The Essay A Novel

by The Essay (retail) (epub)

  “No, ma’am. Deodorant. I used too much.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “I’ve decided I want to get the new clothes you talked about yesterday.”

  “All right. I’ll work on that.”

  “Good. Before we get started, I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I was talking to Coach Battershell last night and he said you told him I have a real talent for writing.”

  “I never told Coach Battershell that you had talent.” The prickly heat of embarrassment crept up my neck. “A lot of kids in this school have talent, Jimmy Lee. I told Coach Battershell that you have a gift. There’s a difference. I’ve been reading your essays for a week. They’re excellent. You have a gift for visualizing a scene and recreating it on paper. There are a lot of good writers out there, but very few have the sensitivity to be able to completely pull a reader into their stories. You have that. A gifted painter doesn’t need someone to explain perspective to him. He sees it in his mind’s eye and the results come out the end of his brush. I told Coach Battershell that you have that kind of gift with words.” She leaned closer to me. “It’s the same message I’ve been trying to get you to understand. It’s a gift. Use it.”

  For a long moment, I considered what she had said, chewing at my lip and avoiding her stare. “But what could I do with it?”

  “The opportunities are endless, Jimmy Lee. You could write for a newspaper or a magazine. Have you been to the library? There are thousands of books on the shelves, many of them written by people a lot less talented than you.”

  “You think I could write books?”

  “I think you can do anything you want, Jimmy Lee. You just have to use the gift that God gave you.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Miss Singletary leaned back in her chair; she smiled and her green eyes danced. “Is it that difficult of a question to ask?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Does going to college seem like such an unachievable goal that you can’t even ask me the question?”

  “College sure seems like a long way from Red Dog Road, yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you want to go to college?”

  I shrugged. “Last year, when Coach Battershell said I might get a scholarship if I kept improving in football, I thought it was just talk. I never really thought I could go to college. I always figured college was for kids a lot smarter and, you know, better than me. Now, I’m wondering if maybe I could do it. But I’ve got no idea how to go about it. All I know about college is that it’s for smart people and it’s expensive.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Jimmy Lee. There are a lot of people in this world who sell themselves short. They don’t try to achieve their dreams because they’re too paralyzed by the prospect of failure. You can do it and I’ll help you, if you want.”

  At that moment, I remembered the words of my brother Edgel when he learned that Miss Singletary was my teacher. You stay close to her. She’s solid; she’ll do right by you. “I’d like that a lot, Miss Singletary.”

  “Good. Why don’t we get started this Saturday? We could do your clothes shopping in Athens and take a visit to Ohio University.”

  “That would be great, but . . .”

  “But . . .?”

  “What would people say if you took me out shopping for clothes?”

  She smiled. “I’ve got it under control, Jimmy Lee.” She tossed a blue notebook on my desk. Written across the top of the cover in perfect script was the statement, Write an essay about the things you think about when you can’t sleep. “Now, get to work.”

  There were two late plates on top of the stove—blue ceramic plates covered with aluminum foil. During football season, I ate most of my dinners cold—tepid at best. I peeled off the foil and found two pork chops, a mound of mashed potatoes covered with congealed gravy, and succotash, the green beans beginning to wilt. “Want me to throw that in a skillet and warm it up?” my mother asked, appearing from the living room with a wicker basket of dirty laundry.

  “No, this is fine. Thanks. Where’s Edgel?”

  “He’s off to Columbus with a truckload of parts for the Farnsworth boys. They said they’ve got enough work to keep him busy for a couple of weeks. That’ll be good for him.” She pulled a jug of milk from the refrigerator and poured me a glass, setting it and the jug in front of my plate, then snagged the loaf of Wonder Bread from the stainless steel bread box on the counter and dropped it on the table. “We’re out of butter.”

  The other late plate was for my dad. I didn’t bother to ask his whereabouts. I didn’t really care as I preferred to eat my dinner in peace rather than listen to another of his drunken tirades. And if he wasn’t home for dinner, it was a foregone conclusion that he was leaning against one of the bars between home and McArthur, running up his bar tab and railing against Mr. Morgan. Drunk and freshly unemployed, there was no morsel of gossip too insignificant about his former employer that it couldn’t be repeated ad nauseam to anyone who would listen. I wondered how Dad was paying his bar bills now that he was unemployed, as I assumed all of my mother’s money was going to keep the house running. He didn’t seem overly concerned about finding work. Jobs were a scarce commodity in southeast Ohio, particularly if you were a drunk and a known troublemaker with the last name of Hickam. But as long as the barkeepers were giving him credit, I didn’t anticipate that Dad would be launching his employment search anytime soon.

