The Promise of Jesse Woods (17 page)

I hadn’t thought of the cost, only the possibilities of X-ray glasses.

“I’m not talking about girls in their underwear or somebody’s liver pumping out bile,” Dickie said. “What if you could see all the way to a person’s soul? What if you could see what makes that person who they really are? See all that happened in their life. The good and bad and every little thing that makes me different from you.”

“What would you call them?”

“I don’t know, but they’d be a gold mine.”

“Soul glasses,” I said.

“That could work. Too bad Jesse’s not here—she would come up with a name. What do you think she’d say about them?”

I thought a minute. “Maybe she’d say that most people don’t want to see inside a person’s soul. They judge by
what’s on the outside. It’s easier to look on the outside than to really look on the inside.”

“That sounds like Jesse all right.”

“There’s a verse in the Bible that talks about that.”

“Preacher boy in the pool,” Dickie said and rolled off the life preserver and sank.

“No, seriously,” I said when he bobbed to the surface. “Man looks on the outside but God looks at the heart.”

“He won’t need my glasses, then, will he?”

My father returned and called us in from the pool. I was ravenous and so was Dickie. We ate boiled ham and American cheese sandwiches on white bread with mustard. We put sour cream and onion potato chips on a paper plate and ate potato salad with plastic spoons, with powdered donuts for dessert, and no king was ever more satisfied. We didn’t drink much pop at home, but my mother had iced some Dr Pepper and diet Faygo in a cooler. There was a talk show on TV and we watched and ate, sitting on the Magic Fingers bed that didn’t work. When the news came on, my father said it was time to leave.

We walked the suspension bridge and I hesitated, remembering what had happened in Gallipolis. I looked up to see if maybe the Mothman was sitting there, but looking up made me unsteady. I didn’t want Dickie to think I was scared, so I forged ahead, carrying my glove close. I couldn’t help looking down through the steel grate at the murky water. The stadium sat in the distance like some giant flying saucer ready for takeoff. My father talked
about going to games at Crosley Field, which was being torn down at the time, but I kept measuring my steps and thinking what I might do if the bridge collapsed.

We passed vendors selling peanuts as we neared the stadium and I smelled stale Hudepohl. Dickie stuck close to my mother as we passed men playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Cigarette and cigar smoke filled the air.

A black man yelled, “Hey, Pirates,” and pointed at my hat and smiled. “You guys gonna lose, little man! Big Red Machine gonna beat you tonight!”

I smiled and kept walking.

There is no feeling in the world like walking into a baseball stadium for the first time and seeing the green field, the white lines, the brown dirt at each base, and the colorful seats. I looked at Dickie when we got inside and saw his mouth drop.

We climbed to oxygen-deprived heights in the red seats. When the Reds came out of the dugout, Dickie said they looked like ants with numbers on their backs. My glove wasn’t necessary after all, but I felt more comfortable holding it. I thought of Ben.

The Reds had won 5–0 the night before, so I was glad we didn’t have tickets to that game. I looked to right field but Roberto Clemente wasn’t there, and when the Pirates’ lineup was announced, his name wasn’t called. Mazeroski and Clemente were the two players left from the World Series champs in 1960. I told all of this to Dickie, but he was more interested in the popcorn my mother had bought.

I drank in the atmosphere and cheered in vain. We lost
6–3 and the Reds fans around us didn’t hold back from rubbing it in as we walked home.

There were two double beds in the hotel room. My mom and dad slept in the one nearest the bathroom and I climbed into the other, exhausted. We watched the recap of the game on the news and it was surreal to see the action close up. Dickie said he was fine sleeping on the floor, that he could use his duffel bag as a mattress, but I told him, “You can sleep up here with the rest of us white people.” He laughed at that.

My parents turned on Johnny Carson, but Dickie was gone as soon as his head hit the pillow. Even when my dad dropped one of the soda cans in the cooler, Dickie slept right through it, snoring loudly. I had a harder time going to sleep. There was something about being in enemy territory and watching my team lose that made me ache for Three Rivers. I went over the game, inning by inning, wondering if Clemente would be in the lineup the next day. Steve Blass was supposed to pitch, so that meant we were sure to win.

The next morning my mom and dad woke us and took us to a restaurant. Dickie poured as much syrup on his pancakes as Walter Cunningham at the Finch house, but I had the good sense not to ask what in the sam hill he was doing.

We checked out of the hotel and drove over the bridge and parked at Riverfront. My father complained about the price of everything. There was no Clemente in the lineup, but I thought we might be able to see him if we went closer to the field.

“You think we can get an autograph?” Dickie said.

We climbed down to the lower level, but the ushers turned us away when they saw our tickets. We only got close enough to see Richie Hebner’s back.

Salvaging one game in the series wouldn’t be great, but it would be a lot better than losing three in a row. The Pirates got ten hits in the game and Al Oliver went three for four, but Gary Nolan held us scoreless and the Reds eked out two runs off Blass. Another loss.

“We should get Jesse a souvenir,” Dickie said as we passed a gift shop on the way out.

My mother frowned.

My father said, “Good idea, Dickie. What do you think she would like?”

Everything had
Cincinnati
printed on it, which turned my stomach. “Maybe one of those bobbleheads for Daisy,” I said.

It was a bittersweet drive home. The time had gone so fast, and I didn’t want it to end. About an hour from home Dickie, who must have felt the same way, devised a plan. He suggested we take the leftover ham and cheese from the cooler up the hill behind my grandmother’s house and camp out that night. Dickie’s father had left a real Army tent and Dickie knew how to set it up. We’d sleep under the stars, build a fire, and watch the sun come up.

