The Essay A Novel (9 page)

I had decided to ask Ruth Ann Shellabarger to the homecoming dance. Ruth Ann was a sweet girl with a cute bob haircut and big brown eyes. She smiled a lot, seemed to laugh easily, and said hi when we passed in the hall. She wasn't part of the snobby clique of Lindsey Morgan, Abigail Winsetter, and Rebecca McGonagle, so I thought I had a legitimate shot.

On the Monday before the dance, the entire school had gathered in the auditorium for the announcement of the Alpha & Omega awards. I was seated in the middle of the auditorium; Ruth Ann was sitting two rows down and to my right, unaware that she was the object of my intentions. I stared at her, making sure I averted my eyes when she turned her head to talk to Melinda Jameson.

As my mind focused on the loveliness that was Ruth Ann Shellabarger, Ernestine Wadell, the president of the Vinton County Chapter of the Alpha & Omega Literary Society, was introduced by Principal Speer. Mrs. Wadell was a little butterball of a woman who wore bright orange makeup that stained the lapels of her blouse. She was up on her tiptoes to see over the lectern as she began a painful history of the Alpha & Omega Literary Society.

I wonder if I can summon up the courage to ask Ruth Ann to the dance. What if she says no? That's a definite possibility, but I won't know unless I ask her.

“Winning third place in the Alpha & Omega essay contest at East Vinton High School is Ida Mae Belair.” Ida Mae was a classmate of mine, though I hadn't heard her say two words the entire time we had been in school together. She was gangly with blackheads peppering her cheeks and heavy glasses that sat unevenly across her nose. She wore dresses without belts and ankle socks. Ida Mae walked across the stage to accept her bronze medal, and walked back to her seat without once smiling or lifting her head.

If I ask Ruth Ann to the dance while I'm at school, I risk a repeat of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. Maybe I'll call her at home. Yeah, that's what I'll do. That way, if she says no it will be less humiliating because I will be able to quickly hang up. Then I will pray to Jesus and all the known saints that she doesn't tell anyone that I asked.

Mrs. Wadell said, “Our second-place winner is Catherine Johanessen.” She was a senior and destined to be the class valedictorian. She also was the daughter of the freshman and sophomore English and literature teacher. Second place apparently wasn't to Catherine's liking because she frowned all the way to the stage and back.

If she says yes, how will I get her to the dance? Crap. Dad's car looks like a rolling landfill, it's covered with rust, smells like stale beer, and needs a new muffler. I'd be embarrassed to show up in that.

“This year's first-place winner of the Alpha & Omega Essay Contest wrote a simply marvelous memoir.”

Maybe I can get Lenny Ianarino to double-date with me. He's taking Truddie Walkup to the dance. I'll bet he'll let me double up with him. Of course, you have got to ask Ruth Ann first, chicken shit.

“The judges from Ohio University said this was one of the finest essays they had ever seen submitted.”

Christ Almighty, I don't even know how to dance. That's a problem. God, what if I start to dance with her and get a hard-on?

“One judge wrote of this essay, ‘This writing displays a maturity and depth seldom seen in a high school student.'”

I've got money saved. I could afford to take her to dinner up in Chillicothe and buy one of those mums that people always have on their coats at homecoming. That would be a nice touch. Yes, a mum, I definitely will have to buy one of those.

“
It gives me great pleasure to present the gold medal to this year's winner of the Alpha & Omega Literary Society essay contest . . .”

I'll still be nervous, even on the phone. What if I get all tongue-tied and I can't talk? Oh, that would be great. I'll write myself out a script. That's it. I'll have it all written out in front of me and I'll practice before I call.

“Mr. James L. Hickam.”

I'll do it, by God. I'll summon up the nerve and call Ruth Ann Shellabarger and ask her to the homecoming dance.

It became apparent that the auditorium had gone silent, like a church during the stretch of time when the preacher says, “let us pray,” and the actual prayer begins. I'm certain that I heard my name, but it seemed so out of context that it didn't register. However, as I looked around, trying to process the events of the past few seconds, I noticed that everyone was staring at me. It was not unlike having the teacher call on you in the middle of a daydream. After several seconds, Kip Fillinger, our offensive center, smacked me on the back and said, “That's you, numb nuts.”