  Before Mom scooped up the basket, I added my sweaty practice togs to the pile. Her mouth puckered and she headed to the basement. I ate in silence and was still hungry after cleaning up the last of the potatoes and gravy with a slice of bread. The old man’s late plate looked tempting, but I instead went to the cupboard and retrieved a jar of peanut butter. I made myself a sandwich and poured another glass of milk. No sooner had I screwed the cap on the milk than my dad entered the kitchen from the front door and my mother from the basement. “Hungry?” she asked.

  He grunted an affirmative and sat down without washing his hands. She put the plate in front of him and he promptly put an index finger in the mashed potatoes. “It’s cold, goddammit. Heat it up,” he said.

  I could smell the beer on his breath from across the table. His head bobbed slightly, but his eyes were wide and alert. It had been a light night at the bar, I surmised. Mom scooped the dinner from the plate and placed it in a tin pie pan, which she covered with foil and slid into the oven. I tossed down my milk and put the glass in the sink, carrying the remainder of my peanut butter sandwich to my bedroom. “Thanks for dinner; it was good,” I said. “I’ve got homework.”

  There was a stack of magazines in the living room on the shelf next to the staircase. At the bottom of the pile was the previous year’s Sear’s Christmas catalog—the Wish Book, as it was called. As I passed, I slipped it out of the pile and took it to my room. Using the catalog as a guide, I priced a sport coat, dress shirts, khaki and navy slacks, new shoes, a belt, socks and underwear. If I was careful, I could buy a couple of additional collared shirts and still be under two hundred dollars.

  This was a major step for me. I was tight with my money. Once I got a dollar in my hand, it would take a couple of Marines to pry it loose. I was not in love with money, but I thought it signified accomplishment and hard work. Having money that I had earned and could hold in my hand was as gratifying to me as wearing my letterman’s jacket or having a gold medal for an essay contest draped over my neck. I looked at the money I made not for what I could buy, but more like a trophy. Since school had started, I had been earning about twenty dollars a weekend at the truck stop, bussing tables and washing dishes, and with my summer job money, had a grand total of four hundred and sixty-two dollars in my bank envelope. The thought of removing two hundred dollars from the envelope for clothes made me queasy because I knew how long it would take to replace it. Saving was now of particular importance as I wanted to put money away for college.

  Th
e very thought of Jimmy Lee Hickam attending college made me grin broadly. I wanted to get accepted somewhere so I could watch Lindsey Morgan’s chin drop and hear her say, “You’re going to college?” just so I could respond, “Well, of course I’m going to college. What did you think I was going to do with the rest of my life? Work in your dad’s sawmill?”

  I stopped grinning as soon as I got off the bed and entered my closet. Panic gripped my loins and exploded into my gut and chest, like a thousand frozen needles prickling my insides. The stack of magazines in the corner of my closet had been moved—not much, but noticeable to me. I slid the envelope from its hiding place and could tell by the weight that it was empty except for a few clinking coins. “Son of a bitch,” I said. I unzipped the envelope to reveal the foregone results. Reaching back behind the stack of magazines, I swept them to the side, spilling them onto the floor. I wanted to vomit and cry. All the money I had in the world was gone.

  Mom was washing dishes; Dad was finishing his dinner, staring straight ahead and making no attempt to look at me. “When’s Edgel getting back?”

  “Late,” my mother said, not turning from the sink.

  “How late?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d be late. I didn’t ask him . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence when she turned and saw the empty bank envelope in my hand.

  “All my money’s gone. All the money I earned this summer and on the weekends at the truck stop.” Tears were welling in my eyes, a combination of frustration and hurt and disappointment. I dropped the envelope on the table. “My own brother.”

  Mom struggled to swallow, and then her eyes fell upon my dad, who chewed with his mouth open and washed a mouthful of mash down with a Rolling Rock. He looked up at her, rolled his tongue over his teeth, and said, “It’s about time you started helping out around here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “You hard of hearin’? Just what I said. It’s time for you to start helpin’ out. No more free rides.”

  A burst of heat erupted in my chest. “You took it?”

  He took another hit off his beer, sucked his teeth and said, “That’s right. Times are tough. I ain’t workin’.”

  “You couldn’t ask me?”

  “I don’t have to ask, goddammit,” he bellowed. “It’s my house and we needed the money.”

  “For what? To pay your bar tabs? I need that money. It’s mine.”

