The Essay A Novel (27 page)

He again set the wheelbarrow on its supports and stared at me with a look of aggravation. For a moment, the facial expression reminded me of the old man. “I know how many hours I'm putting in. Overtime is time-and-a-half and we need the money. Besides, you heard Mr. Morgan. If I do a good job, I've got a chance to get on full-time, with health insurance, and those kinds of jobs don't grow on trees around here. Now, get home before I kick your ass.”

“I've been waiting on you for two hours. I brought dinner home—sauerkraut, kielbasa, and mashed potatoes—and I've been trying to keep it warm.”

“You're starting to sound like an old woman. You're not my wife, you know?”

“That's just one more thing I'll be thanking Jesus for later tonight.”

He laughed out loud.

“Keep it warm,” he said, straining to push the wheelbarrow up the ramp. “This is my last load. I'll be home in a half hour or so.”

An hour later, I heard the dump truck grind up the drive in low gear and idle for a moment outside the porch. Edgel had taken to dropping off the last load at the dump and just bringing the truck home afterward. When he came through the door his eyes were sagging to half pupil. He peeled off his filthy ball cap, revealing a red indentation running the width of his forehead, and tossed it into the corner of the alcove just inside the door. His gloves followed the cap; he unlaced his soaked shoes and kicked them off on a worn mat just inside the door, washed his hands in the kitchen sink, and plopped down in a chair. The warm air of the house was taking its toll and I wasn't sure Edgel could stay awake long enough to eat, let along listen to the events of the day.

“Edgel, I've got a problem.”

“Mm-hum,” he said, stabbing a piece of kielbasa and shoving it in his mouth, grinding it for a while before attempting to speak. “What kind of problem?”

“A big one.”

The brows arched over his tired eyes. “Let's hear it.” Edgel continued to eat, listening intently as I recounted my conversation with Coach Battershell. When I finished, he nodded and asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. What can I do? They're going to take it to the board of education on Monday. Once that happens, her reputation is in the trash can.”

Edgel used the side of his fork to scrape his mashed potatoes into a pile. As he slid the last of the potatoes into his mouth and swallowed, he waved his fork in front of his face, waiting for his mouth and throat to clear. “If there was one thing I learned in prison that is beneficial on the outside, it's this: when there's a fight coming, don't wait for it to come to you. You take the fight to them. There were a bunch of Black Muslims in the pen who were always stirring up shit, particularly with the white guys who were not part of the Aryan Nation. There was one Black Muslim, a guy named Kimmo, a big son of a bitch, arms like tree trunks, who was always stirring shit. Word was out that he wanted a piece of me.”

“Why?”

“Don't know, doesn't matter. Maybe no reason other than he didn't like my looks.”

“What did you do?”

“I went after him. Walked up to him in the cafeteria and punched him in the face, then hit him over the head with my tray.”

“Did he leave you alone after that?”

Edgel chuckled. “Not immediately. As soon as he regained his senses he grabbed me and about choked me to death before the guards pulled him off me. But he never screwed with me again. A few of his puke buddies fucked with me, and every time they did, I went right at 'em. You had to. If you didn't, it was a sign of weakness and they preyed on weakness. When you know a fight is coming, you've got to go on the attack.”

“I understand what you're saying, Edgel, but how does this apply to me? I don't have anything to fight with.”

Slowly, like an April sunrise climbing over the Vinton County hills, a smirk crinkled Edgel Hickam's lips. He rubbed the stubble of his chin and squeezed the skin together, grinning and nodding. “I think I can help you take care of this little problem.”

Despite the fact that he was my brother, there was something a little unsettling about a convicted arsonist grinning and telling you that he can take care of the problem.

“I really don't want to see you go back to prison, Edgel.”

“It won't take anything nearly that drastic, little brother.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

D

espite my concern about what Edgel might do in a situation where he felt duty-bound to defend my honor, I admit that there was also something comforting about going into battle with an ex-convict at my side.

