James Hannaham - Delicious Foods

But I had always gathered strength from this city, and even though everything else in my life had changed drastically, I still could find, tangled somewhere in its grassy blocks and stooping live oaks, the person I had once known I would be, and traces of the husband I lost. I felt this most strongly whenever I stumbled across a diner that served undercooked grits the way Nat liked, or when I stood on the sidewalk in front of the place we had once lived on Joe Louis Boulevard, where Eddie had been conceived, or if I touched the gas lamp outside the Renaissance Bed & Breakfast (which had not changed at all) and looked up to imagine our shadows still crossing the window frames. One Saturday afternoon, not long after I got to town, I took a walk over to Centenary on what turned out to be graduation day. From the far side of Dixie Road I tearfully watched all the children in their black robes and square graduation hats streaming down the stairs and out of Gold Dome, then snuck into the rapidly emptying building myself. In the foyer, as I peered at all the basketball trophies Centenary had won during Nat’s day — especially with his friend Robert Parish — I could’ve sworn that I felt Nat touch my shoulder. Once I entered the court, I heard Nat’s proud, silky voice echo over the shiny floor and up to the spectacular roof that sheltered the bleachers like a space-age quilt.

In comparison to the almost supernatural comforts that Shreveport gave me, I sometimes thought of my program as bland, but Tony, my sponsor from group, had recently reminded me, and everybody else, that party people think only self-destructive activities are pleasurable and exciting; everything else bores them. The mundane parts of my day had become vital, and so had my acceptance of the past, though the latter sometimes stunned me into silence or tears, and both — the mundane present and the sorrowful past — now had to keep me straight, each one like a rope thrown to me from a boat while I thrashed around in a cold, churning river.

When I moved here, just two months after the trial, I decided on a complete renaissance for myself. No more unhealthy living. I had to emphasize fresh food, exercise, and moderation, like it said in the natural-foods sections in gigantic supermarkets I’d only recently started paying attention to, because my life depended on it. The thought made me imagine wooden grocery-store signs above my head, painted with pictures of celery and beefsteak tomatoes with smiling faces, and the idea made me laugh — another beneficial habit, as Tony and the rest often restated at the six p.m. daily meetings downtown. I started keeping a journal. I didn’t need the book anymore either, not with so many new friends living its principles right in front of me. Where had the book gotten me anyway? Delicious, that’s where.

Every morning, I rose at five, even if I didn’t have the energy— especially if I didn’t — and cut apples or cantaloupe directly into a particular oversize white porcelain bowl I’d found at a thrift store. The bowl had a pleasing smoothness to it, like a good set of teeth. I’d spoon yogurt over the fruit and sprinkle it with granola, though not too much, since I don’t like the way granola sticks in my molars and would rather not spend half the time jogging with my finger stuck in the back of my mouth, trying to dislodge oats. Some days, when I wanted to reward myself, I’d squirt a little honey over the whole mixture before folding its contents together. I would always think about the people whose hands had touched those apples and that cantaloupe before I ate. Sometimes, at the supermarket, I asked questions about the growers that nobody could answer, and eventually the stock boys started to hide when they saw me coming.

I learned to smile with my mouth closed during job interviews, and in that way I managed to secure a waitressing gig on the other side of Queensborough, at a family place called Quincy’s that featured a phenomenal all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet popular with — let’s just say, the area’s largest men and women. The program required me to take a job as a way of reentering the straight world — it wasn’t a job you were supposed to like, just a means to an end, but I happened to enjoy the atmosphere. Morton the Manager, as they called him, was a doughy-faced, empathic gay man who joked around with everyone, the waitresses in particular, and created a warm feeling of community for the staff, a group of smart-mouthed, hardworking women I identified with and admired, even though I often wondered what they said about me behind my back. My acceptance of the job sometimes enabled me to see beyond the present to some latent ambition I had previously expressed only by dating men I considered leaders, and I felt I had something to offer others myself, if only my difficult cautionary tale or the suggestion that if I could survive these experiences, anybody could.

Still, I had life issues to concentrate on before I could think too far ahead. First, I saved up to get my dental implants. Then, after several weeks of rice-and-ketchup suppers, I had put aside enough, if I stretched it, to move out of the program’s quarters and rent an upstairs apartment at the Villa del Lago, opposite Cross Lake. The advertising for the place— Surrounded by beautiful landscaping and all the comforts and luxuries you desire —looked a lot better than the place itself, but this time I hadn’t expected anything much. The brown-and-tan two-story complex resembled a neglected Spanish-style motel from the days when Nat and I first came to Shreveport, but that didn’t bother me, considering the kinds of places I’d lived in the recent past. In the courtyard, though, many of the apartments looked out over the small pool, with a good portion of the oblong lake shimmering just beyond it. Mine had a view of one of the wooded interior courtyards, but I could easily visit the pool, with its lakeside view. To me this felt like the kind of place that Jackie had promised they were taking me the night I got in that stupid van.

The Villa del Lago somehow made humility seem elegant. I felt a kinship with the place — we’d both seen better days, I knew, we could use some sprucing up, but something essential and beautiful about our inner construction would never disappear. I didn’t much like the clattering racket and loud horns of the freight trains that passed only a few yards away even late at night, but they were part of what made the apartment cheap, and I got used to them. I thought I might start to find them romantic after a while, those resounding whistles floating over the land in the earliest hours of the morning, like the howling of lonely animals.

On the particular morning I’m remembering, once I finished my breakfast, I slid into a pair of shorts and tugged a sports bra over my head, the first one I’d ever bought. I liked how tightly the Lycra blend hugged my upper body. I adjusted the underseam against my sternum, pulling it forward and making a thwap sound on my skin, then pulled my shorts above my underwear. I swung open my front door to a humid blast of morning air and descended the stairs to cross the parking lot.

As inviting as everybody found the water, Shreveport was a fish-in-the-lake city, not a jog-around-the-lake city, and they hadn’t put in a path for running along the shore — you might try dancing up the wooden ties, football player — style, on the stretch of railroad that kissed the east side of Cross Lake on its way to Mount Pleasant or Dallas, but that did not seem realistic. Instead I crossed Milam Street and made a loop east of the lake, on an old path partially submerged in dirt and dandelions.

That day I had decided to be ambitious and take a more challenging route farther away from the lake, four miles in total, as opposed to my usual three. As I passed the local high school, a hint of dizziness entered my head. That didn’t bother me at first. The beginning of any run always made me short of breath, and I became conscious of my heart jiggling against my rib cage like a water balloon. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and spat and breathed in through my nose and told myself, Keep going. My tongue seemed to swell in my mouth, though, and my left arm tingled uncomfortably.