The Essay A Novel (12 page)

When I got to the bus stop the next morning, it was misting and a low fog was rolling down off the giant pile of red dog and across Salt Lick Creek, and the smell of sulfur hung in the air. I could hear the footfalls of Polio Baughman shuffling through the loose gravel before his outline appeared from the fog. He was wearing saggy jeans and a red and black flannel shirt. His hands were buried in his front pockets.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he replied.

“What's going on?”

He shook his head. “Nothin'.” He paused a moment, looking at the ground and toeing some random designs in the gravel. “I heard you cheated on that writing contest. Is that right?”

“Hell, no, it ain't right. Who told you that?”

He went back to playing with the gravel. “Lots of kids are talking about it. Most everyone thinks you cheated. There's talk that you paid someone over at the college to write that paper for you.”

“That's ridiculous. I wrote it. Period. Anyone calls me a cheater better be ready to back it up, and that includes you, Polio.”

“I was just telling you what I heard. Catherine Johanessen said you stole the story from a magazine and just copied it. She said she remembers reading it in a magazine and she said she's going to find it and prove you're a cheater.”

The low groan of the school bus downshifting as it turned on to Red Dog Road filled the heavy air. It stopped for the Klamecki girls and only the faintest outline of its flashing red lights could be seen.

“Catherine Johanessen's got her panties in a bunch because she finished second. I wrote that essay. I wrote all of it, and I don't appreciate people talking about me behind my back, especially someone who's supposed to be my friend.”

“Just seems awful funny that someone who never got any good grades in his life could all of a sudden. . .”

I dropped my books and grabbed Polio by the ears, twisting them toward me until his knees started to buckle. He whimpered and pulled harmlessly at my knotted forearms. “You better look at me, Polio, or I swear I'll twist 'em right off your head.” When he finally looked up, I said, “I wrote that paper, every goddamn word, and I better never hear you tell anyone otherwise.”

I let go of his ears and scooped up my books before the bus materialized out of the fog. I went to the back of the bus and sat alone.

Chapter Eight

M

iss Singletary pulled me out of my eighth-period study hall the next day and walked me back to her classroom. On her desk was a six-inch stack of new, blue notebooks. “I'm going to make this harder than summer football practice, Jimmy Lee,” she said.

“Ma'am?”

“Sit down.” She pointed to the desk to the left of her own. “I believe you wrote that essay, Jimmy Lee. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone else in the school or the county believes it. And, if I had to bet, there are several people in this school who would like nothing better than for you to fall on your face at the county competition, just to prove they're right and that I'm wrong for standing up for you.”

“You think Principal Speer wants me to fail?”

“I'm not mentioning any names, Jimmy Lee. I'm just saying that some people are a little upset that I've taken your side on this.”

“I don't think you know how much I appreciate that, Miss Singletary. It's not every day that someone takes an interest in a Hickam. You and Coach Battershell are the only two people in this school that have never treated me like a dogger.”

Her cheeks flushed, seemingly embarrassed by the compliment. “Jimmy Lee, we are not going to lose that county competition. We have six weeks to get ready and we're going to practice here every day and you're going to practice at home every night. You are going to be ready and you are going to greatly disappoint all those people who want to see you fail.”

She made me smile. “I like your attitude, Miss Singletary. Maybe you should give the pre-game pep talk this week.”

“I'll leave the football team to Coach Battershell.” She inched her chair up to her desk and in a serious tone said, “But, like Coach Battershell, I don't like losing. And, I especially hate losing to a particular teacher, if you know what I mean.”

I did.

“This is going to be hard work and I expect you to put as much effort into practicing for the essay contest as you put into football practice. Is that understood?”

Miss Singletary had wavy blonde hair that hung around her shoulders and emerald eyes that danced when she smiled and drew fire when she was angered. There wasn't a boy in the school who wouldn't want a private tutoring session with Miss Singletary, but I knew this would be like boot camp. Still, I grinned and said, “Understood.”

“Okay, let's get started. When you thought about writing your story, how did you do it? How did you come up with the ideas and how did you put it all together?”

