6.
The Boy Who Became Invisible
By the time I finished telling Leonard all about it, I had turned us around and was driving back through town. We passed the old high school. It had been built during the Great Depression by the WPA. It was still solid, with a tall tower. I couldn’t remember what was in the tower anymore. Maybe I never knew. It sure wasn’t a classroom. Offices maybe.
They had built a new school farther out on the edge of town, but I wasn’t sure why. The way this one had been built it was sturdy and could have gone on forever. Maybe the plumbing was bad. It was empty now. I stopped in front of it and we rolled the windows down. A wind was blowing and it blew against the building and made a whistling sound up high around the tower and rattled the leaves on a large hickory tree that still grew out front. I had my picture taken there when I was in high school, something or another for the yearbook.
I started us up again, and we edged around the high school, back to where there used to be a tennis court. There was now a house, and a not a very good one. Poor people house. I had lived in many of them, leaky roofs, slow-flush toilets, interruptions in electrical service due to payment being slow.
“Right back there, under that walk, at the door you see coming out of the old school, something terrible happened. Something I sometimes feel I had a part in.”
I pulled over to the curb where we could see the place I was talking about, between the house and an empty space where the phys-ed building once stood. Now it was an empty lot thick with weeds.
“You’re all memory lane tonight, aren’t you?” Leonard said.
“Sorry.”
“Hard to believe there are things you haven’t told me about, long as we’ve known each other.”
“Some I haven’t mentioned to anyone in years. Some I guess I kind of forgot. Tonight, I remember all kinds of stuff, or maybe I’m letting myself remember.”
“I doubt you ever really forgot it,” Leonard said. “I know I got a few things tucked away.”
“You’re right. It’s always there.”
“I know you want to tell me what happened,” Leonard said. “So why don’t you?”
The place where I grew up was a little town called Marvel Creek. Not much happened there that is well remembered by anyone outside of the town. But things went on, and what I’m aware of now is how much things really don’t change. We just know more than we used to because there are more of us, and we have easier ways to communicate excitement and misery than in the old days.
Marvel Creek was nestled along the edge of the Sabine River, which is not a wide river, and as rivers go, not that deep, except in rare spots, but it is a long river, and it winds all through East Texas. Back then there were more trees than now, and where wild animals ran, concrete and houses shine bright in the sunlight.
Our little school wasn’t much, and I hated going. I liked staying home and reading books I wanted to read, and running the then-considerable woods and fishing the creeks for crawdads. Summers and afternoons and weekends I did that with my friend Jesse. I knew Jesse’s parents lived differently than we did, and though we didn’t have money, and would probably have been called poor by the standards of the early sixties, Jesse’s family still lived out on a farm where they used an outhouse and plowed with mules, raised most of the food they ate, drew water from a well, but, curiously, had electricity and a big tall TV antenna that sprouted beside their house and could be adjusted for better reception by reaching through the living room window and turning it with a twist of the hands. Jesse’s dad was quick to use the razor strop on Jesse’s butt and back for things my parents would have thought unimportant, or at worst an offense that required words, not blows.
Jesse and I liked to play Tarzan, and we took turns at it until we finally both decided to be Tarzan, and ended up being Tarzan twins. It was a great mythology we created and we ran the woods and climbed trees, and on Saturday we watched Jungle Theater at my house, which showed, if we were lucky, Tarzan or Jungle Jim movies, and if not so lucky, Bomba movies.
About fifth grade there was a shift in dynamics. Jesse’s poverty began to be an issue for some of the kids at school. He brought his lunch in a sack, since he couldn’t afford the cafeteria, and all his clothes came from the Salvation Army. He arrived at history class one morning wearing socks with big S’s on them, which stood for nothing related to him, and they immediately became the target of James Willeford and Ronnie Kenn. They made a remark about how the S stood for Sardines, which would account for how Jesse smelled, and sadly, I remember thinking at that age that was a pretty funny crack until I looked at Jesse’s slack, white face and saw him tremble beneath that patched Salvation Army shirt.
Our teacher came in then, Mr. Waters, and he caught part of the conversation. He said, “Those are nice socks, you got there, Jesse. Not many people can have monogrammed socks. It’s a sign of sophistication, something a few around here lack.”
It was a nice try, but I think it only made Jesse feel all the more miserable, and he put his head down on his desk and didn’t lift it the entire class, and Mr. Waters didn’t say a word to him. When class was over, Jesse was up and out, and as I was leaving, Mr. Waters caught me by the arm. “I saw you laughing when I came in. You been that boy’s friend since the two of you were knee-high to a legless grasshopper.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I didn’t think.”
“Yeah, well, you ought to.”
That hit me pretty hard, but I’m ashamed to say not hard enough.
I don’t know when it happened, but it got so when Jesse came over I found things to do. Homework, or some chore around the house, which was silly, because unlike Jesse, I didn’t really have any chores. In time he quit stopping by, and I would see him in the halls at school, and we’d nod at each other, but seldom speak.
The relentless picking and nagging from James and Ronnie continued, and as they became interested in girls, it increased. And Marilyn Townsend didn’t help either. She was a lovely young thing and as cruel as they were.