I had always cowered before authority. Teachers intimidated me. They were educated, polished, and represented authority and status. I considered it my destiny to be submissive and obedient.

Edgel and Virgil were the polar opposite. They had little respect and absolutely no fear of authority. They viewed teachers and school administrators with disdain. Growing up on Red Dog Road had given them the belief that there was little more the outside world could do to hurt or punish them.

And, they had grown up in the home of Nick Hickam. To believe my father was to believe that the ills of the Hickams were brought on by those with status and money. The successful, like Mr. Morgan at the sawmill, were trying to keep us down. It was never the fault of Nick Hickam or his penchant for alcohol and fighting and trouble that caused his problems. Rather, he was continually looking for someone to blame or take vengeance on for his lot in life.

I can't say why I didn't believe that our misery was the fault of other men. It's said that you either learn from, or emulate the mistakes of your parents. Virgil followed and became a devout disciple of my father. I was fortunate to learn the harsh realities of such self-destructive behavior, and it appeared that Edgel was weaning himself away from the dogger's way of life.

At about 8:30
AM
on Saturday, we pulled the Rocket 88 out of the shed and inched our way down the drive, being careful not to slide sideways in the rutted, snow-covered slope. When we were on the road toward McArthur, Edgel grinned and said, “What's the problem, big man? You look a little pale.”

“I am a little pale,” I acknowledged. “I hate this.”

“Are you kidding me? You've got nothing to worry about. What'd we talk about? You take the fight to her. Don't sit back and wait. Besides, you're holding all the aces. All you've got to do is pull the trigger.”

“How about we not use that term anymore?”

Edgel cracked his window and lit a cigarette. “I swear I never saw a Hickam like you. You're nervous as a cat.”

The roads were mostly slush, a combination of rising temperatures and an overnight rain. We roared into McArthur from the north on Market Street, past Elk Cemetery, slowing as we entered the downtown. Christmas lights adorned the storefronts of red brick buildings; the city had hung plastic candy canes and Christmas trees from the streetlight poles. A man in an ill-fitting Santa Claus suit rang a bell for the Salvation Army outside of Williams Drug Store. The clock outside the Vinton County National Bank flashed eight fifty-two and thirty-six degrees. We turned right on South Street and made another right on Boundary Avenue. It was almost nine. The lights were on inside the story-and-a-half house that had been converted into a dental office. As we passed, I could see Catherine Johanessen standing at a filing cabinet behind the receptionist's desk at the office, where she worked for her dad on Saturday mornings.

“That's his car in the drive; Catherine's inside,” I said.

“Looks like all systems are go,” Edgel said.

“My guts are on fire.”

“Buck up. Who started this?”

“She did.”

“Damn straight, she did. Just remember, you're taking the fight to her.”

I nodded and continued to stare out the side window.

The Johanessens lived two miles east of McArthur in a white, two-story colonial with green shutters tucked behind a pair of naked maples on Seneca Street in Indian Acres, a planned subdivision that encompassed the country club. When we passed Paddy's Drive-In, I thought I was going to hyperventilate. By the time we turned off Route 50 and drove between the granite boulders engraved with crossed tomahawks that bordered the entrance to Indian Acres, my gut was in a full roil, and I swallowed down the salty bile in the back of my throat. No pre-game jitters had ever twisted my intestines to this degree. As Edgel slowed in front of the Johanessens', I said, “Keep driving. Go around the block one more time. I'm not ready.”

“You better be ready,” Edgel said. “She's making it easy for you. You don't even need to knock on the door.”

When I looked up, Mrs. Johanessen had just finished locking the front door and was walking toward her car in the driveway. “I can't. I need time to get ready. Drive away.”

Edgel slammed the car into park, his skin squeezing his jaws, the look of a predator in his eyes, and said, “Get the fuck out of the car, you little pussy. Take the fight to her.”

