The Essay A Novel

by The Essay (retail) (epub)

  The fight was over. I had said my piece and won. Her fists clenched and the letter crumpled in her right hand. “Get off my property you little bastard, and don’t ever set foot here again or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll leave. But don’t mistake our resolve. This isn’t a bluff. What you’re trying to do to Miss Singletary is as low a stunt as I’ve ever seen, and I won’t stand for it.” I was feeling bolder by the second. “I remember seeing you in the car with Edgel that night. I was little, but I remember. I’ll put my hand on a Bible and swear to Christ in heaven that it’s true. Edgel will do the same.”

  “Get out,” she screamed. “Get out.” I turned and walked away as Edgel pulled the Rocket 88 up to meet me at the end of the drive. “You Hickams are all trash,” she yelled.

  I turned one last time to face her, now feeling the confidence swelling in my chest. “That may be, but where’s that put you, Mrs. Johanessen?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  T

  wo days before Christmas, I drove down to the sawmill to take a look at the subbasement to get some perspective of how much ash Edgel had hauled out of there. It was cavernous and for the first time I earned an appreciation for how much work Edgel had performed. He was hosing down the last of the walls of the subbasement when I arrived. “How’d you get that ash up the steps and into the wheelbarrow?” I asked.

  “Buckets,” he said.

  “Mother of Christ, that’s a lot of work.”

  He poked me once in the chest with a damp finger. “Remember what I said. It’s what a man without a lot of options does.” He winked.

  The ice-covered gravel crunched under our shoes as we walked up to the trailer so Edgel could ask Mr. Morgan for a final inspection. “I don’t need to see it, Edgel. You’ve been doing a fine job,” Mr. Morgan said. He offered us both seats in his tiny office. “You still interested in working here at the mill?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After the fire, Mr. Morgan had built a temporary shelter and set up ripping saws to keep the men working. It was slow, labor-intensive work, but it kept everyone busy while the new plant was being constructed. New joists now spanned the foundation and the first framed walls were going up. “I have a spot open for a picker. Do you know what that is?”

  “No, but I could probably figure it out pretty quick.”

  Mr. Morgan held up a yellow order slip. “We get these orders for lumber. I need someone to go through the stacks picking out the lumber and putting the orders together. There’s a lot of heavy lifting and it’s damn hard work.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work,” Edgel said.

  “You don’t seem to be. Good.” He stood and shook Edgel’s hand. “I’ve got a stack of orders that need filled. Be here at seven, the morning after Christmas.”

  Edgel never asked how much it paid, though he knew it would be more than he earned for shoveling ash and it would include health insurance. He had earned himself a steady job and I think for the first time since he had gotten out of prison, Edgel felt like his life was getting back on track.

  We got up Christmas morning and exchanged gifts. I got Edgel a pocketknife with onyx and mother of pearl inlays and a pair of waterproof work boots. I bought them both at the general store that was attached to the truck stop, and Mrs. Monihan had sold them to me at her cost. Edgel gave me the two best gifts I had ever in my life received. The first was my football helmet mounted on a walnut base with brass plates running around the sides, each listing one of my accomplishments—First Team All-Ohio, District Defensive Player of the Year, Black Diamond Conference MVP, East Vinton MVP. The second gift was a walnut shadow box encasing a backdrop of black velvet displaying the two gold medals I had won for the essay contests.

  “Where’d you get this?” I asked, holding up the shadow box.

  “Made it. I asked Mr. Morgan if I could have a few pieces of scrap, then I took them over to the Farnsworths’ shop and worked them down.”

  They were perfectly formed pieces of wood—sanded, buffed, and finished. I was astonished at my brother’s abilities. “These are the best gifts I’ve ever gotten, Edgel. I’ll keep these forever. Thanks.”

