Aspiration
I’m
not going to tell you my name, or where I live, or even what part of the
country. If I did, you’d probably say, “See, I told you those people are crazy.”
I don’t think we’re any crazier than anybody else. I think everybody has a
story to tell, and sometimes it isn’t pretty.
I
guess my story starts with Momma. She got up one Sunday morning when my little
sis and I were still in grade school and she said, “It’s Sunday morning and
these children belong in church.” With that, she cleaned us up and marched us
off to Sunday school and that’s where we’ve been nearly every Sunday since.
Daddy never
goes. Oh, he may go on Christmas, or maybe Easter, and he always plants his
vegetable garden on Good Friday. Other than that, he doesn’t hold much regard
for organized religion. He likes to read the Sunday paper and have a cup of
coffee, and maybe catch an early football game on the TV. Most of all, I think
he just enjoys having the house to himself. That’s his idea of a good Sunday
morning.
Our little
church is about the prettiest one in town. It sits back off the street with a
nice green lawn on three sides and parking out back. The old plaster walls are
painted white-on-white and the roof is Spanish tile. There is a steeple up
front with a little cross on top, and down both sides of the building are
pretty stained-glass windows. The pews inside are sturdy oak and can hold about
one hundred and twenty souls, and if you can sit there and not be inspired by
the light coming through those windows, well then, you’re probably at home
watching football like my daddy. The social hall is downstairs and has a full
kitchen, and along the south wall are the classrooms for the Sunday school.
Reverend Parsons says our church is “the perfect marriage of form and
function.” I think he’s right.
I used to fight
with Momma every Sunday because I didn’t want to get out of bed early and get
dressed up and all. I wanted to stay with Daddy and maybe watch some football.
But Momma wouldn’t hear of it. She’d pull me out of bed by the ear if she had
to.
When I was about
to start my sophomore year at the high school, things started to change. That’s
when I began to notice Nola Belle Whitt. Nola Belle is a widow woman, about
thirty-five or so. She lost her husband in the Korean Conflict. We’re not
supposed to call it a war. Anyway, she is a long-time member of the
congregation and a real dedicated Sunday school teacher. Nola has a daughter, Lola
Mae, who is a senior at our high school. Some folks say it was a mean trick for
a woman named Nola to name her daughter Lola. But it isn’t too confusing, so
long as we use both names: Nola Belle and Lola Mae.
Nola Belle is
about the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She has short brown hair, and soft
brown eyes, and the nicest smile. And she is a kind person, too. You can tell
just by talking to her. And, oh, does she have a shape on her! It is the best
I’ve ever seen. I mean, I’ve seen movie stars in the magazines and all, but
none of them has a shape to compare to Nola Belle Whitt. It’s a shape that can
keep you awake at night, take my word for it.
Lola Mae is
another story. She is pretty enough I guess, kind of a young version of her
mother, but that’s where the resemblance ends. Lola Mae is a moody, stuck up,
snotty brat of a girl as far as I’m concerned. I see her every day at school,
and every Sunday at church, and do you think she ever speaks to me? I’m just some
lowly sophomore runt and she’ll never let on that she even knows me. There’s a
word for girls like Lola Mae. Starts with a “B,” but I won’t repeat it here.
Anyway, start of
sophomore year, I finagled things so that I could be Nola Belle’s assistant
with her Sunday school class. I just help keep the kids in line and help with
class projects and such. I can’t wait to get to church on Sundays, just to be
in the same room with Nola Belle. She has a good job over on the shipyard and
she always dresses real nice. In the winter, it’s really pretty sweater sets,
and in the warm months, it’s nice cotton dresses with those scoopy necklines.
No matter what she puts on, it always shows off her shape. And that perfume she
wears: just a touch, but boy does she smell nice.
I love being in
the classroom with Nola Belle, being close to her, helping her with the kids,
brushing against her from time to time. And she is so sweet, too. Once she
reached up and touched my cheek and said, “You know, sweetie, there is
medication that can help with your breakouts. Lola Mae uses it. I’ll get some
for you, if you like.” And she did, and it helped. At first I was embarrassed
that she noticed, but after I thought about it, I realized how sweet it was for
her to even care. She is just that kind of person.
Well, one fine
spring day Joe Don Jackson showed up at our church, driving his jet-black 1956
Chevy Bel Air hardtop. Joe Don is big, real big, like a football player or
something, and nice looking too, if you like that type. He has dark hair and a
big smile with these gleaming white teeth, and all the ladies immediately went
into a twitter. He has this way of looking them in the eye and smiling the big
smile and making whoever he’s talking to feel like the only person in the
world. But I saw something else: most of the time, those bright blue eyes were
darting around the room, like he’s expecting somebody to jump him or something.
Real shifty-eyed, if you know what I mean.
Reverend Parsons
welcomed Joe Don with open arms and introduced him to the entire congregation.
It wasn’t long before Joe Don was in tight with the Men’s Club. He became a
regular usher and passed the plate every Sunday. I heard that collections went
way up, cause all the ladies liked him and all the men were a little scared,
him being so big and all.
That was all fine
with me, until I saw that he had his eye on Nola Belle Whitt. Right then and
there I took a strong opinion of Joe Don Jackson, and it wasn’t a high one
either.
A few weeks
later, it was all through the congregation that Nola Belle and Joe Don were
“seeing each other.” I think we all knew what that meant. Sure enough, you’d
see them after services, downstairs in the social hall, holding hands and
smooching and stuff. And him all the while with those shifty eyes.
