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IN MY HUMBLE OPINION ROkie White FEATURED COLUMNIST R Ray Collins FICTION |
The town where I grew up appeared unchanged. Standing on the
sidewalk in front of Momma’s house at the east edge of town,
I could read the "Resume Speed" sign at the west end
of town without my glasses. Not that there was much traffic to
resume speed anymore. A new highway – four-lane, limited
access, 65 miles per hour – slashed through hay pastures
and wheat fields a half-mile west of town despite the mayor’s
letter writing campaign to the state legislature. However, nobody
but the mayor felt slighted because even bigger towns were bypassed.
The mayor, by way of protest, had the town’s new spherical
water -- with a silhouette remarkably like a golf ball set on
a tee and the only part of town visible from the highway -- painted
sunshine yellow. Then, with city funds, he hired his consistently
out-of-work son-in-law, Jake Deem, to paint the black, round
eyes and upturned, semicircular mouth of an eternally happy,
smiley face facing the new highway. All without approval from
the City Council. It caused quite a commotion when I was in high school. Almost
twenty years later the town remained divided over the image the
water tower projected of Aspire, Kansas. The slight minority
complained it looked like a jaundiced moron beaming blindly over
the town. But the majority favored the attention it brought.
Aspire? people would ask when I told them where I was from.
Isn’t that the town with the yellow, smiley-faced water
tower? It has to be the most distinctive, if not inane, landmark
in the state. I bumped the toe of my jogging shoe against a crack in the
sidewalk where grass sprouted in a jagged green line across the
concrete. Maybe while I was home for the summer I could get that
fixed. Momma wouldn’t bother to have anything done until
a major problem erupted and the repairs would cost her a small
fortune. Not that I needed something else to worry about. I’d
come home for summer vacation to escape problems -- my own. It
was the first summer since I graduated from college and accepted
a job teaching high school science in Kansas City that I’d
been home for the whole summer. The first year I hadn’t
signed up to teach summer school. The only trouble with changing
locations was it didn’t erase the memories. Damn Collin. It was to have the been the perfect summer, one
to remember forever. The summer I married, honeymooned in Hawaii
and with luck become pregnant with our first child. Instead,
I’d tossed and turned all night in my juvenile single bed,
its lace canopy casting flirty moonlight shadows on the wall.
The indiscriminate memory of his apology, replaying endlessly
like a tape in a loop, impelled me out of bed before sunrise.
Now the only decision left to me on this clear, cool June
morning was whether to run east toward the highway or west toward
the river. I pulled my cold hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt
and chose east for no particular reason. Decision made, I slammed
my foot waist-high against the stolid box elder tree that shaded
Momma’s front yard and half the street. I don’t intend to spend my life with a man I couldn’t trust even if we were mere days away from our wedding. My gorgeous white wisp of a wedding gown, an unhappy memento, languished in the back of my closet along with the clothes I saved for Goodwill. "You still have the dress," Momma had said last
night as we ate supper. "What about if you put the wedding
off for awhile? You know I’ve always thought Christmas weddings
are the most beautiful. And your dress has long sleeves doesn’t
it? Perfect for winter. Give you two time to make up." I shook my head back and forth and concentrated on my chicken
cordon bleu which was overcooked and dry. I tried not to choke
as I swallowed. "What’d he do anyhow? Was it the bachelor party?"
She continued when I didn’t answer. "You young people
take things too seriously. Forgive and forget you know it says
in the scripture. At your age you would do well to heed it." She asked questions all evening I refused to answer and we both went to bed annoyed. I hadn’t told anyone the whole story and wasn’t about to start with Momma. I couldn’t bear to think about it much less submit to a heir-induced third degree. If my own biological clock was ticking, Momma’s grandmother clock was close to triggering an alarm. It was best not to think of last night. I switched legs and
stretched toward my left toe. Mind over emotion, I told myself.
That was what was important now. I stood on one leg, grabbed
my left foot behind my back and pulled up. Then repeated it with
my right foot. I jogged in place to warm up. The brisk air forced its way
through the rips and tears in my favorite jogging suit, cooling
my skin still warm from Momma’s overheated house. Momma,
I believe, would happily live in the kitchen oven if only she
fit. I took deep breaths to build up the oxygen in my blood. Cleansing
breaths. Good air in. Bad air out. Good air in. Bad finance out.
Out damn finance. Hit the road Collin and don’t you come
back .. what rhymes with Collin? I clamped the headphones to my tape player on my head, turned
the volume to complete oblivion and started to run. It was over
a week since I’d last run and I could tell quickly. I felt
awkward and stiff like a marionette bouncing up and down on strings.