  There was a tear in his eye when he pushed himself off the couch and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

  It was to be the best Christmas of my life. The Monday morning after I confronted Mrs. Johanessen, Miss Singletary was back in class, demanding as ever, teaching as though she had never missed a beat. At lunchtime, I went to Coach Battershell’s office and learned that on Saturday evening, Miss Singletary had received a call from Principal Speer, who said Mrs. Johanessen had reconsidered her allegations. She apparently said it was possible that she misinterpreted what was simply the excitement of the moment after I won the essay contest and since it was such a serious charge and held such long-term ramifications for Miss Singletary that it was best that the allegations be dropped. “I don’t get it,” Coach Battershell said. “It couldn’t have been something as simple as a change of heart.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because she doesn’t have one.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I’m just glad it’s over.”

  “Miss Singletary is, too. As you might imagine she’s not too happy with Mrs. Johanessen, but she wants to let it rest, at least until you’ve graduated.”

  “What then?”

  “Knowing Miss Singletary, she’ll probably punch her in the nose.”

  Miss Singletary invited Edgel and me to Christmas dinner at the home of her parents, Esther and Wilfred, with her older brothers, their wives and children, and Coach Battershell, for the most wonderful prime rib I had ever tasted. Right after the blessing, as we were still standing behind our dining room chairs, Miss Singletary said it was going to be a very special Christmas and she held up her left hand in front of her chest, fingers splayed, showing off the marquise cut diamond engagement ring that Coach Battershell had given her. There was much hugging and clapping and Esther cried until dessert.

  “The secret’s going to be out now,” I said.

  “I’m okay with that,” Miss Singletary said.

  “I have an announcement, too,” I said. “We also have a reason to celebrate. Mr. Morgan offered Edgel a full-time job at the sawmill.”

  Everyone at the table clapped and cheered. Wilfred offered a toast to what he called “two wonderful events.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  O

  n Tuesday, March 19, 1974, a letter arrived from the office of T. Edward Millard, attorney-at-law. The letter stated that the divorce of Mildred Katherine Hickam from Nicholas Oscar Hickam would become final at 9 AM on Thursday, April 4. The letter stated that our mother requested our presence at the hearing.

  I had spoken to my mother in mid-January and late February. The first time she called from a truck stop pay phone somewhere between Demopolis, Alabama, and Meridian, Mississippi; we spoke for three minutes until the operator cut us off. The second time, she called collect from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and we spoke for about ten minutes. She and Cyclops were happy and she had seen more in the past two months than she had in her previous forty-nine years. Never in my life had I heard such joy in her voice. Edgel was still grousing about her running off with Cyclops, but I found it difficult to be angry with her. Part of me believed she was entitled to the happiness. She asked if I had heard from Dad. I said no and she said good. That was the last time I spoke to her until we saw her in the courtroom on the morning of April 4.

  The white Peterbilt tractor of Cyclops’s rig was parked on East Main Street across from the county courthouse. Mom was standing in the main hallway of the courthouse and started smiling as soon as we walked inside. She was wearing black half-heels and a black and green pattern dress that hung loosely over a frame that had shed a good twenty pounds and ten years since we had last seen her. Her hair, cut and framed around her rouged face, was colored a light brown that hid the gray streaks that had made her look so old. E
dgel and I shared a shocked look; it was the best either of us could ever remember her looking.

  She wrapped an arm around each of our necks and squeezed. John “Cyclops” Phillips and another man emerged from the men’s room. Cyclops was wearing a shiny, gray polyester suit with a matching eye patch. His belly strained the buttons of his black shirt and bent his silver, polyester necktie. An unwieldy, dishwater blond moustache rolled under his upper lip and was damp on the tips. He nodded and Edgel and I extended our hands. Cyclops introduced the other man as a trucker friend named Dirk something-or-other who smelled heavily of Old Spice, had a pompadour haircut, a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a business envelope, and a tarnished chain running from a belt loop to an oversized wallet in his hip pocket. “Do we need to be witness to the divorce, or something?” Edgel asked.

  My mother shook her head. “That business is done. We did it in the judge’s chambers a half-hour ago. But we have some other business we need to attend to. Come with me.”

  As we walked toward the judge’s chambers, Dirk something-or-other headed toward the main door of the courthouse. We entered the judge’s chambers where T. Edward Millard was sitting at a conference table with papers spread before him. T. Edward shook our hands and said, “So, you boys are going to be landowners, huh?”

