Power in the Blood jj-2 Page 14

  I didn’t respond.

  “Well?” she asked impatiently. “Are you going to allow your wounded inner child to keep you from possibly finding your soul mate?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what, Caveman? Try to form a complete sentence.”

  “Okay, we can go out. Saturday morning I have to go to Tallahassee. You can come along, and we’ll make a day of it.”

  “Doing what?” she asked.

  “Whatever. I’ll surprise you. It’ll be fun, I assure you.”

  “Okay.”

  “What was that, Cavewoman?”

  “Okay, I’ll go. I mean how bad could it be. It’s just one day, right?”

  “Where do I pick you up?”

  “Are you going to the jamboree tonight? You were the jamboree king back in the olden days when you were in school, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m going. Yes, I was king. No, it was not the olden days.”

  “Then find me at the game, and I’ll tell you where to pick me up. Besides, if you’ll wear something besides that little priest’s outfit, I might let you help me chaperone my little sister’s jamboree jam dance. And if you are really right with God, you might even get to dance with me. Does he allow you to dance?”

  “God?” I asked.

  She nodded her head.

  “Since he, or she, as a friend of mine would say, is the Lord of the dance, I do not see how he or she could object to me doing it.”

  “She, huh? I’ve got to meet this friend of yours. And, here’s to a dancing God,” she said and held her hand up in a mock toast.

  And then she got into her one-ton truck and drove away. And I stood there and tried to catch my breath.

  Chapter 22

  It is the chief paradox of Florida that the south part of the state resembles the north part of the country and the north part of the state resembles the south part of the country.

  There are two Floridas actually-both of them like LA The first one, the one that most people are familiar with, is the Miami Vice Florida, filled with bikinis, billionaires, and bars. It’s like Los Angeles because of its beautiful beaches and beautiful people, all of whom live the jet-set lifestyle. It is a glamorous place where the women look like models and the men like movie stars.

  The second Florida, the one most people drive through on their way to the first, is quite different. It is a Florida much like LA also, just a different LA-Lower Alabama. It is a Florida of pickup trucks with gun racks, house trailers with cars on blocks in the yard, and night spots named Bubba’s. It is a rural Florida where segregation still exists and the black people are relegated to live in a part of town called the Quarters. It is a Florida virtually unknown to tourists.

  Pottersville was a part of Gloria Jahoda’s Other Florida, a rural town much like those of South Georgia and Alabama. Wealthy and well-educated people resided in Pottersville, just not very many. Many of its citizens were interested in having just enough money so they could buy beer and bait. They hunted, fished, and got drunk simply because it was Friday. In this town many people preferred not to wear shoes and usually didn’t. Some called black people niggers, and many survived on government checks, and, lest you forget, all of this took place on the verge of the twenty-first century.

  Pottersville had other sorts as well; they were just not as colorful. They were hardworking people who were the salt of the earth.

  They looked out for each other’s homes, farms, and kids. They went camping and to church and to family reunions-all on a regular basis. They ate fried chicken, homemade biscuits, and fresh vegetables-the latter from their own gardens or a neighbor’s. They called the women, including their own wives “Miss,” as in “Miss Julie.” They obeyed the laws of the land-the important ones anyway, and they believed in God and his son, Jesus Christ, both of whom were assumed to be Southern gentlemen.

  In a place like Pottersville, where there was not a lot to do, a Friday night high school football game was a social event, and if it were the July jamboree game, it was the social event of the year. Why football in the summer? It was Pottersville. Every other game was played in the fall, but the July Jamboree was reserved for the early summer to correspond with the other celebrated annual event-the Pottersville Possum Festival.

  People poured into the gate of the football field with excitement and enthusiasm. Pottersville was a town with a lot of energy. It was by no means a retirement community like the ones taking over South Florida. Who would come to Pottersville to retire? Not even the heat could take the energy out of the air. Walking up to the gate, I could hear the band playing a popular song. I recognized the tune but couldn’t think of the name.

  When I walked inside the gate, Merrill was standing there waiting for me. His clothes matched his skin tone-midnight. He wore black tailored slacks with a thin white pinstripe, black-and-white wing tip shoes, and a black collarless long-sleeve shirt.

  “Wha’s up?” he said when I reached him.

  “Jam, Bro,” I said, looking around at all the people buzzing around like fireflies in the night sky.

  People swarmed around everywhere. They lined the fence around the field; they stood in line at the concession stand and sat in the bleachers. Cheerleaders roamed around selling programs and blueand-white shakers. The two teams were on opposite ends of the field warming up.

  “I think the entire town is here tonight,” he said.

  In stark contrast to Merrill’s cat-burglar ensemble, I wore Levi’s 550 stone-washed, straight-leg jeans, leather deck shoes with no socks, and a white collarless long-sleeve shirt. We looked like day and night.

  As we approached the home bleachers, Merrill extracted a quarter from his pocket. “Heads or tails?” he asked.

  “Tails,” I said.

  Merrill flipped the coin into the air, caught it with his right palm, and slapped it on down on his left.

  “Tails,” he said, “you win. What will it be, eighty or twenty?”

