Segal, Jerry

by One On One (V1. 0) [Lit]

  “Slick,” Chris said. A new thought crossed his mind. He giggled. “Hey, I hear those California chicks’re somethin‘ else, eh, Henry?”

  “Chicks are chicks. They use ya, man,” Henry said. He smirked. “So 7 use ‘em right back.”

  “You shouldn’t feel that way.” Chris began to cry again.

  “Gimme ‘nother beer, willya, Chris?”

  “Sure, Henry.”

  “And come on, man, you don’t gotta cry.” Henry jumped to his feet and gave a magnificent bloodcurdling, rebel yell. “Ah-oooooooo-eeeeee!” he screamed. “California!”

  Chris managed to stand. He, too, wailed, “California!”

  Together, they bayed to the West Texas sun above them, “California! CALIFORNIA!”

  * * *

  VII

  Between the time Jerome went bankrupt and Henry reached the age of thirteen, the Steeles did not own a car. Jerome had walked the half-mile to and from work each day. The focal points in Eunice’s life—grocery, variety and dry goods stores, meat market, roadside fruit and vegetable stand, library, church, doctor’s office— were all within a three-block radius of her house. Henry’s school was across the park, less than two hundred yards from their front door.

  The day Henry’s junior-high basketball team was to play its first road game, forty miles away, Jerome bought a car, a nine-year-old ‘64 Plymouth, for $75.

  To Jerome and Henry, the car’s only function was to get them to and from road games. For Eunice, however, the ‘64 Plymouth was a temple of salvation. As her life increasingly whirled around her son’s growing fame; as she heard children whisper in the grocery, “That’s Henry’s ma”; as her friends opened conversations with, “My husband says your boy sure did Elroy proud in that game last night”; as men of stature in the community— the mayor, the sheriff, Reverend Wells—crossed rooms to say hello to her and Jerome; as she shared this glory and smiled and, despite herself, took pride in their newly achieved place of honor—as all this happened, Henry Steele’s mother knew she was only a hasty word, an accidental moment away from losing control of herself. She loved her son, was awed by the miracle of his athletic abilities. But when he came home from school at five, gulped dinner, went back to the gym till nine, returned home and, without studying, went to bed, she hated Jerome for having twisted her baby into an intense, silent, blank-faced automaton. She would feel the lump in her throat thicken, and knew it was a dam holding back her insanity, that one day the dam would give way and her craziness would inundate their lives. So she measured everything she did and said when she was in company. Often during the day, as she cooked and cleaned, she talked to herself. Entire afternoons went by when the tears did not leave her eyes. When neighbors popped in through the open back door and saw her red eyes, she told them she had just chopped onions. After one such incident, she locked the back door and pulled the shades and kept them that way. The house became her prison. Until Jerome bought the car.

  ==========

  Reverend Wells was a dry, comfortable old man, a father to his flock. Eunice found temporary respite in his church, but no lasting peace.

  Often, when a visiting evangelist was allowed to preach, Eunice felt herself about to give way to the frenzy in the church. The more fervently her fellow congregants went to their knees and screamed their hallelujahs, the more will power it took to repress the tumult inside her. She trembled, bit her lips, dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, clutched her Bible. She desired release, but dared not indulge herself. She was not like the others, she felt, for if she once let go, she would never be the same again. They’ll take me off to the crazy house, she thought.

  One Sunday afternoon, two years before Henry was graduated from senior high school, as a visiting evangelist ranted, Eunice fled from the church. Outside, she stood in the bright afternoon sun for a moment, her eyes searching the ghostly main street emptied by the Sabbath, the deserted park across the highway, the barren plain beyond that. Across the park, she saw Jerome and Henry walk toward the gym and enter it. Eunice’s gaze swept back to their house, a block away. There, in the rear driveway, sat the ‘64 Plymouth.

  Blinded by tears, she walked to the car. The keys were in it. Jesus had left them there for a purpose. She would kill herself.

  Moments later the car was on the open road outside the Elroy city limits, climbing toward ninety miles an hour, screaming toward nowhere.

