Making Waves

by Cassandra King

  That’s when I remembered that this street led to the stadium. And I saw it dead ahead. The lights were on in the early evening dusk. A bunch of cars were in the field next to the stadium, so something must have been going on there. They always called this field a parking lot, but it looked like a cow pasture, which caused us to be the butt of jokes from the visiting teams.

  Like a damn fool, I kept right on walking through the cow-pasture parking lot until I got to the entrance of the stadium. A bunch of high school kids sitting on their cars were smoking and giggling as I walked past them. I noticed they were too young to have been in high school when I was, so I didn’t know them and evidently they didn’t recognize me either. I saw the girls nudge each other and simper, but I walked on, into the stadium like I was in some sort of trance or something.

  As soon as I got inside the stadium, I saw what I should have remembered: football practice, every evening in August. As I walked in, pulled as if by a magnet, the sounds from the field and the smell of fresh-cut grass got to me so bad it almost bowled me over. I always hated football and the redneck passion for it, but because of Tim, I went to every damned game played here. It all came back so clearly that I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach. I needed to sit down, fast.

  I went into the stadium and hurried over to the concrete bleachers, ignoring the little groups of folks sitting around talking quietly. I heard some of their gasps and whispers as I stumbled past them, but I dared not look at anyone. I even heard someone from one of the groups call my name, but I ignored them and got as far away from everybody as I could. Way up on the top of the bleachers, underneath the press box. This section was concrete, the reserve section for the home team fans. Adjoining these bleachers on each side were the wooden ones for the band and the students. Down next to them on the left was the locker room for the visiting team, brightly colorful with winning seasons and Blue Devils painted on it. The art of Clarksville.

  Soon as I sat down, I reached for my cigarettes and drew deeply on the burning smoke, beginning to feel better. Funny how something like the smell and sounds of a football field could revive so many memories. But not all unpleasant. I sat quietly smoking before I looked out on the field. The team was dressed out in their white practice jerseys, no flashy blue devils now, and the running backs were running patterns.

  I never played on any team here, not football or baseball either. In Zion County, sports are such a passion, that didn’t help me in the polls. I saw old Coach Mills’s fat ass out there on the field, still dressed in the same blue shorts and blue-and-orange Auburn jersey. He looked exactly the same, except he had more of a beer gut than I remembered. I bet he even had the same wad of Red Man chewing tobacco tucked away in his jaw. He used to get by with chewing and spitting into a paper cup even in class because he was head coach. God, what a jerk! He always despised me. It pissed him off that I was well-built and agile but wouldn’t play any of his good-ole-boy sports. Actually I liked baseball and might have played except that I hated him too much to give in. It like to have killed him that Tim and I were so close, and he did everything he could to turn Tim against me, tormenting me endlessly in P.E. class. Boy, I bet he gloated over my downfall. Brokenhearted as he must have been over his beloved Tim, I’ll bet that a part of him was glad that he’d had my number all along, that I’d cause Tim nothing but trouble, just as he predicted.

  The team was lined up to scrimmage. They all looked alike with their helmets on, so I didn’t recognize any of them. Doubt that I’d know anyone anyway.

  All of a sudden, I saw Tim. I sat stunned, unable to do anything but stare. God, it was him! He was standing right there on the sidelines, talking to his little brother. Tommy was shorter than Tim and looked much broader in his shoulder-padded jersey. I remembered him clearly, the way he always followed Tim around so with adoration.

  Jesus, Tim looked exactly the same—I’d have known him anywhere! These past two years of worrying constantly about him, and he was the same—just Tim. In spite of all my nightmare images, I saw now that there were no scars, no horrible deformities—instead, he was the same person I last saw two years ago.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath, and I let it out, squeezing my eyes shut. Aunt Della had kept assuring me that things would be okay, but I was afraid she was just trying to protect me. I knew that until I actually saw Tim for myself, I’d never believe that, not the way he looked when I saw him last. After all the agony of these past two years, Tim was really okay, not nearly as bad as I had feared. There must be a God after all.

