Jimmy

by Robert Whitlow

  JIMMY WENT UPSTAIR S TO HIS ROOM AND PLOPPED DOWN ON the bed. Sticking out from under the bed was the walking stick Grandpa made for him when Jimmy was six years old. Jimmy nudged it with his toe. He heard the front door slam and looked out the window. Daddy opened the trunk of his car and put his golf clubs inside. Jimmy loved to go to the golf course and ride in the cart, but Daddy didn’t invite him except when he was playing with Uncle Bart. That didn’t happen very much, because Uncle Bart worked on Saturdays and Mama wouldn’t let Daddy play golf on Sunday.

  Mama called up the stairs. “Grandpa and Grandma say that it’s okay for you to come over!”

  Jimmy clapped his hands together and went downstairs. Mama had her purse and car keys in her hand.

  “Let’s go. I need to run some errands this morning.”

  “You don’t need to take me,” Jimmy replied. “Buster and I can walk. I know the way.”

  Mama stopped and stared. Jimmy had walked to his grandparents’ home many times but always accompanied by an adult.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mama looked at her watch. “Okay, I’ll call and let them know you’re leaving the house. Don’t forget to stop and look both ways before crossing the street.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mama gave him a quick hug. When she let him go, Jimmy ran to the screened door at the side entrance to the house. The door slammed behind him as he hopped down the steps to get Buster from the backyard. Buster burst through the gate and ran in a tight circle before coming to a stop. Jimmy bent over and scratched the dog’s chin. Buster wiggled in delight. Jimmy heard Mama’s car going down the driveway.

  “We’re going to Grandpa’s house,” Jimmy said. “All by ourselves.”

  Jimmy and Buster walked across the yard toward the sidewalk and turned right. On the street behind them, Mama pulled to the curb and watched.

  Jimmy usually made the trip to Grandpa’s house with his left hand safe in Mama’s cool grip and Buster tugging on the leash in his right hand. Today both walked free.

  Jimmy knew the way by heart, but the thought that he could leave the house alone, walk carefully along the sidewalk, stop at the stop signs, look both ways, cross only if there were no cars, and turn onto Grandpa’s street turned the journey into an adventure. Someday he would own a bicycle. Every other boy he knew had been riding a bicycle for years, but Jimmy still waited. Maybe his thirteenth birthday would be the big day.

  They came to the first four-way stop. There were cars at all corners of the intersection. Jimmy waited. Mama coasted to a halt beneath the shade of a large tree about two hundred feet behind him. A woman rolled down her car window.

  “You can cross!” she yelled. “Pedestrians have the right of way.”

  “I’m not a pedestrian,” Jimmy answered. “My name is Jimmy Mitchell.”

  The woman rolled up her window and proceeded across the intersection. Jimmy waited. Mama had taught him to be patient, because it could take awhile for all the cars to move forward. Buster sat and began to pant. Even though it wasn’t summer yet, the day held the promise of stifling heat. When the way finally cleared, Jimmy and Buster crossed to the other side.

  Jimmy’s grandparents lived on Ridgeview Drive in a much smaller house than the large home owned by Daddy and Mama.

  “Which house is it?” Jimmy asked Buster.

  The dog, trotting in front, glanced behind to see why Jimmy had slowed. Jimmy caught up. It was no use trying to fool Buster. The dog went on until they came to the seventh house on the left. Then he ran across the front yard and jumped onto a narrow stoop.

  Flower beds stretched across the front of the house. The dark dirt of the beds was different from the red clay that peeked through in bare spots beneath two medium-sized trees. Grandma said the soil came from a river bottom. Sometimes Grandma brought cut flowers to Jimmy’s house.

  Buster ran up to the front door and barked. About the time Jimmy joined him, the door cracked open, and Buster rushed inside for the treat Grandma always gave him before letting him play in the backyard. The squirrels at Grandpa’s house spent more time on the ground than the ones behind Jimmy’s house and scampered into the trees a split second before the dog arrived.

  Grandpa held the door open for Jimmy. When he was a young man, Grandpa had brown hair like his son and grandson, but in the past few years his hair had turned completely white. Not quite as tall as Daddy, Grandpa had wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and hands that still remembered the strength developed during forty years as a lineman and foreman with the Georgia Power Company.