  At a fork in the highway, Eunice angled off the blacktop and roared along a gravel road for several miles. Then she left the gravel with a skidding, two wheeled slide that straightened onto a rutted dirt road. In the distance, to her right, she saw a huge boulder, large as a house, in the middle of a cactus field.

  She wrenched the wheel toward the boulder, and the car, lurching, left the road. Her foot went all the way down on the accelerator. -Above the roar of the motor, Eunice screamed, “I’m comin‘, Papa! I’m comin’, Mama! I’m comin‘! Oh, God! Jesus Christ, help me!”

  A hundred yards from the boulder, the old Plymouth ran out of gas. It bucked twice, shuddered, ran partway up a sandy dune, coughed and stopped.

  Eunice sat there, uncomprehending. Then her eyes sought the instrument panel, realized that the needle was on Empty. She turned off the ignition key, rested both arms on the steering wheel and cradled her head on them.

  In a moment she began to sob, sob as she had never sobbed before, great animal wails that spent themselves only after half an hour had passed.

  The sun was setting behind the boulder when she was able to open and focus her eyes. On the car floor below her lay her Bible, open. She glanced at the page and read: “The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make His paths straight.”

  She lifted her head. Beyond the boulder, sunset painted the sky flamingo. The rays were almost parallel to the plains around her. Every rock looked like a diamond. The coral sand stretched toward the horizon, touched the sky in a spectrum of violet. Eunice got slowly out of the car and looked around. It was the first time she had noticed color in years. She walked to the boulder, kissed it. Pressing her lips to its flinty surface, she saw every tiny grain of its composition. From far away the rock had looked dark brown; now she saw rivers of color, patterns of reds and purples and ochres, sunbursts of beauty. She laughed.

  From somewhere behind her, she heard a motor. She looked. A dustball grew. A rancher’s panel truck materialized, pulled up to her.

  “Evenin‘, Mrs. Steele,” the ranch-hand said. “Can I be of service to ya?”

  “Good evenin‘. I came out here to read my Bible… the sunset’s so ’beautiful, don’t you think? I… uh… I seem to’ve run out of gas.”

  “Don’t you worry none. Ranch pump’s a few miles yonderway. Just wait here, and I’ll be right back.”

  ==========

  By the time Jerome and Henry came home from the gym, Eunice had made a salad and the hamburger patties were ready to throw on the oven broiler.

  “You men hungry?” she sang out.

  They halted and stared at her. She was smiling. “Somethin‘ wrong?” Jerome said.

  “Not a thing in the world!” Almost shyly, she went to Henry, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Pleased, the boy put his arm around her and returned the kiss. “Just glad to see you; that’s all,” she said.

  On her way back to the oven, she lightly touched Jerome’s elbow and smiled at him again.

  “We’re glad to see you, too, Ma,” said Henry. He looked at his father.

  “Oh, yeah. Me, too,” barked Jerome.

  At dinner, Henry said, “You go to church this afternoon, Ma?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How was it?” Jerome asked.

  “It was just fine,” Eunice said.

  Next day she left the back door unlocked and raised the window shades. She sought out her neighbors and chatted with them. All the days that followed, while Henry practiced in the gym and Jerome sold used cars, she read her Bible. She became the
second most active member, after the Mrs. Reverend Wells, in the church’s ladies’ auxiliary.

  At basketball games, with Jerome squirming, exulting, suffering, shouting, cheering beside her, she smiled benignly. At night she slept well. She did not abandon her campaign to persuade Henry to pay more attention to his friends and to study his books more, but now she fought without rancor. For the axis of her universe had tilted. She was able to accept the loss of her son because she had gained Jesus Christ.

  The owners of ranches around Elroy and the county law officers all knew that once or twice a week Eunice Steele drove out of town, found a place to park in the wilderness and read her Bible. What they did not know was that, as she sat in her car amid pristine beauty, she also studied God’s canvases, and, like Michelangelo, reproduced them in vivid colors on the chapel ceiling of her mind.

