The Essay A Novel

by The Essay (retail) (epub)

  “I’m staying in here,” I said, keeping my head down.

  “Jimmy Lee . . .” His voice grew more stern. I looked up; he pointed to the door. “Now.”

  I didn’t need one more thing to add to the humiliation of the day, but I wasn’t going to argue with the coach, and I did as I was told. I stepped in at the end of the line, following the clacking of steel cleats on the tile floor, and walked out the locker room door. When I did, I saw Miss Singletary standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing a brown suede coat, to the breast of which was pinned a white mum with a VE made of blue pipe cleaners adhered to the top. Tears started to fill my eyes. “I want you to know that I wouldn’t poke holes in my good suede coat for just anyone,” she said. I quickly brushed away the tears that were rolling down my cheeks. “Give me your arm.” I did, and she escorted me to the end zone.

  The captains were introduced last. Mr. Evans said, “And senior captain, number thirty-eight, Jimmy Lee Hickam, escorted by Miss Amanda Singletary.” She walked tall and proud beside me, squeezing the inside of my arm.

  Over the past few months, Miss Singletary had gone out of her way to help me in more ways than I can remember, including putting her teaching reputation on the line, but I was never more grateful to her than on senior night. It was, I thought, one thing to help me hone my writing skills and explain to me about the importance of personal hygiene, but that night, in front of the entire East Vinton community, she bravely stood up and walked with me, Nick Hickam’s youngest son.

  Football is an emotional game and my body was bursting with emotions on that evening. I was sad for Edgel, angry at my father for leaving and my mother for not showing up, and embarrassed at being born into a family that was looked upon like dog shit on the bottom of a dress boot. While my mind was on the game, this cornucopia of emotions was about to burst out of my chest when I led the Elks onto the field for the kickoff.

  Since the day I had first showed up at practice in black dress socks and misfit shoulder pads that left blood blisters under my arms, Coach Battershell preached to me the importance of the first hit of the game. He said that delivering a bone-jarring hit on the first play would set the tempo for the entire game. I was not a particularly religious boy, but that night I asked God to please put the ball in the hands of McArthur Central Catholic fullback Reno DiGaudio on the first play from scrimmage.

  Reno DiGaudio was about five foot ten and looked to be about the same width. He was built like a refrigerator with arms and led the county in rushing and scoring since it was virtually impossible for just one person to tackle him. He was a cocky bastard and, essentially, the entire McArthur Central Catholic offense. Stop Reno DiGaudio, I told myself, and you stop the Crusaders. I didn’t think he had been hit hard all year. That’s why I wanted the ball in his hands. I wanted a chance to light him up early.

  On that first Friday in November, the Big Man upstairs decided to spiff me one.

  McArthur Central Catholic’s first play from scrimmage was a fullback dive off right tackle—their bread-and-butter play. The hole opened and DiGaudio came through it, head down, knees pumping. I anticipated the play and filled that hole with a vengeance. My last thought before our collision was how sorry I was that Edgel wasn’t in the stands to see this hit. I got low and shot up under DiGaudio’s helmet and never stopped pumping my feet. The top of my helmet hit his face mask with a loud pop and his head jerked up as I drove him back, driving my shoulder into his chest as we fell.

  The East Vinton faithful, I think, were cheering wildly. But I’m not sure because I kept my focus on DiGaudio. I watched him wince and groan as the wind rushed from his lungs. I stared at him until he looked back. I wanted him to know who had hit him and who was going to hit him every time he touched the ball for the rest of the game. After the Crusaders completed a pass for six yards, they ran another fullback dive, this time to the left. Again, I met DiGaudio in the hole and drove him down with a booming helmet-to-helmet collision.

  It was the last time he ran the ball hard all night. He started dancing, looking for places to run instead of creating holes with his strength. He was no longer running for yardage. Rather, he was running away from me, and with each play, the confidence of our defense grew. The offense fed off the success of our defense and the outcome of the game was never in doubt.