  Grandpa stepped onto the stoop and gave Jimmy a big hug. Grandpa’s hugs were more than a hello.

  “Where’s your mama?” Grandpa asked, looking over Jimmy’s shoulder.

  “She let Buster and me come by ourselves.”

  At the end of Ridgeview Drive, Mama drove away toward her first stop in town.

  “Did you have any problems?” Grandpa asked.

  “No, sir.”

  Grandpa let Jimmy go, but the boy remained close.

  “Can I listen?” Jimmy asked.

  Ever since Grandpa’s heart attack, Jimmy always took time to listen to the old man’s heart. Daddy told Jimmy that Grandpa’s heart stopped beating at the hospital, and the doctors had to make it start again.

  Grandpa stood still, and Jimmy pressed his left ear against Grandpa’s chest.

  “How does it sound?” Grandpa asked.

  “Thump, thump, thump,” Jimmy replied.

  “That’s good. If it ever quits, let me know.”

  They passed through a small living room. Grandma rarely allowed anyone to sit on the cream-colored couch and matching side chair. Jimmy had watched her dust the furniture and clean the room. She always put everything back in the same place: the big picture book of scenes from the Georgia coast rested in the center of the coffee table, the clear glass balls with decorations inside went in a corner bookcase, the two pieces of cloth that Grandma’s mother had woven on a loom covered matching end tables, and the cross-stitch sampler of the alphabet Grandma made when she was a little girl stood on a small stand atop a small desk.

  “Are you thirsty?” Grandpa asked. “It’s a long, hot walk from your house.”

  Jimmy felt his forehead. He’d not thought it hot outside, but there were tiny drops of sweat on his brow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What would you like?”

  Jimmy grinned. “How much is a glass of water?”

  “How much do you have?”

  Jimmy turned out his pockets. They were empty.

  Grandpa frowned. “If you don’t have any money for water, I guess you’ll have to drink lemonade.”

  Jimmy followed Grandpa into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Grandma stood at the sink. Through a window beside the kitchen table, Jimmy could see Buster chase a squirrel that zigzagged up the side of a tree and out of reach.

  “Good morning, Grandma,” he said.

  Grandma dried her hands on a dish towel and gave Jimmy a hug. Her hugs were a simple hello.

  “Jimmy walked over by himself,” Grandpa announced.

  “Does your mama know you’re here?” Grandma asked in surprise.

  “She called earlier this morning and talked to me,” Grandpa replied. “You were outside in the garden.”

  Grandma always wore a dress. She had fancy ones for church; soft, loose ones for inside the house; and older ones for working in her small vegetable garden or flower beds. A little taller and a lot heavier than Jimmy’s mama, Grandma spent all her time around her house and the neatly kept yard. On Saturday mornings, she always went to the beauty shop to have her gray hair fixed for church. She poured a glass of lemonade for Jimmy and looked at the clock on the kitchen wall.

  “Time for me to go to the beauty shop,” she said. “There are fresh-picked tomatoes for you to take home, Jimmy. Will you be here when I get back?”

  “Unless we decide to go to Cal
ifornia,” Grandpa answered.

  “Where is that?” Jimmy asked.

  “It’s where they grow the lemons your grandma used to make that lemonade.”

  “Let’s go,” Jimmy said. “I don’t have to be home until supper time.”

  “We couldn’t make it,” Grandpa said. “California is way past Alabama. I’ll get the map and show you.”

  After Grandma left, Grandpa unrolled a large plastic map of the United States and spread it out on the kitchen table. They’d looked at the map many times. Jimmy liked the different colors. Grandpa said each color was a different state.

  “Where do we live?” he asked Jimmy.

  Jimmy pointed to a blue rectangle. “But the color is wrong,” he said. “Our ground is red.”

  “Yep,” Grandpa replied. “If you’d colored this map, you would have gotten it right. Where is Piney Grove?”

  Jimmy peered through his glasses. He knew where to look. He’d put his finger on Piney Grove so many times there was a smudge on the plastic. The name of the town was in the smallest print on the map.

