- Code
Everything about Jasper was flat. Except for the mountains in the east, the land was as smooth as a pastor’s hair, slicked back with raspberry pomade. The air was flat and heavy, always thick, summer or winter. Flatness was expected, was nourished, and was grown in every garden aside the tomatoes and squash. Life in Jasper was flat, because everything in Jasper was flat.
On certain mornings, the shadow of the mountain would lean over the town, heavy and exhausted. It was an occurrence unique to the town, the ‘early night’, as they called it. People would sleep late during those days. School wouldn’t start until noon. It was a simple break in routine, but it eventually became enveloped in it.
One of these days, Jabez woke up early, as usual. He couldn’t see anything, but heard the bacon sizzling in the kitchen. Wilma had awoken before him, as usual. He followed the combination of sound and smell to the kitchen, where he stood squinting in the light of the one hundred watt light bulbs. The kitchen was always too bright, due to the fact that no one else bought one hundred watt light bulbs, so they were always on sale. His eyes hurt intensely from the light, and it took him several minutes to recover. Eventually he did, and entered the kitchen shading his eyes.
“Morning,” mumbled Jabez.
“Did ‘a wash yo’ face?” asked Wilma. She was a large woman, known for her cooking and her faith, which were kept in close acquaintance. She often said that the two greatest gifts of God were “his son the Lo’ Jaysus Chris and hot butta on a roll.” She was white, but her parlance was not. No word in her vocabulary was spared her slurring or bastardization. She had such a command over her own dialect that she was respected for it throughout the community.
“Yes, I washed my face,” he lied. “Did you wake Jonah?” The sizzling of the bacon drowned out the response. “What? What did you say?”
“Is that how’s ya speak to the woman who gave ya the gif’ a house an’ home? I say he still sleeping. Lo’ knows if he sent the Fo’ Riders to his bedroom he’d be smilin’ ‘sleep the whole blessed time.” Jabez went to Jonah’s room and tapped quietly on the door. Hearing nothing, he opened it slightly. The room was as dark as his own. He staggered over to where he knew the bed to be and shook the sheets.
“Wake up Jonah. Breakfast.” There was no response from the sleeping party, even after a hard push and a jab. He went back to open the door and let more light in. There was no one on the bed.
“Damn it! He’s gone again!”
“Don’t be usin’ foul language in dis house, boy. Jis’ go outside and fine him.” In his ripped jeans and T-shirt, he ran out into the dark. The town was quiet except for the crickets, ever- present in the background. Jabez ran with the wind pushing against his face. It was cool and damp, like morning air should be.
He remembered a fragment from his childhood. “You gots to run like an Injun. They be quiet as all, din’t make no sound tramping thro’ the forest. Kept it real quiet. Even the leaves din’t crackle ‘neath them moccosons,” said his grandfather.
At the edge of town on the side of the road, there stood an old skeleton of a billboard. Nothing was advertised there now, for everything that was bought by the hundred some residents was found in the Store. It was only used now as a place where kids came to steal a swig of homemade whiskey. Up on the shelf of the scaffolding sat Jonah, staring blankly up into the sky. The sun began to rise above the mountains a little, and Jabez could see his hands clapping silently. He was smiling; his head resting back, as if listening to some music only he could hear.
“Jonah, what the hell are you doin’ up there? Get down here.” Jonah did not appear to hear anything, but kept staring into the waning darkness of the morning. “Don’t make me come up there. You know what’ll happen if I have to drag you down.”
This got more of a response, as Jonah looked down at Jabez. He was still wearing his huge grin, which made his face look bigger and stupider. Jabez glared at him, as he had seen Wilma do so many times before. Still smiling, Jonah began to climb down off the scaffolding. His huge hands nearly looked like they would tear away the iron rungs of the ladder as he descended.
“Come on. Wilma’s got breakfast on the table already.” The two walked back to the house in the dim light. Their silhouettes were an odd pair. Jonah was a huge boy, his jaw a monument to raw masculinity. Jabez was short and skinny, but he did not appear weak. His face was taut and steady, inscribed with a serious expression.