My hair, pulled into a shaggy ponytail, slapped my ears with
every step. Jogging past two houses I was out of town. Farms started at
backyard city fences and bordered the town on all sides. On the
other side of the city limit sign, Floyd Swift’s Angus cows
raised their black, state fair prize-winning heads in unison,
mouths dripping brome and clover, to watch me pass. I ran past farmhouses haloed by yellow yard lights beginning
to blink off in the increasing sunlight. From memory I placed
a family in every house – Younghan’s, Wiehe’s,
Pfolfer’s, Smith’s, Fischer’s. By the time I reached
Theno’s mailbox I quite taxing my memory. I was in physical
pain. The round-topped hills that looked so picturesque, undulating
away from the river in waves of wheat, soybeans and corn, were
much steeper than I remembered. Too many morning runs on the
level high school track had ruined me for this uphill-downhill
torture. I don’t remember reaching the entrance ramp of the freeway
or even making the decision to run on its wide level shoulder.
I don’t remember the moment I lengthened my stride to accommodate
the endless, empty trail of concrete. Thought was abandoned to
the melodies of Mozart on my Walkman and the sheer rush of running.
Only a very loud noise could have invaded my runner’s
haze. It started as a soft whine overriding symphony no. 9. At
first I thought the tape was bad. The rhythmic, annoying whine
increased. I snatched the earphones off my head. The noise only
grew louder. Then it hit me. A siren. A jolt of cold, illogical panic struck. I’ve never heard
a police siren in my life without feeling guilty. Without wondering
what law I just broke. Without feeling the police were after
me. I broke stride. Stumbled into a tottery two-step. Nothing
in front of me. The unknown breathing down my neck. I tried to turn. Regretted, along with Momma, never having
borne her grandchildren. Stumbled. Stepped on my own toes. (In
my own defense, I’m tall and have big feet.) Arms wind-milling
I tried to maintain balance. I didn’t. I fell slowly, and
none to gracefully, onto my right hip and rolled. Down. And down.
The side of the road dropped away steeply, the highway built
level across a shallow valley. Turning cartwheels on my knees and elbows past beer cans and
potato chip bags, I wondered why the city didn’t have an
"adopt a highway" program to keep the right of ways
free of litter. It was a disgrace. The mayor should be informed. When my knee hit a rock and my rear landed in a puddle of
oil-skimmed water, I finally stopped with a splash -- my head
spinning, my Walkman destroyed. It took a moment to remember why I was sitting in a puddle
of cold water. Then a moment longer to asses the seriousness
of various new aches and pains. I hoped that idiot of a policeman,
blaring his siren at my back had lost his speeder. I looked up. A khaki-clad figure, wearing reflective sunglasses
and a broad-brimmed hat started down at me. I looked around cautiously
for bank robbers or murderers who might be hiding in the ditch
with me. No one. Just me. Maybe he stopped to see if I was hurt. I waved to let him
know I was all right. Something about the way he stood –
legs too far apart, hunched shoulders, one hand moving restlessly
from badge to sunglasses to hat, the other hand resting on the
hilt of his gun, made me think my well-being wasn’t his
concern. He made no move to help me out of the ditch. With one hand I secured the waistband of my sodden, drooping
pants and with the other I grabbed cottonwood saplings to lever
myself out of the ditch. Heaving a muddy foot onto the shoulder
of the road I struggled upright. Straightening to my full five
feet eight inches, I stood toe to toe with him. My eyes reflected
back levelly in his mirrored sunglasses. Up close he didn’t
look a bit older than most of the high school freshman I taught.
We stared at each other silently. "You know pedestrians are prohibited on the highway?"
His voice squeaked out like a badly tuned clarinet, slightly
high-pitched and without inflections. A large, festering pimple
bloomed on his nose. "Thanks for asking," I said in my best school teacher’s
voice. "No, I’m not hurt." Not the way I probably
would have answered if I hadn’t been sopping wet, freezing
cold and a little disoriented from my recent downhill gymnastics.
My knee started to throb. Yes, I was hurt. "It’s against the law, Ma’am. This is a limited
access highway. Didn’t you read the signs?" For pity’s sake, I thought, if I’d read the sign
I wouldn’t have been on the highway. I’m a law abiding
citizen. I’d never even had a speeding ticket. "No." I said, and folded my arms across my chest,
more to keep warm than anything else. "Could I see some ID please?" I shook my head. I didn’t carry a driver’s license
when I ran. "Would you put your hands on the car please?" "What?" I meant to sound indignant. It came out
as more of a croak. "Hands on the car, please – legs spread." The request stunned me. He was going to frisk me? Me? Jayne
Tilley? I stood there like an idiot. It took a conscious effort to close my mouth. Which was a split second longer than his patience with me. He moved quickly. Grabbed my wrist. It startled me. Out of unthinking, self-preservation instinct, I jerked away. As I reeled backwards the knuckles of my left hand grazed his chin. I’ve never done anything like that in my whole life. All reflex reactions. Riding in a police car with my hands handcuffed behind my back was fairly uncomfortable. Worse yet was riding in the rear seat of a police car through the town where I grew up. |