One day, Jesse surprised us by coming to the cafeteria with his sack lunch. He usually ate outside on one of the stoops, but he came in this day and sat at a table by himself, and when Marilyn went by he watched her, and when she came back with her tray, he stood up and smiled, politely asked if she would like to sit with him.
She laughed. I remember that laugh to this day. It was as cold as a knife blade in the back and easily as sharp. I saw Jesse’s face drain until it was white, and she went on by laughing, not even saying a word, just laughing, and pretty soon everyone in the place was laughing, and Marilyn came by me, and she looked at me, and heaven help me, I saw those eyes of hers and those lips, and whatever made all the other boys jump did the same to me . . . and I laughed.
Jesse gathered up his sack and went out.
It was at this point that James and Ronnie came up with a new approach. They decided to treat Jesse as if he were a ghost, as if he were invisible. We were expected to do the same. So as not to be mean to Jesse, but being careful not to burn my bridges with the in-crowd, I avoided him altogether. But there were times, here and there, when I would see him walking down the hall, and on the rare occasions when he spoke, students pretended not to hear him, or James would respond with some remark like, “Do you hear a duck quacking?”
When Jesse spoke to me, if no one was looking, I would nod.
This went on into the ninth grade, and it became such a habit, it was as if Jesse didn’t exist, as if he really were invisible. I almost forgot about him, though I did note in math class one day there were stripes of blood across his back, seeping through his old worn shirt. His father and the razor strop. Jesse had nowhere to turn.
One afternoon I was in the cafeteria, just about to get in line, when Jesse came in carrying his sack. It was the first time he’d been there since the incident with Marilyn some years before. I saw him come in, his head slightly down, walking as if on a mission. As he came near me, fo
r the first time in a long time, for no reason I can explain, I said, “Hi, Jesse.”
He looked up at me surprised, and nodded, the way I did to him in the hall, and kept walking.
There was a table in the center of the cafeteria, and that was the table James and Ronnie and Marilyn had claimed, and as Jesse came closer, for the first time in a long time, they really saw him. Maybe it was because they were surprised to see him and his paper sack in a place he hadn’t been in ages. Or maybe they sensed something. Jesse pulled a small revolver from his sack and before anyone knew what was happening, he fired three times, knocking all three of them to the floor. The place went nuts, people running in all directions. Me, I froze.
Then, like a soldier, he wheeled and marched back my way. As he passed me, he turned his head, smiled, said, “Hey, Hap,” then he was out the door. I wasn’t thinking clearly, because I turned and went out in the hall behind him, and the history teacher, Mr. Waters, saw him with the gun, said something, and the gun snapped again, and Waters went down. Jesse walked all the way to the double front door, which was flung wide open at that time of day, stepped out into the light, and lifted the revolver. I heard it pop and saw his head jump and he went down. My knees went out from under me and I sat down right there in the hall, unable to move.
When they went out to tell his parents what had happened to him, that Marilyn was disfigured, Ronnie wounded, and James and Mr. Waters were dead, they discovered them in bed where Jesse had shot them in their sleep.
The razor strop lay across them like a dead snake.
7.
Blood and Lemonade
While we drove through Marvel Creek, I thought of my family living here, scraping out a living, my father working long hours, and my mother working part-time, and sometimes full-time, but when I was growing up she was at home with me, turning what might have been a dreary existence into something special. On rainy weekend days she made me glue with flour and water so I could paste my projects, she walked me in the woods and showed me what plants were edible. When there was very little to eat in the house, she could turn having a bowl of corn mush, a pot of pinto beans, a fried squirrel, or even a mayonnaise sandwich into what seemed like a culinary event.
And she was smart, a woman ahead of time, brought up in a sexist environment, a time when if women were disagreeable or hardworking they were bitches, or they were having their period, or it was all about hormones; they were being emotional, hysterical.
She was special.
I was nine years old when this happened, and I had gone to see some kind of monster movie followed by a couple of cowboy shows.
We got there early, me and my mother, and there was already a line of snot-nosed kids yakking it up and chewing gum, ready to give the lady at the ticket window their quarter for Saturday admission. The teenagers were having to drag out a whole thirty-five cents, ’cause you turned thirteen, the cost jumped a dime.
You got there on Saturday for what was called the Kid’s Show, you got to see cartoons and a few old serials, not to mention a kid’s show, usually some kind of monster movie or sword and sandal thing, and when that was over, you wanted to stay, and I always did, you could watch the double feature, and then keep your seat and watch both again. One would be the main feature, and the other a shorter running B-movie.
My mother had dropped me off at the library that morning, and I wandered the stacks and read until she picked me up at eleven-thirty, and I carried my four books I was allowed to check out from the library out to the car and we pretty much drove across the street and parked in front of the drugstore next to the theater. Back then, the drugstore served hamburger and soda drinks, and you could buy a hamburger for fifteen cents, a bag of chips for a nickel, a soft drink for the same—we called all soft drinks Cokes or Coca-Cola then. We’d say, “What kind of Coke do you want?” and you might choose an orange pop or a chocolate drink. It’s how we talked.
