The Essay A Novel

  “It is a marvelous essay and I must say that I am very impressed with this young man’s abilities,” Mrs. Wadell continued. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of the 1973 Alpha & Omega Literary Society’s county essay competition and a one thousand dollar scholarship is James Lee Hickam of East Vinton High School.”

  Miss Singletary sucked air and covered her mouth with both hands. Edgel was beating on my shoulder. Coach Battershell just nodded and winked. As I stood, I looked over at the Johanessens to see if they were clapping. They weren’t; it made the victory even sweeter.

  Mrs. Wadell handed me another gold medal, a plaque, and my blue notebook. I set the plaque on a table near the lectern and opened the notebook to the first page. Unlike reading the first essay, which had caught me off guard, I was prepared for this one. I read in a clear, confident voice.

  My hero is a heroine.

  Imagine living a life of constant derision. Imagine that your surname carried such negative connotations that you were constantly looked at with suspicion, your environment so fraught with despair that self-pity and anger consumed your being, and your actions, no matter how stalwart, could never override the reputation created by those who bore your name before you.

  Now, imagine that after seventeen years, at a time when the two accomplishments in your life are perilously close to being taken away, that someone steps up to defend you.

  My heroine is Miss Amanda Singletary, an English teacher at East Vinton High School. Twice in the past year, Miss Singletary came to my rescue. When I was in danger of failing junior English, she believed in my commitment to improve. When others found reason to call me a cheat, she believed that I was honest. She placed her reputation on the line and stood by me when others dismissed me as unworthy.

  Sometimes, we perceive heroes and heroines to be those who are bigger than life—Washington, Lincoln, and Joan of Arc. Other times, we confuse them with those who are simply icons of popular culture—Elvis, Mickey Mantle, or Marilyn Monroe. We forget that fame or popularity should not be a determining factor. Miss Singletary is a heroine because her deeds are performed without the expectation of reward or recognition. She acts with an acute sense of right and wrong, and does so without fear of criticism or repercussion.

  I do not think her a heroine simply for what she has done for me this year, but for what she has done for my future. It is said that if you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to fish, you feed him for life. Miss Singletary has taught me how to fish.

  She has taught me about such intangible qualities as character, honor, and determination. She has taught me that not only is it important to stand up for yourself, but that it is equally important to stand up for others, even when the cause is unpopular, and especially when sentiment weighs heavily against a just person.

  When I was filled with self-doubt, she encouraged me. When I wanted to run, she closed the door. And when I complained about the unfairness of life, she jerked me up by the collar and refused me pity.

  A year ago, my goals were simple. I hoped to graduate from high school and find a factory job. But Miss Singletary has taught me to never underestimate myself. She has taught me that there is no shame in failure and that the only disgrace is to never try. Miss Singletary has made my future more impossibly promising than I was capable of imagining just a few months ago. No single person has had a greater impact on my life, and I can think of no more essential criterion for a heroine.

  The ladies of the Alpha & Omega Literary Society and my fellow competitors, save one, gave me a warm applause. Miss Singletary stood and met me in front of our table, a moist tissue in one hand and a tear rolling down one cheek, and hugged me hard, slipping her hand behind my head and pulling it close so she could whisper in my ear, “I am so proud of you,” she said.

  I handed her the plaque. “Try not to mess it up when you nail it to his forehead.”

  When I turned, Mrs. Johanessen was standing near the door, staring at me in that familiar look of a woman who hated her life. Or, it may have been the look of a woman who simply hated me.

  The morning after the luncheon, a photograph of the top three finishers ran on the front page of the Sunday morning Vinton County Messenger. The third-place finisher and I were smiling and proudly showing our plaques. Catherine stood stoop-shouldered and looking like someone was holding a turd under her nose. Apparently, she had been thrilled to win second place until the moment they announced my name as the first-place winner.

  Edgel ran out early that morning and bought five copies of the paper and woke me up by waving the front page in my face. Edgel just kept looking at the photo, shaking his head and saying, “This is so great.”