“I started thinking about what I was going to write the day you told us about the essay. I thought about it until it was like a movie in my brain, and I could see it happening.”

“So, you first visualized you and your uncle heading out on the canoe and took it from there?”

“No, not exactly. I took it from the water. I just focused in on one little spot in the river and watched the water.”

“You went to the river?”

I squinted at her for a minute to see if she was kidding, which she wasn't. “No, ma'am, it's all in my head. I saw the center of the river—just the water—in my head.”

“You remembered what it looked like from that summer?”

“More or less. I know what river water looks like, so I focused in on that. I closed my eyes and tried not to see anything but the water—the dirt floating in it and the ripples. But pretty soon other things start coming into the picture that my brain is creating. I can see fish and water bugs skipping across the surface; dragon flies buzzing around the muddy banks.”

“How come I didn't read about the water bugs and dragon flies? That's excellent detail.”

“I don't know. If I'd known it was important I would have put it in.”

“Okay, go on.”

“At first, I'm up close, staring at the water, but the more I stare, the further I get from the water and that's when the other stuff comes into view. Like, when my Uncle Boots and I are unloading the canoe? I'm not seeing that from my perspective as a little kid trying to unload the canoe. Rather, it's like I'm seeing it from a distance, like a third person with a camera, and I'm watching this happen. I'm in the movie, but I'm also the man behind the camera taking a movie of me when I was little.”

“Have you always done this?”

“I grew up on Red Dog Road, Miss Singletary. You know what it's like out there. Sometimes, there's not much else to do but daydream.”

“So, when you sat down to write your essay, you closed your eyes and started to picture the story in your head?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. I did that a bunch of times before I wrote the essay. I memorized everything I saw. That way, when I went in to write the essay, all I had to do was write down the movie while it replayed in my brain.”

“Say that again.”

“I just replayed the movie.”

“In the county competition, they don't give you the topic in advance. You'll get two hours to write your essay, but you won't know the topic until you get there. How are you going to react to that?”

“I'll have to speed up the movie, I guess.”

She smiled and said, “I guess.” She handed me the blue notebook on the top of the stack. “Here's what we're going to do. You'll come here every day and we'll write a practice essay. Each night, you'll take home a notebook and an envelope.” She plucked a white business envelope from the corner of her desk, slipped it into a notebook and set it on my desk. “When you get home, open the envelope and you'll find a topic on which to write. Time yourself. Don't take any more than thirty minutes from the time you open the envelope. You have to learn to think and write quickly. I like the way you play the movie in your head, but you're not going to have that kind of time at the county competition. Got it?”

I nodded. “Got it.”

“Open your notebook. Your topic is, ‘If you could meet someone from history, who would it be and why?' You have thirty minutes. Start writing.”

Chapter Nine

E

dgel came to my football game that Friday night against the Clearcreek Local Stevedores.

He told me that he liked it that people were cheering for me and the way Mr. Evans announced my name over the public address system every time I made a tackle.
On the tackle for the Elks, Jim-my Hick-am.
For those couple of hours, people didn't look at him like the dogger ex-con that he was, but as the big brother of the starting linebacker. He sat in the bleachers next to my mom and just before kickoff, Sheriff McCollough stepped over several rows of bleachers to shake Edgel's hand. “Good to see you, Edgel. You doing well?”

The sight of the sheriff caused Edgel to pucker up and a weak, “Yes, sir,” was all he could muster in response.

“That brother of yours is playing some good football for us this year.”

Edgel smiled and said, “That's what I hear. He just won him a big writin' contest at the school, too.”

The sheriff nodded and winked. As he stepped back down the bleachers he said, “You be good, Edgel.”

“You can count on it, Sheriff.”

My dad never came to any of my games. He thought playing football was a waste of time. The only bigger waste of time, he said, was sitting in the stands watching football. It was just as well. The few school functions I recall him attending he was drunk and made a spectacle of himself. He showed up at my fourth grade Christmas pageant so hammered that he fell on his face on the front steps of the school. Polio Baughman came running backstage and said, “Your dad's out on the front steps and he's havin' a heart attack or something.”

