The Promise of Jesse Woods (31 page)

I left the marshmallows in the tent and returned with him, wondering about my friends.

The next morning I was up early. The first thing I noticed was the creek. It had risen with the torrent. My father read the morning paper with his coffee, my grandmother humming a Fanny Crosby hymn next to him.

“It’s a gully washer,” she said to me as I stared out the window.

My father joined me at the window and watched the water rolling through the bottomland.

“When are we moving into our own house?” I said, trying to keep my voice down.

“Your mother’s asking the same question. Blackwood has things tied up. It shouldn’t be much longer. That’s my hope.”

“Do you think it’s because of the picture I took?” It was the first time either of us had brought up that day.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “There are some things
we don’t control. And Basil Blackwood is one of them. I’m sure the picture didn’t help, but you can’t blame yourself.”

I realized then, observing my father’s peaceful acquiescence to the events of our lives, that I had kept my vow not to forgive him. I understood the pressure he was under at church and with my mother and why it was just easier to go along with Blackwood and not make waves. To keep the truth about Ben a secret. It all made sense because he always took things in stride, as if this were his spiritual gift. But it seemed to me that this wasn’t the way to live. I wanted him to act, to do something, to stand up and be strong. But the more inaction he exhibited, the more tension there was in my grandmother’s house and in the church. Things weren’t working out the way people had hoped. We didn’t have a big influx of visitors. The closest we had come to a baptism was a baby dedication. And my father’s sermons weren’t as forceful as Blackwood and some elders wanted.

“Life is never easy,” my father said. “It may seem like it on the surface, but there’s struggle to it all. When Jesus told the disciples to go across the Sea of Galilee, they got in the boat and obeyed. And that was when one of the biggest storms blew up. So obeying God’s will can sometimes get you into trouble. But it’s better to follow him into a storm than to stay on the shore alone.”

This was one of the things my father liked to do—sermonize in the middle of life. I wondered if he was reminding himself of the truth as much as he was teaching me. I wanted to ask about Ben, but that was a subject best
left to my parents’ prayers. At the dinner table, my father would pray for “each and every one not at this table” and pause, a hint of regret in his voice. And then we would eat.

The rain ended in the afternoon and the creek stretched into the corn. I rode my bike to Jesse’s and looked in the windows but the house was empty and so was the backyard. A truck passed and slowed. Macel Blackwood, Basil’s wife, usually spoke in grunts, but today she rolled down the passenger window and yelled, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your distance from that bunch, Plumley.”

I waved and smiled.

Later, after walking the muddy path to the top of the hill, I found Jesse and Daisy. They shivered like wet animals in the tent. Daisy ate marshmallows by the handful.

“I’ve been looking all over,” I said. “Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” Jesse said. “Just waiting for the lice to die.” She moved out of the tent and got me alone. “I’m scared, Matt. I think Blackwood wants me dead.”

“You’re paranoid. Why would you think that?”

“He’s been poking around the property with a guy who has something he looks through. I think he’s a surveyor. If they find out Mama’s gone, he’s liable to take it.”

“He can’t do that. Did your mother have a will?”

“I can’t find it or the deed. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Well, he’s not going to kill you. That’s silly.”

“You don’t know him or his kin like I do.”

Seeing her concern gave me an idea—I saw an opening here and pushed through. “Maybe it’s time to get help.”

“You stop saying that. We tell nobody.”

“You just said that Blackwood wants you dead.”

“I haven’t found a will or the deed, but I did find my daddy’s gun. And there was a box of ammunition in the closet. If Blackwood tries anything, I’m ready.”

“Jesse, you can’t threaten people with a gun.”

“I ain’t threatenin’. I’m just saying I’m ready for whatever comes down the pike. But I’m still scared.”

It began raining hard and Jesse retreated to the tent. I ran down the hill through the mud and slept in a warm bed, thinking of her all night.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1984

The lights of Dogwood twinkled below and the air felt as crisp as apple cider. Above were stars I couldn’t see in Chicago. The Milky Way stretched out toward infinity here while in the city the light haze blocked my view. There’s something about looking into a night sky that makes you feel small.

Mr. Lambert’s words turned circles in my mind as I made a fire. My concern for Dantrelle crept in and I smiled at how quick-witted and funny he was. I couldn’t imagine a world without that little kid in it. I also couldn’t imagine a world where Jesse Woods walked an aisle and said yes to Earl Turley. These concerns competed with each other as I counted the stars.

As night deepened, the temperature fell and I thought
about returning to the house. Jesse had ignored my notes in high school. She’d treated me as if I were the one with head lice. The week I got my driver’s license, I asked her to a movie. I asked her to prom two years in a row. There was always something in her refusal that sounded a little like regret. Call it intuition, call it denial—I sensed there was part of Jesse that wanted to say yes but held back. Though we never talked about it, I assumed it was because of what I did—or rather what I made her do. The promise I made her keep that kept us apart.

I put my hands behind my head and stared into the night, the crackle of the fire and the woodsmoke lulling me. Images of Dantrelle flashed through my mind and I felt torn between staying and just leaving. I must have fallen into a sleep so deep I was dreaming before my eyelids closed.