One Sunday after
services, we were heading for the parking lot in back of the church and I
realized I’d left my bible in the Sunday school room. I didn’t want to leave it
there all week, so I told Momma I was going to get it and I’d be right back. I
went downstairs into the social hall and started across to where the classrooms
are located. All the lights were out, but there was some daylight from the
ground-level windows along the side of the building. As I got close to the
classroom, I could hear a voice and I realized it was Nola Belle. She was
saying, “Oh … Oh God … Oh God,” and I thought something must be wrong. The door
to the classroom was open about halfway and I started in to see what was the
matter. Then I stopped dead in my tracks. At the far end of the room, there was
a countertop and sink, and Nola Belle was perched up on the countertop, her
legs wrapped around Joe Don’s waist, and him with his slacks down around his
ankles.
I stepped back
out of the doorway and pressed myself against the wall, gasping for air. It was
like somebody punched me in the gut and I couldn’t breathe. Then I heard Joe
Don calling, “God, oh God …” I couldn’t stand to listen, so I ran out into the
social hall and waited for them to finish. Finally, I heard Nola Belle’s heels
clicking on the wood floor and she and Joe Don came out of the room. I started
toward them as if I just got there.
“Oh hi, honey.
What are you doing down here?” She gave me that sweet smile of hers.
“I forgot my
bible,” I said, and nodded at Joe Don as I passed.
I went into the
room and found my bible, right where I’d left it. I stood there for a while,
looking at that countertop and thinking what an asshole Joe Don Jackson is,
doing it right here in the church. But then I thought, well, if God gave us
these feelings, then maybe church is as good a place as any. At least that
shifty-eyed sonofabitch could have locked the door. Right there I started to
cry, and I really wasn’t sure why.
Not long after
that, Nola Belle and Joe Don announced that they’d gone off to a Justice of the
Peace and got married. All the church ladies were disappointed because they
didn’t get the chance to put on a big wedding, but they consoled themselves by
throwing a real nice reception in the social hall. I didn’t want to go, but
Momma insisted. We all brought presents and the happy couple greeted us at the
door. It was nice, with punch and cake and lots of little sandwiches with the
crust cut off. I thought the cake was first rate.
After a while,
Joe Don came over to me and struck up a conversation about fishing. I told him
I’d been out to Lake Chabot a few times but had no luck. He started giving me
lots of pointers and told me how he usually caught his limit out there. He said
he’d take me some day, maybe after church, and show me how he did it. I could
see how people were drawn to Joe Don, what with all that charm going for him.
Pretty soon, he wandered off and went to talk to Lola Mae.
Lola Mae was
sitting by herself and looking real pouty, but I noticed something new about
her. Her shape was really coming in. She was going to be just like her momma,
maybe even prettier. But that didn’t matter, cause she was still a stuck up
snot. So, Joe Don walks over and starts chatting her up, and all the while his
shifty eyes are scanning the room. All I could think of was him with his pants
down to his ankles.
A few Sundays
later, I was up and showered and ready for church and I went into the kitchen
to get a piece of toast and some orange juice. There was Momma, still in her
housecoat, standing by the sink taking deep drags on her cigarette. Daddy was
at the kitchen table with his coffee and his Sunday paper.
“Hey, Momma,” I
said, pouring myself a glass of juice. “Why aren’t you ready for church?”
“We’re not going
today,” she said, blowing the smoke out hard, the way she did whenever she was
mad.
“Really? Why
not?” I was looking forward to seeing what Nola Belle would be wearing that
morning.
“Go ahead,”
Daddy said. “Tell him why.”
“Hush up,” she
said, and blew another hard stream of smoke.
I stared at
Momma and she finally stubbed out her cigarette and looked me in the eye.
“It seems that
Joe Don Jackson got caught taking money from the collection plate. Seems he’s
been doing it for some time.”
I turned away
from her so that she couldn’t see me smile.
“Tell him the
rest,” Daddy said.
She paused for a
second and then went on. “It seems that Joe Don and Lola Mae have run off
together. She left a note for her momma saying they was in love and they’re
going off to Nevada somewhere to get married.”
“But how can
they do that?” I said. “He’s already married to Nola Belle.”
“It seems the
two of them wasn’t married after all. They was just living over there to Nola’s
house like … like …”
“Like a bunch of
bunny rabbits,” Daddy said.
“I said hush,
Harlan!” Momma was angry with him now. Daddy just chuckled and went back to his
newspaper.
I took a long
drink of juice and smiled again. Well, she’s quit of him now, and that’s a
good thing.
When Nola Belle
finally came back to church, all the ladies rallied around her. They hugged her
neck and kissed her cheek and gave her tissues to dab her eyes. Let’s face it:
it was the most exciting thing to happen in that church since the foundation
was poured.
Me, I took a
different track. I bought Nola Belle a card at the supermarket where I work
after school. It said something about “you got a friend,” or some such. I
signed it and slipped it in her purse one Sunday. I know she found it, though
she never said anything.
One of my
friends called her Nola Nitwit one time and I punched him real hard in the arm.
“What was that for?” he yelped. I told him nobody was going to talk bad about
Nola Belle when I was around.
So that’s my story. I’m her friend
and protector—for now. I’m getting my driver’s license real soon, and I’ve got
some money saved up. I’m going to get me a nice hardtop, or maybe even a
convertible. She’ll take notice then.
_____
There’s humble passion in this story. First love, true love is never forgotten. Somehow, it sticks around to keep your memories all yours no matter what.
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