I jerked upright and after a few more seconds stood to slide my way to the aisle and walk to the stage. There was a smattering of applause and a few audible gasps, and a female voice—I think it was Catherine Johanessen, but I never found out for sure—said, “I absolutely
cannot
believe this.” Miss Singletary was the lone teacher to stand, and she applauded with great enthusiasm. The principal and the other teachers stared in slack-jawed amazement. Members of the football team began pounding on the arm rests and chanting, “Jim-my Lee. Jim-my Lee. Jim-my Lee.”

Mrs. Wadell draped the gold medal over my head, shook my hand, then put her arm around my waist and pulled me closer to the lectern. “As is tradition, the winner will read the winning essay.”

I pulled back a step, “Ma'am?”

“You have to read your essay, Mr. Hickam.” She handed me my blue notebook. “You should be very proud to do so. It is very good.”

My heart was about to beat out of my chest. I can't recall ever being as nervous as when I stepped up to begin reading. Principal Speer stood and stared down the football players until they quieted and settled back in their seats. I flattened out the first page of the notebook, cleared my throat a few times, and began.

I would like to revisit a muddy stretch of the Scioto River where the oak trees bend in from the banks and meld together high over the water, and the river's surface is dappled with thin shafts of sunlight that somehow penetrate the dense canopy. Bass leap where fallen trees crowd the shallows, snappers sun themselves on the exposed rocks, and the air is heavy with the stagnant scent of slow-moving water.

When I last visited this place, I was only nine years old and yet, the soft, slow voice of my Uncle Boots remains clear in my mind.

“Are you sure you can handle that, padnah?” he asked as I struggled with my end of the canoe.

“Uh-huh,” I strained.

With one of his thick hands, he grabbed his end and tried to conceal a grin as he watched me strain to hold my end as I backed toward the river. “Set 'er down right at the edge of the water.”

We unloaded his pickup truck in the shadow of Mount Logan, along a wide bend in the Scioto River south of Chillicothe. To that point, it was the biggest day of my life. I had never been on a boat of any kind. I had been fishing a few times with my dad and brothers, but those were usually beer-shortened events that ended with my dad cursing at the fish and the river and his tackle box, and we always went home without a catch. Uncle Boots was my mom's brother-in-law. He was a soft-spoken, pie-faced North Carolinian who had that summer retired after twenty years in the U.S. Army. His real name was Beaumont, and he and my Aunt Stephanie had moved back to Ohio so Uncle Boots could take over the family farm in Scioto County. He had grown up fishing the rivers and streams of North Carolina and had moved north with his canoe, which had a small outboard motor rigged to the side. When he stopped by the house the night before to ask if I wanted to go fishing, I couldn't believe my luck.

Once he had unloaded the fishing tackle and his cooler, he instructed me to get into the canoe. He put one foot in the canoe, the other on the bank, and gave us a quick push. We scraped bottom, then headed toward the middle of the river. It was the most incredible sensation to be gliding over the water, the tiny waves slapping at the side of the canoe. I held tight to the sides, mesmerized by the passing water.

With one quick pull of the starter cord, he fired up the outboard motor. He adjusted the idle, then looked at me and asked, “Want to drive 'er?”

Oh, how I wanted to drive, but I was paralyzed with fear. “No,” I said.

He frowned. “Why not?”

“I don't know how.”

“It ain't rocket science.” He reached out for my hand and guided me to the seat next to the motor. “Grab the handle. You twist that to give it gas. You turn the handle the opposite way you want the canoe to go. Think you can handle it?” I gave him a little frown, and he laughed. “Okay, padnah, it's all yours. Keep it in the middle of the river and stay away from the snags.”

Slowly, I twisted the throttle and the canoe seemed to lurch out of the water. I made a big circle in the river and we headed upstream. I couldn't stop smiling. It was the most grown-up thing I had ever done in my life. Uncle Boots watched for a few minutes until he was sure I had it under control, then he began arranging the fishing poles. After a while, he winked and said, “You're doing a fine job there, padnah.”

Two miles upstream he pointed to the little kill switch and said, “Hold that down a second.” I did and the river became eerily quiet. “We're going to drift fish,” he said. “We'll cast toward the snags where the bass are hiding. That sound good to you?”