  * * *

  VIII

  That summer, as Henry prepared to leave for college, Jerome presided over a tranquil domicile. During Henry’s adolescence, Jerome’s bristling defensiveness had slowly changed into a rough amiability. Although he still barked when he spoke, he was civil to Eunice, a civility that at times even bordered on kindness.

  The night before Henry was to leave for California, however, Jerome prowled the house like a man who knew he would be facing a firing squad at dawn. Thunderclouds piled high on his brow; his bark was louder than usual. Eunice knew that Henry’s leaving meant an unfillable void in her husband’s life. On the basis of Jerome’s past behavior in times of travail, she prepared for disaster.

  ==========

  Henry’s idea of packing consisted of taking a garment from his bureau drawer and, with a one-handed push shot, tossing it across the room and into the open suitcase on his bed. Entering the room, Eunice caught a pair of wadded-up pajamas as they flew toward the valise.

  “Hey, nice catch, Ma.”

  “Let me pack for you, darlin‘,” she said. “You hand me whatever you want to take, and I’ll fold it and put it in the bag.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jerome came into the room carrying a cardboard carton full of trophies. “Don’t forget these,” he barked.

  “Dad,” Henry said gently, “I don’t want to take any trophies with me.”

  “You take ‘em. Most of ’em are still in the livin‘ room, but you take these I picked out. To remind you of how hard you worked to get ’em!”

  Henry and Eunice smiled. “Yes, sir,” the boy said.

  “Too bad Chris isn’t drivin‘ to California with you, sweetheart,” Eunice said.

  “He wants to stay and help his pa until the last minute,” Henry told her. “This is their busy season. And Coach Smith told me to report early.”

  Eunice folded a shirt. “Henry, Coach Smith promised us you wouldn’t have any trouble with your grades. How can he make a promise like that?”

  “He can make a promise like that,” Jerome shot at her, “because coaches like Smith take care o‘ basketball players like Henry. Right, Henry.”

  “Right, Dad.”

  Softly, Eunice said, “I thought Henry was goin‘ to college, not basketball camp. Gettin’ an education is why a person goes to college.”

  Jerome’s laugh was a mocking bray. “Gettin‘ a pro contract is why Henry’s goin’ to college. Right, son?”

  “Right.”

  Eunice was determined to have her say. Addressing Jerome, but looking at Henry, she said, “I just thought that since Henry hardly opened a book all the way through high school, he just might have to pay more attention in order to—”

  “To learn about the matin‘ dance of the tsetse fly?” Jerome barked. “Who cares about all that, Eunice? What’s in them books is donkey droppin’s! What a man does, that’s what they pay off on in this here life! Right, son?”

  “Right, Dad.”

  ==========

  Dawn, cool and clear. The September sun waited just below the horizon. Only the chirps of desert birds perched on phone wires interrupted the morning quiet.

  In the Steele’s backyard, Jerome and Eunice watched as Henry, wearing his letter jacket, doublechecked to make sure that everything had been loaded into the small red car. Satisfied, he closed the hatchback door with a soft thump. Frightened, the birds flew from the phone wires with a sudden fluttering of wings. Father, mother and son stood looking at each other.

  There was nothing now to say or do. Everything had already been said. Everything had already been done. They had spent their lives up to this moment talking and doing. Henry had been born in this house, grown up in it. He had been suckled by this woman, walked in the security of this man’s visions for as long as he could remember. He knew their weaknesses, their strengths. He knew they loved him. He loved them.

  The boy went to his mother. They hugged. For a moment, as she pressed her head into her son’s shoulder, she wanted to say: You’ll come home again sometimes, won’t you, Henry? I feel like this is the last time we’ll ever see you here, in this town, in this backyard. You’ll come home again? But she said nothing. Her arms released him.

  The low car was between Jerome and his son. Standing by the open driver’s door, Jerome tried to smile but managed only a benevolent grimace. Henry walked around the car, ready to embrace his father. But before he could raise his arms, Jerome stuck out his hand. They shook hands, a long, hard squeeze, their eyes locked. Jerome was the first to ease his grip. He stepped back, touching his forehead in a half-salute. Henry smiled and watched his father walk clear of the car. The goodbyes were over.

