The Promise of Jesse Woods

by Chris Fabry

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You make new friends?” she said, deadpan and moving toward the lockers.

  “I’m sorry about the bus. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “I did. I tried to save you a seat.”

  “I understand if you don’t want to associate with me.”

  “Stop it,” I said, grabbing her arm. She pulled away quickly, but I locked eyes with her. “This is not about me associating with anybody. You think I’m ashamed of you?”

  She clenched her teeth, brow furrowed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her chin quivered. “I just needed to tell somebody about this morning. It was awful. Daisy about scratched me to death when I left.”

  “She’ll get used to it, don’t you think?”

  Jesse looked at the floor. “That’s the story of our lives. We just get used to things.”

  “Why is your hair wet?”

  “No reason,” she said.

  Then I put it together. Jesse had no running water. She used the school shower to get presentable.

  “Did you get breakfast this morning?” I said.

  “I’m all right.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder and she felt like nothing but skin and bones. “One day at a time, okay? You’re going to make it.” I paused. “No. We’re going to make it.”

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1984

  I knew when I woke up that this was the day I would talk with Jesse again. I needed to fish or cut bait, as my father often said when I was a kid. How I would fish was the question.

  I pulled out the pictures Uncle Willy had given me, and that produced a desire for more remnants of my childhood. In the back of my closet I found more pictures and newspaper clippings.

  I’m convinced everyone has a pivotal year in their lives, a year when things coalesce in a way that leaves you forever changed. For me, that year was 1972, and not just because of the move to Dogwood. It was the last year pitchers batted for themselves in the American League. The beginning of the baseball season was mired in strike talk. At the Olympics, eleven Israeli athletes were killed by terrorists, ushering in new fears in a world filled to the brim. World events swirled, lining up for big changes we could not anticipate. The Vietnam War was winding down, but there were flare-ups. People in West Virginia said the problem in Vietnam wasn’t that we were at war, but that we weren’t being allowed to win. President Richard Nixon went to China that year, but there was also a break-in at the Watergate Hotel. The seeds of an impeached president and the malaise of later years were sown in 1972, but I could not see any of this because that was the year I fell in love with Jesse Woods.

  It was also the year I fell more deeply in love with drama, for it was the year I met Mr. Kerry Lambert. I had expected Dogwood to be culturally backward but Mr. Lambert was a ray of light. He saw something in me in our language arts class that he called forth over the next few years and I threw myself into every play and musical he produced.

  This morning, the news of Jesse’s pregnancy, if it was true, still hung over me, and I felt I needed someone else’s wisdom before I approached her again. I drove to Mr. Lambert’s neighborhood. The leaves were turning on the hillside and there was a fresh chill in the air. We’d had cast parties at his house and stayed by his pool until the wee hours. His wife had been one of the kindest people I have ever known. Mr. Lambert was a Christian, but my parents considered him just barely one since he was in what they considered a liberal denomination. Mr. Lambert always listened to their objections to the plays he chose, and it was a personal victory when we performed The Sound of Music in my junior year. My father had enthusiastically encouraged the congregation to see it because of its “story of faith in the crucible.”

  Mr. Lambert had sensed the friction between my father and me over drama and faith. My father’s was a retreating religious system that had deemed Hollywood and Broadway as “of the devil.” But there were glimpses of a cease-fire between us.

  “I don’t know why your dad wouldn’t want to use that creative mind of yours,” he said to me one day. It was a seed well-planted because a few weeks later, as my father was working his way through Colossians, I wandered into his office one day after school.

  “I was reading ahead to chapter 3 for this week and had an idea about how you can illustrate the message,” I said.

  He put down his pen and leaned back in his wooden swivel chair. “I’m listening.”

  “It talks about putting away anger, wrath, malice. It’s almost like Paul has attended our church.”

  He smiled wryly.

  “The passage says to put off the old self and put on the new, right?”

  He nodded. “What are you thinking?”

  I explained my idea of illustrating the message with tattered clothes with symbolic words pinned to them—anger, malice, lying, etc. “And then, beside the pulpit you could have a coat tree. A shirt that says compassion, a tie that has humility on it. And you take off the tattered stuff and put on the new ones.”

  My father did not go for theatrics in the pulpit, but this idea struck him differently. “I like that. But I could never preach and do all of that at the same time.”

  I said I understood and turned to leave.

  “What if you did?” he said. “What if we put up the coat tree and you wander up with the tattered clothes. As I speak, you take off the old and put on the new?”

  It was the first glimmer of hope that my father could embrace my gift, and the vision was given by Mr. Lambert.

  I rang the doorbell and an older version of my teacher appeared. His shoulders were stooped and he had the telltale hair loss of a cancer patient. But there was still fire in his voice as he bellowed, “Matt Plumley! Cynthia, look who’s here.”

  He ushered me in like I was a conquering king and we sat at his kitchen table, he and his wife listening to my story over coffee. I told them where I had been, the truth about my work in Chicago, that I had abandoned my acting plans to go full-time helping struggling inner-city kids.