My father looked at my mother. When she didn’t object, he looked in the rearview and said, “If Dickie’s mom says it’s okay.” It almost made the series sweep of the Pirates bearable.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1984

My father invited me to lunch, and because it would be uninterrupted time without my mother, I agreed to meet him at a restaurant after his hospital visits. In the meantime, I started to write Jesse a letter three times and crumpled the paper each time, knowing I needed to talk face-to-face.

I called work and checked in with the counseling center to make sure they had gotten my message and that all my appointments were covered. “Kristin is taking Dantrelle this afternoon,” I said.

“She mentioned that to me,” Carl Sheets said. He directed the center and was good-hearted, though a bit scattered. We all worked for little pay, but there was a sense
that we were really making a difference in the community, the city, and individuals’ lives.

“Do you have a better timetable of how long you’ll need to be away?” Carl said.

“I’m trying to help a friend I met when I was a kid,” I said. “She’s getting married Saturday.”

“I see. Well, we can cover for a few days, but I’d like you back as soon as possible. Do you think by the end of the week, or do you need to stay for the wedding?”

“End of the week is fine. I’ll hash this out by then.”

I met my father at a steak house off the interstate that overlooked the valley. The silverware was thin and the forks bent and the foil-wrapped potatoes were chewy, but the steak was edible if I doused it with enough A.1. sauce. The meal reminded me of dinners with Kristin and I shoved those thoughts away. One of the servers recognized my father and greeted him. He introduced me to her and we shook hands and exchanged pleasantries.

“Your daddy has helped a lot of people at his church. I hope you know that,” she said.

I nodded and smiled. When she left, my father leaned closer.

“Years ago her mother dropped her off at the youth group. The girl was a mess. The whole family was. But something happened. God got hold of her heart and the mom noticed and she started coming. Now that whole family is changed. It’s the power of the gospel you’re looking at right over there.”

“I’m surprised Blackwood allows teenagers in the church that aren’t in his circle.”

My dad speared a piece of steak and pointed it at me in thought. “You know, you should speak with the teenagers at church someday. Tell them what you do now.” Even while he was speaking, he seemed to regret suggesting it.

“You didn’t comment on Blackwood.”

He wiped his face with a napkin from a dispenser on the table. “Every pastor has a thorn in the flesh. I have Basil Blackwood. He’s my Diotrephes.”

“Your who?”

“Third epistle of John. The man was a rabble-rouser. Had to have everything his own way and tossed people he didn’t like out of the church.”

“Did he promise a parsonage and renege on it?”

My father chewed his steak and took a sip of soda. “I’ve tried to look at Basil as God’s way of keeping me humble. I’ve had to bite my tongue so many times I’m surprised I have one left.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have bitten it. Maybe you should stand up to him.”

“I think trying to get along with him and keeping peace is one way to show I’m taking God’s Word seriously. As far as it depends on me, I will try to live with everybody. I know you don’t agree with that—”

“I agree we should get along with people. But there’s a time to take a stand. To grab a sling and some smooth stones.”

He smiled at my Old Testament reference. “So I assume
you’re going to talk with Jesse before you head back to Chicago?”

“That’s my plan.”

“Well, there’s a bridal shower tonight. I doubt you’re going to crash that party.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Matt, if you don’t mind my asking, where are you with the Lord?”

I put the steak knife down and stared at my plate. “I suppose I’m where I’ve been for a long time. And he doesn’t seem to have moved much either.”

He tried to smile, seemingly unable to come up with a follow-up. We finished our meal and walked toward the parking lot.

“You know what I think?” he said, a hand on my shoulder. “God is at work. Even though we’re imperfect, he still uses us. And he’s using you, Son.”

By Tuesday evening every relative and church member within thirty miles had heard of my return. My mother said Uncle Willy had asked to see me and I told her I would stop by his house before I left.

I took a walk after dinner on the hill where Dickie, Jesse, and I had roamed. The old fire pit was still there with rocks circling it in a tangle of growth. I kicked at a tent peg driven too deep. It felt like a lifetime ago.

I looked out over the little town and wondered where Jesse was and what kind of presents she was opening. If there was anyone on the planet who deserved a bridal shower, it was her.

I heard the rumble of an engine through the trees and
made my way down. A red pickup sat near the lamp at the end of the walk and someone stood next to it, speaking to my father.

I could have waited but something told me I should face this trouble. As I passed what was left of my grandfather’s barn, I heard the nasal whine of Earl Turley.

“And you know better than I do what he’s up to, Pastor,” Earl said, jabbing a finger in my father’s face. “I’m a peaceful man. But he was at the store to see her. I’m not leaving till I have a word with him.”

“Earl, I told you, he left a bit ago. I don’t know where he went, but I do know—”

“Dad,” I yelled from the barn. “I got this.”

My father’s shoulders slumped as if he had hoped I would stay away. Earl stepped back, his hands on his hips, sizing me up. He no longer suffered from a lack of height or muscle, but he had the same red hair and light complexion. He wore a buttoned work shirt with his name over the pocket and steel-toed shoes, and I guessed he worked on cars by the grease on his hands.

“Why are you getting into our business this close to the wedding?” Earl said, holding his head back like a snake ready to strike.

I reached out a hand but he just looked at it. The memory of the picnic came back to me and my nose throbbed with phantom pain.

“Why don’t we go inside and talk?” my father said. “Earl, my wife made some apple pie for dessert. Would you—?”

“I ain’t hungry. And if you’ll excuse us, Pastor, I think this is something the two of us need to work out.”

My father glanced at me as if asking permission to leave.

“Earl’s right.”

My father walked away and closed the screen door quietly behind him. I moved toward Earl’s truck, leaning against the bed, noticing the shotgun mounted on the inside of the cab window. A squirrel tail hung limp from the radio antenna.