Aspiration

 from Children of Vallejo

 

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.

_____