  Tim had his arm around his little brother’s shoulder and was giving him some pointers on the game, evidently. As I watched them, Tim took his arm from Tommy’s shoulder and turned in order to point out something on the field. Oh Jesus Christ. For a minute I thought I was going to puke at what I saw. Tim’s arm! He used his left hand to remove his arm from Tommy’s shoulder, then his right arm fell limply to his side. Even from this distance, I saw that the right arm was lame, and I closed my eyes. Oh, no. God, what a stupid asshole I was! Sitting here, trying to convince myself he was all right, when I knew better. I was there—I saw his broken body. Oh, yeah, Taylor. He’s fine, just fine—just keep telling yourself that. Of course he can’t use his right arm, but other than that—Jesus!

  I knew that this telltale moment was what I had been running from for two years. I had to protect my precious ass above all else. I had to spend all my time seeing therapists and popping pills, so afraid I was having a breakdown. But safe—oh, yeah, safe as hell two states away while Tim was the one really suffering. I saw him—the blood, the mangled body; I went for help that night—I knew how bad off he was! But during these past years, after I’d run away, unable to face what I’d done to him, I’d convinced myself that his injuries weren’t so bad after all. And I believed it because I had to. I could not face this moment of seeing for myself how bad he really was, what I’d done to him. My therapist told me repeatedly I was heavy into denial. No shit.

  I looked around wildly for an exit, a way to get out of here without anyone, especially Tim, seeing me. God, I couldn’t believe that I walked up here big as you please, ignoring people’s stares and whispers. It was a wonder they hadn’t stoned me.

  Then I saw Donnette and I froze, rooted to my seat. I turned my head quickly, almost panicking, taking deep breaths. Maybe it wasn’t her. Dumb blondes are a dime a dozen around here. Turning slightly, I looked back to where she sat by herself on the bleachers.

  It was Donnette, all right. Donnette Kennedy Sullivan. She was still good-looking, even more filled out than in high school. No doubt still an airhead, though. God knows how she ever finished school; Cat helped her every night and she still made Cs and Ds. Donnette always hated me, too stupid to realize that I didn’t have anything against her personally. I never thought she was good enough for Tim, true. He could have done so much better with all the girls for miles around after him. If only things had worked out; if he’d been able to get out of Zion, gone off to college, he wouldn’t have married Donnette, no question, though he fancied himself in love with her. That was only because he’d never gone with anyone else, had been with her since childhood. She was too possessive of him, too jealous of his relationship with me—they’d never have made it outside of this sheltered environment.

  I realized I was staring at her, and suddenly she felt it and looked right at me, her big dark eyes wide and startled. It was too late to turn away. She was so surprised to see me that she jumped to her feet and bolted like a scared colt.

  As soon as she got down off the bleachers, Tim turned and called after her. He took a few steps toward her, a puzzled look on his face, and I felt as though I’d been punched in the stomach again. His right leg dragged as he walked the few steps toward the fence. I sat stunned, unable to move for what seemed like an eternity as I stared at Tim. Oh, God, I had to get out of here! Oblivious to all the gaping fools in the stands, I too jumped to my feet and stumbled down the bleachers, not sto
pping to look at Tim, at the field, or anywhere. I just got my ass out of there as fast as I could. All I wanted to do was go home, back to Aunt Della’s big safe house. I wanted to crawl in my bed and pull that heavy dark quilt over me and not come out again. Ever.

  That night I had the dream again, although I’d been free of it almost a year. It had haunted my sleep for months after the accident, but with therapy and pills, I thought it was exorcised for good. I should have known that returning here would bring it back.

  This time, however, the dream was a little different:

  It’s darker, a darker night than usual. It’s raining, too, not hard but a soft summer rain, enough to keep the windshield wipers going steadily. I’m driving the sports car, not fast at all. Maybe too fast on a wet country road, but not dangerously so. Not then, anyway.