  “Here,” he said.

  Jimmy understood that the dots and lines were cities and roads, but he thought a good map should show houses, cars, and people. Anyone could make a dot or a draw a line, but the buildings along Hathaway Street would be hard.

  “Find California,” Grandpa said. “It’s the name of a state, just like Georgia, so it won’t be in little print.”

  “How do you spell it?”

  Grandpa wrote the name on a slip of paper and left the room. Jimmy stared at the map and began moving his finger across the lower states as he looked for the right word. Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. The first time he reached the Pacific Ocean he stopped near San Diego. Returning to the East Coast, he moved up and touched North Carolina, Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, Colorado, and Utah. He reached the Pacific again when he saw the word—California. Colored light green, California was a lot bigger than Georgia.

  “I found it!” he called out.

  Grandpa returned with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked over Jimmy’s shoulder.

  “That was quick. You’re getting better and better at finding things on the map. Do you know how long it would take to drive in a car from Piney Grove to California?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Three days.”

  Jimmy’s eyes grew big. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No, but I understand it’s beautiful. I guess I’ll never get to see it.”

  Buster scratched at the back door.

  “He wants us to come outside and play,” Jimmy said.

  Grandpa folded up the map, then they went into the big backyard, which ended at a high, thick hedge. Two gray birdbaths sat across from each other on a wooden deck that Jimmy had helped stain. Grandpa set birdhouses all over—some high, some low—for all the different birds that visited the yard. In the summertime, Grandma made peach pies from fruit she picked herself off the two trees.

  But the most interesting item in the backyard was a solitary black utility pole.

  Forty-five feet tall, the naked black post rose from the ground like a great tree with no branches. No telephone wires or power lines ran to or from it. No security light hung from its top. No basketball goal was nailed to it.

  It was a gift. It was a climbing pole.

  When Grandpa retired from the Georgia Power Company, the local office wanted to give him a gift. Everyone knew Grandpa loved to fish, so someone said they should buy him a new motor for the little boat he used to take out on the lakes. However, when the engineer in charge of the office asked Grandma what her husband would like as a reminder of his days as a power-company employee, she surprised them all.

  “Are you sure?” the engineer asked.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “A pole in our backyard.”

  “Nobody thinks a power pole is a decorative addition to their residence,” the engineer said. “Everyone wants underground power.”

  “Not Jim. He thinks they’re beautiful. Without those poles, he wouldn’t have had a job.”

  “But are you okay with a power pole in your yard?”

  Grandma smiled. “It won’t be in the front yard. Put it toward the rear of the lot.”

  So, shortly after Grandpa left his house for his final day at work, a three-man crew showed up. In a few hours, the men dug a hole, dropped in the pole, tied an enormous red bow around it, and stuck a flare on top. After taking Grandpa to lunch, his fellow workers drove their yellow trucks in a line all the way up Ridgeview Drive and stopped in front of Grandpa’s home. Tying a blindfold across Grandpa’s eyes, they led him into the backyard. Then they lit the flare and removed the blindfold. Grandpa looked up and laughed.

  “How did you know I really wanted one?” he asked Grandma.

  “Forty-one years of marriage,” she replied without a change of expression.

  Grandpa and Jimmy stepped into the yard. Buster abandoned a squirrel and raced up to them.

  “You’re getting bigger, aren’t you?” Grandpa asked Jimmy, patting him on the back.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you ready?” Grandpa asked.

  “For what?”

  — Five —

  At the rear of the yard next to the hedge, Grandpa had built a neat wooden shed for his garden tools and John Deere mower. On the inside wall of the shed, he kept his pole-climbing gear. Beneath his climbing hooks, he placed a worn pair of the high-top black boots linemen wore. Since his heart attack, he’d not been up the pole.

  When Jimmy was younger, Grandpa gave him rides to the top of the pole. Leaning against the old man’s chest with a safety harness wrapped around his waist and legs, Jimmy would rest his hands on the safety belt as Grandpa moved up the surface of the pole. Linemen dig their climbing hooks into the surface of the pole, and Daddy said that in his prime Grandpa could scurry up the pole as nimbly as a monkey after a bunch of bananas. Even in retirement, Grandpa could carry Jimmy to the top of the pole for a panoramic view of Piney Grove in a couple of minutes. As he climbed, Grandpa would slide the safety belt up while leaning back to keep everything snug. The climbing hooks made a crunching sound as they penetrated the black creosote into the pine wood beneath.