I still dream about being onstage and forgetting my lines. They call it “looking up.” Or I dream everyone is dressed and I am naked and the audience laughs. The women laugh loudest. Sometimes my parents are in the audience, shaking their heads. Sometimes I see Dickie and his father. But when I see Jesse, she looks away.

This night, in this dream, I was transported. I saw bicycle tires in moonlight. I trembled at the sight of the house on the hill and the cemetery. A collage of images floated to the surface and I heard the flutter of massive wings and a man’s raspy cough and a hand grabbed my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly awake, sitting up straight, I saw a billion stars and, across from me, her face illumined by the flickering firelight, Jesse Woods.

OCTOBER 1972

October 11 was cloudy, as if something evil was pressing down. I stood with an umbrella in the rain that morning and rode the bus knowing I had a piano lesson afterward. I had thrown hints at my mother and father, letting them know this was the most important day of my life. Game five of the National League play-offs. Gullet was pitching for the Reds and Steve Blass for the Pirates. The game would be played, ominously, at Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati, after the conclusion of game five between Detroit and Oakland.

I knew the Pirates were going to their second consecutive World Series, and I told Jesse about it that morning. I had
watched every play-off game to that point. I had to be part of it and couldn’t understand why my parents wouldn’t let me skip my lesson for once. But they dug in their heels.

I stared at the clock in English, calculating the time the American League game would start. It would be two or three hours later that the Reds and Pirates began. I begged God for a rain delay. I prayed there would be some shift in the time continuum that would allow me to finish school and my piano lesson and see the entire game before church services began. Such are the prayers of a play-off–struck boy.

As Mr. Lambert discussed the subtle nuances of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the play we were attempting, I heard the voices of Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek in my mind. Everyone else seemed oblivious except for Gentry Blackwood and Earl Turley, who wore their Reds hats.

After school I walked a few blocks to Mrs. McCormick’s house as I did each Wednesday. I sat on her front porch listening for anyone with an open window who might be watching the game, cursing myself for forgetting my transistor radio. I’d had it by the door that morning but walked out without it.

Mrs. McCormick pulled into her driveway and parked her Dodge Dart, moving with glacial speed as she opened the door, stepped out, and closed it. Halfway up the walk she turned and retrieved her massive purse from the passenger side. Several years later she reached the porch.

“And how are we today, Mr. Plumley?” she said with a rattle in her throat. Her speech was singsong—she was always guided by some inner melody.

“Fine, thank you,” I said, champing at the bit to play the piece I hadn’t practiced. My mother would arrive in an hour and I could at least hear the game on the radio—to the Reds side, of course, but I would endure that. I wanted Al Michaels and Joe Nuxhall to weep.

She opened the front door and I blew past her like Evel Knievel searching for a canyon, staring at the clock over her Zenith television. One flick of the knob and I would be in heaven, watching the game, helping my team. So close and yet so very far away.

I turned on the metronome and pulled out my Hanon Virtuoso Pianist exercises, left and right hands running up and down the scales, my wrists rocking. For once the metronome held me back. Mrs. McCormick finally sat and found the piece I was supposed to have worked on, flattening out the book. She glanced at me, then flattened it again.

At that very moment Steve Blass could be pitching a no-hitter. Willie Stargell could be swinging his Hillerich & Bradsby and connecting with a Gullet fastball. Roberto Clemente could be making an over-the-shoulder catch or throwing out a runner at home, preferably Rose or Morgan. I could hear the Pittsburgh faithful cheering somewhere near the Allegheny as my fingers picked out the right progression of Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
. I should have known from the menacing chord progression what the future held, but I gritted my teeth, tried to match the notes on the page with the keys under my fingers, and forged ahead.

Mrs. McCormick stopped the metronome. “Is something wrong, Matt? You seem preoccupied.”

“I’m sorry.” I sat up straighter and looked at the clock and put my hands over the ivories.

I tried the piece again, willing myself to get through the hour. If I could just concentrate hard enough on the notes and push through this, I could see the rest of the game.

The phrase stuck in my craw. I didn’t want to see the
rest of the game
. I wanted to see
all of the game
. If I didn’t, we might lose.

I hit a clunker and stared at my hands as if they had betrayed me for a few pieces of silver. Mrs. McCormick closed the book and turned to face me, her eyes enlarged by the magnification of her glasses. Her breath smelled stale with a slight hint of what I would later discover was Jack Daniel’s.

“Young man, you will tell me what has you preoccupied or I’ll chop your fingers off with the fallboard.” Her words would have seemed biting and mean to most. To me, they were a welcome invitation to truth.

“I’m a Pirates fan,” I said, choking. “Today is the fifth game of the championship. Whoever wins goes to the World Series.”

She looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili.

“I listened to every game last year,” I said, spilling my story. “I can name every player. I can imitate their swings. And when I watch or listen, it always turns out good. Except for the games I went to this summer. I’m afraid the game is going to be over before my mom picks me up.”

She looked at me with disgust. Then she stood, hands on hips, and said, “Why didn’t you say so? What channel’s it on?”

My heart fluttered. “Three,” I said.