James Dean Is Dead

She woke up every morning, rollers in her hair, and stumbled into his room. The smell of alcohol wafted from her breath as she whispered in his ear. Her voice was soft and full of mourning, a sort of silent fear that both angered him and moved him. She said “James Dean is dead.” He said, “Momma, I know.” It was her private eulogy, the way she mourned the world and her place in it. It had nothing to do with Jimmy and his own great tragedy, it was about hers and about helplessness and maybe a little bit about addiction. He waited until she shuffled from the room to roll over and open his eyes and would catch, invariably, the same stained bathrobe he’d seen for half his life and would squeeze his eyes shut to stifle what might have been tears if they hadn’t dried up so long ago.

He pulled himself out of bed and tugged on yesterdays shorts and t-shirt and ran a hand through shaggy blonde hair, nine year olds hardly cared about their appearance. At least that’s the way he thought it was out there, where things were right and normal. He walked up to her easy chair, she’d put her self there today. “Momma, it’s me Henry.” He whispered in a low voice, so that he didn’t startle her. “I’m gonna go do some things today and I’ll be back later.” She didn’t nod, but he knew she understood. She had to somewhere deep inside, the part that James didn’t have his hands on.

Outside, the patchy grass stuck up between his toes, cool and still laden with morning dew. The sun wasn’t very high yet and if he got going he’d make the four way crossroad before noon. It was barren out here, the town was small and dusty and the roads were unpaved. When Old Man Harris’s rusty Ford rumbled past it stirred up enough dust for a storm. Henry found that he was now a uniform brown from head to bare toe and swore with a word he’d heard the big kids use before he trudged on.

He’d heard them talking, the big kids, that if you made it on Sunday to the old crossroads at noon there’d be a man there and he’d answer any question you put to him provided you gave him what he asked. They’d been too scared to ditch church to do it but Henry had a mission. He had his suspicions about what would be waiting for him when he got there, Henry could be wise like that some times, and he hadn’t the faintest idea as to what he would do when the debt was called. He was just a kid after all.

Henry ran the rest of the way, feet smacking the hard packed dirt in an off kilter rhythm, so that he arrived at the crossroads out of breath. He bent over and rested dirty hands on dirty bent knees. “What ya doin’ kid?” Except it sounded more like “keed” than “kid”. Henry remained stooped over; petrified by the smooth baritone voice and the smell of cigarette smoke and what could have been some sort of hair tonic. “I came to ask a man a question.” His voice trembled like he imagined leaves must as they fell. He felt like he was falling and could not draw strength from the silence that followed.

He looked up slowly and gazed upon a worn leather jacket, slicked back hair, and a half cocked smile that could only belong to one man. He wondered, not for the first time, what his Momma had asked James Dean and knew, with the certainty of the very young, that this man was not James Dean. Henry also knew that soon, if he didn’t act, he’d lose his courage and then this man would have him. Like he had Momma and Frank Johnson, who said he saw a man with fire eyes.

Henry reached down in side himself and pulled out a fortification of courage that he would never have or need again. The kind of courage that made one ordinary in the using, the kind that saves small worlds and is all the more fantastic for doing so. After all it’s the small worlds that matter, the ones we live and die by. He stared through James’s dark sunglasses into his camp fire eyes and with both arms held out to the side clasped the man in an embrace. The kind of embrace he wanted to give to his Momma.

The man sputtered and the cigarette hit the ground with a sound that thundered across the empty road, all four ways, and rattled his bones to the core. There followed a sob, soft like his mothers, and for a moment Henry couldn’t tell if it came from him or James. “Let go Kid,” This time it was more like “kid” than “keed”, James said, “You’re killin’ me.” Henry said,” I know.” It would be easy to hold on until there was nothing left but ash. “Whatever you want Henry, it’s yours.” His voice wasn’t like the old James Dean movies he’d watched anymore, it was low and tired and sad. It hadn’t occurred to Henry that the devil could be as sad and weary as his mother. “Let ‘em go and I’ll let you go. Fair’s fair.” The Devil knew what he meant, that he meant Momma and Frank Johnson and all the others in town, to make his point clear Henry squeezed harder. “All right kid, it’s done, easy as that. But I got something for you. I don’t ever wanna see you at my crossroads again. Got it?”

Henry stepped back quickly and he looked up one last time and saw what he thought he’d see, not James Dean at all. Just a tired old man with a sad smile, Henry supposed he’d been playing this game for a long time. Henry nodded and The Devil smiled and said.” First time I was bested by a kid, how’d you know?” and Henry said,” Grammy always said ‘The only sure way to kill the devil is with kindness.” The Old Devil laughed and Henry stood silently as he walked away into the sun, mumbling about old wives tales.

Henry ran home like his feet were on fire and didn’t stop until he was at his own front door. Here he hesitated, unsure. The Devil was a liar, but Henry was counting on self preservation to win out the day. Gathering the remains of his courage he walked through the door and there she stood. And he said “Momma, James Dean is Dead.” And she said. “I know, honey, I know.”