The Teeth of My Enemies – 17

Chapter Seventeen

Go and beat your crazy head against the sky
Try and see beyond the houses and your eyes
It’s OK to shoot the moon.

            “Darling, Be Home Soon”, the Lovin’ Spoonful

False Spring let go, and after the third week in January winter slammed back down on Congaree with a misery of bone cold and wet. Students were bundled up at school. Chilly winds knifed their way inside the flaps of jackets and collars.

On Friday the 27^th, I received notice of my class reassignments. I would begin my new section in science on Monday. That same Friday my parents were invited to a church-centered social event and offered to drop me off at the Central basketball game if I wanted to go.

“Yeah, I think I would like that,” I said. “All I hear about is this Thomas Williams fellow, and I’d like to see him in action.”

Thomas Williams was the best basketball player in Congaree since Kenny Grenade. Though I had to remain skeptical, some said he was even better. I knew he was good, though. One afternoon when my mother was running late to pick me up, I sat in the gym as I waited for her. A few upperclassmen were playing a pickup game. One of them was Thomas Williams. Another was none other than Scott Santiago. He was the tallest player on the court. He had taken it upon himself to cover Williams man to man on defense. As I watched the game progress I focused more and more on the playing of my erstwhile rescuer from Eddie Tinsley and his pack that day in the parking lot. The main fact I knew about Santiago was that he could lift motorcycles overhead. Today I discovered that he could also play basketball. He did his share of scoring as I watched. He did his share of playmaking as well. When I saw him rebounding, though, I recognized him as a force. Why was this person not on the varsity starting five? I decided that this was a question that needed an answer. One missed shot bounced high over the rim of the basket. Santiago reached high above the goal – a foot higher than Thomas Williams’ outstretched arm – and wrested the ball from any would be defender. He turned toward his own goal and raced down the court, weaving past two defenders, one of which got himself crossed up and landed his butt on the floor. There was a curious light in Santiago’s eyes. It seemed to me the light that might illuminate the instincts of a platoon leader or company commander, unthinking of any physical risk, inconsiderate of injury, fixed solely on the objective before him – in this case the orange steel basketball hoop. He locked on his goal, rose high off the floor, and dunked the ball through the hoop.

Overall, Congaree Central’s sports program had fallen on hard times. The exception was the varsity basketball team, even without the contributions of Santiago. The team’s success rode primarily on the shoulders of Williams, and of a couple of top players who had transferred from Teachers’ High. The prospect of seeing this team, which stood a good chance of winning the conference and playing in the state tournament, drew me out of my cave for one night. I could choose my vantage point from which to see the game, and if I needed to disappear I could.

Lexington had traveled into town from the next county to meet the Colonels. As the game commenced it was clear Lexington wasn’t giving anything away. The teams matched baskets for a quarter, then in the second, Thomas Williams broke out for two jumpers and a three-point play. Central led at halftime 34-29. Thomas had 10 points, and Phil Breen – who I had practiced with a few times back at Teachers’ High – led the scoring with 12.

I had not seen anyone at the game from whom I needed to hide, so I began to feel relaxed. I saw two or three classmates and I chatted with them briefly. Did Suzanne come to these games? I casually scanned the crowd but didn’t see her. I knew she wasn’t a cheerleader, and that her main extracurricular activities involved music and chorus.

I did see Scott Santiago, sitting by himself on the fourth row. I was tempted to ask him why he wasn’t on the basketball team, but I imagined this might be a personal question difficult to answer in a loud and busy setting like this. As I moved toward the snack bar, I gave him a slight wave. He waved back with a nonchalant hand.

I picked up a Hostess devil’s food cupcake and a Coke and sat on the edge of the lowest bleacher. A minute or two before the two teams returned to the court, a voice spoke over the intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received a special bulletin from Cape Kennedy in Florida. The sad news is reported that three astronauts have died in a fire that broke out during a test of the Apollo I spacecraft. The three astronauts were Virgil “Gus” Grissom, James White, and Roger B. Chaffee. They were scheduled for take-off in the Apollo spacecraft within a few weeks. I regret having to make such an announcement at this time, but we felt the public needed to know.”

There was silence for several seconds, then a low rumbling began in the stands. I was thunderstruck. I felt unable to move. My mind flew back to the summer of 1961, Princeton, New Jersey, the summer of Sam Cooke, of Dee Clarke’s Raindrops, of Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore. Gus “Greasy” Grissom was the second American in space. Four years later Ed White got a ticket to ride the Gemini rocket ship beyond the earth’s atmosphere to become the first American to walk in space. Roger Chaffee was a newcomer. This was his first spaceflight assignment, but he was a very promising astronaut. I had grown up with these guys. So many of us followed their every move. There had been a couple of close calls in the space program, but for three of them to die? So suddenly and quickly? During a test? This was unthinkable. These men are not supposed to die. What complete futility.

Though I stayed for the remainder of the game, I had fallen into a deep funk. I watched the basketball around me as Central surged to a commanding lead behind Williams’ 27 points and 12 rebounds. The final score was Central’s win, 71-55. My parents showed up right on schedule, just as everyone was filing out of the exits into the frigid air of the night.

“Did you hear the sad news?” asked my father, as I climbed into the back seat.

“I heard it,” I answered, “and I’m very sad.”

                                                            #####

I ruminated on the tragedy over the entire weekend. I watched all the news commentary and read everything in the paper. It was a personal hurt, a wound. It was so needless, I could hardly comprehend it. Objectively I knew the space program was a daring venture – the technology was new and advanced, the push to reach the moon was accelerated, and there were serious risks and dangers a-plenty. In spite of these facts, however, I felt as though there had been some collective failure, that somehow our nation had fallen short, and had deeply disappointed me and millions of other Americans. I thought of other bleeding wounds in our country and the world, of killers Richard Speck and Charles Whitman. They came at me in my thoughts snarling like bears. I thought of the fighting in Vietnam. The president and the military all told us we were winning the war, and were in fact on the verge of victory.

Really?

“Terry, I thought the piece you turned in last week was very fine,” said Mrs. Rhame. “You expressed your thoughts and feelings so well. Your analysis of this situation is… well, I think you’re making real progress here.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I think I may need to write a new paper.”

“Oh?” she said. “Something other than a class assignment?”

“Yeah. I mean unless I were to write something on the meaning of tragedy, Julius Caesar and everything else. I’ve been feeling a lot like life, all of life, is a tragedy.”

“Umm, I think a lot of people feel that way, from time to time.”

“Ever since I heard about the three astronauts, and that made me think about all sorts of other things. Mrs. Rhame, I’m afraid the world is getting to be a much more dangerous place. The world… the universe is dark. It’s hostile.”

“You should write about that,” she said. “It was awful what happened to the astronauts. You could write about how you feel about them, or tie it in with Julius Caesar… really, anything.”

“I think I will. Sometime.”

“I would suggest – I know it’s easy to get really swept up in a subject like that. Just make sure you’re in good shape on your actual class assignments. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Miss Corliss taught my new science class. I felt at ease from the first day. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t have any problems here. I chose my seat carefully. There were a half dozen seats in this room situated on a slightly raised platform perpendicular to the other rows of desks. I chose the one empty seat. No one could sit behind me, plus I had a view of anyone or anything that might approach me. There was one fellow – Wayne something – that might have had bully potential. He definitely was a smart aleck. The first thing I heard him say when I walked in was “Class, I’m going to ask Miss Corliss that our next project will be about something I am extremely interested in – a thorough study of the female anatomy!” There was mild laughter at this. But when Miss Corliss did walk in, all talk ceased, including smart guy Wayne. Wow, Miss Corliss, how did you snap this class into military discipline?

                                                                        #####

On the first day of February I received notification that my transfer to Beckham had been approved for the 1967-68 school year. I would have to register early in the summer so the bureaucracy would have time for its giant wheels to grind. I had also set as a goal to get my Drivers’ Permit – the daytime one – in early summer. My father said we could start driving lessons in April.

My parents also asked me if I might consider going to Summer School at Beckham – a chance for me to get used to the school before the crush of students arrived. It would be a crush. I thought Congaree Central was a big place at 1200 students. Beckham, according to the school district newsletter, was anticipating 1700 students this fall. So big was Beckham that they divided the one school into two schools – administratively – School A and School B.

I decided to celebrate by attending a basketball game: Beckham vs. Camden. It was Friday night, at the Beckham gym. It took my father five minutes to drive me there and drop me off. Once again I made myself get out of the house. Basketball therapy. I loved the newness of Beckham High School. The gym’s walls of concrete block were brightly painted, fresh-looking, in a teal blue and crimson trim – the school’s colors. It was beautiful to me. It felt like a deep breath of pure oxygen. The Beckham students, parents, and siblings that filed into the facility were attractive, clean, energetic, hopeful, and happy. I wanted to become one of them, and I savored the thought that before many months I would. They were all the things I was not at the moment. I felt grimy from my months at Congaree Central – the dingy hallways, the scuffed and peeling paint. To my mind, everyone at Central had that grime clinging to them as they moved and worked through that old school. Even the best people I knew there – Rob, Suzanne, James, Mr. Warren – they all had to fight the inevitable griminess of being in that place.

The band ensemble in place, they struck up the Fight Song – “Are You From Beckham”, to the tune of “Are You From Dixie” – and everyone stood to their feet, clapping in time. This cued the entry of the Beckham High School varsity cheerleaders. If the students in the stands were attractive, these cheerleader girls were mind-boggling. They were immaculate: their hair gleamed, their complexions glowed, everything was put together so nicely. The blue of their uniform sweaters, the red and white pleats of their skirts, the obvious health of their bodies, their posture straight and their chests thrust out to a wonderful effect. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them – indeed, when I decided I needed to stand up I had to think sad thoughts for a minute or two before I could do so without embarrassment.

I saw Jerry Layton, a classmate from elementary school, sitting with his sister Julie and a couple of her friends. Their brother Dean played on the team.

“Terry Owens?” he said as I walked toward him. “Boy I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age! Whatever happened to you?”

“Now Jerry, you know I went to Teachers’ High School on the Atlantic campus.”

“I think I do remember you going off to some strange school.” he allowed.

“This year I decided to go to Congaree Central, which was a huge mistake.”

“I can imagine,” said Jerry. “Didn’t y’all have some kind of race riot up there?”

“No, there weren’t any riots. There’ve been a couple of fights, and a lot of tension.”

“A friend of a friend of mine got attacked by a couple of black girls from Central,” said Julie.

“I can’t say what goes on outside of school,” I said. “Overall, I’d say it’s been calmer than I expected. But the place is not for me, for a lot of reasons. So this fall you’ll be seeing me here.”

“Glad to hear it!” said Jerry. A roar swelled from the crowd and the crowd stood to its feet. Beckham had just scored on a fast break and drawn a foul.

“I better move back to my seat,” I said, and went back to my cheerleaders-eye-view spot on the front row. As Beckham’s lead over Camden widened to twenty points, I watched the game contentedly and observed all the newness and glamor that surrounded me in the Beckham High School gym. The Beckham team had a couple of shooting guards – one of them was a real sparkplug named Bill Ferris – who ran the offense, along with a center who stood a hefty 6 foot 7. The forwards moved back and forth between the low post and the deep corner and helped set up screens and other plays. If only, I thought, I could beat this thyroid problem and grow one or two more inches, I could see myself finding a place on this team. Bill Ferris, I later found out, had set a state record for the 100 yard dash, so I wasn’t really in his league, but I had strengths of my own. I watched the remainder of the game imagining myself wearing teal blue and red.

                                                            #####

Already a week had passed in February and I had not been to an Atlantic basketball game. I was amazed and appalled by this, but there was still time – according to the Eagles’ schedule – to attend a half a dozen games before the Conference Tournament in early March. The next home game was next Wednesday, February 15^th. Atlantic was hosting Virginia.

I stood next to my locker after French class and waited. When I saw Suzanne walk around the corner, my heart started to hammer in my chest. She smiled at me and gave a little wave.

“Hey, there!” she said. “How are the new classes working out?”

“Oh, they’re okay,” I said. “I have the same teacher for science, Miss Corliss.”

“I don’t know her,” said Suzanne. “She’s new I believe.”

“I was struck by the difference between this class and the one I used to go to.”

“How so?”

“The first period class is out of control. All she does is scream at the class, and kids do whatever they want to and usually get by with it. But this new class – it’s a model of good and respectful behavior.”

“How did that happen?”

“I think I figured it out,” I said. “The other day Miss Corliss said we were going to have a visitor. Someone we had seen before. There was a knock on the door, and in walks this man. He is six foot ten, and he’s Miss Corliss’ fiancé.”

“Six foot ten!”

“Six foot ten,” I said. “He had been there a couple of times before. Somebody told me a rumor had gotten started – if it was a rumor – that if Miss Corliss ever had a problem with this class she should let him know, and he would be  over in five minutes and completely straighten things out!”

“Oh no,” laughed Suzanne. “Not really!”

“Unfortunately his schedule won’t allow him to come to the other class, so they have stayed awful.”

“You know, that story is so weird I think I actually believe it. I’m glad things have gone well.”

“Hey, Suzanne?” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“Well, speaking of tall men… heh… would you like to go with me to an Atlantic basketball game? We have season tickets. It’s next Wednesday.”

“Oh Terry… I really would like that, but I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay.”

“No, it’s… most of my friends know this about me but… it’s kind of embarrassing. My mother won’t let me go out during weekdays.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” she said. “It sounds like I’m some kind of wild child but no, it’s her rule. The only exceptions are if I’m playing music for the school or church. I threw a fit over it a year ago, thinking I’m getting too old for this, but later I found out about a couple of other girls who have the same rule.”

“I guess some mothers are still that way. My sister’s gotten grounded before, but it’s always because she did something bad.”

“Well, I never have,” she paused, then cracked a smile. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“Oh, sure!” I laughed. The bell rang, and our time was up. Yes, there was another home game on Saturday night. I didn’t ask her. Maybe she would say yes, maybe no, but I didn’t feel strong enough to hear the answer. Suzanne was a gift. I was a freshman.

“Talk to you later, then.”

“Okay, Terry.”

Suzanne remained for me as she had always been – no disappointment, no deception or white lies, no gentle confession of well, you are kind of young. She was a sincere friend, and would always be.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 16

Chapter Sixteen

It’s not just these few hours but I’ve been waiting since I toddled
For the great relief of having you to talk to.

                                    “Darling, Be Home Soon”, the Lovin’ Spoonful

Bullies

For Mrs. Rhame                                                                    January 26, 1967

Until this year, I never expected to look at the subject of “bullies” as closely as I have. It hasn’t been a matter of choice. Suddenly, about the end of September, I became surrounded by them, and a subject I had given little thought to in the past became so big a part of my life I could think of almost nothing else.

There have been three main bullies who have inflicted themselves on my life this school year. I shall name them A, B, and C for the purposes of this paper. Each of them is unique, and I have been confused by the way each of them acts toward me, but in a different way. Before I try to describe them in turn, though, I want to say a few things about bullies in general.

I’ve been aware of them for all the time I’ve been in school. To different degrees there are always certain people who want to gain power over other people, for the sake of the feel of power itself, or perhaps for money, or because something inside them gets sadistic pleasure from making other people uncomfortable or miserable. Even though I have never participated in bullying activities, I have seen it happen all around me in school and in other places where there are groups of people. Mostly I have tried to ignore it, or let it go, and I used to wonder if that made me any better than the bullies themselves.

I’m not able to answer that question at this time. Since I have been one of the victims – if you can call it that – something I haven’t really wished for is for people to rush to my defense or get involved. I’m kind of surprised by this, but after an incident with one of these guys I mostly want to be left alone. Once I felt like I was really in danger, and I was grateful someone showed up when they did and chased the bullies away. Most other times, however, I have felt this is something I need to resolve on my own, though I do need advice and encouragement from friends and family. It’s something very personal and very private. Honestly, I’m pulled in two directions about this.

Why do bullies bully? I have spent many dark moments trying to understand and answer this question. When this school year began I recognized this year was very important in the civil rights movement, and several schools in Congaree would be integrated for the first time. I know many people have been nervous about this, and there have been some incidents in this and other schools. For one of my bullies – Mr. B – it is an issue, and he has brought it up to me when he is cussing me out or abusing me. He had pointed out to me my friendly ways with a few of the negro students. If it is an issue to either of the two other bullies, I think it may be for them just another weapon they have available to taunt me with. Other than this, I’m not sure it’s that important, especially to A.

It’s interesting for me to consider A. What makes him tick? I’m not sure how to express it other than to say that A seems to want to swagger. He wants to strut around like a rooster. Anything, or anybody, he can use to achieve this daily goal for him, he will. His method of creating misery is heavy with sarcasm, humiliation, shame, and a kind of practical joking meant to embarrass and to harm. I wonder if he learned this at home? There’s always the question of influences from home and family. Or maybe it’s an inborn need he has. He can only crow if he is able to climb on top of the latest of his scorned ones. I can’t say for certain because I really don’t know A. 

It does seem that B is prejudiced against negroes. He may hate them, right below the surface. He may not be willing to challenge any negro directly unless he is in a fairly large group – which I suspect. He’s kind of a shrimp, really. But whether it really is pure hatred, I think he is a racist. He is willing to use negroes as instruments in all the games he is playing. Whether he ever physically harms any of them, curses them out, or brings trouble to them personally, he is not dealing with them as persons or worthy of respect.

