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That I was happy before, that Jackson and I have found each other, makes me believe, for the first time, I can be happy again.
Saturday, May 7, 1977, Locust Hollow—Our picnic today was rained out. Rain here tends to be like a toddler’s tantrums. It erupts suddenly out of silence and clear skies with a sound like a clapper bell from hell, then a torrent of unstoppable water pours down, eventually stopping as suddenly as it started. Then, as soon as you’ve gotten used to the silence ringing in your ears, the clapper bell rings, and the storm rages again. Like a toddler’s incoherent fury, you are left wondering what in hell has caused it.
Undaunted, we unpacked our picnic in the cab of his truck and holding hands, we ate, talking about everything and nothing, sometimes singing along with our favorite songs on the truck’s scratchy AM radio as the storm raged around us.
Sunday, March 20, 1977, Locust Hollow—Each Sunday since January when Reverend Jack prayed over us, someone in church has conspired to separate Jackson and me after service.The conspirators seem legion—the elders, the deaconesses, sometimes a particularly righteous parishioner. So today, we decided to meet upbeforeSunday service—in the orchards behind the church. When I arrived, Jackson was there with Reuben, the choir director. It was impossible to tell what his body looked like under his voluminous choir robe, but his rounded face with its soft features is actually quite attractive. He speaks quietly but plays the piano like a demon.
“I’m glad I caught you boys,” he said, pulling a cigarette from a new pack and lighting it. Jackson and I looked at him in astonishment; Father Jack forbids the smoking of cigarettes.
“Why?” Jackson asked.
“I—I wanted to tell you boys—I envy your courage,” he said quietly.
“Courage?” Jackson repeated, sounding confused.
“Yeah. Courage—the courage not to let them,” he jerked his thumb towards the church, “weaken your devotion to each other. Each Sunday, you stand tall and defiant as they lay their hands on and pray over you. I can see in your faces that your faith in the rightness of your relationship is stronger than their prayers.”
“That’s not courage,” I said.
“You’re too young to know what courage is,” Reuben said, smiling.
“Oren doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him,” Jackson said.
“It’s not that. It’s just that I can only be myself. I don’t see the point of pretending to be someone else. I don’t understand actors—that seems like the worst job in the world—day after day pretending to be someone else. Always having to speak someone else’s words, express someone else’s thoughts.” I shuddered.
Reuben nodded. “I’ve noticed you boys trying to slip away after church…”
“It seems like Reverend Jack has summoned a legion to keep us from going off together.”
“That’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. Starting next Sunday, I’ll create a distraction with the recessional hymn so you can slip out unmolested.”
Sunday, March 27, 1977, Locust Hollow—Reuben kept his promise. Today, the recessional hymn was so unexpected, powerful, and perfect, the congregation paused their hurried departure to stop and listen as if caught in an enchantment, while Jackson and I slipped away unmolested. The weather was surprisingly mild for March, so we went swimming up at the quarry.
Thursday, April 14, 1977, Locust Hollow—Today, my college acceptance letter arrived. I felt like the long-closed door to my prison cell was finally creaking open. My grandfather came upon me like a shadow. Spying the letter in my hand, knowing I had been waiting for it, seeing the smile on my face, he taunted me.
Pointing at the letter in my hand, he said dismissively, “That makes no never mind. You can’t go.”
“You can’t stop me,” I said.
“How you gonna pay for college, boy?”
I could hear Mr. Fabricant’s words when I’d asked the same question:“If you have the will, we will find a way.”I’d had the will, and he’d kept his word. Mr. Fabricant is our Frenchteacher, an unkempt, short man who teaches us French while wearing a tattered putty-colored London Fog trench coat. Most days, he listlessly leads us through declining French verbs and the singing of the French National anthem and “Frere Jacques” all while drunk.
He is a terrible French teacher but proved to be an excellent guide through the thicket of applications, essays, and scholarship requests that lead to college admission.
“I got a scholarship,” I said, “and I can work part-time for walking-around money.”
I walked away before my grandfather could close his mouth.
Friday, May 13, 1977, Locust Hollow—Tonight was prom. Prom always has a black-and-white color scheme; black-and-white posters and stills from old movies lend a bit of credibility to the scheme, as if it were a deliberate lark rather than a grim necessity. You see, ours is a town where no one has money for prom dresses and rented tuxedos, so prom has always used this color scheme so the girls can wear hand-me-down wedding dresses and the boys’ their fathers’ old funeral suits. From late winter until early spring, every seamstress and anyone who can thread a needle is pressed into service to transform the wedding dresses of mothers, aunts, and even grandmothers into prom dresses.
Tonight, Jackson and I sat together in a tree and watched our classmates arrive in their recycled finery. Just before the dance started, Reverend Jack—who strongly objects to it each year, dancing being “a vertical expression of a horizontal proposition”— arrived with a contingent of deaconesses in tow;each carried a wooden ruler as if it were a crucifix in the presence of evil.
“What are the rulers for?” I asked Jackson.
“It’s to make sure the dancers are at least six inches apart at all times.”
I stared at him; he fell onto his back and crossed his arms under his head. I worried he’d fall out of our tree and, curling around him with my head on his chest, wrapped my arms around him.