“Sure.”

He reached into the bait bucket and produced a minnow. “Watch close,” he said. “If you're going to fish, you've got to bait your own hook.” He held up the hook. “You see the barb on the end of this hook? If you get that caught in your finger, the fishing's over because I'll have to take you to the emergency room so they can cut it out. That sound like fun?”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Good, because it isn't.” He winked. “Trust me.” He held the minnow between his index finger and thumb and slickly slipped the hook under its chin and through both lips. “You see how I did that?” he asked. I nodded. “You hook them through the lips so they try to swim off the hook and attract the bass.”

He showed me how to cast and we began to fish, slowly drifting back down the Scioto River. Uncle Boots occasionally took a paddle and gave a couple of strokes to keep us on track. “Check your bait,” he said after a while. It was gone. “Get you a new minnow and hook 'er up.”

I fished the bait bucket with my fingers until I trapped my unfortunate lure. As I tried to maneuver it between my fingers, it wiggled and I instinctively released my grip. The sliver of silver hit the bottom of the canoe and flopped around on the hot aluminum.

I could feel the look of panic consuming my face and I found it difficult to keep my lower lip from quivering. It was the kind of youthful infraction that would have sent my dad into a screaming rage. As I waited for Uncle Boots to explode in anger, he calmly reached down, scooped up the minnow and put it back in my hand. “Try it again,” he said calmly.

We had a wonderful time. We talked in whispers, drank Coca-Colas, ate ham salad sandwiches and potato chips that my Aunt Stephanie had packed, and got sunburned. After we had been on the river a few hours without a bite, Uncle Boots handed me his pole and said, “Here, you try my pole. Maybe that'll change our luck.”

No sooner had he handed me the pole than I felt a violent tug. “I've got one.”

Maybe he'd already caught the bass and set the hook before he handed me the pole, but the next few moments replaced driving the canoe as the biggest thrill of my life. I reeled the largemouth bass close to the canoe and he netted it.

“You caught a monster.”

It was nineteen inches long and weighed better than four pounds. We caught a few smaller fish before calling it a day, and I was their guest for a fish fry dinner that night. Before we cleaned the fish, Aunt Stephanie took a photo of Uncle Boots and me with my trophy.

As I look back, it was perhaps the best day of my life. I had a great day with a man I admired. He seemed to enjoy being out on the river with me, teaching me to fish and talking to me as though I was significant. For the first time in my life, I realized that a man doesn't need to yell to be heard. A man doesn't have to throw a punch to make a point. And a man who is comfortable in his own skin doesn't need to constantly prove his worth to the world.

We went fishing four more times that summer. Each time he let me steer the canoe upstream. We caught bass, joked, and ate ham salad sandwiches from the cooler.

Uncle Boots died the following spring. He was tilling a hillside stretch of their farm when the tractor rolled over and he was crushed.

Aunt Stephanie had the photo of the two of us and my bass framed; it's on the wall beside my bed. I think of Uncle Boots often and wish the two of us could have one more sunny Saturday together, sipping Coca-Colas and drift fishing down the Scioto.

Chapter Six

W

hen I got home that night, my brother Edgel was drunk and slouched in a chair at the kitchen table.

As I had trudged up the rutted drive from Red Dog Road after football practice, I knew something was going on. Halfway up the drive, I could hear men laughing in our kitchen. This was peculiar as humor was not commonplace in the home of Nick Hickam. As I climbed the steps to the back porch, the heat and smells of the kitchen wafted out the back door, a twisted aroma of cooking meat, biscuits, and cigarette smoke.

Through the screen door, I could see the Farnsworth twins—a pair of hard-working, hard-drinking boys who ran the auto salvage yard on Taylor-Blair Road—sitting at the table on either side of my dad. Mark had no teeth, the result of poor hygiene and too many bar fights, and his lips surrounded the lip of a beer bottle like a baby nursing at its mother's breast. Luke had his teeth, but the scarred face of a lost battle with acne. He was a terrible stutterer and didn't say much. They had killed a case of beer and dozens of cigarette butts had been drowned in the spittle and flat Pabst Blue Ribbon in the bottom of the bottles that covered the kitchen table.