Finally, there is C. I think he may have dropped out of school, because I haven’t seen him in weeks. I don’t know, though. C is one of those persons who carries a chip on his shoulder, as the saying goes. I’m not sure if he has an actual reason to fight people, but he does fight. I know almost nothing about C, but I think he may be from a disadvantaged or broken family. That may be part of what makes him so aggressive. He had to grow up tough, but the problem is he doesn’t really know when to quit. I wonder if some day he may pick a fight with the wrong person and get laid out… I would enjoy being there for that!

There are different kinds of bullying. There are extreme kinds – maybe they should be called by another term – that can threaten physical danger and even be life threatening. There are extreme types that are intended to destroy a person’s reputation or their career or something else in their personal life. Other than the one time I felt in possible danger, I have not been made to endure that. Mine has been more on a psychological level, more gradual, and the damage has been inside my mind and my emotions. I can’t say, though, that I resent it any less. I wish Mr. A, B, and C would somehow be able to understand and experience what they have done to me. I think it would be more than fair if they were visited by the same cruelty and malice they have dealt. If it’s left up to me, it will probably never happen. A large part of my hardship through this year has been that I have so little energy to deal with ordinary life, much less with being bullied. At this point my energies are gone, and I have no strength for turning these tables around. The more time passes, I may begin to care less and less what happens to them. It’s strange to me how little I know about these three boys. I have heard people say I might understand better if I knew something about them and their background. It may be so, but honestly I don’t want to know them. I just want them to go away, to get out of my life, so I don’t have to see them or think about them any more. I guess I hate them.

I hope to slowly recover from this. I think I will, but it will be slow. Until there is major improvement in my body chemicals and stamina, I’m going to have to choose carefully where to spend the energy I have. I been forced to give up some of the things I love – among them being basketball. I also think I will have a harder time trusting people, at least for now. I don’t know if that will change or not. Maybe it’s something that happens to everyone at a certain age.

There are some ways I am fortunate. I have a good family – they don’t always understand me but they support me. I can’t fault them for this because I don’t understand myself or how this all came about. I’ve also gained an excellent counselor and friend who is also my English teacher. There are others who have helped too.

I will spend the rest of this year, before I leave this school forever and never look back, trying to work through all of it in my mind. If I am able to keep myself at a distance from any more trouble, I mainly intend to work on my school studies, so I can at least pass the ninth grade. Maybe some answers will come to me. We will see.

Terry G. Owens

Mrs. Rhame was right. It did help to write about this. I wrote out a copy for me to keep so I could read it again when I needed to. I told her I didn’t need her copy back. Why didn’t she just keep it? She did.

                                                            #####

“Terry Owens, where on earth have you been?” Suzanne was walking in my direction, right after my French class. I had never seen her look so pretty.

“I’ve been walking along a dark road, Suzanne.”

“I’m so sorry, Terry,” she said, leaning against my locker. “Tell me?”

“The first day back at school was so bad that… I’ve dropped out of two of my classes.”

“Dropped out?”

“I mean, I’m waiting to get put into different sections,” I said. “But I decided I just had to get away from those guys. I guess I’m a coward, but I know when I’m licked.”

Suzanne looked at me for a few moments. “No,” she said. “I don’t think you’re a coward. Maybe you think if you feel afraid, that makes you a coward. But it’s not really true.”

“Well, anyway…” I sighed. “So I’ve made some changes, and I’m feeling a little better now. A little calmer.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said quietly. “You know I’m going to keep on keeping track of you, right? I hope you don’t think I’m being too nosy.”

“Suzanne!” I had to laugh. “Suzanne, sometimes you just leave me speechless… ha ha! Please, don’t ever stop being nosy, okay?”

She smiled. “Okay!”

                                                            #####

As I remember, the first time Suzanne appeared in one of my dreams was in November. After that initial dream she continued to make regular appearances throughout December. She was always a positive force in the dream, or if not exactly positive, she was neutral. A couple of the dreams were quite abstract.

Finally, in a dream in late January she reappeared. This time, however, the dream had a guest star – Mrs. Judy Rhame.

As the dream began, I found myself on the banks of a river. The current was swift, and the surface of the water was troubled in some way. I became aware that the river was teeming with biting fish, though I couldn’t actually see them. It wasn’t safe to wade across the river, so I had to grasp several overhead branches and swing on them, like Tarzan, to cross. For some reason I got wet, though I didn’t fall into the water. Suzanne and Judy were on the other side, waiting under the shade of a large tree. They beckoned me to join them, though I stood on the river bank until I was dry. Suzanne was reclining on a large table cloth, and she smiled at me. Judy sat on the edge of the cloth, her legs tucked under her.

Suddenly Buck Rhame appeared in the distance, at the top of a steep bank of snow. He began to roll rapidly down the slope, while puffs of cloud rose from the snow banks at his feet and head. When he reached the bottom he stood next to Judy.

“We will bring you food and drink,” said Judy. “Enjoy this time you have together.”

They vanished. I was now dry. I sat on the edge of the table cloth, facing Suzanne. Still reclining, she rolled over and faced me, smiling.

Unfortunately, this was where the dream ended.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 15

Chapter Fifteen

….through your tears you look around
But there’s no peace of mind to be found,

Darlin’, reach out!

                                    “Reach Out”, the Four Tops

Saturday morning my mother made corn meal pancakes, which I covered with Karo corn syrup. I savored the grainy texture and homely taste of these pancakes. It was a sunny day and expected to reach sixty degrees. I sighed deeply. I had slept the best last night since before Christmas.

“So Terry,” said my mother, “does Mr. Warren have a practice teacher for your English class?”

Yes,” I said. “I think she starts next week.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Rhame.”

“Oh, so it is Judy Rhame!” my mother clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful news! I saw her Friday and she was trying to figure out if she’d seen you in one of the classes. You know who she is, right? You remember Buckley Rhame from church?”

“I was trying to remember,” I said. “I thought the name was familiar.”

“Oh, you’ll love her!” said my mother. “I taught her in Sunday School.”

“What is Buck Rhame doing?”

“He’s starting his internship at Baptist Hospital.”

I started to put this picture together. Buck Rhame had been a member of our church while he was at Atlantic University being a football star. Apparently he also studied pretty hard in his classes so he could become a doctor. Tall rangy fellow. Tight end.

“I think she’s going to be a great teacher,” said my mother.

“Well, I’m impressed so far,” I allowed.

Mrs. Rhame did begin teaching us on Monday. Mr. Warren mostly sat in the back of the room with the stack of our tests. I felt pretty confident. Despite my absences I had kept up well in English and had a chance at an “A”.

“So, for a week or so, we’re going to be reading some works from early English literature – a couple of versions of the Arthurian cycle, yes, King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table, a medieval drama called “Piers Ploughman,” then some literature based on the legend cycle of Robin Hood. Only after that will we be ready to take the plunge into Shakespeare.”

How was I not going to enjoy the next few weeks? This tall, beautiful woman telling us the old stories of England…

“Have any of you ever heard of the Childe Ballads?”

I raised my hand. “You mean, like ‘Barbara Allen?’”

“Exactly, yes!” she smiled. “You’re Terry, Terry Owens.”

I nodded.

“Better keep your eye on this one,” joked Mr. Warren. He winked at me.

For the first couple of weeks of the new year I tried to buckle down and pull my grades up. I was diligent with my science work during study hall. During Algebra I strained to stay awake and alert. Some days I managed it, some days I failed. I tried to practice French more  often in lab. I listened to what French people do to celebrate the New Year:

Comme d’autres pays, les Francais fetant le Nouvel An lors du 31 decembre. Pour les Francais, c’est un moment unique a passer entre amis, l’occasion de manger un bon repas, de dancer et bien sur de faire la fete jusqu’au bout de la nuit.

Mrs. Rhame assigned us a paper – a page and a half. She gave us three different characters from the Robin Hood cycle to write a sketch about. I chose Robin’s musical pal, Allan-a-Dale. Two days later she returned the paper and I saw “A+” marked on the front. She wrote a brief paragraph on the back basically gushing over what a talented writer I was.

Now that made me feel good.

She caught me near the door as I was leaving for lunch. “Terry, your piece was just great! If you don’t mind I’d like to talk to you about your writing and some things you might to do develop your talents.”

“Well thank you!” I said.

“And… well, your mother had also mentioned to me that you’ve been having some difficulties this year. I hope you don’t mind that we talked about that…”

“No, I really don’t mind,” I said. “I’ve been talking to lots of different people about it.”

“Well then, I just want you to know that if you ever want to talk to another person,” she smiled, “then I would be happy to listen.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Rhame. I think I probably will. I’ll let you know.”

It would be ridiculous if I said that I was in love with her, but the fact is I was in love with her. I was aware, I think, of the limitations of this kind of relationship, but damn if I wasn’t going to enjoy it – even if only secretly. Aside from the fact that she was so pretty and so nice, I knew I needed as many friends as I could have right now. So I was happy to include Judy Rhame into my circle, with the added effect of her ability to turn my knees into butter.

After another weekend of fair and mild weather, I saw Judy at church on Sunday morning. She approached me after the service.

“Hi, Terry, how are you?”

“I’m doing pretty good, thanks.”

“Buck is working at the hospital today,” she said, “so I wouldn’t mind having someone join me for lunch. Would you care to come along. my treat?”

Umm, I believe I can give that a definite YES!

“Yeah, that sounds okay.”

She looked at my mother. “You don’t mind if I steal your son for a while? I’ll give him a ride back home.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” said my mother.

Then consider me stolen. And you can keep me if you’d like to.

She did want to hear about my difficulties of the year and about my experience with the bullies. “My older brother had a tough time with bullies when he was in the seventh grade. It’s a shame how it happens to so many young people.”

“It’s definitely a shame.” She was a good listener, and sympathetic. It was good to talk to her. While we talked I also had the absurd thought that, as screwed up as my hormones already were, could it be that spending time with this beautiful woman would send them into a spin from which I would never recover? I shook my head in an attempt to clear the thought from my mind.

Finally, she offered a suggestion: why didn’t I write about my experiences of this year? It would not only be an exercise in the craft of writing, but perhaps it would be therapeutic as well. “You told me you’ve kept a journal from time to time,” she said. “Sometimes writing things out, especially someone with your skills, can help to organize and clarify things that happen to us, or things we observe around us. Do you agree?”

“I do agree,” I said. “I tried to write some things during the holidays, but I just couldn’t get my mind to calm down.”

“Maybe now that you’re changing your classes and all you’ll have a quieter mind for writing about it. I can help you if you’d like to try it.”

I could refuse this woman nothing, and actually thought all her advice to be excellent. There was to be no deadline, no rubric for the piece, just an ongoing project. Though, she said, I should get some extra credit if I brought it to completion.

                                                            #####

Avoiding bullies became a developing skill. I had already had a good deal of practice, but I continued my efforts after I had ceased going to the dreaded classes of science and gym. I had to fairly memorize their movements during a given day, and use my memory to insure that I was not there when they were. It was a cat and mouse game in which I was the mouse. I got pretty good at it, but I wasn’t perfect. Sometimes I would see one of them in the hallways. When I would see Ray and he would spot me, he would take a quick glance my way and then turn his attention elsewhere, with what appeared to me a haughty gesture, as if he couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes he would glare at me for several seconds – some kind of evil eye attempt, I guess, meant to freeze me in my tracks. But he never took the trouble to cross the hallway toward me or to speak. Hugh Elroy took a bit more of a direct approach – he would sometimes call out my name: “He-e-ey, Owens!” with some kind of facial grimace (I couldn’t always read it), or hand gesture, and then move on. “Moving on” actually seemed the order of the day. Neither of them seemed to me to want to dwell on the bully/victim relationship we had cultivated during first semester. They may have had other fish to fry. I didn’t trust them, though, and I continued to play mouse to their cat and honing my avoidance skills.

Eddie Tinsley I don’t remember seeing at all. I think he may have dropped out of school while I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t remember exactly when it was, but at some point I checked the Big Board of Disgrace in the basement and noticed his absences had climbed to the mid-sixties. Maybe his fighting James Huggins was the last straw for Congaree Central. In any case, bye-bye, Eddie.

I had lost my momentum in basketball, at least for Congaree Central B-squad. I went out for the church team and played a few games after my ankle strengthened. Rob stuck with the B-squad and was a fairly frequent substitute. He would report on the games for me. He and Ray Melcher mostly rode the bench together with some of the other guys. Otis Tullis was basically the major threat from our team, along with Cedric Alesford and James Huggins on the starting five, though apparently they weren’t threatening enough to win more than three games, while losing seven. It was all right. I would get Congaree Central behind me, work hard during the off-season, and begin to recover from my health problems. In a better place physically and emotionally, would go after my dream next year – the Junior Varsity at Beckham.

It had at least become clear that my dreams of the future did not include boxing. I was forced to admit that at this time of my life I didn’t have the stamina for it. I had failed as a rope jumper – though I now knew how. My big punching bag was stacked in the corner of the garage and I could hang it up and use it any time. Mr. Foley had shown me the basics, the stance, some strategies and moves, and some footwork. We parted amicably. It was up to me whether to pursue it or not.

                                                            #####

“Renegade Rob!”

“Hiya, Terry Tempestuous! How’s the world treatin’ ya?”

“Well, I’ve broken out of the world’s choke hold… at least for the moment.”

“That’s good news,” said Rob. “I never thought a purple complexion looked that good on you.”

“So Rob,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, it’s like this, Terry. I’ve been making some conversations with Joanie Proctor lately, you know. I’m hoping we can make time for getting together more often.”

“Well you’re a sly dog,” I said admiringly. “I wish you well with that caper.”

I liked Joanie Proctor. She was cute and very bright, and under ordinary circumstances I would like to have cultivated her friendship further. But Rob deserved this. I knew Rob was going to go ahead and live his life instead of staying with me in the shadows. He stayed with his basketball, he made new friendships, he started writing for the school newspaper. And he remained my friend. The last thing I wanted to do was to pull such an exceptional fellow down into the dark corners with me. I was fine with that. What had happened to me had happened, and my entire school year had been crippled, but I didn’t want to hold anybody back. I intended, in fact I felt that I needed, to stay in the darker places for now, the obscure corners of the hall, the quiet nooks, the seams and passageways, ready to disappear at an instant’s notice. I was becoming a silent watcher inside Congaree Central. I needed to learn, if I could, from this depression, and I could only learn inside the silence, alone.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 14

Chapter Fourteen

I see my red door and must have it painted black
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black
                                    “Paint It Black”, the Rolling Stones

The first day back to school, mother let me off at the curb. I hobbled past the nearest gingko tree, trying not to step on any berries, and sat on the low wall.

“Here I am, giving it another throw,” I thought. I wore my new shirt, the new belt and slacks, the new socks. I probably combed my hair with the new comb. January 3^rd, 1967. Everything new. It should be a fairly easy day, I reasoned. I had a written excuse to get out of gym class – the most miserable period of most days. If I could make it through science class – my first appearance since my colossal knock-out blow of Alson Reed – I might be able to sail through the day.

I found my seat in science and, apparently, the desk behind me had been removed. What, did I kill him? I really didn’t think so, and breathed my relief at not having any neighbor seated behind me. Ray Melcher walked in, dressed in everything new as well. I was somewhat envious of the navy blue sweater he wore. “Nice sweater, Ray!” I blurted. He shot a glance at me, and turned away without any change of expression. Oh well, I thought. I said what I said. Feeling a little more expansive this morning. I felt the two weeks’ rest had done me some good.

In French class I slid into my desk next to Rob. “How’s the foot, Tetrarch Terry?”

“It’s a little better,” I said. “But I’m out of gym for a few more days. And basketball practice, too.”

“I am sorry about your foot.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” I said.

Suzanne saw me after French. “Why are you limping again?” she said. “What happened?”

“A stupid accident playing basketball.”

“Ooo, be careful!”

“Sometimes I wonder if my body is breaking down,” I lamented.

“I hate to hear you say that,” she said. “Don’t you think your gland problem is getting a little better?”

“I don’t know, Suzanne,” I said, leaning against my locker. “I usually feel slower and tireder than ever. But no, I don’t want to bring you down. I’m actually in a decent mood today. Strange to say.”

The life of the school surged past us through the hall. Students looked fresher and crisper to me than before. They gaily greeted each other as they met.

“Strange or not, you want to cultivate that.” She rummaged in her pocketbook, pulled out a small mirror, and fluffed her hair. “Listen, Terry. I think I need to tell you about an encounter I had with one of those pests who’ve been bothering you.”

“What! An encounter?” I felt the grip of panic.

“Yeah, that squirt named Hugh,” she said, with a half eye-roll. “I wanted you to hear it from me rather than him.”

“Oh, this is just getting worse and worse,” I moaned.

“No. really there wasn’t that much to it,” she said. “He told me a few pretty immature things about you until he seemed to run out of stuff to say. Then he stammered, thrust this letter into my hand, and rushed off.”

“So it was Hugh. Suzanne…” I felt that familiar weight bending down my shoulders. “I’m just so sorry they’ve involved you in this. He gave you the letter? This is awful!”

“Terry, it’s okay, really.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I appreciated your letter, too. It was sweet and sincere, and I don’t know why they would have gotten so excited about it.”

“Only because they want to make my life miserable, and they know how.”

