Michael Martone - Alive and Dead in Indiana

Where was I when I heard about it? Let’s see. He died on that Friday, but I didn’t hear until Saturday at a speech meet in Lafayette. I was in the cafetorium, drinking coffee and going over the notes I had made on a humorous interp I’d just finished judging. The results were due in a few minutes, and the cafetorium was filling up with students between rounds. I had drama to judge next and was wondering how my own kids had done in their first rounds. So, I was sitting there, flipping back and forth through the papers on my clipboard, drinking coffee, when Kevin Wilkerson came through the swinging doors. I saw him first through the windows in the doors, the windows that have the crisscrossing chicken wire sandwiched between the panes. He had this look on his face. I thought, “Oh my, I bet something’s happened in his round.” He looked like he’d done awful. But he’d probably flubbed a few words or dropped a line or two, or so I thought. I once judged a boy making his first speech who went up, forgot everything, and just stood there. Pretty soon there was a puddle on the floor and all of this in silence. The timekeeper sat there flipping over the cards. So I spoke up and repeated the last thing I could remember from his speech. Something about harvesting the sea. And he picked up right there and finished every word, wet pants and all.

They were corduroy pants, I remember. He finished last in his round, but you’ve got to hand it to the boy. I’d like to say the same kid went on to do great things. But I can’t because I never heard. So I tell this story to my own kids when they think they have done poorly, and I was getting ready to tell Kevin something like it as he came up to the table. Kevin was very good at extemp. He’s a lawyer now, a good one, in Indianapolis. He said to me then, “Mrs. Nail, I’m afraid I’ve got some real bad news.” And I must have said something like nothing could be as bad as the look on your face. Then he told me. “Jimmy Dean is dead. He died in a wreck.”

They’d been listening to the car radio out in the parking lot between rounds. That’s how they heard. “Are you all right, Mrs. Nail?” Kevin was saying. Now, I’m a drama teacher. I was Jimmy’s first drama coach, as you know. I like to think I have a bit of poise, that I have things under control. I don’t let myself in for surprises, you know. But when Kevin said that to me, I about lost it, my stage presence if you will, right there in the cafetorium. Then everyone seemed to know about it all at once, and all my students began showing up. They stood around watching to see what I’d do. Most of them had met Jimmy the spring before, you know, when he came home with the Life photographer. They just stood watching me there with the other students from the other schools kind of making room for us. Well, if I didn’t feel just like that boy who’d wet his pants. Everybody watching and the time passing like that.

But you were wondering where I was, not how I felt.

I suppose, too, you’d like to know how I met James Dean, the plays we did in high school, the kids he hung around with and such. What magazine did you say you’re from? I can tell you these things, though I don’t quite understand why people like yourself come looking for me. I’m flattered — because I really didn’t teach Jimmy to act. I have always said he was a natural that way. I think I see that something happened when he died. But something happens, I suppose, when anybody dies. Or is born for that matter.

I guess something is also gone when the last person who actually knew him dies. It’s as if people come here to remember things that never happened to them. There are the movies, and the movies are good. It’s just sometimes the people of Fairmount wonder what all the fuss is about. It isn’t so much that the grave gets visited. You’d expect that. Why, every time you head up the pike to Marion, there is a strange car with out-of-state plates, bumping through the cemetery. It’s just that then the visitors tend to spread out through town, knocking on doors.

Marcus and Ortense, his folks (well, not his parents, you know), say people still show up on the porch. They’re there on the glider, sun up, when Ortense goes for the Star . Or someone will be taking pictures of the feedlot and ask to see Jimmy’s bedroom. Why come to the home town? It’s as if they were those students in the cafetorium just watching and waiting for things to happen after the news has been brought.

People are always going through Indiana. Maybe this is the place to stop. Maybe people miss the small town they never had.

I’m the schoolteacher, all right. I remember everyone. I have to stop myself from saying, “Are you Patty’s little brother?” Or “The Wilton boy?”

That’s small town.

The first I remember him, he was in junior high. I was judging a speech contest for the WCTU, and Jimmy was in it, a seventh grader. He recited a poem called “Bars.” You see the double meaning there?

He started it up kneeling behind a chair, talking through the slats of the back, you know. Props. It wasn’t allowed. No props. I stopped him and told him he would have to do it without the chair. But he said he couldn’t do it that way. I asked him why not. He said he didn’t know. He stood there on the stage. Didn’t say one word. Well, just another boy gone deaf and dumb in front of me. One who knew the words.

I prompted him. He looked at the chair off to the side of the stage.

Couldn’t speak without his little prison. So he walked off.

“Bars” was a monologue, you see. In high school, Jimmy did a monologue for me, for competition. “The Madman.” We cut it from Dickens.

We took it to the Nationals in Colorado that year. Rode the train out there together for the National Forensic League tournament. As I said, it was a monologue. But it called for as many emotions as a regular interp which might have three or four characters. You never get more than five or six characters in a regular reading. But Jimmy had that many voices and moods in this single character. Could keep them straight. Could go back and forth with them. He was a natural actor. I didn’t teach him that. Couldn’t.

I know what you’re thinking. You think that if you slice through a life anywhere you’ll find the marbling that veins the whole cake. Not true. He was an actor. He was other people. Just because he could be mad doesn’t mean he was.

You know the scene in the beanfield. Come to the window. There, you see that field? Beans.

They used mustard plants in the movie.

And here, we know that. Jimmy knew that too. Beans are bushier. Leave it to Hollywood to get it all wrong.

In the summer, kids here walk through the beans and hoe out the weeds. They wear white T-shirts and blue jeans in all that green. Jimmy walked too when he was here.

That’s the town’s favorite scene. Crops. Seeing that — those boys in the bushes, white shirts, blue pants. How could he have known how to be insane? Makes me want to seal off those fields forever. Keep out everything. You can understand that, can’t you?

It was quiet then. Now the Air Guard jets fly over from Peru. I notice most people get used to it. At night, you can hear the trucks on I-69 right through your bed. I lost boys on that highway before it was even built. They’d go down to the Muncie exit and nudge around the barricades in their jalopies. Why, the road was still being built, you know. Machinery everywhere. Imagine that. How white that new cement must have been in the moonlight. Not a car on the road. This was before those yard lights the rural electric cooperative gives the farmers. Those boys would point their cars south to Indianapolis and turn out the lights, knowing it was supposed to be straight until Anderson. No signs. No stripes on the road. New road through the beanfields, through the cornfields. Every once and a while a smudge pot, a road lantern. That stretch of road was one of the first parts finished, and it sat there, closed for years it seemed, as the rest of the highway was built up to it along with the weight stations and the rest stops.