  For as long as I could remember, the bleachers had been divided up into eighty-twenty. The first eighty percent was the unofficial white section, and the last twenty was the unofficial black section. Merrill and I, when we came to the games at all, always sat together, which meant that one of us would be in the minority. I won, so tonight I got to call it.

  “Twenty,” I said. “Let’s sit with the colored folk.”

  “We be honored to have you, missa’ Jordan. You a important man, suh.”

  We walked along the narrow sidewalk at the front of the bleachers past the white section, where a few people spoke to us, down to the black section, where a few more people spoke to us.

  We sat by a heavy black woman whom everybody called Miss Tanya. She said, “Boys, how y’all doin’ tonight?”

  “Just fine, Miss Tanya. How are you?” I said.

  “Honey,” she said in about five syllables, “I am so blessed. God is so good. ’Course you know that. You still preachin’?”

  She asked me that every time she saw me, like she expected me to quit at any minute. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mer Mer,” she said to Merrill, “how is school coming along?”

  “Slow. I figure to be finished about the time Jesus comes back.”

  “Well, you hang in there shuga’. You makin’ us all so proud. When I win the lottery, I gonna finish payin’ for you schoolin’.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said patronizingly.

  When the game started, Miss Tanya yelled, “Come on, Tigers. Kick some butt!” Her whole body, all three hundred pounds, bounced up and down as she yelled.

  Miss Tanya continued to talk to us and to the players throughout the first quarter. Mer Mer and I were quiet-he watching the game, I looking for Laura.

  Near the end of the second quarter I spotted her. She was on the other side of the field helping the jamboree court prepare for it’s halftime program.

  I could see that all
of the young ladies on the jamboree court and most of the women helping them had on corsages, but Laura did not.

  “Idiot!” I exclaimed.

  “That was stupid,” Merrill said. “The whole left side of the field was open.”

  “No, not that. I forgot something. Miss Tanya,” I said looking over at her, “where did you get that corsage?”

  “From the school this afternoon. Shaniqua bought it for me.”

  “Are they still selling them?”

  “I don’t think so, baby. What is it?”

  “I’m meeting a girl tonight and I forgot to get her one.”

  “Here,” she said and began to pull the pin out of hers, “you take this one, baby.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said.

  “Don’t you argue with Miss Tanya. Now go on-take it, boy. Go on now. Take it to her.”

  “Thank you,” I said and gave her a hug. “I’ll see you in a little while,” I said to Merrill.

  “If things don’t go well, you’ll see me in a little while. If things go well …”

  “I’ll see you Monday.”

  As I walked over to the visitor side of the field, I thought about how generous Miss Tanya had been. Every time I wondered why I was living in a place like Pottersville, something like this happened to remind me.

  Laura was straightening the corsage on her sister when I reached her. She wore a peach sundress with shoulder straps and light brown sandals. Her tan skin set the peach color off beautifully. I quickly glanced at her feet. I’ve always thought that feet say a lot about a person. They were beautiful-not too small, and her toenails were painted to match her dress. Her light brown hair, roughly the color of her sandals, was held in a ponytail by a peach bow. She was lovely-the first serious competition for Anna I had ever seen around here, maybe anywhere.

  “Certainly the prettiest woman in the county needs a corsage, wouldn’t you agree?” I whispered when I was right behind her.

  She spun around, her brilliant, deep brown eyes twinkling flirtatiously. She was breathtaking.

  “The county?” she said. “The county? It’s a pretty damn small county.”

  “I meant the state,” I said. “May I?” I asked as I held up the corsage.

  She hesitated, then looked around. “You seem to be my only suitor. Go ahead,” she said in mock exasperation.

  As I pinned it on her dress, I said, “I seriously doubt I am your only suitor.”

  “Well, maybe not my only one. Watch your hands there, Priest. I wouldn’t want to be an occasion of sin for you.”

  “More like an occasion of grace,” I said almost to myself.

  She let that one go. Then she said, “Speaking of priests, you don’t look half-bad without that silly collar on. I might just dance with you tonight.”

  “Now that you mention it, you look lovely, not that you don’t in your FedEx shorts, mind you, but even lovelier tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. Then, “How long is this going to take?”

  “I’m almost finished.”

  “Poor priest. Is this your first time?”

  I looked up with surprise.

  “Pinning a corsage on a woman,” she said. “Is this your first time pinning a corsage on a woman?”

  “Of course not, but it has been a while.”

  “I’m sorry I’m giving you such a hard time,” she said.

  “No, you’re not. You’re loving every minute of it.”

  “Are you finished playing with my breasts yet, Preacher?” she said rather loudly.

  Before I could respond, Laura’s sister walked back from where she had been giggling with some of her friends.

  “This is Father John,” Laura said. “He’s the priest who wants to have an illicit affair with me.”

  I smiled-I could do nothing else. “Hello, I’m John Jordan, and I’m not a priest. As to the affair, well let’s just say that your sister is the one who keeps mentioning it.”

  She laughed. “I’m Kim,” she said. “And she likes you.”

  “She has a funny way of showing it.”