“That may be, I guess,” she considered, “but honestly, I wasn’t very impressed with this guy. He struck me as really awkward, kind of like he doesn’t know how to talk to people.”

“I think you’re right about that,” I said.

“So please don’t feel bad about this – not on my account.  In fact, I won’t allow you to. It was a sweet letter… you know something, Terry? Someday you’re going to think back on this and wonder what the big deal was with these boys. I promise you will. Well, I gotta go. Feel better!”

As I often did, I wondered at the fact that this nice, bright, pretty girl really seemed to care a little something for me. I basked in these thoughts until I got to gym.

Coach Smallen divided the students into teams for twelve to fifteen minutes of competitive basketball. I showed him my excuse. He handed me a lanyard with a whistle.

“I’ll let you referee this game,” he said. “You know the rules.”

I figured this was something I could do with little problem. It happened that both Ray Melcher and Hugh Elroy were on one of the teams on my half of the court. This didn’t feel very comfortable. I wondered how they would feel with me being in authority over them. James Huggins was on the opposing team.

I decided to call a fairly relaxed game – I mean, what the heck, this was gym class. The game began smoothly. James was the tallest player on either of the teams, easily reaching for rebounds, and putting a couple of layups in. I noticed Ray cutting his eyes over at me. The next time James got the ball, Ray started covering him like he was on the football field. He grabbed the ball away from James and cackled: “Let’s see if I can make him blow the whistle. I bet he won’t.”

James next possession, when Ray came at him, he dribbled out of his way and passed the ball to a teammate. The teammate missed his shot and James took the rebound, moving back out to mid-court. Ray was on him and scuffled with James for the ball. The ball came loose and James’ teammate picked it up. Ray laughed again. “He’s not going to do it. He just won’t.” I began to grow tight, anxious. He was daring me. Typical of Ray – making an incident out of something like a pick up game in gym class. James’ teammate passed the ball to him. Ray went up to James and hacked him on the arm. I blew the whistle. “Foul!”

“Oh come on, ref!” shouted Ray, a smirk on his face.

Hugh ran over to me. “You gonna call a foul on him for stealing the ball from that nigger?” he said, just loud enough for me to hear. “You’re a damn loser, Owens. Oh, but I forgot. That nigger’s your sweetheart. You’re bound to take up for him.” He trotted away.

James couldn’t have heard what Hugh said, though he may have been able to guess. He glanced at me and gave a quick wink as he moved to the foul line. He made both shots.

The games began to wind down on both ends of the court. James’ team on my end had notched fifteen points so that ended the game. I returned my whistle to the Coach. I was ready for this class to be over. I needed to attend my English class so I could set an appointment with Mr. Warren. No need to delay. I started toward my stack of books. A basketball rolled in front of my feet. I scooped it up and turned toward the basket. I stood a few feet beyond the top of the key, maybe twenty-five feet out. I didn’t want to jump and possibly land wrong on my foot, so I put up a set shot. It sailed in a high arc toward the basket. Swish! Never touched the rim. Somebody let out a whistle. Ray Melcher pivoted and walked straight to me, his face a white grimace. He stopped, and without a word grasped my new shirt’s pocket and ripped it to the bottom. I stood frozen, unbelieving, as he walked away. I turned then, picked up my books, and walked into the hallway, breathing in short, tight gasps.

                                                            #####

I want to run, far away. I want to evaporate. I want to sink into the floor, out of sight. I want to extinguish all the light, move only in darkness. I want the shadow to pass over the sun. I want it to be a perpetual black night. I want to be blind. I want everyone to be blind.

This is intolerable. I can’t do this anymore. I refuse to do this anymore. My guts are shaking inside. The blood pounded in my ears. Numbly I am walking to English class, where I will slide into my desk and stare at my textbook until the end of class when I will make an appointment with Mr. Warren. After that, I will leave. I will lose myself in downtown Congaree, my new shirt ruined, its pocket dangling by the remaining threads. I will never go back to science class. I will never go back to gym class. I am done with this. I don’t have the strength for this and I still don’t have any idea when or why I became such an utterly weak human being. Trying to figure it all out is making me crazy, and I’m not strong enough for that either. I will fight no more.

But I will try to enlist others to fight for me.

And hey! Where is Scott Santiago when I need him?

In English class I sat down and put my head on my desk. When class was over Mr. Warren skipped all the chit chat about “how was your holiday” and wore a look of concern. We set up an appointment for Wednesday afternoon – the next day. My legs felt like lead, and I still trembled inside as I made my way to the school basement. I studied the Board of Disgrace. Oh look. I was up to thirty-one unexcused absences. Plainly, the three days of suspension had been counted against me. I guessed that was as it should be. I saw Eddie Tinsley’s name on the board: forty-four absences. It struck me as a shame we couldn’t have coordinated our absences so we would never be at school on the same day.

 I don’t remember howI spent the rest of that day. I probably was carrying some Christmas money so I may have gone to the newsstand and dropped some coins for the new Spiderman. I may have bought barbecue chips, a coke, and a Mickey cake. Mainly I wandered around in a daze. Finally, I remember walking the couple of miles to my mother’s office at the Atlantic campus. I had forgotten the pain in my ankle. I would pay for it later, as I tried to fall asleep.

My mother was surprised to see me.

“I left school after English. I have an appointment with Mr. Warren tomorrow. I can’t keep going like this.”

“What happened to your shirt?”

I explained.

“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you have reported him to the teacher? That’s destroying someone else’s property.”

“I’m afraid that would have made it worse,” I said.

My father was tired. It was a difficult time for him in the student work. At home, he struggled to make sense of what I was going through. He was an extravert. When he was a schoolboy growing up in 1920s Kentucky, fighting was simply the only way to deal with such conflicts. There were bullies and victims then, but a victim could usually find a big brother or cousin or uncle to help even things up.

Kentucky was completely segregated then. Rural Kentucky, where he lived, was mono-cultural for most white people. Things were vastly different now. My father was, however, a very patient man. He would continue the struggle to understand. He was on my team.

“I’m simply not going to those classes again,” I said. Something in the way I announced  this made them believe me. I would not budge. “I’ll keep up with the assignments, take the tests, do the papers, but not in the class.”

They looked at each other. “Surely a school as big as Central would have more than one section of your science class,” said my mother.

“They probably have four or five,” I said. “I’ll ask Mr, Warren to check on that.”

“So, we’re agreed you’ll take all of this to Mr. Warren tomorrow,” said my father. “He sounds like a good counselor.”

“He’s great!” I said. “He went through this same thing when he was a student at Central.”

“Your mother did mention that.”

“Okay, then,” said my mother. “Tell Mr. Warren we’ll cooperate. We’ll sign papers, whatever we need to do. I don’t see why this couldn’t be done pretty quickly. We don’t want you to fall behind.”

It was also plain to Mr. Warren I would never attend my science or gym classes again. I sat across from him, nervously bouncing my knee. “I’ll put in a word with Miss Corliss about the class syllabus and upcoming assignments,” he said, “and you can meet with her in a couple of days. Meanwhile I’ll check in with Mr. Devereaux and begin the paperwork for your class transfers.” There was a Study Hall during 1^st period where I could spend the time working on my science classwork.

“Thank you, Mr. Warren. Thank you so much. I know that you know I’m not trying to make things difficult. I still have very little idea how this has all happened.”

“Terry, you are more than welcome,” Mr. Warren lay his hand on my shoulder. I lifted myself slightly. “I had people help me through my difficulties here as well. I’m happy to guide you through this.”

Somewhere deep in my brain I could hear a trickle. It was the trickle, I guessed, of the merest beginnings of relief. This trickle of relief could slowly, very slowly, displace the massive weight of anxiety that had bent me over since the beginning of school and before. I told myself I should listen for this trickle frequently. I will cultivate this, Suzanne.

I met with Miss Corliss on Friday after her class. She was more sympathetic to my dilemma than I had expected. “Those boys are difficult,” she admitted. “I could tell they were bothering you. But that sort of thing is so widespread at this school there’s not a lot a teacher can do. Well, unless there’s an obvious incident… which unfortunately there was when you knocked Alson out of his chair.” I couldn’t suppress a slight grin. “It’s not a perfect system, but I will be happy to work with Mr. Warren and Mr. Devereaux to get you a reassignment.”

“Thank you, Miss Corliss. I know I’m way over the limit with my absences, but I plan to fix that once I’m reassigned.”

I talked to James after French class. “I’m out of the gym class,” I said. “They’re finding another section for me.”

“Aw well, man, I’ll miss seeing you there.”

“I think you probably know the reason.”

“I think I know two or three reasons,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m sorry what happened the other day. Ray acted like a complete jackass. Hugh, too.”

“And I really don’t know why.”

“They really don’t need to act that way,” said James.

“Anyway, I’m still here in French so we can keep up.”

“Good enough,” he said.

He didn’t mention B-squad. Obviously I wasn’t at Tuesday afternoon practice, and would not play for the game Friday night. I discussed it with Rob. My ankle was not 100% plus I had to take care of all this crap with the class transfer. I would talk with Coach Larkin when I could. Maybe if I dropped off the team, Eric Harper could take my place. He was a good kid and deserved a chance.

In English class, Mr. Warren had some announcements. “As you know,” he said, “you have a test on Friday on A Tale of Two Cities, so that segment of our syllabus will be wrapped up. Next Monday we will begin a new project. We’ll spend a week or so on some English folk tales, and then will be moving into the world of Master William Shakespeare – yes, we’re reading the Bard of Avon. Please don’t be intimidated by Will. Everybody liked him down at the Globe.  He used some odd words and phrases, it’s true, but if you look at our textbook you’ll see that our play – The Tragedy of Julius Caesar – is thoroughly annotated. We’ll study his use of language and make sure no one is left behind. Just be sure to raise your hand and ask, if you’re not sure about something. If we don’t know the answer, we’ll make something up.”

“To that end, I’d like to introduce the one who will guide you through this journey – this is Mrs. Judy Rhame. Mrs. Rhame will be our practice teacher for the next several weeks. She is a senior in education at Atlantic University and she knows her stuff, I promise you. Mrs. Rhame, may I present my premiere English class.”

We all clapped. She made a brief speech of introduction and I wouldn’t lie if I said I remember not one word of her speech. I did look at her, though. I couldn’t not look at her, because there was so much to see, and everything I saw was most agreeable. Tall at – I would say 5’7” or 5’8” – rather thin, light brown hair with a strawberry tint, crystal blue eyes. She wore a plain blue shift – matching her eyes – with a white collar and cuffs. Oh my…

“Rhame” – I knew that name from somewhere. Anyway, I silently toasted Will the Bard and Julius Caesar. And I toasted the tall, fair-haired damsel who stood before me, and who would lead me in that literary journey.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 13

Chapter Thirteen

Inside the museum infinity goes up on trial;

Voices echo “This is what salvation must look like after a while,”

But Mona Lisa must’ve had the highway blues

            You can tell by the way she smiles.    

                        “Visions of Johanna,” by Bob Dylan             

                Dr. Townsend read it from the pulpit. He read it on Wednesday, for Prayer Meeting. My overwrought brain was certain that this passage was for me alone. Funny that I don’t remember a single word that Dr. Townsend said about it. But I thought about that verse, meditated on it – through the hymns we sang and the prayer we prayed.

“Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth and die, it abideth by itself alone; but if it die, it beareth much fruit.”

So, here’s what Christianity says: most grains of wheat, and by most I mean millions, billions of grains, are given the opportunity and pleasure of being ground together to become flour. The flour will become bread, or biscuits, or pastries, or pie crusts, or cakes. They will be eaten to the accompaniment of moans of delight. They will plunge into the bodies of the humans who eat them, will undergo chemical reactions, and will ultimately be absorbed by the intestines – probably the jejunum – which will in turn release the digested grain of wheat into the blood stream to be carried somewhere in the body that needs replenishment or repair. What a journey, what an adventure for a grain of wheat to be taken on!

I am the grain of wheat that falls to the ground. The earth will cover me. Rains will come, and I will sink into the humus: the animal decay, the vegetable decay, the microorganisms who live there in their millions. Deeper and deeper I will sink, until I die in the dark. Then I will lay there for hours, for days, for time without end. There will be nothing there to mark the passage of time. All is stillness and blackness. I will become empty and forgotten.

But I am not empty. When the time is right – when the right amount of rain and the right amount of sun awakens the soil, my body breaks open. The husk that once encased me falls away like a discarded lifetime, and new, pulpy, trembling life begins to reach desperately for the surface. It finally cracks through the crust, and I am reborn.

That’s what my church would have me believe. Born again. Leaving the old, dead life behind, and entering the light.

During this darkest time of the year I was able to sink into myself, explore, try to find out what was actually inside of me. My inner world would come to me as a series of land formations, urban scenes, familiar spaces, sometimes houses and rooms. I visited them all from time to time, so that they were recognizable to me in my dreaming states. I was not able to match these places with certain people or things that influenced my life, but I did know many that populated my inner world. Here dwelt things and people that I love. Here were my family, there my friends. Sometimes I saw aunts, uncles, and cousins, and those who have passed beyond me and live entirely in dreams. Some of them I had never even met, yet I knew them.

Here was the large, ornate room for music, classical and soul and rock and roll. There was the riverbank grove of literature and poetry. Religion lived in this garden, thick with fragrance, almost cloying, and the ground unsteady under my feet. Yonder was the great arena, where all of the sports were played, and all my heroes were there.

All of this was familiar to me, and somehow comforting. But what about the fears, the unease, the confusions, the unknown? They would spring up unexpectedly in my inner world. They were the dimly lit hallways. They were the devious dank alleyways where I would find myself whenever I lost my way. The time when I was nine years old and was given an injection to calm my digestive system and then I couldn’t catch my breath and I couldn’t control my facial and neck muscles and I was going into respiratory arrest and I didn’t know this could ever happen to anybody. I landed in a makeshift room at Congaree General Hospital and was gradually rescued by coffee. Coffee saved my life. It woke up my depressed central nervous system. The terror stayed with me though. Beelzebub, Asteroth, Apollyon, Moloch – these demons are known to history, they are dark and dangerous. Mine had different names: multiple sclerosis, cystic fibrosis, muscular dystrophy, and number of demons that could put me in a wheelchair, or leg braces, or hooked up to medical contraptions. A year or two later, nervous me went to a horror movie with a friend and came out with dilated eyes. For a year I couldn’t bear to look at a graveyard, even during the middle of the day, whether the small yard at our church or the other churches downtown, or other cemeteries scattered through the city. I became obsessed with human corruption. Death was followed by decay, and how horrible were the stages of this decay. To me it seemed a cruel and senseless reality, and it horrified me.

And now, all these years later, I had contracted a dreadful disease and was trying to figure out how to live through it, if I could expect any relief, and what the long term effects of it would be for my life.

I checked a book out of the library called The Merck Manual. It listed hundreds of diseases that humans can be afflicted with and describes their many symptoms. I compulsively read about several diseases that were genuinely horrible. Just short of getting completely grossed out I finally turned to the article on Hypothyroidism. It was bad enough.

“Symptoms of hypothyroidism may include, but is not limited to, the following:”

Not limited to…??? Just the list itself was a page and a half long!

Fatigue – oh yes, everyday; weight gain – not a problem for me; cold intolerance – I’m more of a heat intolerant kind of guy, I think; slowed heart rate, movements, and speech – now we’re getting to the crux of it; I don’t know about my heart rate, but I feel like I’m moving through molasses every day; joint and muscle pain, cramps, and weakness – this is me, all day long; constipation – very little, if at all; dry skin – yes; thin, brittle hair or fingernails – if they include toenails, yes, and my hair has gotten a little strawy; decreased sweating – not having this; pins and needles – yes, sometimes; heavy periods, or menorrhagia – next question? weakness – um, that would be a yes; high cholesterol – Doc hasn’t mentioned it; puffy face, feet, and hands – no; insomnia – guilty; balance and co-ordination issues – guilty again, especially when jumping rope or playing basketball; loss of libido – this has not happened; recurrent urinary and respiratory tract infections – none so far; anemia – Doc hasn’t said anything, though it wouldn’t surprise me; depression – yep, that’s what it’s called.

“If left untreated, the following symptoms can manifest: hoarseness, puffiness in the face, thinned or missing eyebrows, slow heart rate, hearing loss.”

“Missing eyebrows??” I was glad I was being treated.

“If it develops in children or teenagers, the signs and symptoms are generally the same as adults. However, they may also experience: poor growth, delayed development of teeth, poor mental development, delayed puberty.”

A couple of those trains had already left the station, but the “poor mental development” worried me a little.

Well, damn!

This is what I’ve got. Here I am in the ninth grade in a new school, trying to make the grade in basketball and in the classroom, be popular and get to know a lot of girls, and all of my batteries are at half speed or less.

Damn!

What was interesting about my dream life is that the difficulties of this year, the demons that terrorized me every waking day, had not leeched into my unconscious yet – though I was expecting them to. Other than the basketball laughing dream – which would qualify as a nightmare – my dreams were mostly benign. Strange and absurd, yes, but not really unpleasant. Ray nor Hugh nor Eddie had gained a foothold in my dreamworld so far. Good for me that when I was able to sleep it was mostly a restful sleep.

                                                            #####

Kenny Grenade was busy with a basketball game on Friday night, and Katie opted not to go. She would meet him later that night. Meanwhile, she invited me to drive around and look at some of the neighborhoods in Congaree that put a lot of effort into their Christmas lights and decorations. I was happy to get out of the house. It was raining – a cold mist. She helped me hobble out to the car.

