Fiery Rivers

by Daefyd Williams

  “I didden throw it! It was layin’ in the doorway, an’ it went down the steps when I closed the door.”

  “STAND UP!!” Adam ordered.

  Devon stood up dutifully between the two beds and turned his back to his father, facing the southern window. Adam held onto his left upper arm and began whipping him across his buttocks, his lower back, his upper back, and then back down to his buttocks.

  “I’ll teach ya to sass me!” Adam hissed. “You’re gonna learn to mind, or I’m gonna know the reason why!” He kept whipping him.

  Devon stood mutely. “I’m not gonna cry,” he thought. “I’ll show him who’s boss!” He just glared at his father and clenched his fists. “I’m gonna hit this guy!” He was an inch taller than his father.

  When Adam saw Devon clench his fists, he whipped him even harder. “You gonna hit me? Your own father?” Adam asked, his voice rising. “You better not even think it!”

  Devon thought that if he didn’t cry, his father would never stop. He began to cry, and Adam stopped.

  “Now git downstairs an’ do them dishes!” Adam shouted. Devon shook his head yes. Adam would never whip Devon again.

  In the fall, Devon looked for Sandy at every home football game, but he never saw her. He wanted to call her to ask if she was going to a game, but he could not summon the courage. He wished he had the courage that Richard had had so that he and Sandy could be a couple as Richard and Debbie had been. He even went as far as calling the first six digits of her telephone number, but he could never bring himself to dial the seventh. Some evenings, when he was riding his bike alone, he would ride by her house to see if she was sitting on the porch. He and Del were not close anymore. He had his paper route and spent most of his time with Linda. He wondered how it would be to have a steady girlfriend and hold her hand and kiss her.

  Devon was reading the Dayton Daily News one evening in early December and saw a curious item on the front page of the entertainment section with the heading: “Band Causes Hysteria in London.” Intrigued, he read the short paragraph:

  A band called The Beatles is generating mass hysteria wherever it plays. Apparently, the young girls who watch the band fall into paroxysms of adoration and weep and scream for the duration of the band’s performance. The band is distinctive in that all of its members have moptop haircuts and wear suits and ties. Extra security has been added at all scheduled venues.

  “The Beatles?” Devon thought. “Bugs? Strange name for a band.” He took the comics section up to the bathroom.

  Chapter 9

  1964

  Del had his right ear and Devon his left pressed against the front speaker of the radio on the small table between their beds. The guitar riff of the introduction had ended, and the dulcet voice of Roy Orbison began to croon “Oh, Pretty Woman.” They had the volume turned down so low that they could barely hear Orbison’s voice; they were fearful of being caught by their parents listening to the devil’s music. When the song finished, and Roy had gone to spend the night with his pretty woman, Devon remarked, “That’s a good song.” I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. Wrist flick.

  “Yeah, it is. I like it,” Del agreed.

  After a Lucky Strike commercial, the deejay said, “Now here’s something out of England from a band called The Beatles singing ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand.’” Del and Devon listened to it, but did not like it as much as “Oh, Pretty Woman.” It was just alright.

  After Devon had prayed for people that night at church when God had announced through Uncle Dwayne that he was going to be a great minister and bring many souls to Christ, he had gradually begun to move away from the teachings of the church and started to be more attracted to the things of the world, especially music. He had never learned to play an instrument as Del had with his trombone, but he had an old snare drum, a bass drum, and a cymbal in the basement that he loved to play, although he did not know what he was doing. Adam and Marie had gradually acquired the used drums for him, perhaps feeling guilty that they had not allowed him to learn to play an instrument. He would bang the drums for hours until he nearly drove Marie to distraction and she would yell down the basement stairs, “Devon! Stop that infernal racket!” At school, he was always drumming his fingers on his desk or keeping time by tapping his fingers against his thigh. At home, he had chipped one of his front teeth by clacking his teeth together rhythmically.