  Almost. As Henry got into the car, he paused to stare at the old backboard and basket over the garage door. Then he slammed the car door shut, threw a final wave at Eunice, and started the motor. He shot backwards out of the driveway. On the street, before he shifted into first, he looked at the two people standing in the yard. They waved.

  The car roared away. In a few seconds, Henry was out of his parents’ sight. The last faint sounds of the car’s motor faded into the stillness of the dawn.

  ==========

  Eunice went into the house. In the living room, she sat down in her rocker, holding her opened Bible in her lap, and stared out of the window.

  When Jerome came in from the yard, she pretended to read. She was afraid to confront him, terrified that he would fall apart as he had once done eighteen years earlier.

  Jerome crossed to the fireplace and took the Winchester down from its mounts on the wall. He found a box of shells, put it in his shirt pocket, cradled the rifle and went to the door.

  “J’rome?” said Eunice, horrified.

  “Yeah?” His voice was subdued, lifeless.

  “What on earth are you fixin‘ to do?”

  He actually smiled, but there was no animation in his face. He said, “I got me some linseed oil down at the car lot. This here thing ain’t been cleaned for a while. I’m goin‘ huntin’ in a few days.”

  “That’s nice,” she told him inanely.

  “Yeah. Mayor and sheriff and Reverend Wells. They been askin‘ me for years. Figure I’ll take ’em up on it this time.”

  “I’ll see if your huntin‘ clothes need any fixin’.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Uh…”

  “What, J’rome?” Nervously, she closed the Bible.

  “Uh… don’t worry about me. I’m gonna be all right this time. I… uh… can handle it.”

  She managed to smile at him.

  He said, “Be bad for Henry if anythin‘ happened to me. He’d worry. Take his mind off o’ what he’s got to do. Can’t let that happen. He’s got to stay sharp.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s all I care about.”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry. So don’t worry about me. I plan to keep myself busy.” He meant to laugh, but it came out a snort as he said, “I might even join the church again.”

  He walked out, closing the front door firmly behind him.

  Eunice tried no
t to think about Jerome. She tried not to think about Henry. She opened her Bible.

  * * *

  BOOK TWO

  * * *

  I

  Twenty years earlier, as an office manager in a large Manhattan corporation, she had discovered that a memo signed by B.J. Rudolph had more clout than one signed by Beatrice Jayne Rudolph. By the time competing males in remote departments of the company learned that the twenty-five-year-old B.J. was a woman, she was a minor executive, entrenched in the corporate structure.

  Five years later, however, she languished in the same job, with no promotion in sight. At the same time, her marriage disintegrated. B.J. found herself roused by a young man who worked in her office, went to his apartment and stayed the night. Forthrightly, she confessed to her husband and asked his forgiveness. He sued for divorce. She did not contest the suit.

  B.J. withdrew her last few thousand from the bank and caught a plane for home, a small town in Indiana. After a period of no more occupation than being babied by her parents, she took a job with a local junior college, just to have something to do. The junior college assigned her to the athletic department. One of her many bosses was the basketball coach, a tall, aristocratic, middle-aged man named Moreland Smith. This was his first season as head coach.

  Two years later, Smith’s team was ranked number one among the nation’s junior colleges. He became the most important man in that small part of Indiana. All his requests were promptly complied with. One request was that BJ. Rudolph work only for him, at a nice increase in pay.

  The next year, when Smith left to become head basketball coach of an ivied New England college, BJ. went with him. Smith and she were a team. Her good judgment, her efficiency and loyalty, combined with his tactical brilliance and ability to handle boys made them a formidable machine, geared for winning basketball games. Publicity, budgets, tickets, schedules, transportation, intra-faculty dealings, gym maintenance—she told him each morning how she planned to handle each problem; he nodded approvingly; she disappeared and left him free to view game films, diddle with X’s and O’s and dream of new strategies for the next foe.