  “But you’re still auditioning, right?” Mr. Lambert said, cocking his head to one side.

  “When I see an open audition, I try out, but I’ve had little or no success.”

  “If I were still teaching, I would have you tell your story. Kids need to hear it’s possible to follow your dream—and that dreams can change.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the poster boy for that. But I wanted to thank you for seeing something in me and giving me confidence.”

  “It shows your character that you want to honor that. You were more than a good student. You helped others spread their wings. They fed on your example, your energy. And you’re still doing that. I’m very proud of you.”

  His words were like water on parched ground and I drank them in. We talked more about his illness, the changes to the town and the encroachment of the outside world. I wanted to tell him about Jesse, but I couldn’t find the right entrance to the subject. When he yawned, I thanked him again for all he had done and he walked me to my car, his steps growing more painful in his Dearfoams.

  “You didn’t come all the way here to thank me, though, did you?”

  “Sure I did. Mostly. I also wanted some advice.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t want to trouble you. I can see you’re . . .”

  He lowered his gaze and smirked.

  “Okay,” I said. “I came back because a girl I knew—”

  “Knew?”

  “A girl I fell in love with is about to make a big mistake. She’s getting married. And I’m not sure whether to walk away or do something.”

  “You’ve been away a long time, Matt. Why did you wait?”

  “Because I didn’t know how strongly I felt, I guess. And I feel guilty for something that happened. That made her reject me.”

  “Guilty about what?”

  “It’s a long story. But I was responsible for someone’s death t
welve years ago.”

  “That’s a huge weight to carry. Have you talked with her?”

  I nodded. “She’s made up her mind. But the guy she’s marrying . . . could be a problem.”

  “Could be?”

  “The jury’s still out.”

  He put a hand over his mouth and studied me. “Are you sure this situation with the girl is really why you came back?”

  Mr. Lambert was a teacher kids went to in high school about relationships. He talked a number of lonely hearts down from the ledge during his tenure. But his words clanged against my heart.

  “Yeah, I got the call and got in the car and drove through the night. Why else would I be here?”

  “I’m just not sure it’s all about her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me say this.” He waved a hand. “I could be totally off base. Maybe it’s the chemo talking. Chalk it up to that if this is out of left field. ‘A fragment of an underdone potato,’ right? But it sounds to me like you’ve come to a crossroads. I think you’ve come back to rescue someone. I don’t doubt that. The only question is, who?”

  “The girl,” I said.

  He looked away and pursed his lips in thought. “Have you considered that your trip might be less about romance and more about what’s going on inside you? At the soul level?” He tapped my chest with three fingers. “Focus on what’s going on in there. You’ll make a good decision.”

  His words echoed as I drove and thought of Jesse. I had only two days to change her mind and rescue her from a difficult life. I wanted one more conversation with her, one more shot at the truth. But Mr. Lambert had said it really wasn’t about her. I was confused and quickly drove home to gather my thoughts.

  “Matt, someone from Chicago called,” my mother said as I walked in the house. “It sounded urgent.”

  She handed me a slip of paper and I recognized the number. My mother had written Kristen beside it, spelling it with an e instead of an i. I went to the back bedroom and dialed from the extension.

  “Matt, I’m sorry to bother you. I thought you would want to know.”

  “Want to know what?”

  “It’s Dantrelle. He came by and I met with him Tuesday. But he didn’t show up yesterday.”

  “Did he seem upset that I wasn’t there?”

  “No, he was fine. I helped him with his homework, and he told me he would see me Wednesday.”

  My mind raced. “His home situation is awful.”

  “I know. And there was a shooting yesterday morning. At Cabrini. There were several children caught in the cross fire between some rival gangs.”

  I sat up. “Was he there? Could he have been hurt?”

  “He’s not been identified in the Trib or Sun-Times. And we—”

  “Did you check the hospitals? Cook County? Rush?”

  “We did, but we haven’t found him. It’s just strange that he didn’t show. I thought maybe you would have contacts. . . .”

  “He’s talked about relatives at the Robert Taylor Homes. I wonder if he could have gone there. Maybe his mother sent him.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  I racked my brain but couldn’t remember. “Sometimes I walk to school with his little group in the morning. Those kids don’t have a chance, Kristin.”

  “We’ll keep looking. I knew you’d want to hear. I know how much you care.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been praying nonstop.”

  She said it like she meant it. She said it like prayer would make a difference. “Keep it up,” I said.

  “Is everything okay with you?” Kristin said.

  Her tone showed she really cared. But the words she had spoken at the restaurant came flooding back. Just friends.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just some old wounds opening from when I was a kid.” I didn’t say more, not wanting to explain. I wanted to scream or throw the phone. I wanted to drive back to Chicago and find Dantrelle and track down the shooter. I wanted to protect little kids who were just walking to school. But I felt powerless.

  “I need to be there,” I said. “I should come back.”

  “I understand,” Kristin said. “But there’s little you could do even if you were here.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’ll head that way soon. I have one more thing to do here. We’re going to find him.”