  “They don’t know why they’re here,” my mother said, finally looking toward us. “I’m going to give you boys the house. I’m selling it to you, actually, for one dollar.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. It’s where you boys grew up, so you can do with it as you please.”

  T. Edward Millard pointed for us to sit in two chairs across from him. In rapid succession he began shoving papers across the table for us to sign. I had turned eighteen a week before Christmas, and these were the first documents I had signed as a legal adult. He explained each, though I understood little of what he was saying and I suppose Edgel was in the same boat. “All you need to understand is that the property located at 10107 Red Dog Road will be sold to Edgel Nicholas Hickam and James Leland Hickam for the sum of one dollar.” When I pulled my wallet out of my hip pocket and fetched a dollar, T. Edward Millard smiled and said, “I don’t really need your dollar.” I was even more confused.

  The Honorable Horace A. Able entered the room as T. Edward Millard was clearing the last of the papers from the conference table. The judge was a tall man with broad shoulders that had begun to stoop with age. In his day, I imagine he was an imposing figure. He was deeply religious and often quoted scripture before sentencing the convicted. He now walked with a bit of a shuffle and was in need of a haircut. Rolls of gray hair covered the back of his neck like an animal pelt and wild sprays of hair resembling a sea urchin grew out of his ears. It wasn’t until he crossed his arms at the wrists that I spotted the Bible. “Counselor, are you done with your business so we can get this couple back on the road?” Judge Able asked.

  It was at that moment that I realized that the transfer of the house was not the only piece of business that my mother was going to take care of on this day. Not thirty minutes after she had divorced my dad she was going to marry a man who had yet to utter a dozen words to me. Dirk something-or-other came walking back in the room and stood to the right of Cyclops. “I want you boys to stand with me,” my mom said.

  The ceremony took, at most, two minutes, and my new stepfather jingled the change in his pocket and rocked heel-to-toe the entire time. I was struggling to digest the entire four-month scenario since my mother had announced that she was getting her commercial driver’s license, when I heard Judge Able say, “Mr. Phillips, you may now kiss your bride.”

  Edgel and I hugged our mother and shook hands with our new stepfather. He said, “I’m looking forward to knowing you boys a lot gooder.”

  They hopped into the big rig, Mom waved, our new stepfather gave two long blasts on his air horn, and they pulled away from the curb, spewing exhaust into the morning air. As they did, Dirk something-or-other slapped me across the chest with a backhand and said, “Watch this. It’s gonna be great.” Dirk had tied a couple of dozen tin cans to the back of the rig with fishing line and attached a “JUST MARRIED” sign between the rear tires. He cackled and pointed as the Peterbilt headed up Main Street and turned north on Market Street, the clatter of the cans drowned out by the whine of the diesel engine. “Don’t that just beat it?” Dirk something-or-other said as he turned and walked away, laughing to himself.

  Edgel and I walked to the Rocket 88 in silence. Inside, we stared at each other in mutual disbelief. “He wants to get to know us a lot gooder,” I said. Edgel smiled. “One of these days, the old man is going to come wandering home and we’re going to have to explain to him that we own his house and that his wife divorced him so she could marry a one-eyed truck driver who they call Cyclops.”

  “Maybe he’ll never come home,” Edgel offered.

  “Oh, he’ll come home. He’s always found his way back before. He’s like some mangy dog that you can’t get rid of.”

  Edgel put the car in gear and slid into the empty street. “If he comes home, I’ll tell him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  V

  irgil called home on the last Sunday afternoon in April while Edgel was painting the living room and when I was working at the truck stop. Barker Brothers & Sons Amusements was going to be in Richmond, Kentucky, the following weekend setting up for a carnival and he wanted us to drive down for a visit. “Did he say how Dad was doing?” I asked.

  “No, but that’s Virgil. He doesn’t give a whip about anyone but Virgil, and I didn’t ask. He told me where he was going to be and I said we’d try to get there. I didn’t want to start a conversation with him and have him ask, ‘How’s Mom?’ That’s a discussion best had face to face.”