  I had believed that winning the Alpha & Omega Literary Society’s county essay competition would bring me redemption. I believed that every student at the high school had for months been debating the veracity of my first essay and whether or not I was truly the author. But, in fact, I learned that my perception of everyone else’s interest in the drama that had unfolded after I won the East Vinton competition was mostly imaginary. It was important to Miss Singletary and me, and apparently the Johanessens, but beyond that, no one had given it much thought after a week or so. Being accused of cheating had been so personally embarrassing that I assumed everyone in the school was equally intrigued with my redemption. But, like the fire at the sawmill, kids are too wrapped up in their own lives to be concerned with anything else.

  When I walked into school Monday morning, no one said a word about the contest or my photo appearing in the newspapers. At lunch, Kip Fillinger saw me in the gymnasium and said, “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper for winning that contest. So, you really did write that other essay, huh?”

  “Yeah, of course I wrote it.”

  “That’s awesome, man, way to go.”

  Miss Singletary had the editor of the school paper—the East Vinton Herd—write a story about the county competition and how two East Vinton students had taken the top two places. While the drama of proving that I wasn’t a cheater was mostly conceived in my mind, I did notice one dramatic change in my life. When the story appeared in the high school paper, I didn’t receive looks of astonishment because of my last name. For that, I was most grateful.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  T

  he storm blew in from the west before daylight on Friday, December 14, 1973, pelting the side of our house with sleet the size of grapes. It arrived in waves, like swarms of angry bees attacking the house as it hit the corrugated steel roof over our porch. The wind continued to whip up our hill and rattle our windows as Edgel stood at the stove fixing French toast and bacon. He slid my plate across the table and said, “This is going to be a hell of a day to be shoveling ash.”

  Edgel had taken just two bites of his breakfast when the phone rang. He pushed his chair back and groaned as he lifted himself out of his seat and answered the phone before the third ring. “Hello.” He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll accept the charges.” He waited another moment and said, “How are you doing? . . . Uh-huh. . . . Rapid City, South Dakota, huh? What are you doing there? . . . That’s great. . . . Uh-huh, glad you’re enjoying yourself. Glad you could finally call and let us know that you’re still alive. That’s considerate. Oh, and in case you’re interested, we’re doing just fine, too. . . . I’m not being a smart-mouth, I just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.” While he spoke, I stuffed a half piece of French toast in my mouth, gnawing away and keeping my eyes focused on Edgel, as though I needed to watch him to hear. “We’re doing great. Just fine. You have fun. . . . Uh-huh, you know, this phone call is costing me money that I really don’t have. No, I’m not being a smart-mouth. . . . Fine. . . . Okay, I’m hanging up now. You take care of yourself.” He hung up and looked at me, shaking his head.

  “Dad’s in South Dakota?”

  “I don’t know about him, but your mother is. She and Cyclops just got into Rapid City with a tank
er full of liquid fertilizer.”

  “Mom? Are you kidding? I thought you were talking to Dad. Why did you hang up on her like that?”

  “I know you were tight with Mom, Jimmy Lee, but she’s no gem, either.”

  “Cut her a little slack, Edgel. It wasn’t an easy life with Dad.”

  “She had a tough run with the old man, there’s no disputin’ that, but she had no business running off in the middle of your senior year, especially when you’re doin’ as good as you are. She could have waited another couple of months. Hell, you ought to be upset, too. She left you in the care of an ex-convict, for God’s sake.” He grinned, pulling on his coat and ball cap. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  I looked out at the sleet that continued to pepper the windows and build up in tiny mounds on the sill. “Maybe you should wait awhile until it lets up a bit.”

  “I’m an hourly employee, Jimmy Lee. No work, no paycheck. This is why you’re going to college. You don’t want to work like this the rest of your life.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with honest labor.”

  Edgel squeezed the top snap of his coat and pulled the collar up around his ears. “Jimmy Lee, do you know what kind of man it takes to stand out in the snow and sleet and shovel wet ashes for twelve hours?”

