The Promise of Jesse Woods by Chris Fabry Page A

logger boots. “I didn’t know you was here.” His voice was as flat as a skipping rock.
    “I didn’t know I had to file a report.”
    After an uncomfortable silence, Dexter threw back his head and laughed. He was slow but exuberant. “That’s a good one, Matt.”
    “When I tell Earl you was in here, he’s not going to be happy,” Verle said.
    “I doubt I’m as committed to his happiness as you are.”
    Verle drew a little closer, and judging from the bulge in his lower lip, he had only a couple of minutes before he needed to spit. “I’m watching you, Plumley.”
    “I see that,” I said, matching his tone.
    I turned and took one more look at the empty meat department. I didn’t want to put her in the middle. Not now.
    “Nice seeing you again, Dexter,” I said, clapping his shoulder.
    I went back to the car and drove through the parking lot to where Dumpsters lined the alley and the loading dock sat empty. I waited a few minutes, hoping she might appear behind the plastic liners over the door. When she didn’t, I drove to my parents’ house and slipped inside without notice. I closed the door to my room and fell into bed still dressed, burrowing my head into the pillow.

JUNE 1972
    The church picnic was not just the introduction of the new pastor but a social affair rivaling a state dinner at the White House. Instead of fine china and sterling, we had paper plates and plastic forks. Instead of steak and lobster, we ate freshly cut watermelon and coleslaw by the gallon along with burgers and hot dogs. The weight of the potato salad made the folding tables wobble.
    The elders had canceled Sunday school that morning, the only time that would happen in my days there, with the exception of one major snowfall and a bitterly cold day in 1978 when the downstairs pipes burst. My father accompanied the elders to the platform and sat behind thepulpit while my mother played the piano. The organist was a teenage boy not much older than me who tried valiantly to keep up.
    On Sundays, all the Massey Ferguson and John Deere hats came off at the door, and the men who had strong leanings toward unions and political platforms politely put aside their differences and mingled, though it was interesting to walk through the parking lot and see the ratio of Nixon to McGovern bumper stickers. Older women wore dresses and hose and smelled of sickly sweet perfume. Their hair was usually up, while younger women wore theirs down, cascading to the shoulders of their modest dresses. Boys wore white T-shirts under their button-ups and there was a smattering of ties, but those boys usually stretched at their collars throughout the service. You could tell the haves and have-nots from pants and shoes. Well-fitting pants meant you were in the upper echelon. High-water pants meant it had been a while since you had enough money for new. Men who owned a pair of wing-tip oxfords were on one end of the economic scale, while at the other were those with freshly hosed work boots. Men smelled of tobacco, peppermint, and shoe polish.
    “Matt, you’re going to see people in church and school who don’t have much,” my mother had said that morning before we left the house. “Don’t ever look down on anyone and never laugh at anybody’s clothes. That’s the cruelest thing you can do.”
    I could think of a few things more cruel, but her point was well-taken. I wondered if she was speakingfrom experience. She and my father had grown up in the Depression and I had heard stories about how hard things had been.
    “Now I want you to look for Gwen Bailey,” my mother said. “She’s real smart. Loves to read, just like you. And she’s real pretty.”
    The prospect of being set up made me sweat. I agreed I would look for her, but inside, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to interact. I was always nervous around girls, another reason I liked Jesse. I could be myself around her.
    “Is Mawmaw coming?”
    “She doesn’t feel comfortable in church with