  We defeated the McArthur Central Catholic Crusaders 24-0. They only earned two first downs all night. When the game was over, the East Vinton fans rushed the field. I looked for Reno DiGaudio to shake his hand, but he skulked away to the locker room, head down. That was fine. I was being mobbed by our fans. We had brought such joy to the little communities of East Vinton County. For one night, they had something to cheer about. Principal Speer walked by and patted me once on the shoulder and said, “Nice job, Jimmy Lee,” but would not look me in the eye. They were the first words he had spoken to me since the day he summoned me to his office to question me about the essay.

  The celebrations would go on well into the night, and I so wanted to be part of them, but I hadn’t even gotten off the field when I was met by my senior night escort. Miss Singletary gave me a hug and kissed me on my sweaty cheek. “I’m very proud of you, Jimmy Lee. You played a great game,” she said. “But, you have another big game in the morning.”

  “I know, but you’ve got to let me enjoy this a little.”

  She smiled. “Absolutely. Enjoy it for an hour, and then I want you to go home and get your rest. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

  When I got home that night, Mom was at the kitchen table eating leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes and drinking a bottle of Rolling Rock that my dad had somehow missed in the refrigerator. Her face was swollen and her eyes were still rimmed in red. “How was your game?” she asked.

  “Good. We won. We’re conference champs—first time in about twenty years.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I set my gym bag of sweaty clothes on the floor and made myself a cold meatloaf sandwich and poured a glass of milk. “When’d you get home?” I asked.

  “Late this afternoon sometime. The whole day’s been a blur. I stayed around the jail to talk to Mr. Crawford after he talked to Edgel.”

  “Did they charge Edgel with setting fire to the mill?”

  She shook her head. “They don’t have anything on him.”

  “Yet,” I said and she glared hard at me. “So, you got home this afternoon?”

  “About five o’clock, or so, I suppose.”

  “Mom, it was senior night, you know? You were supposed to be there to escort me out on the field before the game.”

  She didn’t look up, but sighed and said, “I’ve been awfully upset, Jimmy Lee. I just forgot.”

  “You know, Mom, you’ve got other sons besides Edgel.” The look she gave me was too familiar. It was the one she wore after being slapped by my dad, and I immediately regretted allowing the words to exit my mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just would have liked to have had one of my parents there, that’s all. So, what did Mr. Crawford say?”

  “He says Edgel claims he didn’t do it.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, that would be my story, too.”

  She looked past me, her eyes distant and sad, and said, “You’re a good boy, Jimmy Lee.” She refocused on me and smiled. “But the rest of the men in this family have just worn me out. Your dad, your brothers, they were just so much work, always in trouble, drinking, fighting, and carrying on. You’ve never given me problems or cause to fret, Jimmy Lee, and I appreciate that, and I’m sorry that you never got the attention you deserved. Them other ones just filled up my dance card.”

  “I know, Mom. You’ve always worked hard and did your best.”

  “That doesn’t make it right to ignore you.”

  I got up and put my dish and empty glass in the sink. “I’ve got to get to bed, Mom. I’ve got the essay contest over in McArthur in the morning.”

  She blinked twice and looked at me with puzzlement. “Wh
at essay contest is that?”

  I kissed her on the forehead. “G’ night, Mom. I love you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I

  was feeling particularly dapper in my navy blazer, white shirt, redand-gray-striped tie, and khaki slacks. After making the purchases, I ironed the shirt and placed all four items of clothing in the back of my closet and saved them for this day. The previous Saturday I had taken the pickup truck to Athens and bought a pair of oxblood loafers, which at that moment were too tight over the arch of my foot and I was wishing that I had broken them in before wearing them to the writing competition. “I think I’ll take these shoes off once the competition begins,” I said. “They’re too tight.”

  “That bitch,” Miss Singletary said.

  “Excuse me?”

  It was eight forty on Saturday morning. We had just pulled into the parking lot of McArthur Roosevelt High School. The vein in Miss Singletary’s neck bulged like a weak spot in a garden hose and pulsated with the staccato beat of her heart. Her hands clenched the steering wheel, her knuckles turned the color of pearls, and red blotches suddenly peppered her neck. “Oh, that bitch,” she repeated.