  “A tough man?”

  He shook his head. “No, just a man without a lot of options.”

  By the time I started down the drive to catch the bus, the sleet had been replaced by a wet snow with flakes so heavy that they fell like rain and slid down my collar and chilled my neck. I wore my work boots and carried my dress shoes in my gym bag, not wanting to ruin them in the slush and mud. Polio Baughman was already at the foot of the hill, bouncing from foot to foot and shivering in a thin, hooded sweatshirt that he was holding closed by wrapping his pocketed hands around each other. His tennis shoes were untied and the laces sucked mud water like a candle wick draws hot wax. “Damn, Polio, don’t you have a coat?”

  He sniffed twice, drawing in the runny discharge. “I don’t need no coat. I’m not cold anyways.”

  “No, of course you’re not. My teeth always chatter like that when I’m toasty warm. Did you get your government report done?”

  I think he shook his head no, but he was shivering so bad it was hard to tell what was intentional and what was the result of his plummeting core temperature. “Hell, no. I’m not doing any more of that shit. I’m not going back to school after Christmas anyways. I enlisted in the Army.”

  “What? You enlisted? When?”

  “Day before yesterday. The recruiter says I’m first-rate infantry material. That’s exactly what he said—‘first-rate infantry material.’ I report to basic training right after the first of the year.”

  “Infantry material? Anyone with a pulse is infantry material. Why didn’t you wait until the end of the school year? You’ve almost got your diploma in the bag.”

  The bus was creeping toward us on the snow-covered Red Dog Road. “I’m going to flunk government and senior English, and you can’t graduate without passing both classes. Besides, I’m sick of school.”

  “Yeah, but it’s East Vinton, Polio. If you keep showing up between now and the end of the year they’ll pass you.”

  He gave me a look that said he could barely stand the sight of me. “You still going to college?”

  “I hope.”

  “Well, goody for you, college boy. You get off Red Dog Road your way and I’ll get off my way.”

  He got on the bus and stared out the window in silence all the way to school. For years, Polio had viewed me simply as another dogger—a kindred spirit. Then I won the essay contest, and earlier that week I had been named first team All-Ohio in football, the first player from East Vinton to ever earn the honor. He knew that I was getting scholarship offers for football and I think it was a little more than he wanted to swallow.

  The buses were late getting to school and the front hall was covered with water and the dirty slush that had fallen from shoes and boots. Students took calculated steps to avoid becoming a victim of the slick linoleum. When I turned the corner of the main hallway, Coach Battershell and Miss Singletary were standing near the principal’s office. Miss Singletary held a crumpled tissue in her hand, her eyes swollen and red, and rimmed with tears. When she saw me, she ducked her head and climbed the stairs. Coach Battershell simply pointed toward the ramp that led down to the gymnasium; I followed. I could only imagine that the school administration had found out that Miss Singletary and Coach Battershell were dating and in light of Miss Singletary’s confrontation with Mrs. Johanessen and Principal Speer, were now making an issue of their relationship.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. I had seen Coach Battershell angry on numerous occasions, but there was no fire in his eyes on this morning. Rather, it was a look of hurt and fear, the same look found in the eyes of family members who had just followed an ambulance to the emergency room.

  “Mrs. Johanessen has accused Miss Singletary of having an improper relationship with a student,” Coach Battershell said, closing the door to his office.

  I frowned, pondering his words only for a fraction of a second before realizing the implication. “Me?” He nodded, and I felt my knees buckle as a burning began deep in my loins, not unlike a kick to the balls. “Coach, honest to Jesus, there’s never been anything going on between us, I swear, I never . . .”

  He stopped me with a raised palm and a sad chuckle. “I know that, Jimmy Lee. That’s not an issue. It’s the allegation that’s the problem.”

  “It’s not a problem. I’ll just march into Mr. Speer’s office and tell him it’s a bunch of bullshit. Nothing improper ever happened and I’ll tell him so.”