  Tim, sitting next to me in the dark car, is talking, gesturing with his hands. He’s happy, excited as we talk of our plans, going off to school together next week. We laugh a lot and plan together; I give him a playful punch on the leg. I tell him that even though he has to live in the athletic dorm, he can hang out in my room most of the time.

  Then he says we can’t do that after all, because he’s taking her with him. I don’t hear what else he says, but he’s upset now. I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I can’t stop myself. He’s begging me to shut up. The light on his face is eerie; it catches the pale gleam of his hair but hides his face from me so that his voice is coming out of the dark. Now he’s angry, shouting. No, no, that’s me shouting, saying those awful things to him, cruel things, meant to hurt him. My foot is heavier now and the rain is harder. Tim is grabbing for my arm. His eyes are in the light now and they are wild with fright. He is yelling at me to slow down.

  I’m laughing at him, but in anger, incredibly angry at him for being such a fool. For not understanding what I’m saying to him … I plead again. No, it is Tim pleading instead, Tim grabbing my arm, causing the steering wheel to slip … we’re airborne now, flying, flying, and how I laugh! Then I’m crying, crying, and I can’t see anything. I hear a terrible crashing and my own screams.

  Now I’m the one flying, free and flying through the dark silvery rain. How soft the rain is on my face and on my hair. I am on the wet grass somehow, dazed and muddy but unhurt. I see the car, crashed in the mud, but I don’t see Tim. Struggling to my feet, I plunge around in the darkness, looking for him.

  Always at this point in the dream I wake up, calling Tim and shaking so hard I can’t breathe.

  But tonight, back in Clarksville, dreaming, I search the dark woods for him instead. I call him and stumble around the wet bushes, crying. Then I see him. Thank God, there he is, propped up against a tree. I crawl to him in relief, whimpering. He’s propped himself up against a tree and he looks fine. There’s some blood on his face; his jeans are torn and his Blue Devils jersey is muddy and soaking wet, but he’s fine. He’s looking at me in relief, so I laugh and crawl over to him.

  When I reach him, I see that he’s not looking at me after all—oh, God! His eyes, glazed, stare unseeing at the falling rain. When I touch him with trembling fingers, his skin has the cold clamminess of a corpse.

  Della

  Every night before I go to sleep, I talk to Jesus and tell Him how my day went. I take all my troubles to Him, always have. I don’t kneel beside the bed or anything like that; I just lie down, tucked in for the night, and start talking.

  It tickles Papa to hear me talking to Jesus. Now that he’s up there at the Lord’s right hand, he enjoys hearing about everything going on down here. Just like when I was a child and he’d stand outside my door every night listening to me, chuckling to himself. “That Della,” he’d say, “she talks to the Lord like He was a next-door neighbor.”

  I reckon there’s some truth to that. Except Lonnie Floyd is my next-door neighbor and I sure wouldn’t tell her half of what I tell Jesus. Sure as I did, she’d run and tell Velma, then half of Zion County would know about it before sundown.

  I start off every single night by counting my blessings, and I’ve sure been blessed my eighty-two years on this earth. Oh, there has been troubles, too, and plenty of sorrows as well, long as I’ve lived. Sometimes the sorrows have been so bad I thought I’d die, but the Lord has seen me through. One thing I’ve learned is not to think too long on the sorrows—I think on the blessings instead, which gets me through a lot of heartache I couldn’t stand otherwise.

  After counting my blessings, I thank Jesus for my daily bread, just like He taught his disciples. Folks nowadays seem to take that for granted, but not me.

  What a bountiful garden we had this year, Lord, I say to Him. I’ve seen plenty of times when there wasn’t enough in the garden to fool with canning. But this year the tomatoes are the prettiest I’ve seen in Lord knows when. And the peaches this summer! How I wish Papa could taste them. Him and Taylor love peaches better than anybody. Those tree limbs were weighted down by mid-June with fruit sweet as could be. It broke my heart that half of them rotted on the ground. Me and Eula and Carrie just couldn’t get them all picked to save our lives. You can’t give food away nowadays—people too sorry to even come get it. Eula got her preacher to put a notice in the church bulletin that anyone who’d come get them could have all they picked, but no. Not even the colored would.