  “Well,” she said and then hesitated, “she just needs someone to settle her down a bit.”

  “Have you tried Ritalin?”

  Kim laughed.

  Laura punched me in the arm.

  “Hey, JJ,” Ernie yelled from where he stood with the rest of the kids waiting to enter the field.

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” Kim said as the last seconds of the first half were ticking down.

  “Good luck. You look great,” I said.

  Later that night we danced slowly to Boz Scaggs’s “Look What You’ve Done To Me” and to other songs, most of them unfamiliar to me. It reminded me of high school-distant dances and young love. She danced close to me, but not too close. Actually, not nearly close enough.

  “I think your dress is overpowering me,” I said as we danced to a ballad Richard Marx had written for his wife.

  “Why do you say that?” she whispered, seemingly in some sort of trance herself.

  “Because I would swear that your hair smells like peaches.”

  She smiled.

  Still later that night, I took her home and kissed her good night-a perfect first kiss: gentle, slightly lingering, and hinting of more, much more. It was a perfect night.

  Even later that night, I went to bed with a smile on my face and dreamt of picking peaches in what must have been paradise, maybe even the Garden of Eden, but I assure you they were not forbidden fruit.

  They were fruit from the Tree of Life.

  Chapter 23

  The great fiery eye in the sky was covered in a thick asbestos blanket of rain-threatening clouds. Relief. It was the coolest morning in weeks-still, it never dipped lower than ninety. Many of the Native Americans in our area had been doing a ceremonial rain dance for weeks. Had we known how to do it, many of us Other Americans would have joined them. Perhaps today our prayers and dances would be answered.

  Laura and I were driving east on Highway 20 toward Tallahassee in my dad’s new Ford Explorer. It was white with tan leather interior that still smelled new. My old Chevy S-10 was not an appropriate chariot for the Lady Laura. The Lady, who was less talkative than the previous night, looked regal in her long, fitted black dress, her hair down, small gold loop earrings, and a single gold chain around her neck. Her look was as understated as it was devastating.

  For the first part of our trip she said very little. She looked and sounded sleepy. I couldn’t help but wonder what waking up beside her would be like. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to get out of bed if I did.

  “When are you going to tell me why we’re dressed like this?” she asked.

  I was wearing a black Mark Alexander suit with a gray pinstripe, a black shirt with an Episcopal collar, and black wing tip shoes.

  “Did you bring a change of clothes?” I asked.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question,” she said, her eyes twinkling though they still looked half-asleep. I guess I should have said half-awake.

  “You don’t like surprises?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t,” she said. Her face, besides looking slightly sleepy, looked pure and childlike, due in part to its sleepiness and in part to its natural look. If she had any makeup on at all, it was not visible-with the exception of a small amount around her eyes.

  “That figures,” I said.

  “Oh, really,” she said, leaning forward preparing to engage. The new leather creaked as she moved. “And exactly what does that mean?”

  “You’re just too guarded, too addicted to control to like surprises,” I said.

  “Listen,” she said, her irritation showing, “I’m pretty close to getting my master’s degree in psychology, so I don’t need some prison priest who’s taken a few psychology classes spouting off psycho babble to me.”

  “I see,” I said.

  We were silent for a while. I couldn’t help smiling.

  “Why are you
smiling so big?” she asked behind a smile of her own.

  “I enjoy your company,” I said. “I also enjoy giving you a dose or two of your own medicine.”

  “I am working on my OC tendencies,” she said. “How about you?”

  “What about me?” I asked. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten.

  “Are you actively working on your recovery? I’ve heard a few things about you, you know.”

  “Been checking up on me, have you?”

  “A girl has to be careful these days.”

  “You’re not a girl, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself quite well. As to your question, I do not miss my two AA meetings each week, I have a sponsor, and I read a lot of recovery books.”

  “I know. I just wanted to see how honest you were about it. You think I would go off with a recovering alcoholic without being sure that he was, in fact, recovering.”

  “It seems you know a good deal about me. Tell me about you.”

  “I will. Just as soon as you tell me where we’re going.”

  “Okay,” I said trying to think of how to tell her. “Here goes. We are going out to eat and to a jazz concert in the park and to spend a leisurely afternoon in our state’s beautiful capital.”

  “Don’t you mean lovely?” she asked. “And, I am talking about this morning. What are we doing this morning?”

  “Well, on the way to an exciting afternoon, we’re going to a funeral.”

  “You are taking me to a funeral on our first date?” she asked and then opened her mouth to speak again and could not.

  “I can’t believe I was here to see it,” I said. “You’re speechless. You are actually speechless.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” she said. Her smile had completely vanished now, replaced with the look of disgust ordinarily reserved for perverts. “I can’t believe this. I hate funerals.”

  “I don’t know anybody who loves them, but it’s certainly an important time of ministry for me. People experiencing loss need help. However, I did arrange for you to stay with a friend of mine during the funeral if you want to.”

  “Whose funeral is it?” she asked.

  The sides of the highway, like every highway in northwest Florida, were lined with rows of pine trees. The occasionally visible sun behind the rows of trees caused them to cast shadows like prison bars across the highway.