The Essay A Novel (22 page)

“I know. I'll be there. I'll get my stuff together and take the Rocket. Edgel's not going to need it today.” I started toward the door, but the coach and Miss Singletary just stood on the top step. “What?”

“We'll just wait here and give you a ride,” Coach said. “Hustle up.”

Hardly anybody at school was talking about the fire. Weeks after my winning the essay contest was announced, students continued to debate the veracity of my victory. But when one of the biggest employers in Vinton County burned to the ground, barely a word was spoken. Mostly everyone was buzzed about that night's game with McArthur Central Catholic.

Three times that day, I went to the school office and called home, but no one answered. I listened to the noon news on the radio in Coach Battershell's office. They interviewed the fire chief and carried a couple of minutes about the fire. The reporter said a suspect had been taken into custody for questioning, but no arrests had been made and no other details were available.

After school, Mrs. Ullrich of the athletic mothers was at the entrance of the locker room passing out bulbous, white mums to senior football players and cheerleaders. “What's this for?” I asked.

“Pin it to your mom's coat for the senior night introductions,” she said. “It goes on the left.”

I had completely forgotten that it was senior night, and I was certain that my mom hadn't given it a thought since seeing her oldest son hauled away in the back of the sheriff's cruiser. I stood to the side and waited for Mrs. Ullrich to hand out all of her mums. “Mrs. Ullrich, don't announce me tonight.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't have anyone here. My dad's in Florida and Mom's busy. She can't be here.”

“Jimmy Lee, that's too bad. Are you sure you don't want to walk by yourself? I hate to see you miss senior night.”

I forced a smile and set the mum in the cardboard tray she was holding. “Thanks, Mrs. Ullrich, but I'd rather miss it than walk by myself.”

The booster club fed us a pre-game meal of pancakes and sausage at four o'clock in the school cafeteria. I mostly picked at the food, unable to force anything into a stomach that was knotted high in my chest. Afterward, we stretched out on the wrestling mats in the gymnasium and relaxed, taking turns going to the training room to get our ankles taped. Gary Rittenhouse, our standout defensive end, had driven over to the little general store in Zaleski to pick up a copy of the
Vinton County Messenger.
Every Friday in the fall, the sports editor for the
Messenger
ran a photo of himself in a turban, gazing wild-eyed into a crystal ball, and predicted the outcomes of that night's high school football games. We had great fun reading his predictions and they served as minor inspiration as he predicted we would lose nearly every week. This week was no exception.

The East Vinton Elks have been the area's surprise team of the year, contending for a Black Diamond Conference championship and posting their first eight-win season since the Eisenhower Administration. Unfortunately for the men in navy and silver, the fun ends tonight. The undefeated McArthur Central Catholic Crusaders have won six consecutive conference championships and have no intentions of losing to the upstarts from the eastern side of the county. With bruising fullback Reno DiGaudio leading the way, the Crusaders roll, 35-6.

“Ouch,” Rittenhouse said. “He doesn't even think it will be close.”

“We'll invite him out here for a nice crow dinner after we beat their asses tonight,” I said.

“I like your attitude, boss.” He pushed himself off the mat. “I'm going to get taped.” As he passed me, he dropped the paper on my chest.

I read the other predictions and casually flipped through the paper. When I folded and tucked the sports section away, I was face-to-face with a front-page banner headline:

Morgan Lumber Burns to Ground

And the subhead:

Convicted Arsonist Edgel Hickam
Jailed by Sheriff for Questioning

The Morgan Lumber Company, one of Vinton County's largest employers, burned to the ground this morning in a blaze so intense that area firefighters had little choice but to allow the fire to burn itself out.

The fire was reported by a Vinton County Sheriff's deputy shortly after 1
AM
.
Soon after, the orange glow of the inferno could be seen for miles away as the fire was fed by the tons of timber stacked inside the wood-frame mill.

By noon, the building had collapsed into the sub-basement and was largely contained within the 100-year-old stone and brick foundation.

Meanwhile, a local man with a previous conviction for arson was picked up by sheriff's deputies this morning and is being held in the Vinton County Jail for questioning. Sheriff Malcolm McCollough identified the man as Edgel R. Hickam, 29, of 10107 Red Dog Road in Knox Township.

Hickam was convicted of a single count of burglary and arson in 1966 and sentenced to 12 years in prison. McCollough said Hickam was a suspect in several other burglary-arsons.

He was recently paroled from the state reformatory in Mansfield.

“Mr. Hickam has been less than cooperative,” Sheriff McCollough said. “He must understand that given his criminal history, he needs to work with us if he hopes to clear his name.”

McCollough said a relative of Hickam worked at Morgan Lumber until recently being fired. A source close to the investigation said the relative was Hickam's father, Nicholas.

Calls to the Hickam residence were not answered.

The story was accompanied by two black-and-white photos— a six-column photo of firefighters standing around the building's smoldering remains and a mug shot of Edgel from his first arrest.

The story went on in painful detail for many more paragraphs, but I had read all I could stomach. I dropped the sports section on the mat, balled up the rest of the paper, and threw it in the trash on my way to get my ankles taped.

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one in Vinton County who had seen the story.

At six thirty, Roy Otto and I led our team to the field for warmups. A half-dozen guys from McArthur Central Catholic were standing inside the gate next to the cinder track that led from our locker room to the field. When they saw me coming, each pulled a cigarette lighter from their pocket and began flicking it on and off. “Hey, Hickam, how's your brother—ol' Sparky?” one asked. Flick, flick, flick. “Smokey says, ‘Only you can prevent lumber mill fires,'” said another. Flick, flick, flick. “How about a little fire, scarecrow?” said a third. Flick, flick, flick. My face was burning with anger, and I ran harder to get to the field.