My mother would buy me a hamburger, chips and soda pop, and then when that was done, she’d walk me next door to the movies. I was getting old enough I preferred to do it myself, but she always insisted, as if by taking me she could slow down my growing up. Or maybe she just wanted to make sure I got safely inside, though where we lived there wasn’t exactly a crime wave going on.
Next to the line where we were standing there was another line at the same ticket booth, but at another ticket slot. This was for the black people, who at that time were referred to as colored, when being polite. Now and again, after helping several white kids, or sometimes helping them until the line of whites was down to nearly nothing, the lady in the ticket booth would turn to the other slot and take money and give tickets to the black people.
When they got their ticket they went up a shaky wooden staircase that led to the balcony, what I had been heard called the nigger’s nest. I had seen this before, but for some reason, that day, it registered that they were always in the balcony, but never down in the floor seats. I of course knew there was a separation of races and that black people were not looked upon with fondness by alot of white people, but on that day, I suddenly wondered why it was such a big deal.
I remember clearly turning to my mother and saying, “Why are those people going up there?”
It was a totally innocent remark, and when I made it, I saw my mother pause, as if she had realized one of her shoes had been nailed to the floor. A lump was in her throat. She said, “I can’t explain it to you, son. But it’s not right, and it won’t always be that way.”
That’s all the discussion we had on the matter, because now I had my ticket. I went into the show, as we called it, and had probably forgotten all about it by the time I got to the concession counter. A hamburger, chips and drink hadn’t stopped me from wanting popcorn and another soda pop, and maybe some candy. Mom had given me enough money for that, and though I was supposed to wait until during the previews between the kid show and the first movie, the B feature, I bought my stuff right away. Unlike some of the other kids, I really loved movies and I loved previews and going to the show was akin to visiting a religious shrine. I even enjoyed watching the advertisements that encouraged a trip to the concession stand.
The theater was pleasantly air-conditioned and had a sticky aisle carpet that sucked at your shoes, and many of the seats were missing the arm rest, and therefore sometimes your arms rested on bolts. But that air-conditioning made it a great place to be during the summer even if the movie was some kind of love story.
The screen was stained in spots and there was a stage in front of it where sometimes magicians performed kid shows, and occasionally there were jugglers and dog acts.
I made it all the way through the kid show monster movie, the double feature, and was there when it started over, when my mother came down the aisle and tapped me on the shoulder.
I wanted to see the shows again, because back then you didn’t have to leave during showings, but she insisted I had to go, and so we went out to the curb where our car was parked. It was dark by then, but the theater lights were bright behind us, and there were lights along the walk, in front of the drugstore and other businesses, so it was easy to see a little black boy, crying in the drugstore doorway. I guess he was about my age.
Mom went over to him, said, “Are you okay, little boy?”
He looked up at her and sucked snot up in his nose, said, “I’m alright.”
“You don’t sound alright,” Mom said.
“I got beat up.”
“Who would do a thing like that?”
He shook his head. She bent down and looked at him.
“You’re bleeding.”
Mama opened her purse and took out a Kleenex and dabbed at the blood on his face. “Who would do such a thing?”
“White boy done it,” he said.
“A white boy beat you up?”
He nodded.
“Why would he do that?”
The boy looked at her in a puzzled way, as if she had just parachuted in from Venus.
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“’Cause I’m a nigger.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“He did.”
“Yes. But that isn’t right.”
“He still called me one.”
“Can we take you home?” Mom said.
“No. My mama lives out of town. Supposed to stay with my cousin, but he went off with a girl.”
“How old is your cousin?”
“Eighteen.”
“And he left you by yourself.”
“He don’t keep up with time so good.”
“I can’t believe he left you.”
“I can, that’s how he do.”
“So there’s no place we can take you?”
“Cousin’s house is all locked up. I’d have to break a window.”
“Aren’t his parents home.”
He shook his head. “They don’t live there no more, just him.”
“Alright, alright,” Mama said. “Well, look, we can’t just leave you here in a doorway. Tell you what. Come home with us, and we’ll call your mama and have her come get you.”
“She ain’t got no phone. Got a sister has one.”
“Then we’ll call her.”
“She lives in another town, Overton.”
“And your mother lives where?”
“Tyler, but she’s gone to Dallas. That’s why I was to stay with my cousin.”
“Come on, then,” Mama said. “You come with us and we’ll call someone, figure something out.”
Mama got his name out of him, Nathan, and with reluctance he climbed into the backseat of the car and sat there with his hands in his lap. He looked scared and confused, like a dog that had been left beside the road and wasn’t sure of those who had found and taken him in.
I sat on the passenger side of the front seat, and tried not to stare over the backseat. When I did glance back, he always seemed to be looking at me, wild-eyed and nervous. In our old black Ford we clattered home. My dad was a mechanic, and a good one, but our car was always on the verge of falling apart. He had time to work on other cars, but when he had time off he wanted to lay down in front of the TV and relax. The car he drove to work was worse than the one Mama drove.