  Devon had just gone up to Mrs. Davis’s desk to peek down her plunging neckline and pretend that he needed to ask her a question about his essay on Magellan. Mrs. Davis was his eighth grade language arts and social studies teacher. She was a black-haired woman in her forties who always wore blouses with the top buttons unfastened so that the upper part of her breasts was revealed. Today, a lacy part of her bra was visible. All of the boys loved going up to her desk.

  Joe came up to ask her a question, and Devon looked at him and then glanced down at Mrs. Davis’s cleavage. Joe nodded his head slightly. Devon stepped behind her while Joe moved forward so he could get a good look. While Joe was asking her his question, Devon stepped through the open classroom door so that he could take a look at some of the other students’ essays on the bulletin board in the hallway that Mrs. Davis had already posted. He glanced at a few and was turning to go back into the classroom when he saw Miss Cruea coming towards him.

  “HENSLEY!!” she thundered. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THE HALL?”

  Miss Cruea was a pear-shaped alcoholic who weighed close to three hundred pounds. No one was interested in looking at any part of her. The students knew she was an alcoholic because at Christmastime she had invited all of the eighth grade students to her house to go Christmas caroling. After they had gone through the neighborhood singing carols, they went back to her house for hot chocolate. While she was preparing it, some of the students found small bottles of liquor in the cracks of the sofa, on end tables, and in the magazine rack.

  “I . . . I was just lookin’ at some o’ the essays,” Devon stammered.

  She approached Devon and stood directly in front of him, looking up at his face. “Lemme see your hall pass,” she demanded.

  “I . . . I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t have one?”

  Devon shook his head. “No.”

  “You just stand right there, mister, till I can get my paddle. You been cruisin’ for a bruisin’ for a year and a half.”

  Devon stood mutely outside Mrs. Davis’s door. It was his misfortune that Miss Cruea was the science and math teacher for both the seventh and eighth grades. She had never liked him.

  She came from her room brandishing a two-foot wooden paddle with large two-inch holes in it to reduce friction. “Come out here in the middle of the hall and grab your ankles,” she commanded.

  Devon dutifully walked to the middle of the hallway and bent over and grabbed his ankles. Miss Cruea drew back and brought the paddle down resoundingly on his buttocks. “WHACK!” The hanging flesh of her upper arm jiggled upon impact. Devon felt as though a hot iron had been applied to him. He grimaced. “WHACK!” He grimaced again. “WHACK!” He fought back tears.

  “Now, let that be a lesson to you,” she lectured. “Next time you’re in the hallway, you better have a pass. Now get back to class.”

  Devon sheepishly walked back into Mrs. Davis’s class. There was tittering as he walked in.

  “Class, do your work,” Mrs. Davis intoned.

  He sat down at his desk, his buttocks still burning. His parents had always told him that if he ever got paddled at school, he would get another whipping when he got home. He would not be telling his parents.

  Outside in the cold at lunchtime, David turned to Steve and said, “Didjou know that you can hit Devon in the stomach an’ he dudden feel it?”

  “Really?” Steve asked with interest. He had not been in Mr. Wilson’s sixth grade class with Devon and David. “Lemme try,” he said to Devon.

  Devon shook his head no. “I ain’t done that since the
sixth grade.”

  “C’mon. Please?”

  Devon reluctantly agreed. “One time won’t hurt,” he thought. “Alright, but only one. Lemme git ready first.” He clenched his abdominal muscles as tightly as he could and held his breath. “OK, now,” he said through clenched teeth. Steve made a fist and hit him in the stomach as hard as he could. Devon exhaled quickly. “Mmmmfffff. That hurt!” he thought. He shook his head. “Didden feel a thing.”

  “Lemme do it again,” Steve said.

  “No. I said just one.”

  “If it didden hurt you, what’s one more gonna matter?”

  “Alright, but this is the last one.” He tightened his muscles and held his breath again. And again Steve knocked the breath out of him.

  “God, that hurts!” he thought. He shook his head. “Nothin’,” he lied.