  “Climbing a pole is like ballet,” Grandpa said. “It takes special muscles that you don’t use for anything else.”

  Jimmy wasn’t sure about ballet, but he could sense the strength in Grandpa’s thighs.

  “I’ve been on poles when it was raining so hard you couldn’t see ten feet in any direction, and I’ve felt the wind try to rip me off the pole and throw me into a dark cloud. Twice, lightning struck within fifty feet of me. Once, a tree fell and hit the pole where I was working, and I found myself wrapped up in the branches.”

  When Grandpa told stories, Jimmy could see pictures in his head of what had happened.

  “I’m glad for bucket trucks,” Grandpa said. “But the younger workers never learned to climb like the old hands.”

  Jimmy never tired of the view from the top of the pole. Over the roof of Grandpa’s house, he could see his entire world. To the north lay the steeples of the town’s two main churches: the skinny spire of the First Methodist Church and the thicker steeple of the First Baptist Church. The Presbyterians in Piney Grove worshiped in a smaller building without a steeple. Near the Methodist church, Jimmy could see the clock tower for the courthouse.

  To the south, three storage silos for the Cattaloochie County Farmers’ Co-op reached toward the heavens. Max told Jimmy the silos held rockets ready to blast off into space, but Grandpa said they were filled with corn and soybeans. Beyond the silos lay an open space for the two baseball fields where the Little League teams played. Jimmy liked to throw and catch a ball but didn’t play on a team.

  To the west, Jimmy saw housetops that peeked above dark green leaves in summer and pale green pine needles all year round. In the far distance, the trees gave way to a broad pasture that rose up a gently
sloping hill.

  To the east, the smokestack of an abandoned textile mill rose like a sinister red tower. A faint ring of black soot still clung to the bricks at the top of the giant chimney. A row of glass windows just below the roofline of the factory were visible from the top of the pole. Jimmy knew some of the windows were broken, shattered by boys who climbed the high chain-link fence and threw rocks.

  Directly below, Jimmy could look down and see the clothes Mrs. Johnson hung on the line to dry and watch Mr. Nevin, a red kerchief around his neck and a broad-brimmed straw hat on his head, hoe his vegetable garden.

  Once, when he was nine years old, Jimmy leaned against Grandpa’s chest, looked to the north, and saw a Watcher suspended motionless in the air not far from the courthouse clock tower. The Watcher turned and silently nodded at Jimmy. Jimmy started to tell Grandpa, but with a thought the Watcher stopped him.

  “Do you want to go down?” Grandpa had asked.

  “No, sir,” Jimmy replied quietly. “I want to stay a little bit longer.”

  The Watcher scanned the town, and Jimmy felt something warm, tender, sad, and happy all rolled into one inside his chest. The mix of feelings caused him to want to cry and laugh at the same time. Wondering what it all meant, he kept looking. Grandpa didn’t intrude.

  Then Jimmy understood. The Watcher cared deeply about the people of Piney Grove—no matter what they looked like or where they lived. Each person was part of a bigger whole: plain, pretty, rich, poor, black, and white. Jimmy took in the whole scene and listened to another kind of heartbeat—the pulse of a small, out-of-the-way town between Atlanta and Birmingham. The Watcher seemed to share the feelings of the people on the ground beneath him. He knew what was happening in Piney Grove. And he cared.

  Jimmy glanced toward the red smokestack, and when he looked back, the Watcher was gone. Sometimes when he lay in his bed at night, Jimmy stared at the ceiling and wondered if the Watcher continued to hover overhead.

  GRANDPA OPENED THE DOOR OF THE SHED. IT WAS DARK INSIDE.

  “Wait here,” Grandpa said.

  Jimmy heard Buster bark at the discovery of an interesting scent. In a minute, Grandpa emerged and handed Jimmy a smaller version of the old man’s work boots.