He made a move to shove me out the passenger side door, but I pulled on the handle and escaped ahead of his hand. I sprinted across the road, more in fear that he was chasing me than to confront Mrs. Johanessen. Regardless of the motivation, I quickly found myself face to face with her as she reached for the handle of the car. Her first expression was that of surprise, but it quickly changed to that of pity. It was an insincere attempt to make me think she actually felt sorry for me. In a soft voice she said, “What are you doing here, Jimmy Lee?”

I swallowed hard and held out my left hand, which contained the envelope. “I need you to read something, please, Mrs. Johanessen,” I said, my voice cracking.

She slowly lifted her right hand, clasping the envelope without taking her eyes off mine. “Jimmy Lee, I appreciate the fact that you have a sincere concern and fondness for Miss Singletary, but you have to understand that I am acting in your own best interests. I know what I saw. You understand that this is in no way an indictment of you? Miss Singletary should know better than to become so close to a student.” She held up the letter for my inspection. “Did she put you up to this?”

“No, ma'am. Miss Singletary doesn't know I'm here, and she had nothing to do with this. I just would surely appreciate it if you'd read the letter.”

I felt like I had pulled the pin on a grenade and couldn't bring myself to throw it. Mrs. Johanessen thought I had come to beg. Doubtless, she believed the letter was a futile attempt on my part to convince her that there was nothing going on between Miss Singletary and me. She used her ignition key to rip off the top of the envelope and held the letter in her right hand as she read. In seconds, her left hand doubled into a fist, crushing the envelope that had contained the letter, and a wave of scarlet consumed her neck.

Mr. Rick Shoemaker

Vinton County Prosecutor

c/o Vinton County Court House

McArthur, Ohio

Dear Mr. Shoemaker:

You are certainly familiar with me, my criminal record, and the problems I have caused in the past. For years I have struggled with what I believe to be the root cause of the erratic and anti-social behavior I have exhibited for the past ten years.

When I was just sixteen years old, I was sexually assaulted by a teacher at East Vinton High School. Her name is Gloria Johanessen. On several occasions, at Mrs. Johanessen's insistence, we had sexual intercourse. These usually occurred in her car at various remote locations in Vinton County. Once, when my parents were out of town for a funeral, she parked her car in our backyard and forced me to have sexual relations, which unfortunately was witnessed by my youngest brother. Another time, we had relations at her house while her husband and daughter were on a father-daughter camping trip with her Sunday school class.

The trauma of these experiences has left me feeling victimized and ashamed. It is my sincere hope that another child never endures such pain. I have decided to come forward because I cannot in good conscience permit Mrs. Johanessen to continue to teach and be around young boys.

As there is no statute of limitations for the molestation of a juvenile, you have my word that you will have my full cooperation in the prosecution of Mrs. Gloria Johanessen. I am willing to take a polygraph test to prove the veracity of my allegations.

Because I do not want this ignored, I am sending copies of this letter to the
Vinton County Messenger
, the
Chillicothe Gazette
, and the
Columbus Dispatch.
Also, I am sending a copy to the principal of East Vinton High School, the superintendent of the East Vinton local school district, and each member of the board of education.

Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely yours,

Edgel Hickam

The scarlet wave continued up the neck of Gloria Johanessen until her burning cheeks and ears looked as though they might ignite in flames. She folded the letter neatly, tucked it back in the envelope and attempted to hand it back to me. I made no attempt to take it. With her right eye squinting, as though she was eyeing my forehead through the scope of a high-powered rifle, Mrs. Johanessen said, “You wouldn't dare.”

“No, ma'am, you're probably right. I don't have the guts. But Edgel out yonder . . .” I pointed to the Rocket 88, where Edgel sat behind the wheel. When he saw me point, Edgel smiled and held up a stack of envelopes that he had splayed like a hand of playing cards. “I've got no control over him, Mrs. Johanessen, and those letters are addressed and stamped. So, I think it would be wise of you to recant your story, and quickly, because if the school board suspends Miss Singletary on Monday night, I guarantee those letters will go in the mail first thing on Tuesday morning.”