  Back in class, Mrs. Davis was talking about the discovery of the Grand Canyon by Spanish explorers. Devon absentmindedly clenched his abdominal muscles. And did it again. And again. And again. And discovered that he could not stop. This worried him. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. Wrist flick. Abdomen clench. And a new compulsion was added to his obsessive-compulsive repertoire.

  On Sunday, February ninth, Del and Devon watched the debut of The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, along with seventy million other Americans. It was exciting to see all of the teenage girls screaming so loudly during the performance that they nearly drowned out the band. Except for the long hair, it seemed to be a typical band. They did not love the band until they heard “Love Me Do” months later. Then they became lifelong fans.

  Dwayne was on his knees in the living room in the middle of the night, his elbows on the sofa and praying fervently. “Dear Jesus, I’m not makin’ it. I know you said you didden want me to work or you would take Joe, but we can’t make it if you won’t let me work. We’re behind on the mortgage, the taxes are comin’ up, an’ I can’t put food on the table if you won’t let me work. Please help me to understand. I doeknow where to turn. I hate relyin’ on Butchie an’ Marie to feed my family. Please gimme a sign that I can understand so I can feed my family. I . . .” He suddenly felt a warmth on his left side. He opened his eyes. Standing beside him in a flickering blue light was the angel dressed in the blue nurse’s uniform that he had seen last year, looking mildly down at him. Dwayne heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you, Jesus. Thank you. You sent your angel to help us. I knew you would. I knew you would. You look out for your children. Tell me, what blessin’s is he gonna give me?”

  “I bring thee further tidings,” she said.

  “Yes, yes, tell me,” Dwayne said eagerly, a wave of gratitude washing over him. “How’s he gonna help me?”

  “From this day hence, if thou shalt partake of ought but unleavened bread of whole grains and milk, thou shalt be called home.”

  “Wha . . . what?!” Dwayne croaked, incredulous, his voice rising. “I thought you were gonna tell me how to feed my family an’ pay my bills, an’ now you’re tellin’ me that I’ll die if I don’t eat nothin’ but unleavened bread an’ milk! That don’t make no sense. Tell God I need some help. I’m dyin’ here!”

  “So thou art,” the woman replied calmly. “And so thou shalt if His word is not obeyed.”

  “But I need help! I need help! Please ask God to help me! I don’t want no death sentence!”

  “I have spoken. So be it.” And the woman vanished.

  Dwayne buried his face in the cushion and wept as though the weight of the world had just been placed upon his shoulders. He wept like a man bereft of hope, of understanding, of belief.

  But from that night, he ate nothing but graham crackers and milk at every meal, believing that if he ate anything else he would die. And somehow he survived.

  Right after his birthday in March, Devon and Joe were talking on the grass by themselves at lunchtime. They were discussing Debbie and whether or not Joe should try to be her boyfriend. “Ya think she’s still sad about Richard drownin’?” Joe asked.

  “I doeknow,” Devon answered, “All you can do is try to talk to her an’ see what happens. It’s been nine months since he drowned.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll just try to talk to her. You still like Sandy?”

  “Um, yeah, I guess so.”

  “You ever talk to her or go with her anywhere?”

  “Nah. My parents won’t let me.”

  “Your parents won’t let you talk to her?” Joe asked dubiously.

  “They won’t let me go with her anywhere.” He did not want to admit to Joe that he was too shy to even call her.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re religious.”

  “Oh. Hey, let me hitchou in the stomach.”

  “Oh, no,” Devon thought. He had been clenching the abdominal muscles on both his left and right sides every few seconds since the day that Steve had hit him. He now experienced pain each time he clenched the muscles on his right side. For some unfathomable reason, he squeezed the muscles more tightly there than those on the left. He was doing it now. “Ow,” he thought. “Ow.” I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. Wrist flick. Abdomen clench. Ow.

  “C’mon. You know it dudden hurtchou. You told me it didden. Lemme hitchou jus’ once an’ I won’t ask again.”

  Devon shook his head. “No. I don’t want to.”