  The Vinton County Relays were the next Saturday at McArthur Roosevelt High School. When I had finished my events—we won the 880 relay and finished second in the 440 relay—I pulled on my sweats and jumped into a Ford station wagon that Edgel had borrowed from Luke Farnsworth for the weekend. The Belvedere Dad had left behind had died and been hauled to the salvage yard. Neither the Rocket 88 nor the rattletrap pickup my mother had left behind was fit for such a trip.

  We drove south to Route 32—the Appalachian Highway—and headed west toward Cincinnati. It was in the low seventies and we drove with the windows down, filling the car with the sweet smell of spring growth. We hit Interstate 75 in Cincinnati and were in Richmond in just over four hours. The carnival was being set up in the parking lot of the first strip mall we found west of the interstate. We parked alongside of a semitrailer that bore a faded painting of a clown’s face and “Barker Brothers & Sons Amusements” on its side. We had barely exited the car when I heard Virgil say, “Hey, them’s my brothers over there.”

  He came striding hard between the Tilt-A-Whirl and the skeleton of an octopus ride that had yet to be adorned with cars. A cigarette smoldered between the index and middle finger of his right hand and there was hardly a spot on him that wasn’t covered in grease. His clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks and Virgil wasn’t far behind. Strands of unwashed, grease-stained hair hung nearly to his shoulders and the decay between his front teeth had expanded noticeably. He stuck the cigarette between his lips long enough to pump our hands and leave them covered with a film of grime. “You sons of bitches, it’s good to see ya,” Virgil said.

  “Good to see you, too,” Edgel said, flicking at Virgil’s scraggly hair. “This is a different look for a redneck from Vinton County.”

  “The chicks love it long,” Virgil said. I found it implausible that there was a woman breathing air who could find anything appealing about Virgil Hickam, but I kept my mouth shut. “Where’s the old man and the old lady? They didn’t come down with you?”

  Edgel looked up at me but said nothing. “Isn’t Dad with you?” I asked.

  Virgil sent a stream of cigarette s
moke out his nostrils. “Why in hell would he be with me?”

  “He left home six or seven months ago and said he was going to hook up with you in Florida and work for the carnival. You mean you haven’t seen him?”

  “I ain’t seen him or heard from him since we went to visit you in prison last summer.” He looked at Edgel and sucked hard on his cigarette. “Why would he do a fool thing like that, anyway?”

  “He lost his job at the sawmill,” Edgel said. “I’m sure everything’s going to be fine. He was hitchhiking south and probably got distracted along the way. You know how Dad is.”

  “Why didn’t Mom come?”

  Edgel looked at the trucks lined up along the side of the parking lot. “What time do you get off?” he asked Virgil.

  “About five or six. We’re running ahead of schedule.”

  “Jimmy Lee and I are going to go find us a hotel room. You want to come over to the room, clean up, and we’ll go to dinner? There’s been a lot going on at home. I’ll fill you in over a steak dinner.”

  “Hell, yes. I could go for a steak,” Virgil said, seeming to immediately forget that he had two parents missing in action.

  “Do you have any clean clothes?”

  “No, not really. I haven’t had much time to do laundry.”

  “What size are those jeans?”

  Virgil twisted his neck to read the leather tag on his beltless waist. “Thirty-two.”

  “We’ll get checked in, get you some clean clothes and be back here about six to pick you up. You can shower up at the hotel and we’ll go get something to eat.”

  When we returned, Virgil was leaning against the tires of the semitrailer, his legs crossed at the ankles, one cigarette between his fingers, another tucked behind his left ear. While we were at a discount store buying Virgil a pair of jeans, packages of T-shirts, underwear and socks, shampoo, and a hand soap that contained pumice, Edgel also bought a roll of brown wrapping paper, which he used to cover the back seat and floor of the station wagon. Virgil frowned when he opened the door and saw the protective paper. “Hell, I ain’t that dirty,” he said, flicking his still-burning butt over the roof.