  “Unfortunately, that isn’t going to matter, Jimmy Lee. Mrs. Johanessen has made the accusation and Mr. Speer is obligated to take it to the school board next Monday. There will be an investigation; Miss Singletary will be suspended with pay until it’s completed. They won’t find any wrongdoing, but the hook will have been set. Once someone makes that kind of allegation, you can never escape it. Other teachers will know. The community will know. Do you realize how personally embarrassing this is to her? She won’t be able to stay, and the specter of doubt will follow her wherever she goes. It could end her career as a teacher.”

  “Why would Mrs. Johanessen do something like that?”

  “Apparently, when she was unsuccessful in stopping you from winning the county essay contest, she turned on Miss Singletary. Mrs. Johanessen said she witnessed Miss Singletary give you a hug that was very intimate, kiss you on the ear and heard her say, ‘I love you,’ after you won the contest.”

  “She gave me a hug and said she was proud of me. You were sitting there, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “My word against hers. Again, it doesn’t matter if it’s true. It just has to be kicked around long enough to ruin her career. It’s like cat piss in your carpet. You can scrub all you want, but the stink never really goes away.”

  I couldn’t recall ever feeling so helpless. I wanted to punch something. “So, what can I do?” I finally asked.

  “Keep your mouth shut and stay away from Miss Singletary. She’s going home today so she won’t be in class. Word might get out. If anyone asks you about it, just tell them you don’t know what they’re talking about, and for God’s sake, no matter what anyone says, don’t punch them.”

  I sat through three classes, staring out the window as the snow continued to fall. Mr. Speer sent his secretary, Mrs. Green, to monitor Miss Singletary’s class and we were instructed to read quietly. They closed the school at noon. I rode the bus back home and then drove to the truck stop in the 1963 Plymouth Belvedere, the old cop car my dad had been unable to start the day he left Vinton County. After football season, I had begun working at the truck stop in the afternoons and one weekend day a week. I knew Mr. Monihan would want me there early to shovel the snow. The job paid a dollar-fifty an hour and a tub of beef stew or whatever extra food Mrs.
Monihan had in the kitchen.

  That day, I spent six hours in the refueling docks, shoveling the freshly fallen snow and lugging away the dirt-caked ice chunks that fell from beneath the wheel wells and undercarriages of the tractor-trailers. It was mindless work and I could not get Amanda Singletary or Gloria Johanessen out of my mind. Miss Singletary I wanted to comfort, but Mrs. Johanessen I desperately wanted to hurt. The more I concentrated on the situation, the faster and harder I shoveled, wishing the grip I had on the shovel was around Mrs. Johanessen’s neck.

  By 7 PM, I could no longer feel my toes and it was difficult to uncurl my fingers from around the handle of the shovel. I was tired and smelled of diesel fuel, which had mixed with the slush and soaked into my work boots and the cuffs of my jeans. The temperature was beginning to rise slightly and a light, misting rain was coming in from the west. When I came in to sign my time sheet, Mrs. Monihan had an aluminum tub of sauerkraut, kielbasa, and mashed potatoes ready to go. Four slices of bread and two pieces of pumpkin pie were wrapped in separate pieces of aluminum foil.

  She carried the hot tub to the Belvedere and sat it on the passenger side floor. “Share it with your brother,” she said, repeating her daily admonition to me.

  “I always do.”

  “I know you do, sweetheart.” As she held the side of the door, Mrs. Monihan shook her head and made a clicking sound with her cheeks. “I surely do feel sorry for you boys up there in that old house all by yourselves. Your mother worked here for fifteen years and I love her like a sister, but I just don’t understand how she could just take off with you still in high school and your brother just getting back on his feet. Of course, if I was . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked embarrassed that her thoughts had nearly escaped unchecked from her mouth.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Monihan? If you’d been married to Nick Hickam you would have left, too? It’s okay. I know what he was like. I lived with him for nearly eighteen years, too.”

  She tried to force back a smile. “You’re a good boy, Jimmy Lee.”