  After I count the blessings of the day and thank Him for my daily bread, I lift up each and every one of my family members to Jesus, petitioning the Lord on their part. Since I’m kin to almost everyone in Zion County, this takes a spell. I spend more time on some than on others, because some folks need the Lord’s help more.

  Take that fool Harris. Every night I beg the Lord to touch Harris’s hard heart. The very idea of him telling me that I got to go to the nursing home! He knows it would kill me, that I can’t even stand the thought of it. But he don’t care. Harris has always been that way, as You know, Lord. Everybody thinks he’s the biggest Christian in Zion, but You and I know better. Oh, he does what he thinks is right, setting quite a store in whether or not something’s the right thing to do. The only thing is, it’s got to be right according to him, not according to Almighty God. Almighty Harris Clark, I call him, behind his back.

  I don’t mean to sit in judgment on him, only the Lord can do that. But my religion and Harris’s just ain’t the same. I remember plain as day when Harris got religion. He didn’t get saved or converted like most folks do it, not him. When he turned twelve years old, he announced to Papa that he was joining the church. Just like that. No tears or nothing. Then he joined the youth group and started getting himself elected to things, and he joined everything else in the church from then on. He started running all those groups, the Official Board and the Methodist Men’s Club and the Christian Athletes group and everything. It was about the same time he started running everything else in Zion County, because he’s got to have things his way, and the church is no exception.

  I’ve never approached religion that way myself. Why, even the way Harris and me pray is different, me talking to Jesus every night and him standing up in church and rambling on and on about sin and forgiveness and salvation. His voice trembles in fear as he prays. I guess if I was as bullheaded as Harris, I’d be afraid, too.

  It does take me a spell every night to lift up all my relatives to Jesus, and sometimes I just skim over the ones in Mt. Zion that I haven’t seen for a while. Like Fannie Clark’s bunch; I haven’t heard from any of them since Christmas was a year ago. But they’re still kin, so I do it, regardless. All except one, that is. I hope You understand and forgive me, Jesus. I just can’t bring myself to pray for the newest relative, that Ellis Rountree.

  Every night, I save the dearest or neediest relative until last so I can spend extra time on them. It used to always be you, Papa, as you know. But now that you’re with Jesus, you don’t need me to do that for you. And Rufus, while I had you with me, it was you. But now it is my dear boy Taylor who’s always last.

  Oh, how I thank the Lor
d every single night for sending me that precious boy to bless my old age! Only You, Jesus, know how much that boy means to me. I’ve grieved so these past two years, night after night, but I’ve always known that You’d return him to me. I couldn’t have gone on otherwise.

  Before You sent my sweet baby to me, how I grieved over not being blessed with a child of my own. It’s been the worst cross I’ve had to bear, worse than losing Mama and Papa and Rufus, because one day we’ll all be together in paradise. But not to have my own little baby! I begged You to grant me that one thing. But once You called Rufus home, I knew then I’d never have a child of my own, because I’d never lay with another man except Rufus Gardner Dean, and I never did.

  Yet You still answered my prayer, sweet Jesus! In my old age, when I’d given up hope, you sent me a boy child, my own flesh and blood kin. How I had to fight for him, though! Harris planned for Opal to raise that boy right along with her own boy Sonny, but it wasn’t Your will. Opal never could stand Charlotte, so she refused to take in her child. Mary Frances and Cleve had their girls all half-grown and didn’t want no baby around.

  I did feel bad about poor Frances Martha; she wanted him worse than anything. But she ain’t right, never has been, and she wasn’t able to raise him. Just to spite me, Harris was going to let her have him, though, until I convinced him that everybody would talk about him something awful if she didn’t half watch that baby and something happened to him. Worse than everybody was already talking about his daughter Charlotte for deserting her own flesh and blood. And that did it; nothing Harris hates worse than being talked about. Like Sarah in the Bible, I laughed with joy and clapped my hands when Harris gave in and brought Taylor to me.