up sometime."

  "What if there's not enough water?"

  She tucked Maggie's hair behind her left ear. "It's not the water, Professor. And you don't have to get cleaned up to take a bath."

  Amanda walked out of the room, and I placed my head next to Maggie's hand and slept.

  I DRIVE AN OLD PICKUP BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND IT. It's simple. I don't understand a car that does not require a tune-up for a hundred thousand miles. What kind of car is that? Self-timing and loaded with computer chips. I understand a distributor cap, a carburetor, eight cylinders, a timing belt, and how to change the oil. When I first met Maggie, she owned a foreign car that we nursed through graduate school. Not long after graduation, it died, and we sold it to a parts supplier at a junkyard for three hundred dollars. But the first time I changed the oil, it took me the better part of a day just to find the filter. And even when I did, I had to be a contortionist to get to it. The human hand is not designed to do that. My truck is made so that regular people like me can change the oil every few thousand miles. Maggie's car was made so I had to pay a professional twenty-eight dollars to locate and unscrew the filter with a tool that cost him ninety-eight dollars.

  My truck is a 1972 Chevy G1O, possibly the best truck Chevy ever made. It's got a long bed, which is partly rusted, a bench seat torn in several places, and it burns oil. It looks used because it is.

  If it's knocking, I pull over, adjust the timing to fit the grade of gas, and keep going. Sometimes in the mornings, it needs a few minutes. I do too. What's wrong with that? I hit the starter, give it some gas; it coughs, spits, churns, and hacks itself to life, for one more morning, anyway.

  When I get more than two hundred thousand miles on me, I'm quitting. There won't be any coughing, spitting, and churning. I'm just going to bump myself into neutral and coast.

  I've thought about restoring it. Maybe new interior, new paint, an engine overhaul. Then I think, No, I'm not going to do that. It's got more character the way it is.

  If Maggie had a choice, she would prefer not to ride in my truck. And that's putting it nicely. She laughs at me everytime I climb in. "I can't believe you actually own that thing, Dylan Styles. It's pitiful. You look like Sanford and Son. All you need is some furniture sticking out of the back, and you could have your own sitcom."

  I tried to tell her that Red Foxx drove a Ford, but she wouldn't hear it. She just shook her head and said, "I married a man in love with a truck that's the same age as me. I guess I should be happy. At least it's not another woman."

  A pickup truck just fits the way my brain works. I can throw stuff in the back and forget about it until I need it. I like the way the starter sounds when you crank it. I like the way the door sounds when you close it. I like the way the tailgate sounds when you lower it. I like the way the muffler sounds at idle. I like the play in the steering wheel. I like manual door locks. I like the horn because it's loud. I like the rattles my truck makes when I drive it. I like the way it trusts me to read the gauges and the way the gas cap screws completely off-no strings attached. And I like the way it drives.

  Some folks like that "new car smell." I like that old truck smell. Sweat. Dirt. Oil. Preemissions-controlled exhaust. Hay. Pig feed. And whatever's blooming. Leave your windows down. Let it breathe. Wipe the dew off the seats in the morning. Automobiles take on the smell of their environment.

  In May, when Maggie's gardenias bloom, I park it so close that the branches hang in the window and the blooms spill over the seats and dash. The next morning I get in, and it smells like Maggie. Who would want new car smell when you can have Maggie's gardenias?

  AROUND TWO ON SUNDAY, I CLIMBED INTO THE TRUCK, feeling dangerously hungry. Blue and I cranked her up and idled out of the hospital parking lot. I rolled down the window, stuck my arm out into the hot breeze, and surfed my hand through the waves of air coming off the front fender. The new bandage was thick, bulky, and my arm throbbed inside it.

  The cars stretched down the road about a mile before the church came into view. I rounded the corner before the final straightaway that intersected the dirt road that runs in front of my house and saw the river. I slowly passed the church and saw a line of people headed for the water. White robes for the women and shorts for the men. Probably two hundred people. I didn't see Amos, but I figured he was already down in the water. I could see Pastor John holding Amanda's hand as they stepped over the roots of an oak tree. Her other hand was cupped under the swelling her baby had made in her belly.

  Pulling up under the oaks, I cut the engine and listened to the late-summer crickets; it's a lazy, psychedelic, summer sound that can send any man to the crazy house or into a deep summer nap. Blue whined and stuck his head from around the back of the cab and looked at Inc. I hesitated and sat sweating inside, still buckled in.

  "All right, but just to look."

  We slipped through the oaks and sat down on some moss on the south side of the folks in the river. Up on the bank, just downriver of the church, there were ten or fifteen picnic tables covered with checkered tablecloths and plates of fried chicken, potatoes, coleslaw, and what smelled like peach pie. I was hungry.
<
br />   Up the river a bit, a father squatted next to his son, who stood with his pants at his ankles, spelling his name in the river. Probably thirty folks stood in a circle, waist deep in the river, around Pastor John. In his arms he held a screaming lady who had her hands raised. He dunked her three times, and each time she came out of the water screaming a garbled "Hallelujah!" After the third dunk, Pastor John led her over to Amos, who helped her up out of the water and gave her a towel.

  She was shorter but bigger than Amos. She hugged him and kissed his cheek, tears pouring off her face, then went on to hug about thirty other people who must have been family and friends. These people really liked each other. Pastor John kept dunking people, and Amos stood by with a huge grin, ready to help. Some people Pastor John dunked once. Others twice. Some three times. And one man he dunked four times. I guess he really needed it. The fourth time, Pastor John held him underwater for close to thirty seconds, at which time the guy really started waving his arms. Pastor John brought him up, hugged him, and passed him to Amos, who gave him a towel and set him next to a woman who offered him a comforting shoulder.

  Dunking those thirty people took a little over an hour, because Pastor John was good at this. I think he enjoyed it too. And he made it fun for everyone. Any time he took someone's hand, he'd relate chapters from his or her sordid past to the others in the group. He always ended it with an encouragement about how that person had climbed up from sordid to surrendered. When he finished talking, the congregation members would clap and throw their arms up, and he'd go to dunking.

  This was no sprinkling. Pastor John splashed water everywhere, and everybody got wet. The last person to go was a child, maybe nine or ten. Pastor John took the little boy in his arms, held him close, and nuzzled his nose. When the boy said he was scared to go in the water by himself, Pastor John went under with him. He went under three times, and when he came out the last time he held the boy high in the air. The dad waded over and gently took his son from Pastor John as he let him back down in the water.