  He looked up at me, a thin grin creeping across his lips and said, “Too fuckin’ bad.”

  Before I knew what I was doing, I snatched the front of my dad’s shirt and pulled him out of the chair. I spun him as if he were a helpless running back, slamming him against the wall with such force that cupboard doors opened and a print of Jesus praying in the garden of Gethsemane fell from the wall, its plastic frame splitting when it hit the floor. I pinned him hard against the wall, tightened my grip, grinding my knuckles into his ribs. My breath came in short, staccato bursts. “I want my money. All of it.”

  His face was oddly calm. He smiled, hanging limp, his breath smelling of beer, cigarettes, and gravy. “Well, well, well,” he said in a light, sing-song voice. “Looks like Mr. Touchdown finally grew himself a pair of balls.”

  “I want my money, Dad, and I’m not kidding.”

  “Sure you are.” He smiled. I knew what was coming, but could not react fast enough. He brought his knee up into my groin with such force that bursts of white light flashed in front of my eyes and an electrical charge erupted in my testicles. All control I had over my limbs failed. In a single motion, like a marionette whose strings had been clipped, I crumpled to the floor. A searing pain raced from my groin through my stomach and chest and into my armpits and throat. I couldn’t breathe and soon a thick, salty bile filled the back of my throat and I threw up on the kitchen linoleum. I wretched and sucked for air, feeling my face glow hot.

  He snatched my nose between his index and middle finger, pulled me to my knees and said, “Not so tough now, are you? Next time, I’ll make a woman out of you, and don’t think I won’t. If you weren’t my blood, this is when I would put the boots to you until your own mama wouldn’t recognize you.”

  I looked at him, tears rolling out of my eyes, and I felt oddly juvenile. I could not stop crying and pleading, the way an infant would carry on when the bully took his favorite toy. “I need that money.”

  My mother stood in the corner of the kitchen, arms crossed, tears streaming down both cheeks, staring at my father. He avoided her gaze and was, as usual, unrepentant. “You’ve been living here rent free for pert near eighteen years. I’ll keep the money and we’ll call it even.”

  “I need that money.”

  “You don’t need it. You’ve been hoarding it up there for months.”

  If I had said I was going to use it to buy clothes he would have just laughed. But I knew the other reason would infuriate him. It would be an affront to his manhood and at that moment I was anxious to hurt him. “I was saving that money for college.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me.” I took a few deep breaths. “I’m going to college.”

  “Son, you ain’t going to college. You’re not college material.”

  “Yes I am.” I sucked for air. “Miss Singletary says so. She said I have a gift. She said I could be a writer and she’s going to help me get into college.”

  He laughed. “That’s what Miss Singletary says, huh?”

  “That’s right. Coach Battershell says I can do it, too. They’re going to help me get off Red Dog Road.”

  “There something wrong with living on Red Dog Road?” There was venom in his voice.

  “Yeah, it’s a place where your dad steals your money for booze, then knees you in the balls because you want it back.”

  He took a step toward me, but my mom cut him off at the edge of the kitchen table. “I guarantee you this, boy. A year from now, ten years from now, you’ll still be living on this hillside somewhere.”

  “I want my money, you thief.”

  His lower jaw jutted out and he gave me a last hateful glance before he turned and left, slamming the door behind him. A moment later the car started and I listened to the sound of the engine disappearing in the night.

  I crawled up the steps and fell into bed. My mom came to the room with a glass of water, aspirin, and a bag of ice. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  “I’ve never had anything hurt so bad in my life.”

  “Do you want to go to the emergency room?”

  “No.” The light was beginning to close in from the sides of my eyes. “Just turn off the light and let me get some rest.”

  I was roused by someone tapping on my shoulder. “Wake up, sunshine,” said a voice that sounded like it was coming from another room. The tapping continued, harder, until my eyes opened. It was Edgel, sitting backward on the wooden chair he had pulled away from my desk. He was grinning and in need of a shave, a green and white “Farnsworth Salvage” ball cap sitting cockeyed on his head.

  The sun was bright across my bed. “What time is it?” I asked

  “Eleven o’clock.”

  “Oh my God, I’m late.”

  “Relax. I’ll get you there by lunchtime. Missing half a day won’t kill you. How do you feel?”

  “Sore.”

  “I’ll bet. Mom said the old man put the boots to you.”

  “No boots, just a knee. Ordinarily, he said the boots would have been next, but he spared me because I was his blood.”

  “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 ga
me.”

  “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.