  In all the time I had spent with Miss Singletary, never once had I heard her utter a curse word. I failed to see the object of her venom and sat quietly while she put the car in park and turned to me, her cheeks drawn so tight they looked like a drum skin stretched over her jaw. “You’re starting to scare me a little, Miss Singletary,” I said.

  “Look who’s here,” she said.

  I leaned forward in my seat and spotted the source of the outburst. Walking across the lot was the other East Vinton English teacher, Mrs. Johanessen, and her daughter, Catherine. “I can’t believe she would stoop to this,” Miss Singletary said as she bolted from the car and planted herself between the Johanessens and the front door of the school. “Well, what a surprise,” Miss Singletary said in a sweet, sing-song tone. “Mrs. Johanessen, what brings you two here? Did you come to support Jimmy Lee?” Her tone was civil, but the words slipped out between clenched teeth and there was no disguising her anger.

  Mrs. Johanessen swallowed, one of those hard, nervous gulps that looked like she was trying to force down a tennis ball. “Um, no, well, I certainly hope Jimmy Lee does well. But we’re here because Catherine is participating in the county competition.”

  “How can that possibly be since she didn’t win the East Vinton competition?”

  “The Alpha & Omega Literary Society awarded her an at-large bid.”

  “An at-large bid, you say? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing, which is odd because I’m the contest coordinator at the high school. Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

  Without answering, Mrs. Johanessen put her hand on the shoulder of her daughter, who had been staring at the sidewalk the entire time, and guided her around Miss Singletary and into the school. Miss Singletary was so angry she was shaking. “The nerve and unmitigated gall of that woman,” she spewed. “This is so unfair to you, Jimmy Lee. I am so sorry. She lobbied the Alpha & Omega Literary Society to get Catherine in here, and that doddering Ernestine Wadell caved to her.”

  “Can she do that?”

  “It’s their contest, Jimmy Lee. I imagine they can do whatever they want. I can go in there right now and protest if you want.”

  I waved at air. “Who cares,” I said. “I already beat Catherine once; I’ll do it again. I’ll just pretend like she’s Reno DiGaudio. I’ll give her a forearm under the chin and take her down.” I winked. “In a purely figurative sense, of course.”

  Miss Singletary smiled. “Why don’t you give her mother a forearm under the chin—in the purely literal sense.”

  We assembled in the gymnasium, where nine desks had been placed in a large semicircle—one for each of the eight winners from each high school in the county and one for the newly created at-large berth. My name was hanging from a placard on a desk at the far end of the semicircle. Ernestine Wadell of the Alpha & Omega Literary Society stood at a table in the middle of the semicircle. She gave me an obligatory smile and said, “Please take your seat so we can get started on time.”

  Miss Singletary gave my elbow a single squeeze and said, “You’re ready. Go get ’em.”

  As I walked to my desk, two pens and a dictionary in my left hand, I looked back at her, grinned, and made two lifting motions with my right forearm. It made her smile.

  On each desk was a blue notebook. At 9 AM, Mrs. Wadell welcomed everyone and wished us good luck. “You will have two hours to write your essay and it is not to exceed 500 words. It must begin with the words, ‘My hero is . . .’ You may begin.”

  It took me most of the two hours to compose my essay. Catherine and a girl at the other end of the semicircle continued to work on their essays as I stood and stretched. In the bleachers, Miss Singletary and Mrs. Johanessen were sitting a full section apart and doing their best not to look at each other. When I stood, Miss Singletary began packing away the stack of papers she had been grading.

  I thanked Mrs. Wadell for sponsoring the competition and handed her my essay. “I appreciate the opportunity to compete,” I said.

  “You’re so very welcome,” she said, slipping my blue notebook into a manila envelope with those of the students that finished before me. She handed me a sealed envelope with my name written in a shaky script. I slipped a finger under the flap and tore open the top as we walked out of the school. It was an invitation to the awards luncheon in two weeks.

