Page 12 of He
I saw an immediate future of electroshock treatments, perhaps a lobotomy, beatings with a specially consecrated Bible while we were naked and wet. I would survive; Jackson, for all his defiance and masculine vigor, would not. He was like a dancing, celebratory flame on a candle wick—all it would take was a pair of spit-damped fingers to snuff him out.
When I remained quiet, Jackson resumed his aimless, troubled walking.
“Will you stop pacing?” I snapped. “I’m trying to think.”
Jackson paused his movements and looked at me hopefully. He hadn’t looked this hopeful since the day he’d told me he liked me and asked me out on a date. “Look,” I said, “we’ve graduated. I start college in a few weeks. You can come with me.”
“What?”
We hadn’t talked about it. I think we’d both assumed this—we—would end once I left for college. Jackson had made no plans for after graduation; it was almost as if he hadn’t expected to graduate after twelve years. He insists he isn’t college material. “And I don’t want to go to Bible college for sure—”
“Bible college?” I asked.
“Reverend Jack wants me to go. He wants me to take over his ministry.”
“I can’t see you in Bible college,” I said.
“Me either. You want me to go to college, though, don’t you?”
“I don’t want you to do anything but be you—and love me. I don’t agree that you’re not ‘college material.’ It’s more that you don’twantto go to college, which is fine, by the way. You just need to figure out whatyouwant to do and do that.”
He said he’d thought about joining the army to escape what he calls the town’s “Jesus Fever,” and the claustrophobia of being a preacher’s kid. He’d miss me, he said, and the army might give him some perspective, some other things to think about while letting him see the world, experience life in other places free of the pall of fire and brimstone and the false promise of salvation as he learned to live without me.
I know ours will never be considered a legendary romance. No one will write a song or even a poem about us; we are too ordinary, too prosaic, but we have loved each other, lifted each other up, fought and struggled to stay together. We have each, separately, dreamed the impossible dream of loving and being loved in return, and we are. I suddenly realized I couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave Jackson behind.
“Look, I have a work-study job and a housing allowance. You probably can’t live with me on campus, but we could get an off-campus apartment. You could get a job.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“Yeah,” I said, “but only if you want to—”
He hugged me then, lifting me off my feet. Just as Mrs. Lewisohn pushed open the door to the breakroom.
Saturday, August 20, 1977, Locust Hollow—Jackson and I plan to leave tomorrow right before church, so this morning, I went to the bank to close my accounts. I got up early because technically, the bank is open until noon on Saturdays, but sometimes Fontella Bass, the lone teller, closes early to get her hair done or because she’s bored. It’s usually not a problem, though, because folks just call up the bank manager and he goes down and reopens the bank.
I handed Fontella my bank slip; I was withdrawing two hundred and fifty dollars in cash and taking the rest as a money order and closing my account.
“I hear that Mr. Fabricant down at the high school has been encouraging kids to apply to college. Sounds kinda uppity to me—and he should know better. Kids from these here parts, peoplelike us aren’t meant to be ’sociating with college folk—even Reverend Jack says so—never mind attending college alongside them.”
Fontella ran out of steam as I ran out of patience with her stream-of-consciousness rambling. She looked at my withdrawal slips. “Oh! These withdrawals will close your account. You don’t want to do that,” she said, pushing a fresh withdrawal slip towards me.
“Why wouldn’t I want to do that?”
“You listen to me. That Mr. Fabricant has filled your head with nonsense dreams of glory. Dreams and glory are for other people. Once you’re in the city, you’ll miss us and our quiet ways.”
I’d miss no one, I knew, except Rio maybe. Rio. Handsome, popular, distant Rio. My singular obsession until Jackson came along. Though our interactions had been few and far between, he’d always been kind to me. Once, he’d draped an arm across my shoulders, until a group of equally popular boys called him away. My shoulder had burned where his arm had lain; a week later, the sensation, like a sunburn, peeled away leaving just a depth of feeling and the shadow of a smile.
Fontella was still talking, advising, when I tuned back in. “You listen to me. Leave some money in this account so when you come back with your tail between your legs—”
“I’m not coming back,” I said. “So, either give me my money or I’m going to call the bank manager, who will.”
I’d grown up around these people, and I tried to be respectful, but I was at my wits’ end. Just theideaof being forced to stay in Locust Hollow at this point would destroy me and Jackson. To my relief, she handed me my cash and money order withoutanother word. I stuffed everything into the front pocket of my dungarees and headed out to my bike, which I’d left lying on the sidewalk outside. I pedaled around the block to calm down, and as I passed the bank, I saw Fontella turn over the “closed” sign and lock the doors. It was 10:15.
When I got back to the farm, I called Jackson. We agreed not to see or talk to each other until we meet up to leave tomorrow so, as we’d planned, I called his house, let the phone ring once, then hung up and called back, letting the phone ring once more before hanging up so he’d know my trip to the bank had been successful.
Sunday, August 21, 1977, Locust Hollow—“Why aren’t you dressed for church?” my grandfather demanded, coming upon me as I stood, my back to the sink, eating a bowl of cereal.
“I’m not going,” I said.