Elk Stadium was in a low area behind East Vinton High School, built on the floodplains of Raccoon Creek. It was a modest stadium with wooden bleachers and dim lights that befit the quality of teams that East Vinton had produced over the years. On this night, however, the atmosphere was electric. The stands on both sides of the stadium were full and crowds stood three deep all around the field. It was the largest crowd that I had ever played before. For the first time since three o'clock that morning, Edgel, the burning sawmill, and my distraught mother left my thoughts. Adrenaline surged through my chest and I screamed, yelling until my face was crimson and my head began to ache at my temples. It was game time, and I was ready.

There wasn't much for Coach Battershell to say in the locker room before the game. We all knew how important this game was to us, our school, and the denizens of East Vinton County. We were playing for respect. “The future of this program rests on your shoulders,” he said calmly. “East Vinton has been a doormat in this league since before you were born. You have a chance to bring respect to this program and secure its future.” When he finished his talk, he said, “Seniors, go meet your parents.” The other seniors got up and started filing out. “Jimmy Lee . . .”

“I'm staying in here,” I said, keeping my head down.

“Jimmy Lee . . .” His voice grew more stern. I looked up; he pointed to the door. “Now.”

I didn't need one more thing to add to the humiliation of the day, but I wasn't going to argue with the coach, and I did as I was told. I stepped in at the end of the line, following the clacking of steel cleats on the tile floor, and walked out the locker room door. When I did, I saw Miss Singletary standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing a brown suede coat, to the breast of which was pinned a white mum with a VE made of blue pipe cleaners adhered to the top. Tears started to fill my eyes. “I want you to know that I wouldn't poke holes in my good suede coat for just anyone,” she said. I quickly brushed away the tears that were rolling down my cheeks. “Give me your arm.” I did, and she escorted me to the end zone.

The captains were introduced last. Mr. Evans said, “And senior captain, number thirty-eight, Jimmy Lee Hickam, escorted by Miss Amanda Singletary.” She walked tall and proud beside me, squeezing the inside of my arm.

Over the past few months, Miss Singletary had gone out of her way to help me in more ways than I can remember, including putting her teaching reputation on the line, but I was never more grateful to her than on senior night. It was, I thought, one thing to help me hone my writing skills and explain to me about the importance of personal hygiene, but that night, in front of the entire East Vinton community, she bravely stood up and walked with me, Nick Hickam's youngest son.

Football is an emotional game and my body was bursting with emotions on that evening. I was sad for Edgel, angry at my father for leaving and my mother for not showing up, and embarrassed at being born into a family that was looked upon like dog shit on the bottom of a dress boot. While my mind was on the game, this cornucopia of emotions was about to burst out of my chest when I led the Elks onto the field for the kickoff.

Since the day I had first showed up at practice in black dress socks and misfit shoulder pads that left blood blisters under my arms, Coach Battershell preached to me the importance of the first hit of the game. He said that delivering a bone-jarring hit on the first play would set the tempo for the entire game. I was not a particularly religious boy, but that night I asked God to please put the ball in the hands of McArthur Central Catholic fullback Reno DiGaudio on the first play from scrimmage.

Reno DiGaudio was about five foot ten and looked to be about the same width. He was built like a refrigerator with arms and led the county in rushing and scoring since it was virtually impossible for just one person to tackle him. He was a cocky bastard and, essentially, the entire McArthur Central Catholic offense. Stop Reno DiGaudio, I told myself, and you stop the Crusaders. I didn't think he had been hit hard all year. That's why I wanted the ball in his hands. I wanted a chance to light him up early.

On that first Friday in November, the Big Man upstairs decided to spiff me one.

McArthur Central Catholic's first play from scrimmage was a fullback dive off right tackle—their bread-and-butter play. The hole opened and DiGaudio came through it, head down, knees pumping. I anticipated the play and filled that hole with a vengeance. My last thought before our collision was how sorry I was that Edgel wasn't in the stands to see this hit. I got low and shot up under DiGaudio's helmet and never stopped pumping my feet. The top of my helmet hit his face mask with a loud pop and his head jerked up as I drove him back, driving my shoulder into his chest as we fell.

The East Vinton faithful, I think, were cheering wildly. But I'm not sure because I kept my focus on DiGaudio. I watched him wince and groan as the wind rushed from his lungs. I stared at him until he looked back. I wanted him to know who had hit him and who was going to hit him every time he touched the ball for the rest of the game. After the Crusaders completed a pass for six yards, they ran another fullback dive, this time to the left. Again, I met DiGaudio in the hole and drove him down with a booming helmet-to-helmet collision.

It was the last time he ran the ball hard all night. He started dancing, looking for places to run instead of creating holes with his strength. He was no longer running for yardage. Rather, he was running away from me, and with each play, the confidence of our defense grew. The offense fed off the success of our defense and the outcome of the game was never in doubt.

We defeated the McArthur Central Catholic Crusaders 24-0. They only earned two first downs all night. When the game was over, the East Vinton fans rushed the field. I looked for Reno DiGaudio to shake his hand, but he skulked away to the locker room, head down. That was fine. I was being mobbed by our fans. We had brought such joy to the little communities of East Vinton County. For one night, they had something to cheer about. Principal Speer walked by and patted me once on the shoulder and said, “Nice job, Jimmy Lee,” but would not look me in the eye. They were the first words he had spoken to me since the day he summoned me to his office to question me about the essay.