I went running out just in time to see Sheriff McCollough snatching my dad by the collar of his shirt and lifting him to his feet. The front of his shirt was soaked with slush and blood and vomit. He looked toward me without recognition. “Go on back inside, buster,” the sheriff told me. “He'll be all right after he sleeps it off.” As he led my dad toward the cruiser, I heard him say, “Nick, goddammit, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for embarrassing that boy like that.”

My dad responded by sending a laser of yellow vomit on to the sheriff's shoes.

We beat Clearcreek Local 24-6. I had a good game—not great, but good. The highlight of my evening was catching their halfback flaring out of the backfield for a pass. I hit him just as he touched the ball, putting the top of my helmet under his facemask. The crack of my helmet on his chin could be heard throughout the stadium. They helped him off the field and the last time I looked over at their bench, they were waving an ammonia capsule under his nose.

I walked out of the locker room after showering, my hair still damp, my duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a bruise the size of an egg welting up on my right forearm. The parking lot behind the school was full of parents and siblings and girlfriends, all milling around and awaiting their own Friday night hero to emerge. Edgel was on the far side of the lot, alone, leaning against the fender of the Rocket 88, arms crossed, a cigarette wedged between an index and middle finger.

A few folks patted me on the back and stated their pleasure with my performance that night as I made my way toward Edgel. I was nearly to the edge of the parking lot when Donetta Kammer materialized out of the crowd and stepped between the Rocket and me. “Hi, Jimmy Lee,” she said.

“Hey, Donetta.”

“That was a great game you played tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Donetta was a year younger than me, a cheerleader with high cheekbones and long, brown hair. Her father was the county auditor and they lived in a big home on Birnbaum Ridge. She was the kind of girl who I long believed to be out of my league. However, she had been smiling at me in the halls, and when she spoke and smiled at me in the cafeteria, Kip Fillinger nudged me in the ribs and said, “I think she's sweet on you, Jimmy Lee.”

She stepped closer and ran her fingertips near the bruise. “You better get that looked at,” she said. The light scraping of her nails over my skin and faint smell of jasmine in her hair caused a jump in my loins. “The cheerleaders and some guys from the team are coming over to my house for pizza. Do you want to come?”

Of course, I did, but before I could respond a harsh, “Donetta!” emanated from the darkness. A moment later, her father emerged from between two cars and said, “Get over here,” pointing to the ground directly in front of him. He yelled at her in a restrained whisper that turned his face crimson and pointed to the passenger seat of the car. When the door opened and the illumination from the dome light spilled out, Donetta appeared to be in tears. Before driving off, he nodded at me and said, “Nice game, Jimmy Lee. Better get some ice on that arm.”

This brought Edgel off the fender of the Rocket, that vein in the side of his neck pulsating. He said, “What kind of horse shit was that?”

“The usual kind,” I said. “Just let it go. Where's Mom?”

“Went home to check on the old man,” he said. “Want to get something to eat?”

“Sure,” I said. Eating out was a treat that I rarely enjoyed.

“Is that burger joint still open in McArthur?”

“Paddy's? Yeah.”

He tossed me the keys to the Oldsmobile. “Let's go.”

The Rocket 88 had been another of the rusting heaps that littered our property when Edgel took to restoring it the winter before he went to prison. He was good with his hands and had the engine humming in no time. Restoring the body was more tedious work and it was covered with primer and body putty. Once Edgel had the majority of the body work completed and it looked as though the project was going to be successful, my dad inserted himself in the process. He didn't do much work, but was happy to drive the car on his late-night circuit to the local taverns. This caused even more tension between my dad and Edgel. The Rocket was nearly ready for paint when Edgel was arrested. Dad ran it until the first time it wouldn't start, then pushed it into the shed where it remained for the duration of Edgel's prison term. The morning after Edgel got home, he was out in the shed tinkering with the motor. He got a battery and a set of used tires from the Farnsworth twins and had it running again inside of two days.