  “It’s for me and two guests. Do you think Coach Battershell will let me take you to the luncheon?”

  “He has absolutely no say in the matter,” she said, smiling. “Your mother will want to go, too, won’t she?”

  “We’ll see.”

  When we were heading out of the parking lot, it was starting to spit snow, heavy, wet flakes coming in hard from the west. Miss Singletary finally asked in an excited tone, “So, how do you think you did?”

  “Pretty good, I think.”

  “Who was your hero?”

  “Coach Battershell.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice. He’ll appreciate that.”

  “Please don’t tell him.”

  “Why? He’ll be flattered.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t want him to know. Don’t tell him.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “Promise?”

  She crossed her heart with her index finger. “Are you going to the dance tonight?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I might.”

  “Might? It’s a victory dance for the football team; you’re the defensive captain. You have to be there.”

  “Things are pretty crazy at home right now. I have to see what’s going on with Mom and Edgel.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  T

  he sheriff had nothing on Edgel.

  In the two days after he was incarcerated, deputies were able to verify Edgel’s alibi. He gave deputies a terse account of his whereabouts the night before and the morning of the fire. The day before the fire, he had left about mid-afternoon and driven to a salvage yard outside of Grafton, West Virginia, for the Farnsworth brothers to pick up two stacks of hubcaps, a box of taillights and the grill from a 1964 Thunderbird. Along the way, he swung by a body shop in Gallipolis, Ohio, to drop off the front bumper for a 1965 Volkswagen Beetle. Because it was a light load, Edgel just took the Rocket 88 instead of the flatbed. He got gas at Warren’s Pennzoil in Athens and had a receipt, as the Farnsworths said they would cover his expenses. He ate at a fast-food restaurant along the way and had a receipt for two burgers, fries, and a small coffee. When he got to Grafton, Edgel stopped at a pay phone and called the owner of the salvage yard at home. The man drove out and met Edgel at the salvage yard. Edgel paid him in cash for the parts and got a hand-written receipt. It was after nine o’clock by then, and Edgel went to a truck stop for dinner. He had forgotten to get a receipt, but remembered that the woman who waited on him had dark hair, a hai
r-sprouting mole on her chin, and a withered leg on which the sole of one shoe was several inches thick to compensate for the defect. He thought it was her left leg, but couldn’t be positive. Because it was so late and the Rocket had been running hot, Edgel got a hotel room at the Mountaineer Motor Lodge, not far from the truck stop. The room was $15.99 and he had the receipt. The owner couldn’t remember the exact time Edgel checked out the next morning, but recalled that it was early. He guessed around 7 am. He stopped for gas near Parkersburg and got a receipt.

  Deputies had spent the two days covering the territory between Vinton County and Grafton. Much to their great disappointment, Edgel Hickam was nowhere near Vinton County when the fire began at the Morgan Lumber Company.

  My mother showed up at the high school on Monday afternoon just before the start of eighth period—the last of the day. The student office assistant pulled me out of algebra and Mom was waiting in the lobby outside the office, still in her waitress uniform. She had been crying again and I anticipated the worst. “They’re letting Edgel out of jail,” she whispered. “Can you go over to McArthur with me to pick him up?”

  Air rushed from my lungs and I felt lightheaded. I signed out and drove Mom over to the jail. All along the way, she sniffled and said, “Praise Jesus, praise Jesus, praise Jesus.” When we walked in, the deputy at the front desk lifted his chubby face only long enough to recognize us as Hickams and used the eraser end of his pencil to point to some chrome and vinyl chairs in the corner of the room. “You can wait over there. He’ll be out in a bit,” the deputy said.

  It was thirty minutes before Edgel came out, looking tired and in need of a shave of his spotty beard. He was wearing the same clothes he had been arrested in and a brown stain from the muddy drive streaked across his thighs. Mom was bawling as she ran up and threw her arms around him. He hugged her and patted her back until she pulled away. “You whipped them Micks, huh?” were his first words to me.