We took the Mercury Comet. I loved this car. I addition to being more powerful than my father would have imagined when he bought it, it had some other nifty features – such as adjustable speed windshield wipers. As we passed house after house, all glittering with multi-colored lights framing the doorways and windows, clustered in the trees and shrubberies, and with reindeer, sleighs, Santas, wise men, mangers, and sheep in abundance, brightly illuminated, the effect was entrancing. As the misty rain would accumulate on the windshield, the colors would blur and melt and sparkle, until the wiper blade passed over and the lights became visually sharp again for a few seconds. Katie turned on the radio. All the Christmas oldies had ceased. Now we were back to the Top 60 in Dixie – the land of rock and roll.

“Close my eyes, she’s somehow closer now

Softly smile, I know she must be kind

When I look into her eyes

She goes with me to a blossom world

I’m pickin’ up good vibrations

She’s giving me excitations”

            “I’m not sure what I think of that one,” said Katie.

            “Really?” I said. “I thought you loved the Beach Boys.”

            “I always have, but… I don’t know. It sounds like they’re trying too hard to be, you know, with it or something.”

            “You’ll have to admit,” I said, “it’s a well-produced song.”

“I guess so,” she allowed. “Hey, you wanna hear the game?”

“Katie,” I said. “I really would like to talk. I mean, the music playing is fine, but we don’t get that much of a chance these days.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I think that’s a good idea. What you wanna talk about?”

“I was curious… about that religion class you took,” I began. “What was that about? Were they trying to make you into an agnostic or what?” I knew that Chesterfield College was a Methodist school. Why would they try to upset their students like this?

  “That class…” she began. “It was something of a shock to me that a professor at a church related school would throw some of the things he did at us.”

“Was it all Freshmen in the class?”

“There were several freshman, but it’s one of three choices in Religion that everybody is required to take. So you can take it really any year.”

“What were the things he taught that shocked you?” I asked.

“Okay, well, the first day of class he walked in holding a Bible. He started talking about it: ‘Here’s the Holy Bible, isn’t it? This is the divinely inspired Word of God they’ve taught to you and preached to you, right? It is a treasure, and it has an honored place in most of your homes, I would expect. The very divine message of God our Creator, dictated to holy men of old.’”

“Then he threw the Bible against the wall and it fell crumpled to the floor. ‘But you see, ladies. After all, it’s just a book.’”

“Wow!” I said. “He really did that?”

“He was making a point,” she said. “It was really unexpected, though I got what he was doing. Some of the girls got very upset.”

“Then what?”

“He told us to forget everything we thought we ever knew about the Bible for this class, and to keep our minds as open as possible.”

“Girls from all four classes now have open minds,” I prompted.

“He began by talking about all the archeologists and anthropologists who had been all over Palestine and the Mediterranean countries, and how some of their discoveries cast doubt on parts of the biblical record, though some of them supported it too. Then he talked about all the different manuscripts and parchments and scrolls. Surprise! They don’t all say the same thing, and some of them actually contradict each other. Plus, they’re not very old. The oldest manuscripts used to be only about a thousand years old. And that’s just the Old Testament. They found the Dead Sea Scrolls in the 1940s, and they date back to right about the time of Jesus, but they’re still hundreds of years after the actual events of the Old Testament. Then there’s the New Testament: they’ve got like four fragments of the gospels that date back to around a hundred and fifty years after the crucifixion. There aren’t any complete manuscripts until hundreds of years later when monks started copying them on expensive, more durable paper. And guess what? They all disagree with each other. And when the church leaders got together in 400 A.D. and decided to finalize what should be included in the Bible, they threw out dozens of gospels and books and letters that some of the people had been reading all these years thinking it was part of the Bible. Hey, too bad for them! And what we know as the New Testament has been heavily edited – the took some stuff out and put other stuff in. It sounds like it was a complete mess. When they were finished, they met in a church council and introduced the new New Testament and told they people “This is the New Testament now, and it’s because we said so, and everybody that doesn’t believe this the real New Testament is going to, well, burn in Hell for eternity, you know, the usual.’”

“Incredible,” I said.

“Yes, incredible,” said Katie. “From there we moved on to nineteenth century Germany. There was a group of theologians that developed what is called ‘Higher Criticism’. Instead of studying just the text and trying to get accurate translation, they looked at the meaning of the scripture by putting it in the context of the ancient world. They called it sitz im Leben, which is one German phrase I don’t think I’ll ever forget. It was on a quiz and on the final exam.

“Then came the part that really got me upset. I don’t know if I should tell you, because I don’t want you getting upset too or that I should be responsible if you decide not to be a Christian anymore.”

“I wish you’d go ahead,” I said resolutely. “I think I need to hear this stuff.”

“Well, okay then,” she began. “He told us all sorts of theories about Jesus, how he probably wasn’t born in a manger, he may have been born forty years before Christ – if you can believe that, and how the whole story about his death and resurrection was made up by the apostles because they needed a new religion to stand against the Roman Empire. And why did they choose that particular story? Because there were several religions and myths all over the ancient world about a hero that stands against an oppressive government, who is killed, and who rises again on the third day. And most of them consume his body and blood in a ritual.”

“Wow. I’d never heard that.”

“He has us read a book by Karl Barth, and a book by Paul Tillich, and another book by… I can’t remember but the name started with B.”

“I’ve heard Daddy talk about those two…”

“And those books got me more confused than I already was. And yet, and the end of it all I made an “A” in the class. I guess studying so much about the Bible in Sunday School helped me with that, even though it was my little girl Sunday School religion that has gotten all shook up. I mean, what am I supposed to believe in? Is there anything to hang on to?”

“Are you going to be an agnostic?” I asked sincerely.

“I guess I am one at the moment,” she admitted, “though it’s not by choice; it’s by confusion. I don’t like it. I guess I’ve been comfortable being a naïve little Christian. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need to totally rethink my faith in a kind of crucible, even though I’d honestly rather not. I guess I’m just lazy, or a coward.” She paused. I tried to grasp this new revelation about my sister. “What I’ve decided to do is this. I’m going to keep going to church. I feel like I’m a ship without an anchor, but if I keep going to church maybe I’ll find a way through it all. I know I’m not the only one at First Baptist who’s heard all this stuff. I man, come on! Dr. Townsend and everybody else who’s an ordained minister… and probably half of the people who’ve been to college. They’ve all had to grapple with this stuff. And they came out on the other side.”

We had been through three dozen winding suburban drives and had seen thousands of lights, then Katie turned toward home. The rain had stopped and had given way to a light fog.

“So Terry,” said Katie. “What can you tell me about your situation? I hope all this stuff from my college class hasn’t upset you.”

“No, that’s all right. My situation is… what was that German phrase you used?”

“Sitz im Leben.”

“Yes! I think my doubts and confusion and everything comes from the context of my life. It’s kind of like this. I… I basically believe in God, I mean, that he exists. But I don’t really feel like he’s that involved in our lives.”

We were parked in our driveway. The rain had resumed so we waited, the wiper blades squeeging at about half speed. The radio faintly played a Johnny Rivers song.

“After the year you’ve been having I can easily see why you’d feel that way.”

“That’s a large part of it,” I said. “The miseries at school, and all of the problems with this thyroid disease… that’s what’s pushed me into having these doubts. But it’s not just me. I’m not so hung up that I can’t see beyond myself. Take Amy, my friend from Atlanta. How many times do you think she’s cried out to God? And did he answer her? I don’t really know – I didn’t ask her that, exactly. But I wonder. Look at the world. If we have an all-powerful God, then what gives? Will he not use his power to make things better? Or if it’s a matter of human free will, couldn’t he be a little bit more persuasive? Couldn’t he move men’s hearts to do the right thing without forcing them or violating their free will?”

Katie dropped her head into her hands. “Wow, now you’ve given me even more to think about!”

“Oh, sorry!”

“No it’s all right. I was kidding – a little bit. But yeah, I’ve thought about that too. And well, I wish I had a halfway decent answer for you. But I don’t.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I wasn’t really expecting an answer. I guess this is one of those questions that people like me have to struggle with for a long time – probably years.”

Though it was faint, I could hear the weather report on the radio. Partly cloudy, with a high pressure system moving in to the midlands. High temperatures in the mid-sixties.

“Sounds like spring is already here.”

We were silent for several moments. Finally Katie spoke in almost a whisper.

“Look at us, would you? A couple of sad old agnostics! Mama and Daddy didn’t bargain on this.”

“I know they didn’t bargain on an oddball like me!” I said. “Truly!”

“Hey, are you going to stop going to church?”

The question caught me slightly off guard. It was something I hadn’t given much thought to. “No. Actually as strange as it may sound, I like going to church.”

“Oh!”

“Yeah, I think it’s interesting. I have friends there – something I really need right now. Mostly I enjoy being in the Chapel Choir.”

“You know, I miss the choir,” Katie confessed. “I decided I’d not be in a choir during my freshman year, but next year? Who knows.”

That Motown sound started pouring out of the radio. That unmistakable instrumental ensemble, leading up to… Katie turned up the volume.

“C’mon! We need to sing this one!”

“When you feel like you can’t go on, because all of your hope is gone

And your life is filled with such confusion until happiness is just an illusion

And the world around you’s crumbling down, Darlin’ reach out!”

            And we fell into laughter. “I tell you, Motown speaks right to the heart, doesn’t it?

 “I don’t know how we could get through a single day without it.” Katie agreed.

“Thanks for taking me around, Sister Kate. And thanks for the talk, especially.”

“My Brother dear, it’s been a pleasure,” she said. “Of course, when we get another chance you could return the favor.”

“Oh, definitely!” I said. “Ask me anything.”

“I want to hear everything, I mean everything, about your friend Suzanne. I’ll give you all the time you need.”

The Teeth of My Enemies – 12

Chapter Eleven                                                                     Horner

And when I see the sign that points one way
The lot we used to pass by every day

                                    The Left Banke

I listened to cold music during the holidays. I played several of the same records over and over again. As I listened, I hibernated. There was little I had to do for the week and a half before Christmas, other than a couple of presentations by the Youth Chorale at church. I spent hours in the living room listening. I would close my eyes, sometimes for an hour, not sleeping, just letting the thoughts flow through my mind. Easy thoughts, mostly. Images.

Grieg: Piano Concerto in A minor

Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor

Grieg: Music from Peer Gynt

Dvorak: Symphony No. 9 in E minor, “From the New World”

I spent a great amount of time hibernating at home alone. My parents were at work, and after Katie came home for Christmas break, she spent a lot of time with Kenny. The evenings were family time, though relaxed. The music changed to Andy Williams, Perry Como, Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops and guests. These days were for me an early Christmas gift. I’m sure I appeared depressed to everyone, and I guess I was. I stared into space, slept a good bit, talked very little. There were things on my mind that troubled me – things about my tribulations at school and about my life at this juncture. They threatened to overwhelm me, as they had for some time. But for now my depression, assuming that’s what it was, afforded me some time and space for diving deep within myself, to the depth of the strange ocean I held inside, in search of and occasionally finding the quiet place, a place to rest.

These pieces I played over and over suggested for me this plunge to the deep places. Though it was not quiet, it was cold. It slowed things down. For me it was the music of the deep winter – Russia, Norway, central Europe. Sometimes the sun would peek through the frozen trees. Tchaikovsky’s miraculous Andantino semplice called the morning’s sun to glisten through the icicles weighting down the needles and conifers that had all but fallen asleep. Pizzicato beads of water formed at the tips, dropping until – prestissimo! – birds and tree creatures woke up as well and played for a day. Finally, the sun disappeared, and the world turned hard again, with just a memory. Wasn’t this what this time of year was, after all? If you took away Santa Claus and Arthur Fiedler and even the Wise men, you were left with a memory, and a promise. And a dark night. But the night is a teacher.

Dvorak’s Largo, one of the best-loved passages of music in the world, contained that same promise as I listened, my eyes closed and me motionless. But it was the memory that it spoke above all, a nostalgia so intense that it was surprising, almost startling, that you were able even to return. The echoes of the New World, which was not really new but ancient – its African blues, the laments of the plantation, the chants and drums of native Americans, struck the ears of this master of the old tunes, blending with the savory dances of the Romany, the ancient Cimmerians, the Celts of his homeland.

During the final few days before Christmas itself the family time grew. My mother had the last three days of that week off and began to fill the house with the aroma of baked cookies, chocolate pies, roasting meats, casserolled vegetables and rice and cheese, and pans full of cornbread.

Warmth also filled the corners of the house. Fires glowed in the fireplace. Cards with pictures and news updates arrived from family and friends. It was becoming more difficult to stay cold as our home opened its doors to the cheeriness of the season. Ultimately, I gave myself over to it. After a week away from the horrors of school I had wound down enough to be able to relax into holiday comfort. Some things I did out of duty – the shopping excursions, the activities and functions at the church. These things I could tolerate. At least no one at my church hated me, so far as I knew.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked my mother one afternoon.

“I am all right,” I replied. “I’m just letting myself rest and relax while I can.”

“Well, okay,” she said. “I don’t want you to give in to your depression completely. I’m just checking in with you.”

Katie and I always enjoyed our time together. We reminisced about Christmases past, and had heart to heart conversations about my situation, and hers too. New Christmas cards were always fertile ground for us. We inevitably would study any family pictures and analyze them.

“I think… Cousin Mark looks like he would rather be somewhere else,” she observed.

“Probably at an Alabama football game,” I offered, “as long as they’re not playing Texas, and not losing.”

“Oh, that was so awful!” she said, trying not to laugh too hard. “When Little Joe called Uncle Bernie after the game and just cried and cried.”

“They don’t hold up too well about things like that in Alabama.”

On the Wednesday night before Christmas we had dinner at the church, then went to Prayer Meeting afterward. Church was the only place I ever saw certain friends, usually ones from my past. Most of them were in the 9^th grade at Addison Junior High and would be going to Beckham next year. Jules Branson, one of my oldest friends from the neighborhood, had apparently dropped out of church. There were a few others – devoted friends from the neighborhood and elementary school – that had faded away in recent months. This was another task that lay before me. I would need to re-cultivate these relationships as I prepared to transfer to Beckham. As much as I dreaded the remainder of the school year, this gave me a surge of encouragement.

I had not dropped out of church, but my attention to its message had become more selective. Every time I found a new Psalm or a new prophet that cried out in complaint to the Lord and asked the question “O how long will my enemies lay waste to my castle walls…?” or some such, it became a new favorite passage.

Mrs. Branson ran into me in the vestibule right before Prayer Meeting. “Merry Christmas, Terry! How are you.”

“Oh, I’ve been taking it real easy over the holidays.”

“Your mama tells me you’re probably going to transfer back to Beckham next year.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Congaree Central is just not really what I expected.”

“I understand,” said Mrs. Branson. “It’s a difficult year for a lot of people. Julian can’t wait to get to Beckham. I’ll tell him I saw you. I’ll tell him to get in touch.”

“Please do,” I said. I knew he wouldn’t. I was going to have to do most of the work. It was I that left, after all, though not entirely by choice.

                                                            #####

                                    The Messiah – Georg Friedrich Handel

“Comfort ye…comfort ye, my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem… ”

To me that sounded like a good beginning. But then it became plain that things were going to get worse before they got better:

“For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the people…”

A tenor decides to share this tidbit with us: “Thy rebuke hath broken His heart: He is full of heaviness. Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto His sorrow.”

And not much later a baritone jumps up and asks: “Why do the nations so furiously rage together, and why do the people imagine a vain thing?

The kings of the earth rise up, and the rulers take counsel together against the Lord, and against His anointed.”

Wow, Christianity. It would be helpful if you would make up your mind. I’m quite familiar with the cover of darkness. I know all about heaviness and sorrow. I know what becomes of a broken heart. Well, then suddenly everybody’s up on their feet singing “Hallelujah! For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth!” I can see I should have paid better attention, because I have no idea how we got from there to here.

So I belong to a complicated religion, but I do enjoy this time of year. Each new day that separates me from my agonies at school lightens my heart a little more.

Every year on Christmas Eve, Katie and I would sit before the fire and perform our ritual “The Burning of the School Papers.” Old tests, class notes, even themes and essays.

“You may have to monitor me pretty closely this year,” I said. “I feel very tempted to throw everything into the fire – notebooks, textbooks, pencils, pens, markers, erasers, anything that’s touched that awful school.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “If I see you losing control, I’ll intervene.”

Katie and I got an apple, an orange, and a few walnuts in our stockings, as we did every year. I think I got one of those little kits with a comb, a shoe horn, and a nail clipper and file. I may have gotten a belt, perhaps a couple of pairs of socks. I got a book by Norman Vincent Peale: The Power of Positive Thinking, and Bill Russell: Go Up for Glory. I got a shirt. It was my favorite gift. It was a tight checkerboard pattern on a mustard colored background. It just really worked for me, and I decided to wear it on the first day back to school, something to signify a new start, maybe?

                                                            #####

A new start, and an old mountain. The week between Christmas and New Year’s was typically a time of let-down, but the gloom that began to grow in me was something new. The spell of Yule-tide was broken, and reality was needling its way back into my mind. I hadn’t kept up with boxing, hadn’t jumped rope, hadn’t played any basketball at all. I had been a complete physical slug. Yet I was still tired.