  She paused. “I’ll call if we hear anything.”

  “Thanks, it means a lot.”

  I hung up and stared at the phone, then returned to the kitchen and told my mother the news. “I need to head back.”

  There were tears in her eyes when she hugged me. “I’m so sorry, Matt. I’ll call the prayer chain right now and put Dantrelle’s name on it. And I’ll call your father. Can you stay for dinner? I’ll make your favorites.”

  My favorites meant I would gain an extra five pounds before I left and I made a mental note to contain my portion sizes.

  “I need to run an errand. Be back in a bit.”

  I drove to Burdette’s Greenhouse and asked for daisies. On a card I wrote, Meet me tonight, Wildflower. Top of the hill. I put the card in an envelope, drove to the Food and Drug, and went straight to the meat department. I rang the bell but no one came. I left the flowers and note with the manager at the front. “Make sure Jesse gets this.”

  At home, I walked up the hill, remembering a summer filled with adventure and imagination and anything but boredom. I gathered firewood and cleared out the pit and prepared for one more conversation.

  My father prayed a long, sonorous prayer for Dantrelle before we ate, asking God to protect him. He prayed I would be able to give hope to the family and community and for “traveling mercies.” Once he said, “Amen,” I opened my eyes to the potato and macaroni salad, my mother’s signature chicken and rice dish, along with green beans and a salad.

  I ate chicken that literally fell off the bone and thought of Dantrelle. He had been to my apartment several times and was amazed at the food I prepared.

  My mother interrupted my thoughts with “That Kristin sounded very polite. Is she pretty?”

  “She is. But I don’t think she’s interested.”

  “Well, if she went to the trouble to call, maybe she is. Don’t count her out. I don’t know what kind of list you have for your future spouse, but you shouldn’t be too picky.”

  My father said, “I think it’s good to be choosy. It worked for me.”

  “Calvin,” my mother said, demurring. “I’m just saying indecision is your enemy. If you see what you want, get in the game.”

  “It’s funny,” I said. “That was part of why I came back.”

  Her face fell and she hovered over her plate as if it were the Last Supper.

  “I saw Mr. Lambert today,” I said, changing the subject.

  “How’s he doing?” my mother said. “I heard he was having chemo.”

  “He looks older, but he’s okay, considering.”

  “He was such a kind man to you, wasn’t he?”

  “He gave you wings when I couldn’t,” my father said.

  I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  He put down his fork. “I didn’t understand you, Matt. We weren’t on the same wavelength. I can see that now. He was able to reach a part of you I couldn’t. I’ll always be grateful.”

  It was as close to an apology or admission of guilt as I had ever heard, and I decided then if I ever became a parent, I wouldn’t hold back on this kind of conversation.

  “Thanks for saying that.”

  He nodded. “So you’re headed back in the morning, early?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if we still have a sleeping bag.”

  “What for?” my mother said.

  “I’m going to camp on the hill tonight.”

  “Matt, it’s supposed to be cold.”

  “If we have one, it’s in the basement,” my father said.

  “But you won’t be rested for the drive,” she said.

  “I’ll
be fine, Mom.”

  “Let me check and see—”

  “No, I’ll get it after we do the dishes,” I said.

  “You’re doing the dishes?” she said. “Do I need to get my hearing checked?”

  After we’d washed and dried everything, I went to the basement and found Ben’s sleeping bag on a dusty shelf in the storage area. There were shoe boxes of baseball cards that brought back memories. Canned beans and vegetables sat in a lonely line.

  In the corner was an old medicine chest with a mirror. I had spent hours here reading and pilfering through scrapbooks and pictures. I spotted a box marked Pastor Plumley and opened it. Inside were books my father didn’t have room for in his office, but I was surprised to see a stack of journals among them. The entries in the first one were short and to the point. Seminary life didn’t allow much latitude for personal reflection, evidently. But later, after my father became a pastor, the entries were longer and more detailed. I felt guilty reading his words, but it was like peering into my own history, just looking over a different shoulder.

  I found a journal for 1972 and skimmed my father’s reflections of our first summer in Dogwood. Still praying for Ben. O Lord, let your word not return void. Also for Matt to adjust.

  I never knew my father kept such accounts. Turned to the date of the trip to Cincinnati, I found, Reds beat the Pirates two straight. Matt and Dickie had a good time. Fun trip. Ramona upset about me inviting Jesse, but things worked out for the best. Unsure how to move forward to keep Jesse and Matt apart. Lord, give me wisdom.

  I stared at the words. That my father had been concerned about keeping Jesse and me apart surprised me, especially since he was the one who had invited her to the game. I wondered what he had recorded about the events of that fall. I flipped forward, but the date I was looking for had been skipped for some reason. I closed the diary and returned it to the box.

  My mother was waiting with hot cherry pie and ice cream. We ate and my father handed me a flashlight and a few twenty-dollar bills.

  “If I don’t see you in the morning, it’s been great having you back. I’m proud of you, Matt.”