“I don’t know Wilma. That boy is too dumb for his own good.” Miss Harris stood in the small kitchen, not noticing the boys walking in. She was a neighbor of theirs. She was a very thin lady, but had unusually large ears, and made a point of putting them to use. There never was a thing that passed between two people in Jasper that Miss Harris did not somehow find out. That kept the whole community very close, as Jesus would have liked it, she said. “You should just send him back where he came from.”
Jabez stood fuming in the doorway. He felt like he wanted to vomit. This he could not excuse, not even for her stupidity and ignorance. But as he was about to say some of his own thoughts, Wilma spotted them.
“Oh boys. S’ nice o’ ya t’ ‘rive. Say yo’ grittings to Mizz Harris here and eat yo’ breakfast.” Jabez mumbled a hello under his breath and threw himself into a seat. Jonah went up to Miss Harris and swung his colossal arms around her, nearly lifting her up off the floor.
“Agh! Wilma, get this creature off of me!” Miss Harris attempted to wriggle out of Jonah’s jaws-of-death grip. Jonah only smiled and hugged more tightly.
Wilma shuffled over to the calamity, and in some mysterious maneuver managed to remove the large boy from around the woman’s waist. “Deborah, he ain’t no critter. Shan’t be callin’ ‘im names like dat.” Jonah returned to his seat. Miss Harris was still shaking from their encounter. Jabez bit his cheeks hard to keep from laughing.
“I’m tellin’ yo’ Wilma. It’s his Negro blood,” whispered Miss Harris, as she quickly left the house.
“Why the nerve of that damn…” began Jabez.
“Watch yo’ tongue, boy,” interrupted Wilma, turning sharply from the stove to look at him. “The Lo’ is watchin’ ya.” Wilma had a certain air about her, found only in southern women. She dealt with problems easily and matter-of-factly, never letting troubles get in the way of her main occupations: food, worship, and the raising of ‘chillun’.
Jabez wasn’t hungry at all. He had not had an appetite lately. He watched as Jonah guzzled his food down, shoveling in forkfuls at a time, chewing in that slow circular motion, round, round, round…
When Jabez came to, Wilma’s face was hovering over him. Jonah stood above her, looking curiously down. Wilma looked worried. She was biting the left side of her lip. She only did that days she visited the bank. “We gonna have t’ take ya t’ the hospital.”
Moments later, they were in Mr. Parkinson’s black Model-T driving to town. The road was unpaved, and all the bumpiness made Jabez nauseous. Jonah sat next to him, looking at him and grinning. Jabez tried to give a grin back, but only managed a weak curl. He laid his head on the windowpane and started to drift into sleep, his head tapping the rhythm of an erratic lullabye against the pane.
When they arrived at the hospital, Mr. Parkinson put Jabez into his arms and marched him up the stairs. The Roosevelt Memorial Hospital was the only one for fifty miles in any direction.. It was a strange addition to the landscape: three stories high and supported by Roman columns at its entrance. Its false majesty was in stark contrast to its surroundings, namely a few small houses and a patch of grass used as a football field for the local high school.
Mr. Parkinson marched into the reception area with Jabez hanging limply in his arms, asleep. “This boy needs to see a doctor.”
“The Negro ward is on the third floor. You’ll have to bring him there,” the receptionist responded. She quickly returned back to her work.
“Negro ward? This boy may be dying. He needs to see a real doctor, now. You are not going to put him in a room to wait for three days until a doctor happens to have a spare moment.” Mr. Parkinson glared at the young lady.
“I’ll have to ask my supervisor.”
“You do that,” he replied, as she disappeared behind a door.
“Oh, Lo’ Jaysus, have mercy on dis boy’s soul. I been like a muther to ‘im an’ ‘is bruther. I couldn’t bear it if he died.” This last sentence she said in perfect Queen’s English, though her voice was wavering slightly.
“Don’t worry Wilma. He’s gonna be jus’ fine.”
Jabez was in the hospital for three days. The doctors said he had some kind of cancer that was eating away at his brain. He had showed all the usual symptoms: dizziness, migraines, sensitivity to light or loud sounds, nausea. There was nothing they could do for him. He was simply to die, and not to be too busy about doing it. There were other patients that needed treating.