I had been climbing and climbing, and I kept running into trolls. Finally I made it to the hall of the Mountain King – himself a troll – and he offers me the opportunity to become an honorary troll. All I have to do is marry his daughter, a troll maiden. Yuck!

No, wait! I was confusing myself with Peer Gynt, whose musical story I had listened to throughout the holidays. My story was very different from his. I had been climbing this old mountain with a heavy load on my back. The higher I climbed, the heavier the load.

My copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress contained illustrations that had always fascinated me. They were made to resemble the woodcuts so common in the 17^th century. Poor Christian! He had to leave his beautiful wife and go to this place called the Wicket Gate because the heavy load he bore was so intolerable. He meets up with Evangelist on the way who, after a series of detours, finally gets Christian all the way to the Gate. What do you think he finds there? The Cross and an open tomb. As he stands before The Cross, the huge weight on his back is loosed and tumbles into the tomb. Turns out it was his sins all along.

Okay, hold it right there. Is this story telling me what I think it is? When I was eight years old I read this story in preparation for my baptism. I figured sure, I was carrying around the weight of my sins. Of course I was a sinner – I would yell at my sister, I would disobey my parents, I threw a rock at my neighbor down the street. But my life was pretty happy, so I thought “Why not?”

But really, Christianity, you’re telling me that I have to climb this mountain with this weight on my back because I sinned? Tell me, what sins did I commit that could bring all of this on me? They must have been truly terrible. Funny I wouldn’t even remember them.

I remembered my sister talking with my parents and some people at church during the holidays. It turned out that she was also going through a crisis of faith. In her first semester in college she took a course in Religion, and it threw her completely for a loop. Even though her life wasn’t miserable like mine was, she really was worried about it and it caused a lot of anxiety. Here I was, sitting in my room, looking at pictures of Christian the Pilgrim and his beautiful wife, and stewing over some of the same things as Katie. We had touched on it, but I felt I was about to miss my chance to talk to her about it in any depth.

That was when Rob called. He wanted me to come over to his house for an overnight. I made a therapeutic decision and decided to go. I needed a change of scene to shake me out of my funk, plus I always wanted to see Rob. My parents would be happy for me to be out of their hair.

I brought my jump rope to show him. He asked if he could give it a try. Of course he was able to go for longer than I. Why should I think that the only other person in the world with a thyroid problem would be my friend Rob? We did play some basketball in his back yard and talked about the resumption of the season.

“Our next game is with the Oregon High B-squad,” he said. “They tell me there’s a chance we could actually beat them.”

“Oh wow!” I said. “How bad do they have to be?”

Unfortunately the Holcombes had moles or gophers in their back yard. Even though I knew that I wasn’t paying very good attention. I came down with a rebound and my left foot went in a gopher hole, twisting my ankle.

“Oh no!” cried Rob. “I should have told you about the hole right under the basket. Sorry!”

Mrs. Holcombe put an ice pack and wrap around my ankle and I propped my foot up in front of the TV for most of the rest of the evening.

The phone rang and Rob picked up. “Hey!… No, nobody called me. This is the first I’ve heard of it. No, we really can’t – we’re just about to eat supper. Terry’s here and… let me see.”

Rob turned toward me. “Ray Melcher’s on the phone. Says there’s a B-squad practice in thirty minutes and we have to be there.”

I groaned and took the phone. “Yeah, I didn’t hear anything about this either, and now I’ve got a sprained ankle and can’t put any weight on it.”

“Well, y’all are gonna be in big trouble!” said Ray. “I don’t know nothing about your ankle but I think you and Rob need to get your little butts down here.”

“We can’t. We weren’t prepared for this.”

“I’ll have to report this to Coach Larkin. He’s gonna be mad.”

“You’ll just have to do what you’re gonna do then.”

Ray sighed. “You guys are such losers.” And he hung up.

Just great. Now Ray is reaching into my Christmas holidays and ruining things. I suddenly became unhungry as the foul emotions and anxiety started squirting back into my system. I made it through Mrs. Holcombe’s supper, which was actually very good. Then I settled back in the den and back into my funk.

“Sorry, terrific Terry. First the foot, and then taking that call. I don’t know what Ray was so bent out of shape about.”

“He just wants to get under my skin,” I said. “He does a good job of it.”

Yes, Ray was able to reach into my holiday. His fingers were icy. My chest grew tight. It was four days before returning to school and the dread was back. Where was I going to find the strength for this?

#####

The music of Tchaikovsky had always affected me deeply. I indulged myself in this music over the holidays. There was the exuberant, joyous bombast which sat alongside the sonorous, tragic strains, constantly in tension. I knew little of the composer’s biography. I had no idea, at this time, of the struggle and torment that were his constant companions as he explored his gift of music as a homosexual in Tsarist Russia. I knew that it was an age of romanticism, and I had the vague sense that his life was defined, at least in part, by melancholy. How could such music have existed otherwise?

I sat in the living room, returned from Rob’s house. I sat in the dark. I listened, once more, to Tchaikovsky’s B flat minor concerto. The music, the light and the dark threads dancing together, imprinted themselves in my brain, the warp and weft that surely I shared – 75 years on – with the great composer. In the dark, my ankle throbbing, my eyes stinging, the dread building in my gut, I felt the thick globe forming in my throat. My shoulders rose up and began to heave. My stinging eyes felt the flow of tears. I had told Amy that I wasn’t often able to cry, yet here I was again. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but the sobs came up from a very deep place inside in a low moan. Maybe no one could hear me. Or maybe, if such a thing could be true, I was able to be heard beyond the veil, by all the other lonely, desolate hearts.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 11

Chapter Ten

Il est ne, le divin Enfant,
Jouez, hautbois, resonnez, musettes;
Il est ne, le divin Enfant;
Chantons tous son avenement!

December, though the shortest of the school months, wasn’t about to break the pattern set by October and November – that each month should be worse than the one before. I must confess feeling a little shocked at December, given that it contained Christmas and all. Then again, it was the Solstice, the darkest time of the year.

But first I had to finish November.

Back from the holiday, B-squad practice was Monday afternoon. Even though Ray Melcher cast a malign presence on the court and when he looked at me it was with an expression of disgust, today’s practice went along without incident. We had to concentrate on the drills and the game, plus the coach was closely watching everything everybody did. The next day Coach Larkin posted the ten players that would suit up for the game on Thursday. I was one. Rob was one. Ray was one. Otis and James would also suit up. Rob and I did our thumb-hook handshake in mutual congratulation. It did make me feel good, though I could only imagine how much better I would be if I were at full speed.

My free period on Tuesday afternoon was my appointment with Mr. Warren.

“I feel like I’ve crash landed after careening out of control for two months,” I told him, and continued with the saga of the past year of my health crisis and the most recent two months of crisis at Central High. The words poured out. I felt like I could tell this man anything and he would not judge me or betray any confidence. My poor parents had heard it all, and in many different ways. This way I could share the weight, and it was a deep relief for me.

He was quiet for a few seconds when I finally paused. “First,” he said, “I want to thank you for being so open to me. That in itself takes a lot of guts.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just feel like if I can’t talk about it I’ll explode.”

“Well, we certainly don’t want that,” he said. “It usually creates a terrible mess.”

I laughed.

“I think we can work through several of these problems while you’re at Central…”

“You think I can transfer to Beckham?”

“Yes, I think you probably can, by the end of the year.”

“So it’s too late to transfer in January?” My shoulders slumped forward.

“Yes, it would be too late for January. They would only do that for an emergency. I realize this is an emergency for you, but they are talking about things that alter family dynamics – death in the family, or divorce, or sudden lack of transportation, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t have that.”

“And there’s also red tape. Isn’t there always? The school district has to approve it and all. Everything the district does takes a while.”

“So I have to figure out how to get through the rest of this school year… It just doesn’t seem possible.”

“Do you mind,” said Mr. Warren, “if I tell you a little bit about myself?”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “I’d be interested to hear that.”

“I was a student here, just like you,” he said. “I graduated from Congaree Central in 1951. As a freshman I got picked on by bullies. So much of what you’ve told me sounds just like my experience.”

“Oh my gosh!”

“Yes, and I didn’t understand either. Why did they single me out? I really don’t know.”

For several moments I couldn’t think of anything to say. “I’m… I’m sorry you went through that but, wow, it’s amazing to know that somebody like you went through it.”

“And I turned out, well, at least above average, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, more than that. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had!”

“Why thank you! Nice of you to say so. I do my best, and I love teaching. It’s also interesting you would say that, given what we’re talking about,” said Mr. Warren, “because one of the main things that helped me survive was my studies – especially my study of literature.”

“Okay, I think I can understand that,” I said. “English is my favorite class. It’s almost like a chance to, you know, escape.”

“That can be part of it, yes. But it’s also the stories themselves – the themes, and motifs. Think about the book we’re reading right now, for instance.”

“Tale of Two Cities?”

“Would it be accurate to say that the peasants are being bullied by the French aristocracy as the book begins?”

“Yes, it really does!” I felt the sudden insight.

“It may be that you’re not actually starving,” continued my teacher, “or burdened by excessive taxes. But don’t you feel emotionally taxed, and even starved sometimes?”

“Oh yes! Absolutely!”

“The long imprisonment of Doctor Manette… you feel sympathy for the victims because you can relate, in your own life, to what they’re going through.”

“That’s so true.”

“When I was going through this all those years ago,” said Mr. Warren, “it was difficult for me to think clearly about what was going on in my everyday life. I really didn’t want to think about it at all. It was too painful. I just wanted to push it away. But literature gave me one way of working through these problems in a more objective way. For a person like me, and like you as well if I am any judge, this can be very powerful. Some of the characters in this novel – well, they’re heroes. Even if all they’re able to do is endure, that’s a heroic act. It can inspire us. Does this make sense to you, what I’ve been saying?”

“It makes a lot of sense,” I exclaimed. “That’s why this class has been such a refuge for me.”

We spent the last couple of minutes talking about the paperwork my parents and I would need to pull together for the school transfer. He said he would begin this process and let me know when he could pass the application to me. Then we could chat some more.

I left his office in a state of amazement. Mr. Warren had also had bullies? This witty, charming, intelligent, creative man, so poised in the classroom, so eloquent, had been bullied? It didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t figure out what weaknesses he could have had that a bully could latch onto. Of course this was many years ago. He may have been a real wreck in the ninth grade for all I knew. But he had certainly grown into something. An excellent teacher and guidance counselor, beloved by his students. Suzanne had had two classes with him and she adored him. Being adored by Suzanne was all I would ever need to know about a person to make them a person of excellence.

I decided to write Suzanne a letter, That’s how expansive I was feeling that day. I don’t remember all that I said, but I did express that I was grateful she had become my friend and how good it made me feel that an upperclassman of her status and popularity would take time to talk to me. I wondered if I was making myself sound a little too humble, but hey, it didn’t matter. I wrote it that night, put her name on it, and stuck it in one of the slits of her locker the next morning before home room.

It did matter. One of my bullies, I don’t know which one, must have seen me deposit the letter in Suzanne’s locker and snatched it. They showed me that they had the letter the second I walked into Science. The heights of their enjoyment of the letter was exceeded only by the depths of my misery. They mocked me, they rendered dramatic readings of the letter, they spread the word of my being sweet on Suzanne, they shamed me in front of the rest of the class until Miss Corliss arrived, but then they continued to whisper.

My spirit was crushed. They had trespassed one of the few lovely things in my life, and they were making it sound lurid and cheap. They were becoming an invasive force, a sort of emotional cancer. It made me feel sick. I put my head down for the rest of the class and became unresponsive to anything they threw at me. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of responding to them. Indeed, I couldn’t. I didn’t want them to see that I was bleeding.

I would go to French class, because I needed to pick up an assignment. After that, I would cut gym class, attend English, then cut the rest of the day beginning at lunch. When I arrived at French, I slid into my desk next to Rob.

“I had a really bad time in Science just now,” I told him.

“Oh, I’m sorry man,” he said. “Let me know if you need me.” I didn’t go into great detail with Rob over my situation, but it was clear to him that there was a small group of guys that were bothering me. He had developed a sense of when to respond and when to leave me alone.

Today I found something when I cut gym class that was fascinating to me. In the basement of Central – where I would check my absences on the Big Board of Disgrace – there was a doorway. It had no marking on it, but it led to a short passageway that led to another door with no markings. This door opened into the basement of the Educational Building of First Baptist Church. I was astonished! They were actually connected. There was a short staircase to an elevator door directly opposite the door to the basement and I could take it to any other floor in the building. During the weekdays no one was there. The first four floors were Sunday School classrooms. The fifth floor was the church gym. No one was there. But the were basketballs. Whenever I wanted to I could disappear into this vast building and play basketball if I wanted to or just simply be alone, unknown, forgotten. I was so delighted with this discovery that I nearly forgot how miserable I was. I rode to the fourth floor, found the restroom, broke out my pack of Camels and smoked a celebratory cigarette.

I decided to go ahead and skip the rest of the day after all. In a sense I had received a valuable bit of instruction from Mr. Warren in his office, and I was ahead of the class anyway. I bought my lunch in the snack bar which was tucked in the side entrance of a bank on Main Street. I could buy my lunch and eat it on the stairs going down to the basement, which nobody ever used. Today’s lunch consisted of a bag of barbecue potato chips, a devil’s food Mickey cake, and a Dr. Pepper.

                                                            #####

On Thursday night the Congaree Central B-squad met with the Lowell Junior High Pirates. I sat on the end of the bench for the beginning of the game, Rob seated beside me as a human shield from Ray Melcher, who sat on the opposite end. Ray said nothing to me. He didn’t have to. He was well aware of the effect he and the others had had on me.

In the second quarter I was sent into the game. The Pirates led us by only three points. On offense, James pitched the ball to me and I took the shot from right above the foul line. A Pirate attempted to block the shot but committed a foul. The ball caromed to the side and I went to the free throw line. I made the first shot but missed the second. Otis captured the rebound and laid the ball in. We were tied.

And that was my B-squad career. As we approached half-time I began to grow tired and slow. I couldn’t keep up with my defensive assignments. Coach Larkin whistled me out of the game. “Nice job,” he said. “I could tell you were getting tired though.”

“Owens, you suck,” said Ray at the first opportunity.

The Pirates came out strong in the second half and had pulled away by game’s end. The final score Lowell 38, Central 26.

                                                            #####

“I think it’s probably true,” I told Mr. Warren the next day. “I probably do suck. I’m probably a pansy too. The thing of it is, though, I was never a pansy before. Not until two months ago. How could this have happened?”

“Well, if I can interject here,” said Mr. Warren. “I don’t really think you’re a pansy. I think you’re an intelligent, sensitive young man who’s bothered by many things right now and isn’t sure what to make of them. Tell me this: do your parents think you suck?”

“No.”

“Do your friends at church and your friends here at school think you suck?”

“No.”

“Do you think they would be honest with you and tell you if you did?”

“They… I’m not sure they would express it quite that way.”

Mr. Warren laughed. “No, I don’t guess they would. They’re too polite to say things like that. Now, don’t you think it’s interesting that of all the people you know, it’s this small group of three or four boys whose words you’re giving so much weight to?”

“I guess that is kind of strange.”

“Terry, it’s because of your age.”

“My age?”

“When you reach a certain age, it gradually becomes much more important what your peers say to you and what they think about you than your parents or family or anyone else. It’s part of being adolescent. They could tell you almost anything – you could try to step back and reason through it and decide that it’s really not true, but you’d be naturally inclined to accept it, or at least give it a great deal of weight. And especially if it’s bad. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah, I think so. Even though I’ve never thought of myself as a pansy before…”

“If these boys start telling you that you are, or any other mean things, it really hurts, because they are your peers.”

Mr. Warren always gave me a lot to think about. I had gone by his office to pick up a school transfer application. So that process, to my relief, had begun.

I was a little late for gym, so he wrote me a hall pass. I hurried to the locker room and pulled on my gym clothes on. When I came onto the floor I saw a very interesting thing. Eddie Tinsley was chasing James Huggins around the gym floor throwing punches at him. James was in the boxer’s defensive stance, his arms up guarding his torso and head, his hands open with palms facing outward to deflect any punches. James was light on his feet – he almost danced as he hopped and bobbed away from Eddie and his arms’ reach. Some of the class were laughing, some yelled “Go, go, go!” to whom I wasn’t sure. Coach Smallen intervened at last.

“Tinsley, you come here with me. Huggins, you can get back in line. Tinsley what is the matter with you?” Coach Smallen wrote a note on an official looking paper and collared Eddie, leading him out of the room. He left his assistant Coach Baker in charge of the class.

I couldn’t resist talking with my friend in the locker room. “James! That was kind of amazing,” I said. “Are you a boxer?”

“I’m really not a boxer. My uncle has shown me a few things. He boxed during college.”

“I’ve taken a couple of boxing lessons,” I said. “I could tell you knew what you were doing by your stance and your footwork. James I’m sure you could have taken him easy. He was just flailing around, street fighting.”

“Well, I really didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to throw any punches.”

“Hmm,” I thought about that. “You know, James, sometimes I get the feeling that you’ve planned, or prepared for everything that happens to you.”

“Not exactly,” he said. “That would be impossible. But I have learned… several of us have… hey Terry, have you ever heard of SNCC?”

“I think I have heard that word.”

“Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. They go around teaching people involved in civil rights how to do nonviolent resistance. Like how to react when people are screaming at you, how to control your anger, how to go limp and fall correctly so you won’t get hurt – that sort of thing. My family and other people in the church and in Congaree took that training. They didn’t teach me boxing, but they did teach about what to do if you don’t want to get in a fight, or you just can’t.”

“Wow! So every time Eddie threw his fist you just block it or turn it aside.”

“Yeah.”

“I need to talk to my boxing coach about that,” I said. “That’s exactly what I’m after. I’m not looking to get into fights really, just to defend myself.”

“It helps,” said James.

                                                            #####

Miss Olive Corliss, upon our return from Thanksgiving holiday, decided to assign seats for her students. I suppose she was hoping to throw us into a state of such confusion that we would all at once stop talking – that behavior which above all things enraged her. I for one was glad. It meant that neither Ray nor Hugh would be sitting behind me again. That slot was filled by a new student, just transferred in, by the name of Alson Reed. He seemed like a pleasant enough fellow who always wore a slight, almost fixed, smile. He wore paisley shirts, faded ones. I think he wore the same three paisley shirts over and over.

Alson Reed was fidgety. I could hear fidgeting activities behind me – pencil sounds, rubber band sounds, the sounds of paper being folded or torn, the drumming of fingers, the tapping of feet. After a few days he took to kicking the legs of my desk and tapping on my chair with fingers or pencil. We didn’t talk at all, but on a couple of occasions I turned around and gave him a look when the noise became annoying to me.

But he wouldn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. By the second week he was tapping rhythmical patterns on my back with pencils. They didn’t really hurt, but sometimes it stung when they hit the discs in my back at a certain angle. He tapped me on the back with his fingers. Next he started with the ear flicks. I turned around.

“Do not flick me on the ears,” I hissed. I thought I heard a snicker from nearby, which could have been Hugh Elroy, but I didn’t care. Alson confined his fidgeting to the top of his own desk and infrequent kicks to my desk’s legs. I could live with that.

Then came week number three, the last week before Christmas holidays. Alson Reed was no longer able or was unwilling to contain himself. He began on Monday and escalated from there. Pencil drumming on my back moved to pencil drumming on my head. Tapping with the flats of his fingers, with increasing force, popping up side of the head and finally, hitting me on the back and shoulders with fists. I stiffened. My rage grew. Though I tried to control it my breathing became heavy. I rose from my desk, turned, and faced my tormenter. He wore a slight, fixed smile.

“How dare you! Are you not aware that my bullies have been persecuting me every day since the beginning of October? I’ve never been a bully myself but I can only imagine what hard work it must be. What makes you think you can just waltz in here and take your place among my bullies? You haven’t earned it. You haven’t earned anything. I simply won’t allow it!”

I uttered not one of these words, though they rushed through my brain in a white hot blur, while I drew back and slugged Alson Reed in the shoulder.

KA-POW!!!

He was leaning back slightly in his desk – one of those flimsy, brightly lime-colored ergonomic style desks that were becoming more common in classrooms – so that when I hit him he flipped backwards and clattered to the floor. It must have looked to everyone that I hit him with the force of a concrete block. Ellen Higbe’s mouth was an O. I really have no idea, but he was splayed on the floor and looked quite stunned. I heard loud laughter from a couple of voices that I knew, and I heard shrieks from the very familiar voice of my science teacher. Seconds later, I was headed to the office of Mr. Roy Devereaux, the Principal.

“I do realize, Mr. Owens, that there’s more here than meets the eye,” said Mr, Devereaux, his glasses having slid to the edge of his nose. “I’ve spoken with Mr. Warren so I know you’ve had some boys badgering you. But I am going to have to send you home for a couple of days. Miss Corliss is a member of our faculty, and she saw what she saw. Unfortunately, teachers aren’t blessed with 360 degree vision.”

“I do understand, sir.”

“I hate for you to miss more school,” he said. “Your absences and class cuts are mounting up. These are also understandable, but not excusable.”

“I see that as well, sir.”

“So, I tell you what. I’ll send you home now for the holidays. That’s a two and half days’ suspension then going straight into Christmas break. When you get back in January I want you to meet with Mr. Warren as soon and as often as you need to. If I need to come to a meeting I will. We need to put together a plan to get you through the school year. I don’t want to see a capable student like you fail or have to repeat. Now go on with you. Can you get a ride?”

“I think so, or I can ride the bus if I need to.

“Have a good holiday.”

“Thank you sir.”

At supper that night, my parents, my sister, and I sat around the table.

“I took up for myself today,” I announced. “I got suspended for it.”

“We appreciate how honest you’ve been about it,” said my father. “We can’t really hold it against you.”

“How did you feel?” asked Katie.

“I felt good,” I said.

                                                            #####

French and English classes were my places of respite. My enemies had not been able to touch them. It was always so good to sit next to my friend Rob, to see James Huggins across the aisle, to see the other black students who had fascinated us so continue to excel at this language. Miss Van Denge brought some beauty to our December. She taught us two French carols: “Il est ne, le divin Enfant” and “Une flambeau, Jeanette Isabella.” I can sing them still today, at least the refrains, and some parts of the stanzas. Her face would crinkle into a smile as we progressed in learning these songs. She would lead the singing in her Talullah Bankhead tenor, until we gradually got it. I looked at James. He wore a big smile. It was the moments like these that made me see a different Miss Van Denge from the fearsome dragon lady most people perceived. It was her gift. She was a teacher.

The Teeth of My Enemies – 10

Chapter Ten

Now, as the rain beats down upon my weary eyes
For me, it cries

                        “Walk Away, Renee”, The Left Banke

After arriving at the Toccoa Conference Center, I dutifully stayed in my room to put in several minutes of jump rope. The swelling had gone down in my right foot, so I figured there could be nothing better than to whip it, and my other body parts, into shape. I jumped for five minutes, then had to stop for a breather. I jumped for five more minutes until my legs trembled with fatigue. I slumped to the side of my bed. Then I rolled under the covers and slept for an hour and a half.

My sister Katie came in to wake me up and to see if I wanted to go to the welcome segment. Standing up I felt like rubber. “I’ll go, if I don’t have to say anything or do anything,” I said, “and…if you’ll be the one to do the talking if anybody comes over to see us.” Afternoon naps could be good things, or they could be bad. Unfortunately, I was going to appear in public feeling like I’d drunk a bottle of terpin hydrate – ugh. I really didn’t want to see anybody. But for some reason the many student directors throughout the state seemed to find me fascinating so would be seeking me out.

I survived the welcoming. Katie was conscientious in her role as the talker, and I did enjoy the turkey, mashed potatoes, dressing, brown rice, and cornbread. A few minutes of free time followed the dinner, then an address by the guest presenter – Dr. George F. Herndon of the Southeastern Baptist Seminary. He was a brilliant man and an engaging speaker – I had heard him before at Ridgecrest – but after a few minutes I simply could not as God is my witness stay awake. I continually nodded backwards and when I lay my head on Katie’s shoulder, that’s when she decided she better take me to my room. I was aware of nothing until the next day.

When I awoke I was aware of the rain. I was still tired, and emotionally numb. I stumbled out of my room toward the breakfast buffet. I scooped various foods onto my plate then found my parents seated nearby with Hank Peterson and Lisa Hodges of Winthrop College.

“Well,” my mother greeted me, “you konked out last night, didn’t you?”

“I did,” I admitted. “I think the increase of the medication has started to kick in.”

“You’re having health problems?” asked Lisa Hodges, who I had always liked and didn’t mind her asking.

“They think it’s hypothyroidism,” I said. “Only I don’t understand why these pills are making me sleepy. I thought they were supposed to perk me up.”

“Remember, he said give it a couple of weeks,” said my mother. “Maybe it’ll wear off.”

As I stood to go I spotted the Lamar family seated a couple of tables over. H.B. Lamar was my father’s counterpart for the state of Georgia, and typically they would share this weekend event with us in South Carolina. The girl sitting with the Lamars must be my friend Amy – I didn’t see how it could be anyone but Amy, though she looked different from what I remembered. I moved toward their table and definitely recognized her. I sat down beside her.

“Hi, Amy!” She looked up at me and offered a slight smile. I detected the glint of braces on her teeth, She also wore glasses, which I didn’t remember seeing on her before. She had grown a few inches up since I last saw her, but had grown no inches out. Her ash-blond hair was tied into a bushy ponytail, and I thought I detected red splotches on her neck, like rashes. I had always considered Amy Lamar a good friend, and I was happy to see her here again.

“Hey, Terry,” she said. “Nice to see you. How have you been?”

“Oh Amy,” I said. “It’s been a strange year. I have to tell you about it.” I felt excited to meet up with a friend I could confide in, who I trusted, and who wasn’t from my home town. “But I want to hear about you too. How have you been. Wow, you really look different!”

Amy turned her head. Her lower lip began to tremble, she drew in a sharp breath, and cried.

“Amy? What!” I wasn’t sure what had just happened. Amy stood up and walked quickly toward one of the rooms.

“Amy!” called Mrs. Lamar. She stood up. “Amy!… Oh well. Sometimes we have to let her go.”

“Mrs. Lamar, whatever I said or did I’m sorry! You know I don’t ever want to hurt Amy.”

“Terry, you haven’t done anything at all,” she reassured me.

“I was making conversation. I told her I thought she looked different. Then she cried.”

“Yes, she’s been very sensitive about her looks this year. I’m afraid some of her classmates have given her a rough time about it.”

“Oh, I see!” The air began to clear. “Mrs. Lamar, please tell Amy I really want to talk with her, and I’m sorry. Tell her she’s not going to believe what my year has been like. And tell her…” I glanced downward, “tell her I think she’s beautiful.”

“Oh, Terry, that’s so sweet,” said Mrs. Lamar. “I will tell her all those things. She’ll be fine. She will want to visit with you very much. She’s been talking about it.”

I did think Amy was beautiful. I could see she was going through an awkward adolescence.

                                                            #####

Every year was a tapestry. There were students from The Philippines, Hong Kong, Formosa, and Burma. They came from India, Pakistan, and Ceylon. Iran, Syria, Lebanon, and Israel were represented. Greece, Cyprus, France, and Germany. South of the border in Mexico, Honduras, Colombia, and Brazil. A very large map of the world stood in the middle of the auditorium, and students were asked to stick a pin in the map to show the location of their home. It was always beautiful. Through the years my sister Katie and I have reminisced about these retreats and what an education we received about cultures from all over the world – more than most of our friends and schoolmates.

Looking back on it, it seems like an experiment in living. This year, with my lethargy, I was less active and mostly observed the activities around me. The ping pong tables were always the scene of intense activity. Usually there developed a tournament with brackets and everything. Curious relationships formed. A young man from Syria and a young man from Israel began the weekend as ping pong rivals. I didn’t know their names because they only called each other “Syrian” and “Israeli”. They attacked each other on the ping pong courts as if they bore the responsibility for settling the Arab-Israeli conflict.

“Ah… Syrian! I’ve got you where I want you now!”

“Oh but Israeli!” laughed the Arab. “You should know that this contest is far from over.”

They gibed each other throughout the weekend, to the amusement of Katie and me and many others, and became fast friends.

Of course, this year a new part of the world was represented.

I spotted Kenneth Ngoudjo easily when we arrived at the conference. He mostly stayed with the same group of two or three other students – presumably from Atlantic University. He took a turn at the ping pong tables. He wasn’t a top player, but he held his own. On Friday afternoon I saw my father talking to him. Something he said must have struck my father as funny, because he got a big laugh. My father is a jolly man. I started toward them with the object of meeting Kenneth, but he moved on before I could get there.

I did see Amy, though. She sat on one of the long benches that lined the wall of the main auditorium. She smiled and waved at me, as if she had been waiting for me to appear.

“Amy!” I called. “At last! I’m so sorry!”

“Terry, you didn’t do anything wrong, really!”

“What I mean is,” I sat down beside her, “your mother told me that. But, I’m sorry what you’re going through this year. She tried to tell me a little.”

“The thing is, I can’t even control my emotions any more.” Her shoulders slumped. “When I saw you last night, I was so excited. And I knew… Terry, I knew you didn’t mean any harm. Even when I ran like a retard back to my room I told myself ‘Girl this is Terry! What is your problem?’ Well I do have a problem. I’m so embarrassed you had to find out like that. It’s just such a miserable situation.”

People were walking to and fro. I knew some of them. “Amy, you want to go sit outside on the screen porch?”

She stood, and we walked toward the door.

“I don’t know if you knew we moved,” she said. “It’s a different area of Atlanta. It’s a nice neighborhood, and I like our house. But… my looks have changed. And I’m in a new school. And the doctor says I’ve got chemicals changing and all. And the braces, and the glasses, and I’m in a new school. People there are just naturally stuck up, and they think I’m a freak and they assume I always have been one. I’m trying not to cry as I tell you all this.”

We found a porch swing and sat down. “Just take your time, Amy,” I said.

“My parents feel guilty because all of this happened to me at once. And yeah, we’ve had some fights. I don’t know what else to do. I mean, they didn’t do anything to be mean to me, I know. But why didn’t they just think about it some more? It’s too much. So I got to school, and a couple of girls acted like they might want to be friends, but that didn’t last very long. One of the real popular girls said something that made me cry, and they all started giggling and laughing. The days went on and I still didn’t have any friends, and people were whispering when I walked by, and leaving notes on my locker, and calling me names. So do the boys. How would you like it if people called you ‘Scarecrow?’ or ‘Witch Hazel?’ or ‘Broomstick?’ or just ‘Hey Ugly?’”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” I said. I was horrified. “They don’t even know you. That’s not who you are!”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice quavering. Then she straightened up and looked at me. “So how have you been?”

“Wow. I’ve been about the same as you.”

“The same as me?” She looked incredulous.

“I look the same on the outside, pretty much. But on the inside… gosh, I am so messed up, Amy.” I told her, as concisely as I could, about my thyroid condition and depression, about the bullies in my life, about my frustrations with classes and basketball, about my spiritual doubts, about my isolation. When I finished my account I was exhausted. I figured Amy must be too. When I looked at her, her eyes brimmed with tears.

“What a world!” she said.

“It’s a world I can’t understand.”

“I was trying so hard not to cry while I told you about me. Now I’m crying about what you said.”

“It okay to cry sometimes, isn’t it?”

“I cry all the time,” she said.

“I never cry,” I said. “Well I did cry the other day. I wish I could do it more.”

I reached out for Amy and pulled her to me. She had taken off her glasses and I looked at her clear, blue, tear-glistening eyes. She leaned her head into me and cried on my shirt. I didn’t care. I felt her heart beating. She was warm in my arms.

                                                            #####

On Friday night the annual Talent Show took place. For some it was simply “show and tell,” but there was always some real talent. It was always a high point for me. I loved the three girls from Formosa that sang the Mandarin folk song. The dance by the Burmese girl was a delight. The guitar player from Colombia was a seriously good musician.

Then Kenneth moved up to the microphone. He brought a curved xylophone looking instrument, a couple of drums, and two curved mallets.

“Good evening,” he began. “I am Kenneth Ngoudjo, and I attend Atlantic University. I come from Cameroon in Africa. Some say we are west African, some say we are central African. I just say we are Cameroon.”

“I want to share with you some of the music of my country,” he said. “Unfortunately I am but one person, so it is impossible for me to convey some of the richness of this music, its layers of rhythm and tonality that a larger ensemble would provide, but I will do my best. One style of traditional music from Cameroon is called bikutsi. The word literally means ‘beat the earth.’ It used to be a form of martial music but has become more of a popular, dance kind of music in recent years.”

He played examples of a war song, what he called a “social” song, a song for the grass ceremony. He repeated phrases, explaining that many of these songs employed the “call and response” method, so that the whole community could sing. He moved quickly and easily between the drums and the balafon – the curved xylophone. He paused for the sustained applause in the hall, and smiled.

“You are very kind,” he said. “I need to present my final song… My grandfather died three years ago. I sang at his funeral. The Mansa is a type of funeral song, usually sung without accompaniment. I will share the Mansa I sang at my grandfather’s funeral.”

He sang a very moving a capella song, in an ornamental style I associated with north African music. I hoped the other listeners appreciated the discipline and control he had mastered to be able to sing like this. I felt transported to Kenneth’s home in Africa, I could almost feel the African ground under my feet. When the song ended, I joined in the enthusiastic applause.

The melting face of Hugh Elroy popped into my head. For once his image did not clutch me in the stomach or set into motion the familiar feeling of dread. I felt a certain detachment, and a curiosity. I wondered what, if any, effect it might have had on Hugh’s attitude to watch and hear this brief performance of this gifted young man.

The rain ended Friday night, and Saturday’s morning fog burned away by mid-morning. Dr. Herndon conducted a lecture and a question and answer period in the morning; then came a tasty lunch. During the free time on Saturday afternoon, a radio was set up in one of the rooms off the main auditorium and it came on at 12.30.

Because of our location in northeast Georgia we had to listen to the partisan announcers from Clemson. Atlantic’s chances for prevailing in this contest were slim. Clemson, poised to win the conference and thus play in a bowl, were highly motivated. Atlantic’s motivation was to win for the second time this season.

“If Atlantic plays their best game of the season and Clemson plays their worst, and if we get all the breaks, we may have a chance,” said a Guatemalan student from Atlantic.

“Pollyanna!” quipped an Italian student.