  Joe shoved him on the chest with both hands and Devon stumbled backwards.

  “What are you doin’? Stop it, Joe!”

  Joe shoved him again, harder. “Lemme hitchou.”

  “No! Stop it! Lea’ me alone!”

  “I’m gonna hitchou!” He took a swing at Devon’s stomach.

  Devon knocked his hand away. “Stop it! I don’t do that anymore!” He turned his back to Joe and started to walk away. Joe grabbed him by the shoulder and tried to turn him around. Devon roughly knocked his hand off and kept walking. “Lea’ me alone!” he shouted back at Joe. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. I do believe in the Holy Ghost. Wrist flick. Abdomen clench. Ow.

  “Wimp!” Joe shouted after him.

  Devon and Joe were never friends again.

  At the end of March, Del was hired by Westward Ho! cafeteria on North Dixie Drive to be a dishwasher. He felt that he was not contributing his fair share to the family, so he went out and applied for the job on his own without telling Adam or Marie. Now he could put even more money into the jar atop the refrigerator. And he could save money to buy his own car, so he and Linda could go to the drive-in and watch movies and be alone, mostly to be alone. By the end of the year, he had been promoted to assistant manager and was working thirty hours a week after school and on weekends. Adam and Marie never thanked him for helping sustain the family of eight, but he felt it was his duty as the oldest to contribute.

  There was one cook, Don, who had an odd compulsion of hitching up his pants and twisting them over his paunch continually. Once, he had followed Del into the basement where he had gone to find a sack of potatoes to take to the kitchen. “There’s some real purty girls that come down the line, ain’t there?” he asked Del, hitching up his pants and twisting them to the right.

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Del replied, locating the sack of potatoes on a bottom shelf and hoisting them onto his shoulder.

  “You ever been with a man?” Don asked bluntly, hitching up his pants and twisting them.

  Del felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “What? No! That’s dirty!”

  “Yeah? Well, don’t knock it ‘less you tried it. Suckin’ a dick ain’t much differ’nt than suckin’ a nipple. Just a little bigger.”

  Del was scared now. “Move outa my way!” he said gruffly, as Don was blocking the stairs with his bulk.

  Don smiled and then wiped the back of his hand across his fat lips. “Sure, Del. Think about it.” He hitched up and twisted his pants and stepped out of Del’s way. He called up the steps as Del reached the top, “You don’t know what you’re missin’.”


  Del’s heart was beating hard and fast when he reached the first floor, and not all from the exertion. He was frightened. He had thought those kinds of people were just stories that people made up. Now he knew differently.

  Gloryann was not gaining weight and still had dark circles under her eyes from her illness last year. Marie noticed that she was just listlessly pushing food around her plate at supper. “Why don’tchou eat, Glory?” Marie asked.

  “Not hungry,” Gloryann answered.

  “Honey, if you don’t eat, you’re not gonna grow up to be big an’ strong like Mommy.”

  “Uh hum,” Gloryann mumbled.

  That evening, Marie called a pediatrician and made an appointment for Friday. She was worried now, a year after Gloryann’s extended illness.

  A battery of tests was run at the doctor’s office. Blood and urine samples were taken. The doctor examined Gloryann’s throat and eyes, listened to her heart, connected her to a heart monitor. After an hour, the doctor told Marie to return the following Friday for the results.

  When Marie and Gloryann returned, the nurse escorted them to Dr. Pincus’s office instead of the examining room. The doctor looked up from a report he was reading when they entered the room. “Hi, Mrs. Hensley. Hi, Gloryann.”

  “Afternoon, Doctor,” Marie said. Gloryann said nothing and stared glumly at the floor.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hensley, did Gloryann have an illness recently?”

  Marie thought. “No, not recently. The last time she was sick was last year, when she had the flu for about a month.”

  “I see,” Dr. Pincus said. “Mrs. Hensley, the illness that Gloryann suffered from last year wasn’t the flu. It was rheumatic fever.”