So on the third day, they drove him home, with a bucket on the floor for him to vomit in. The doctor had prescribed some pain medication, and he was to take it every day, as needed. Mr. Parkinson had paid for it. “This ain’t a time to be fussing about a little money, Wilma.” She was too exhausted to argue. She sat next to Jabez in the back seat, his legs upon her lap. She rubbed his back the entire rode home, and helped him to sit when he needed to vomit. His head fell upon her thick, white arm, hanging on it limply. She could feel the movement inside his head; the tiny explosions and firings, the blood and water, the pain.
He lay in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Weeks passed, as Wilma tried to get some food into him, and Jonah sat on the bedside. Plenty of pound cake was brought to their door. Wilma would often be talking in the kitchen, just thanking the people, and breaking down mid-sentence. The less caring neighbors would merely excuse themselves and go home to their flat beds. But others would stay and talk, and comfort her, as they wondered to themselves why Jonah never set foot off that bed.
After some time they all virtually lived in Jabez’s room, including Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson, who were over regularly. Mrs. Parkinson would cook all the meals, as Wilma was unable to in her mournful state. She was ever apologetic and overly thankful. Rarely did one or the other leave the room without her saying, “Ya don’t know how much dis really means t’ me,” or, “De Lo’ shed ‘is blessins upon ya.”
They were thoroughly exhausted from their continuous vigil. The scene of bodies strewn all over in the small space was a strange, but somehow holy one. Silence settled over them, even the crickets quiet out of reverence. It was a modern nativity, or burial, every night.
Wilma dreamed of her home in Alabama that she was raised in. It was white with light red shutters. The streets were empty, and the grass was cool. Her feet were running down the concrete, padding softly and innocently. She ran into the house, smiling.
Wilma awoke in a pool of sweat. She looked over instinctively to where Jabez was sleeping. “He’s gone! They’re gone!” She ran out from the bedroom through the kitchen, into the frigid night. The Parkinsons, after waking, followed behind her. They called out the boys’ names in a panic. The entire town was awoken by the noise. They came outside in their night robes and gowns, trying to see what all the commotion was about. A crowd was forming, only adding to the confusion. They raced all over the town, searching in houses as the owners stood by indignantly.
The tired crowd began to get bored. They accepted the boys as being lost in the wilderness, and started to return back to bed. But they stopped and turned as Mr. Parkinson cried out, “I found ‘em! They’re here, by the billboard!”
The scene moved to the outskirts. It was dark except for the light of a lantern Mr. Parkinson held. He had grabbed it as he passed by his house during the search. The beam of light struck the scene into an etching of the night. It was the black Pieta, the Southern death. Jonah sat atop the billboard, holding Jabez in is arms, rocking him. “Hush, boy, hush,” he whispered, speaking more to himself than Jabez.
“Come down from there, Jonah! Why don’t you come down here?” Mr. Parkinson called. Jonah was silent, and kept his gaze fixed on Jabez, rocking him gently. The crowd was whispering. “Look at what the big buffoon has gone and done now. Kidnapped his own brother.”
“Someone get him down!” shouted Wilma. She was sobbing hysterically. Mr. Parkinson went up the ladder to the top of the scaffolding, holding the lantern between his teeth. It was silent as he reached the top. He knelt over the boys, and put his fingers to the arm of Jabez. “He’s dead,” he whispered. “He’s dead.” Jonah didn’t move, tears falling onto the limp form of his brother. Rocking back and forth, back and forth.
The silence became a pressure, until it was finally shattered by Wilma’s wailing. Some group assembled, and led her back to the house, waiting to be told what to do. They sat around and stared as she wailed and moaned. “My baby, my baby…” Confusion intensified the silence. Someone yawned. Another went home. But it was all still strange until someone got up and turned on the skillet. And the kitchen became a kitchen again, and the people became townspeople again. They sat around and talked of meaningless things again, avoiding painful subjects and unpleasant memories.
The funeral was small, as all things in Jasper. Wilma left with Jonah a few days later. Their house became rundown with no one to look after it. It was a house of phantoms. A house of ghosts. It became a house of forgotten legends, soon skewed by the retellings of young boys, making dares and throwing stones through windows.
Life went back to normal in Jasper. Things moved steadily onward, never upwards. But something had changed slightly in the hearts of the people. Something had been altered within them. The land was no longer flat, as the billboard towered above even the mountains, casting its own shadow on the town.