To me it became obvious in the first quarter that this was not to be Atlantic’s best game nor Clemson’s worst, so I began to lose interest in the play by play. I went outside during halftime into the pleasant weather. I saw Kenneth Ngoudjo talking with a couple of the kitchen staff. He waved at me when he saw me. I suppose he knew I was Mr. Owens’ son. I walked over to him.

“Hi, I am Kenneth. I know who you are. Your first name?”

“I’m Terry,” I said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh no,” he said. “I was just telling these people a little bit about Africa.”

“Do they know what region they come from?”

“One of them is pretty sure an ancestor came from Ghana,” said Kenneth. “The others are not really sure.”

“Wow. I guess they didn’t keep very good records, huh?”

“Not very good. Plus, they were discouraged, sometimes, from remembering.”

I chatted with Kenneth for a few minutes. He had listened to the game for a while. He had attended a couple of Atlantic games this year.

“They are not such a bad team, really,” he observed. “Several of their games they lost by rather small margins.”

“Do y’all play football in Cameroon?”

“Yes, we do,” he said, “but what we call football is like your game of soccer. We know it by both names. No pads or helmets, a round ball, and so forth. Sometimes the rules and dimensions vary.”

“Yeah, only a few schools over here have soccer teams.” I was silent for several seconds. “Kenneth…” I began. “Those songs last night. I loved them. I’ve never been to Africa, and yet I feel like I’ve visited, just from your songs.”

“Thank you!” Kenneth smiled broadly. “That is very kind! That’s one of the best things you could say. I love music. I think it’s one of the best ways we have to speak to each other in the world.”

“I agree,” I said. “I would just like to thank you for what you brought to us, to me, last night.”

“Oh, you are welcome, Terry Owens. Your words… they make my heart glad.” He laughed. I did too.

                                                            #####

I sat with Amy for Sunday dinner. She said the retreat had been a nice break for her.

“It’s just nice to be somewhere nobody hates you.”

“Don’t I know it?”

“I never thought I’d be saying things like this,” she sighed.

“Amy, we need to stay in touch,” I said. “Write down your address for me. Phone number too.”

She fished in her pocketbook for a pencil. “You write yours for me too.”

“I want to think about all of this and write you a letter.”

“That would be so great!” she said. “Terry, I’m so glad you were here. I mean, I hate… I despise what you and I are going through. But at least now I know I’m not alone. I’m not the absolute most pathetic person on earth.”

We exchanged our information. “It’s good to have friends,” I said. “How could we survive without them?”

“We couldn’t.”

“Wow, I love this squash casserole,” I said. “My appetite hasn’t been this good in weeks.”

The Teeth of My Enemies – 9

Chapter Nine                                    

I walk in shadows searching for light
Cold and alone, no comfort in sight
Hopin’ and prayin’ for someone who’ll care
Always moving and going nowhere

                        “What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted”, Jimmy Ruffin

It seemed like another life – actually it didn’t seem like my life at all – when I won the tough man contest at the YMCA. “Tough man” meant, in this case, eleven year olds. It had only been three years ago. Admittedly, my friend Shelby Reece from my neighborhood and I had implemented a plan. We would team up on the other contestants until we were the last two standing, then the two of us would have to battle it out. This way, at least one of us would be the winner. Shelby proved to be a tough man but in the end I prevailed.

I had won a similar contest during sixth grade on the school playground. This competition involved a dozen boys with sticks. I prevailed in this game by being a good fighter, but also by my ability to endure pain. My skinniness aside, I had the ability to outlast the others. I was one of the popular crowd in sixth grade, and there were times when I was nearly cocky.

Something had happened. Hypothyroidism and depression had happened, yes, but this condition or something seemed to have drained every bit of courage and self-confidence out of the bottom of my feet – or, perhaps I should say, toenails.

                                                            #####

“Hey Terry,” said James Huggins. “I’m glad you decided to come back to French class. I wondered if you’d dropped out.”

“No, I haven’t dropped out yet,” I said. “I can’t break Miss Van Denge’s heart like that. I’ve just had some stuff going on – been a little under the weather.”

“You know we’ve got B-squad practice this afternoon. You made the team, right?”

“Yeah, I’m number 25. What’s your number?”

“They gave me number 36,” said James.

“Okay, then,” I said, flushed with confidence. “Let’s show ‘em what we can do.”

B-squad practice did not go well. I showed them I could do very little. Ray Melcher’s stealth maneuvers bedeviled me, and no one could tell that he was the source of my troubles. Where did he learn this stuff? Could the coach not see the abuse? I have to admit it was subtle – Ray knew me well enough to know I could be wounded by an elbow here, a knee there, a nasty remark hissed into my ear. He was in top form.

Ray took the opportunity to guard me when we went into man-to-man defense. You would think his comments would be meant to encourage and build up a teammate, but no. The thought of he and I being on the same side of anything was intolerable to him. It was to me as well. The things he hissed in my ear were things he was addressing to someone I didn’t even know, but of course I knew they were directed at me. Incredibly, I felt as if I might be coming to believe them.

Coach Larkin signaled for us to try the Back Screen Post. It was the only set play we had figured out so far. I took a pass from a teammate, and dribbled toward the perimeter’s right side as the center and forward set up the screen. Ray stepped on my right foot with his full weight. “Oh shit, Terry,” he hissed. “That didn’t hurt, did it?” He lifted his foot and came down hard, again, on my right foot. “Oh Jesus, Owens! I bet that did hurt! What’s the matter with me?” He laughed. I passed the ball to a teammate, and looked toward the bench. Coach Larkin was looking at a notepad. Obviously the Back Screen Post completely fell apart.

I breathed deeply to deal with the sharpness of pain. My sore foot hampered my ability to run, or to move around during defense and offense. I mostly stood in place – the gravest sin in the game of basketball. The coach blew the whistle and we all moved to the bench. I tried my best not to limp, though my foot throbbed.

I thought James may have picked up on what was happening, at least some. I kept feeling his eyes on me. Rob seemed oblivious. I might have wondered at this except I knew my friend Rob. He assumed the best in everybody, and had not a single enemy in the world. I often wished he had produced a tonic I could take.

Coach Larkin pulled me aside. “Owens, you looked like you were struggling out there today. Is everything all right?”

“I was a little under the weather this weekend,” I said. “I keep turning my foot for some reason. I’ll be fine.”

He talked to the team. “Fellas, we have our first game coming up after Thanksgiving so we’ll need to be ready. We’re playing Lowell Junior High. They’re pretty good but we can beat ‘em. We’ll meet again Monday afternoon. Y’all have a great holiday.”

“Hey, Owens! You okay?” It was James.

“James, I’m just really tired,” I said. “It’s that condition I told you about. Plus, I haven’t been sleeping.”

I left basketball practice exhausted and depressed. The slight lift in my spirits over the past couple of days had fled. I felt crushed. I walked straight to the bathroom, my eyes stinging,  and hid inside a booth. My guts trembled. A big ball of pain roiled inside my stomach, crawled up my esophagus, and erupted behind my eyes. I heaved with sobs. Ray Melcher! What kind of hatred could rule such a person? Was he really willing to sabotage the integrity of the basketball team in order to hurt and humiliate me? I could not comprehend this. I tried to cry as quietly as possible in case someone walked in.

Maybe, though… maybe he was actually trying to help the team. Might he think it his self-assigned duty to identify and to eliminate what he perceived to be the weakest link, namely me? This thought gave me a start. Forget the coach and his authority and judgement. Forget his teammates or the school they represent. It was Ray’s to judge the best interests of the team, and to swagger over this prerogative. Is this what they called sportsmanship? Is that how it’s supposed to work? I grabbed another wad of toilet paper.

Ray, you arrogant prick. You arrogant, damn prick!

                                                            #####

I almost ran out of days that week, but on Tuesday I got a chance to at least talk to Mr. Warren. “I know you’re the counselor for the senior class, but do you think I could come in for an appointment? I’ve got a few problems I’d like to talk about.”

“We can definitely set up an appointment, Terry.”

“Sometime after the holidays, I guess?”

“How about Monday when you get back?” he suggested.

“I’ve got B-squad.”

“Next Tuesday?”

“Next Tuesday would be fine,” I said. “I’ll check with you when we get back from break.”

On this Tuesday before Thanksgiving I attended fewer than half my classes, but at the end of the day I decided to journey to the basement of Congaree Central High School. It was a place of mystery for me. The stairwell that led downwards had a sign above the door:

                                    DISTRIBUTIVE EDUCATION

The only clues as to what this meant were the arrows at the next landing that pointed to “< Shop” and “Cosmetology >”. Other than these two destinations were some other odds and ends – the Food Service Office, a time clock, electrical and custodial equipment rooms and the Attendance Office. The Attendance Office had a window where one could request forms such as doctor’s excuses, permission slips, and so forth; but I had really come to see that very large grid posted on the wall. I would estimate it measured four feet by six feet, and it bore the name of every Congaree Central student who, according to the record, had accumulated ten or more absences to date for this school year. I was not very near the top – I saw that a couple of kids were already past 60 unexcused absences – but I had made the board. There I was: “Terry Owens, 9^th Grade, Mrs. Hendrix’ Home Room, 23 absences.

It wasn’t quite as bad as I thought. I had feared I may be over thirty. As it was, though, this gave me only 17 absences remaining to be spent. Here was another project to work on during Thanksgiving. It would take some intensive calendar work to spend these days as wisely as possible.

I headed out to the back parking lot to wait for my mother. My first boxing lesson began at three thirty. I pushed through the door and noticed a group of four boys standing around a motorcycle about fifty feet away. A couple of them had tools in their hands. When I recognized who one of them was I stopped short. Eddie Tinsley. The other boys I had seen walking with Eddie in the past. I decided to stop right where I was and lean against the parking lot wall – it was too late to go back inside without drawing attention to myself.

Too late. Eddie started watching me. He mumbled with the other guys. I thought I heard the words “… see him piss his pants” but I’m not certain. They chuckled. Eddie picked up a large wrench and turned to me. This was one of those times in my life when a utility belt, a la Batman, would have come in quite handy. Sadly, all I had around my waist was fake leather.

“Hey! Pansy! Didn’t they tell you this is our parking lot?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This is our parking lot, yet here you show up with your pansy ass. We’ll just have to make sure you remember from now on.” All four boys walked toward me now, slowly. I was suddenly in the middle of West Side Story.  Even if there had been somewhere to run, I was slowed by my sore foot. I had the absurd thought that Eddie might actually know about my injury, like a wolf can actually discern the weakest in a herd to prey upon. Maybe it wasn’t so absurd.

I looked back at the door to the school. About twenty feet away. Maybe I was scared, and maybe I was a pansy, but I was also slippery. It was all the defense I had left. I looked again. A tall fellow stood just inside the door. I’d seen him before, many times. He was a junior or senior, about six foot four and skinny.

The boys had now covered half the distance. My mouth went dry, except for the bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat. Eddie twirled his wrench like a baton. I knew he enjoyed playing games like this, even if he made them up himself. I started backing away toward the door, hoping the tall guy would let me through. I felt the mild urge to urinate, but I knew I could definitely hold it. I felt an inward rueful smile.

I heard the school door open and the boys stopped.

“Santiago,” one of them said.

“Don’t get involved, Santiago,” said Eddie. “This little shit’s been disrespecting us for weeks, and we got to settle this now.”

Santiago said nothing. He walked down the three steps and stood next to a motorcycle.

“Hey, if you want to walk through here, nobody’s gonna bother you, Scott. Just pass on through if you wanna.”

Scott Santiago bent over the motorcycle, grabbed it on either end and lifted it over his head. I gasped. Eddie’s and his friends’ eyes grew wide. He started walking toward them, carrying the motorcycle overhead. The motorcycle was not a hog, or an extra large machine, but it wasn’t a scooter either. I was dumbfounded. I think Eddie’s crowd was too, but I couldn’t see their faces anymore since they had turned and were running out of the parking lot.

Santiago reached the end of the lot and set the bike down. He mounted it and cranked the engine, roaring off in the direction the boys had run. No sooner had Santiago’s exhaust dissipated than my mother pulled into the parking lot.

“Hey Terry,” she said.

I was hyperventilating as I crawled into the car. “I can’t believe what just happened,” I said. “I’m going to tell you, but it’ll have to be later.”

“Well, at least tell me was it good or bad?”

“It started out really bad,” I said. “In fact, the whole day has been horrible. But it ended… really good! Just amazing!”

                                                            #####

Right before English class on Wednesday, Suzanne caught up with me in the hall.

“He-e-ey, Terry! Did I notice you are limping?”

“Yes I am a little,” I admitted. “It’s not that bad. I’m just sore. At least it gave the guys in science class something to laugh about.”

“What happened?”

“I spent about thirty minutes jumping rope yesterday,” I lied, “which I haven’t done probably since third grade. I woke up this morning and could barely walk.”

“You’re using new muscles. I know the feeling. But I’ve gotta ask ‘Why’?”

“I started taking boxing lessons yesterday,” I said. “Little did I know that boxers spend half their lives jumping rope.”

“Boxing!” she smiled. “What do you know. Maybe those science guys better stop laughing… anyway, what are you doing for the holiday?”

“The family’s going to Toccoa, Georgia for the International Retreat.”

“The International Retreat sounds intriguing!” said Suzanne. “Will there be spies?”

I laughed. “No! I don’t think so. It’s an event my father created for international students. He found out that for most foreign students, the Thanksgiving holidays are too short for them to go home. So this gives them some place they can go and be with other people and, yeah, have some turkey!”

“Wow! Now that really is neat,” she said. “I tell you, the more I hear about your father, the more neat of a person he is.”

“Yeah, both of my parents are okay,” I said. “We always have a pretty good time at these retreats. Hey, what are you going to be doing?”

“We’re staying home,” she said. “My aunt and uncle and cousins are coming over for dinner. We’re also going to the Atlantic-Clemson game.”

“I’m sure I’ll listen to it too. I think it may be a massacre.”

“We’ll see.”

“Have fun, Suzanne. Thank you… no, I promised I wouldn’t thank you for talking to me again.” I paused. “But, you know what? I think if I was able to spend time with you every day, my life would stop being miserable.”

“Aww!” She patted me on the head. The science boys would have laughed at this, but I didn’t feel belittled in the least. I felt proud to be Suzanne’s puppy dog.

At my boxing lesson I had jumped rope briefly, favoring my left foot. Mostly we talked through some basics about training. Tom Foley of New York was my boxing coach. He was, as my mother had said, a nice man, but he was also no-nonsense. Mr. Foley wore a salt-and-pepper flat top, and had a sinewy body and a rather rugged face. Given that I had no real plans for creating nonsense I figured we would get along well. The physical conditioning would require new muscles and movements and was going to be a mountain for me to climb – one I hadn’t fully expected. But I determined to give it my best effort. I planned to bring my jump rope with me for the retreat.

He showed me the basic boxer’s stance and talked about the importance of the left jab. He said Cassius Clay probably had the best left jab in the world: it was powerful, his reach was long, and so quick it could hardly be seen. “He does sting like a bee,” said Mr. Foley. “If the jab was his only punch he would still be a champion. He might not knock anybody out, but he would wear them all down.” Interesting that he called him by his old name. I wished I had studied Ali’s fights more closely, the most recent of which had been only last week.

Later that afternoon my Dad and I finished setting up my punching bag so it would be ready for me when I returned from the retreat. We hung it up in the garage. For the sake of economy, instead of an Everlast we bought an old army duffel bag and filled it with cotton seed. There was no reason that wouldn’t work for me. I gave it a couple of jabs and a couple of cuts, and I thought of the face of Eddie Tinsley.

                                                            #####

Wednesday night I sat with the family. My sister Katie was with us, going to the retreat. I tried to think of things I could be thankful for. I knew I felt thankful for the parts of my life that weren’t horrible. My family, for instance. There were a few flaws I could point out about them, but they were basically solid. I was glad of the shelter of the house – certainly better than trying to find warmth out in the elements. The food was decent. The clothes were adequate. I liked my sister – we had always been friends. Tommy the Cat, all seventeen pounds of him – he was a terror to other cats but a complete mushbag with humans. Oh well, there were good things in my life. All except for answers. There was a serious scarcity, to my mind, of answers.

            Oh, may this bounteous God through all our life be near us,

With ever joyful hearts and blessed peace to cheer us;

And keep us in His grace, and guide us when perplexed;

And guard us through all ills in this world, till the next!

Teeth of My Enemies – 8

Chapter Eight

            Lord, I’m so tired

            How long can this go on        

                                    “Working in the Coal Mine”, Lee Dorsey

I sit slumped on the sofa in the kitchen, watching the TV. My eyes glaze. I rouse myself for a long swig of ice water from the fridge. I pour Hershey’s syrup over vanilla ice milk and mix it into a soft porridge. Sometimes I doze off for a minute or two.

“Terry, could you help me dry the dishes?” asks my mother.

“Sure,” I say.

“Sometimes if you stay active it’ll make you feel better,” says my mother cheerily.

I stand at the sink for ten minutes and run a dampish cloth over tonight’s dishes. By eight o’clock I am back on the sofa. It is Monday.

It seems that Davy’s affection for retired General Harley Vanderberg’s daughter Leslie has some people on edge. Davy is coming to Leslie’s party, so the general has hired a chaperone to insure things between this rock and roller and his daughter don’t get out of hand. Unfortunately the chaperone has somehow managed to get drunk, so Mickey is forced to pose as a female chaperone and keep an eye on Davy. Monkeeshines ensue.

I watch the boys racing around and then breaking into their latest song. Nothing can induce me to laugh, or smile. There is no diversion of any potency. I have survived the first day of the week. It has not been a good day. There has been tension, humiliation, irritation. On Monday I’m going on down, down. Each step is a labor. Keeping my balance is so hard. Any moment over the long road of a week at this school could be oops! I’m goin’ to slip down, down.

Waking up in the hazy first light, objects in my room are a dream, their edges soft. I perch on the side of my bed. My stomach seethes, the dread begins to build as if stone upon stone. Another day.

The boys in science class are picking up their game. They seem to grow bolder. Ear flicking is passe. Open-handed slapping is the rule. Closed fist pounding on the back is the day’s order.

During gym class Hugh Elroy throws a body block. I fall to the floor, though I am unhurt. “Who did that?” demands Coach Smallen. I indicate Hugh Elroy. The coach reprimands him. He blows steam. He falls in behind me during the final line up.

“Terry Owens, I’m gonna give you hell in science class tomorrow. What makes you think you can rat on me, you shitass?”

“Why did you knock me down?”

“Cause that’s what people do in sports. But you can’t take it. You shit for brains. You’ll be sorry. You’re getting hell tomorrow in science.”

Ray Melcher is there. He’s always there. He wears a smirk. This scene feels familiar, because he’s been harassing me at B-squad practices. He’s more careful than Hugh. More sly. The coach is always watching, of course, so he has to be sly.

Chipped steaks are not that bad if they’re not overcooked. My mother, bless her, often does overcook them because… I’m not sure. I think she gets distracted. The mashed potatoes and English peas are good though, and the steak just needs a little extra concentration to chew thoroughly. It’s what’s for supper on Tuesday. Next to the struggles of this school week, tough steak seems a small thing.

In order to infiltrate them John Steed joins an organization called the Hellfire Club, which murders important persons making it look like pranks gone deadly wrong. Emma Peel becomes a protégé of John Cartney, the club’s mastermind. I struggle with drowsiness until Emma appears in a tight-fitting leather outfit, high top boots, and a spiked leather collar. She’s calling herself the Queen of Sin. I straighten in my seat. Now I am riveted. Cartney has discovered who she is and goes after her with a whip. Just when it looks like she will be overcome, he triggers a lever with his whip and falls to his death through a trap door.

“The Avengers” I murmur, reminding myself to never miss another episode.

“Terry,” my mother calls from the hallway. “Remember, you have an appointment with Dr. Webb tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“I’ll pick you up right after school. Good night.”

I take out the trash, put the cat out, and head to my room. Sleep does not come easy. I thought it would be better when the chill nights of fall arrived, but I am still robbed of sleep. One part is thinking of Emma Peel as the Queen of Sin; two parts are thinking about science class tomorrow, and whatever Hugh Elroy plans to ration out to me. I think about how nice it would be to team up with Emma Peel while at Congaree – whether or not she’s the Queen of Sin. She could protect me. I am not bothered at all by the idea of being protected by a girl. I mean, she’s Emma Peel, and she’s lethal.

I start thinking of my appointment, preparing what I might have to say to the doctor. I rehearse what I need to tell him, and search for the right words. I want to make some sense, and not sound like a whiney adolescent.

Science class turns out to be just average hell, not the extra hell Hugh Elroy had promised. He slaps my head three or four times, but has nothing to say. Is he preoccupied? I don’t study him so I can’t say for sure. He isn’t even at gym class today. I’m thinking, what kind of life is this, where getting only three or four slaps to the head is an above average day? Ray Melcher and Eddie Tinsley don’t interact with me at all. What is wrong with everybody? I wondered, not that I am complaining. But really, is November the sixteenth supposed to be some kind of bully holiday? Is hell week over? Is my initiation at an end? Sorry, bullies three, I really don’t want to be in your club.

I’m still wondering about this as I sit in Dr. Webb’s waiting room that afternoon. My mother thumbs absently through a magazine. The lab technician has just taken my blood. “Mama, do you think he’ll put me on some different medicine?”

“I don’t know. Just tell him how you’ve been feeling and what’s been going on. Be real open about it. That’s what he’s here for.”

Dr. Webb opens his door to let me in and invites me to tell him how I have been.

“I’m not doing well,” I tell him.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he says.

“Well, there’s this group of guys at school. They pick on me every day. They slap me on the side of the head and say nasty things and… I can’t think of anything to say to them.” I tell the doctor about some of the actual incidents and the things they have said. He is sympathetic but doesn’t say that much. He does talk about my thyroid condition.

“According to your lab work, your thyroid level is still significantly low. I think you’re certainly depressed which, as we’ve talked about, is a large part of why it’s so difficult to deal with bullies like your schoolmates. I’m going to increase your dosage, and see if you begin to feel a little more energy and think more clearly.”

“Yes sir. Okay.”

“If you can find someone at the school – a friend or teacher – that you can talk to, it would help, you know, not to feel so alone.”

“I think… I will. I think I know somebody.”

We stop by the pharmacy on the way home. Energy and clear thinking would be a most welcome change. I begin taking the higher dosage that night.

Chief O’Hara and Commissioner Gordon have both been pierced by a love potion dart and are under the spell of Marsha, Queen of Diamonds. Batman and Robin rush to her basement to free O’Hara and Gordon from captivity. Marsha has enlisted the help of Aunt Hilda, a witch, to concoct an especially powerful love potion for Batman. He is pierced by the dart, and only by using every ounce of willpower is he able to resist its effects. He breaks free and Marsha, enraged, fires a dart at Robin. The Boy Wonder is now under her spell. Marsha blackmails Batman into marrying her – if he does not, Robin and the two officials will remain her captives forever.

To Be Continued…

There is a girl. If a straw poll was taken at the school I believe she would be chosen the prettiest girl at Congaree Central. Ellen Higbe has thick auburn hair, blue eyes that glisten, a figure that seems miraculous for a fourteen year old. She moves with the grace of a ballerina, and I am brought close to tears by simply watching her. I stand on the shore and she stands on the opposite shore and the river between us is very deep and wide and never to be crossed. I have decided I am such a loser that I will never speak to her and she won’t even realize it. But she makes me dream. Though I will never speak to her she makes me realize there is another world than mine, and it is a good world and full of beauty and serenity, and there are moments when this makes me feel happiness.

She is in my science class. Some of the boys tease her, likely from their own frustration at being out of her league. “Ellen Higbe,” they sing, “died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came!” And they snicker. She either ignores them or gives them an eye roll. And the moment passes.

After Wednesday’s bully holiday, today, this Thursday in science class, Ray Melcher sidles over to me. “Hey Terry, don’t look now but… Ellen told me she likes you and wants to talk to you.”

“I really doubt that,” I answer.

“No really. I’m telling you this because, well… I think I’ve been a little rough on you. You’re not such a bad guy. I figured this was a favor I could do for you. Now why don’t you go over and tell her ‘Hey’?”

I sighed. This doesn’t seem right to me at all. Ellen is standing by her desk looking through some papers. I have to walk right by her anyway. I walk towards her and then feel four hands on my back shoving me and I pitch headlong into Ellen, her books and papers, and her desk, all of which clatter to the floor. Screams of laughter resound through the back of the classroom.

“Sorry Ellen,” chortled Ray. “Terry here wanted to ask you out, but I think he slipped on a banana peel.”

Trembling, I try to help Ellen gather her things. “I’m so sorry.”

Ellen is irritated. “Oh forget it.” She grabs her books and rushes out of the room.

“Hey Terry, if you really want to talk to girls, I don’t think you ought to tackle them. Try saying ‘hello’ first. Just a suggestion.” Raucous laughter. Strangely, Miss Corliss is not here to witness the prank. She would have hated it. We would have heard a shriek.

My face is bright with shame I leave science class, and instead of turning left to go to French I turn right and find the school’s side exit. I push through the door and step into downtown Congaree. The school day is over for me.

 “Sometimes I’m not sure if they know why they do it, Robin,” quoth the Caped Crusader. “Something is missing in their lives? Did they not receive enough love as children? What made them decide to lead a life of crime?”

“Holy Philosophy, Batman! I think you’ve got something there!”

“How was today?” asks my mother.

“It was kind of awful.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I think, maybe we can have a family meeting sometime this weekend. Your father and I have been talking about a couple of ideas. What do you think?”

“Okay, I guess.”

The Enterprise completes a run of supplies to the planet Tantalus V – a penal colony for the criminally insane. As they pull away a stowaway emerges from the storage area and attacks a technician. He eventually reaches the bridge, but before he can approach Captain Kirk, Spock disables him with the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. In sickbay, he reveals himself as Simon van Gelder, an assistant to Dr. Adams – an eminent physician from Tantalus. Van Gelder is here seeking asylum. Van Gelder’s behavior, however, becomes more erratic and violent until he is almost out of control. This is due to a disorder he contracted on the planet’s surface. Captain Kirk and the crew struggle to find ways of dealing with this volatile refugee.

I can’t stop thinking about the scene in science class. I can’t believe these guys would use Ellen, this beautiful girl, as an instrument for my torment. It’s audacious. It shocked me, even for them. I’m burning like I have a fever.

One thing I do know: I will not be going to school tomorrow. My mother will let me out in front of Congaree Central as always. I will wait until her car turns the corner and is out of sight. Then I will saunter. If I see Rob I’ll check in with him, and then I will saunter – around the corner of Hagood Street. Then I will fade, fade into the city, its traffic, its business, its industry. I will let one of the alleys, one of the doorways, one of the recesses between buildings fold me up. An anonymous adolescent male. I am desolate. I walk in a land of broken dreams. Will I have to simply drop out of high school? How in the hell did this happen?

I come to the public library and turn the corner onto Chestnut Street. I come to the YMCA, where I have spent many happy hours. Then there is the Chestnut Street entrance at the end of the First Baptist classroom building. I want to vanish. I go inside.

There is a basement restroom in this old church building. The only time anyone uses it is on Sunday morning when there are throngs of people. It’s the best place I can think of to vanish. I need this. I need to be completely removed from people, at least for a while. I need the opportunity to be filled with silence. I pull out one of the packs of cigarettes I won at the fair.

“Turkish tobacco is the world’s smoothest, most aromatic leaf. Blending it with more robust domestic tobaccos is the secret to Camel’s distinctive flavor and world-class smoothness.

                        R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company

                        Winston-Salem, N.C., USA

                        20 Class A Cigarettes

I am fascinated by the artwork on this tiny pack of cigarettes. On the front is a camel in the foreground, and palm trees and a pyramid in the distance. On the back is, presumably, a traditional Turkish village. I light a cigarette and study the pictures. By smoking this tobacco I feel like I am somehow participating in the life I see on the packages. It is a life that is exotic, and picturesque, like skimpily clad ladies in black and white that flicker like in a movie with that vamp Theda Bara that was her name, and – I catch myself – it is far away from here. I sigh.

I have to develop some kind of plan for surviving this year. I can’t cut classes and school days from now on. The limit for unexcused absences is 40 for the entire year. I’m sure I’m almost halfway there and things are getting worse. To be held back a year would be disastrous.

Could I possibly put in for a transfer to Beckham starting after Christmas holidays? Not Beckham, actually. I would have to go to Addison Junior High for the rest of the ninth grade. But what a relief that would be! All these things take time, of course. I need to get an exact count of how many times I have cut school, find out how many I have left, and use my remaining cuts strategically.

I never thought I would have to think of the strategic use of cutting school.

I light up another cigarette. I need to talk to somebody, like Dr. Webb said. I need to find somebody at Congaree Central to show me how to transfer out of the school. I’ll say I made a mistake; I need to attend school with the kids in my neighborhood, like I did all through grammar school. That, I’m thinking, is the beginning of a good argument. I don’t think it would do to simply explain to Mr. Devereaux: “Well, yes, you see, sir, I need a transfer out of Congaree Central, sir, because, well, your school sucks.” To which the verdict would be: “Terry Owens, found guilty of presuming to pass judgement on these hallowed halls will be confined for three more years at Congaree Central High School and will be forced to sing the school’s alma mater at the beginning of each school day over the intercom. So take that!”

I am startled by the sound of steps from the stairwell. The clatter of some kind of apparatus. A voice:

“Somebody in here?”

It’s the janitor. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Oh, okay. ‘Scuse me. I got to clean and mop. I’ll come back later.” The clatter moves up the stairs.

It is good to be alone. Twelve square feet. A place to sit. It smells like a public restroom but it’s not unpleasant. A scent of pine cleaning fluid, blended with the finest Turkish and domestic tobacco. I stare at nothing. I listen. There are occasional, muffled, distant sounds, but mostly there is silence. I will smoke one more cigarette. What can they do? Dr. Townsend chain smokes right in the church office.

A few more minutes and I leave First Baptist Church. I still have the better part of the day to burn. I need to eat some kind of snack. I can go to the Jasper Street newsstand. The library often beckons me. I know I’ll never run out of places to go.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are assigned by UNCLE to protect Miranda Bryant, the wife of a presidential candidate, from a suspected plot to kidnap her. What they do not realize is the fact that she has already been kidnapped and has been replaced with a double, Irina. Irina is beautiful, seductive, and serpentine. She is also a very dangerous agent from UNCLE’s nemesis, THRUSH.

I watch Solo and Ilya with admiration. Their method of self-defense, mostly karate, is so swift and precise they can take out a half dozen men each not only without breaking a sweat, but with barely rumpling their coats and ties. What would it take for me to be like that?

The weekend looms ahead.

                                                            #####

The family meeting is begun by my father. He, my mother, and I are seated in the living room.  It’s Saturday afternoon, before the football game. “We know you feel tired a lot of the time,” he says. “You’ve also said you feel depressed, and don’t have any energy. But sometimes when you give in to those type of feelings, it just compounds the problem. Sometimes doing the very thing you don’t feel like doing may make you feel better. If you’re tired the last thing you want to do is exercise, but you have to be disciplined…” I groan inside, remembering the 100 degree days of summer and how I had tortured my body. “Maybe you feel depressed and withdrawn, but that might be the time when you need to have people, friends around you, you know, to help get your mind off your problems. Why don’t you try setting your clock for 6.30 every morning?”

I listen to my father, hearing the advice – good advice, at least for 95% of humanity – that I had heard so many times before. I want to throw my arms around the man’s neck and hug him. How has he gotten stuck with such a son as me?  For that matter, what makes me think I’m so… special? But no, no.

“I know you’ve heard the saying ‘as he thinketh in his heart, so is he.’ If all we do is sit around thinking – ruminating on our problems, they will become heavier and heavier. They’ll weigh us down, and we won’t be able to escape them. Paul says ‘whatsoever things are good, honest, wholesome, true, of good report, think on these things.”

Yes, there were things I could do to improve my inner life but… could it really be about my attitude? Really?

“And of course, the spiritual is the most important thing. You need to pray. I know you do, but you need to keep on, not grow faint-hearted. God is there to help.”

So you have always told me, and I know you are a truthful man, so of course I must believe you.

My father leans back in the sofa. He must be exhausted. Yes, but not as much as me. No one could be this exhausted.

 “So, there is a man with the Physical Education Department at Atlantic,” says my mother. “He came down with Coach McCarthy’s group and works for the basketball team. But he also has taught boxing. I asked him if he would be willing to start you on some boxing lessons, and he said yes, he would. He’s a very nice man. Is that something you’d like to try?”

“I think that probably would do me some good.”

“You’d get some good physical conditioning,” says my father, “and I think it would give you some confidence. I know you’ve had a hard time standing up to these bullies verbally. And when you’re in school you can’t really fight them.”

“We’re not suggesting you become a fighter,” says my mother, “but you would be able to defend yourself.”

“This way your physical conditioning has a purpose,” says my father. “You have a goal in mind.”

Is basketball not a “purpose?” But no; now I’m nitpicking.

“Yes, all right.” I say. “Go ahead and tell him I’d like to try this out.”

“I’ll let you know what he says.”

“The other thing I wanted to talk about,” I say, “was transferring out of Central. I want to go ahead and get started with that.”

“Can’t argue with that,” says my father. “Go by the school office and see what you need to do.”

Otherwise, my parents come up with some practical suggestions for buckling down on my studies (I am dubious this will happen), the possibility of hiring a tutor for Algebra (caffeine is really what I need), the tutor possibly being Kenny Grenade (I could go with that), and a reminder to keep on asking God to give me the strength to get through all of this.

I go to see Katie in her bedroom. I always feel at home with Katie in her room. She is one of my best friends. Countless hours we spent this summer listening to Atlanta Braves baseball on her radio. She graduated from Teachers’ High School in June and has started at Chesterfield  College, commuting from home.

“Looks like you survived the family meeting,” Katie grins.

“It was pretty good, actually,” I tell her. “I’m going to start taking boxing lessons.”

“Interesting! Let me know how it goes.”

“And I’m starting the process to transfer out of Central.”

“More interesting! Tell me if I need to speak on your behalf, and I will.”

“If it comes to that, I definitely will.”

Suddenly I have several things on my To Do list. These days I have to settle for goals that are not too far into the future.  The weekend, then a three day week, then Thanksgiving holidays in Toccoa, Georgia. Some plans have been made, some plans thought through, and boxing lessons begin soon. Maybe I can survive at least the next four days.