Blackburn Read online

  Jimmy was surprised. He had to think for a minute. “Jimmy Blackburn, sir,” he said at last.

  “That’s a nice name,” the blind man said. “Have you been saved?” He asked this question in the same tone as Mr. Sturner asking who had flushed the wad of paper towels in the boys’ rest room.

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. “Last Easter.” Every child in the Fairview Baptist Church had been saved that day. The pastor had made them come up to the altar and accept Jesus Christ as their personal Savior in unison. Jimmy hadn’t felt any different afterward, but now he was glad it had happened. He would have hated to tell the blind man that he was one of the unsaved.

  The blind man smiled. “That’s wonderful. What better time to be saved than on the day the Lord arose. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said.

  “And He’ll never leave you now, Jimmy. He’ll live in your heart forever, and if you need help, he’ll tell you what to do. He’s the one friend you can always count on.”

  Jimmy glanced at Mrs. Porter. She seemed to be concentrating on her food now. He leaned closer to the blind man and spoke in a quiet voice.

  “Did Jesus really talk to you?” he asked.

  The blind man’s smile faded a little. “He talks to me all the time, Jimmy.” His voice boomed.

  Mrs. Porter looked up from her food and gave Jimmy a warning look. He pretended not to see her.

  “I mean when you were on the stage,” he said, still keeping his voice quiet. Maybe Mrs. Porter wouldn’t hear him over the lunchroom babble. She wouldn’t like what he was saying. It was almost as if he were calling the blind man a liar. “Did Jesus really whisper in your ear to warn you? So you wouldn’t walk off the edge?”

  The blind man’s smile came back full and strong. “Oh, that.” He picked up his napkin and rubbed it around his mouth. “Yes, He did, Jimmy. He saw that I was about to do myself harm, and He stopped me. He’ll do that for you too, if you keep Him in your heart and study His Word.”

  Mrs. Porter’s look had become fiercer. It was telling Jimmy to shut up and behave himself. But he couldn’t stop now. This was too important.

  “You mean Jesus was right there on the stage with you?” he asked. “Invisible?”

  The blind man chuckled. He tapped a finger against his sunglasses. “Everything is invisible to me, so I must rely on what I can hear and feel. And I tell you truly, I heard the Lord’s voice, and I felt His presence, just as I hear your voice and feel your presence right now. So don’t be fooled by what your eyes tell you, Jimmy. The Lord may be invisible to your eyes, but not to your heart.”

  Jimmy was excited. “Is it true that anything you ask in His name, He’ll give to you?”

  “Why, of course,” the blind man said. He seemed surprised that Jimmy would ask such a question. “That’s promised in the Bible, in the Lord’s own words. If you open your heart to Him, there’s nothing He won’t do for you.”

  Mrs. Porter cleared her throat. “Jimmy, you had better finish your meal now. Lunch period is almost over, and I’m sure you’ve pestered our guest quite enough.”

  The blind man chuckled again. “Ma’am, I only wish more youngsters would pester me as this boy has.” He smiled down at Jimmy. “I’m going to be talking to the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth graders this afternoon, Jimmy. I hope that they can still believe in the invisible too. Sometimes older children can’t, you know. The world has poisoned them. That’s why it’s good that you’re already saved. For some people, it’s too late. They’ve become too scarred to feel, too deafened to hear.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. He wasn’t listening hard now. His question had been answered. He took a few more bites of macaroni, then drank some milk. The blind man was still talking, but not to Jimmy. He was addressing the children across the table, repeating some of what he’d already said.

  Mrs. Porter’s lips were twitching. She kept looking up at the clock on the lunchroom wall. “Finish your meals, people. Lunch is over in six minutes.”

  Jimmy raised his hand. Mrs. Porter stared at him as if he had just pulled a booger from his nose. He kept his hand up until she asked what he wanted.

  “May I go to the rest room, please?” he asked.

  Mrs. Porter pressed her lips into a line and looked up at the clock again. “Have you finished your meal?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very well, then. You may throw away your trash and go to the rest room. You have five minutes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jimmy stood.

  The blind man touched his shoulder. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jimmy,” he said. He held out his hand.

  Jimmy put his right hand into the blind man’s grip. The blind man’s hand was big and soft. It was as if Jimmy’s own hand had been swallowed.

  “Remember to listen and feel, Jimmy,” the blind man said. “With your heart.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jimmy said. He was anxious to leave. He didn’t have much time. The blind man seemed to want to hang on to his hand forever. Jimmy pulled free, picked up his tray, and hurried to the garbage can. He dumped his trash and leftovers, put the dirty tray on the counter, and walked out of the lunchroom as fast as he could.

  He would have started running as soon as he was in the hall, but Mr. Sturner was standing beside the lunchroom’s double doorway. Jimmy could feel the principal’s eyes on his back. The blind man was right. You didn’t always have to be looking at people to know they were there.

  He turned the corner and stopped at the door to the boys’ rest room, his fingertips touching the wood. He looked behind him. Mr. Sturner had not followed. The glass wall of the school office was right across the hall, but the secretary had her back to him. She was eating a sandwich. There was no one else in sight. The only sound was the murmur from the lunchroom.

  Jimmy took his hand away from the rest room door and ran down the hall to talk to Jesus.

  * * *

  The auditorium seemed deserted. Only the stage lights were on. The door swung shut behind Jimmy with a reverberating kachunk. He waited a few seconds for the voice of a teacher to ask him what he was doing there.

  “Hello?” he called. His voice was too loud in the big, empty space.

  He walked down the sloping center aisle past the curved rows of metal-and-wood chairs. His shoes squeaked. The wooden seats were all standing up against the metal backs. They had made a lot of noise when everyone had stood to go to lunch. Jimmy had enjoyed it. He wished that he could hold down twenty or thirty at once so that he could listen to the clatter when he released them.

  When he reached the gray-enameled cement apron between the front row and the stage, he paused to gaze at the spot where the blind man would have landed. It would have hurt a lot. He might have broken his arms or legs. He might even have been killed. Jimmy was amazed all over again at the blind man’s bravery and faith. So what if his hands were like dough? Jesus didn’t care.

  Jimmy crossed the apron to the right side of the stage and climbed the steps that Mr. Sturner had climbed. His shoes were as loud as hammers. He stopped halfway up and looked out across the rows of seats. No one was there. The doors remained closed. He continued upward.

  His footsteps were loud on the stage too. He started walking in a shuffle, and the noise was like the sand blocks in music class. He headed for the split in the middle of the brown velvet. When he reached it, he stuck his head through. Behind the curtain, the light was orange.

  “Jesus?” he whispered.

  His whisper didn’t echo. It was if he had said the name to himself, under the covers in bed. No one but him could hear it. He would have to speak up.

  He stepped through the split. “Jesus?” he said again, louder. He pressed his hands together and swiveled as if he were a radar antenna. He pointed his fingertips first at one part of the stage and then another. “Jesus?” he called. “Are You here, Jesus? Come in, Jesus. My heart is open to You, Jesus. Come in, please. Over.”

&n
bsp; There was no answer, no whisper in his ear. He went to the center of the stage, held his arms out straight before him, and turned around and around so that the prayer beam from his fingertips swept the entire stage. “Jesus, this is Jimmy Blackburn,” he said. “I accepted You as my Savior last Easter. I have to talk to You. Over.”

  Still nothing. Jimmy became dizzy, so he began turning the other way. “Jesus, I have a prayer,” he said. “I have something to ask You for, in Your name. And anything asked in Your name You promised to do. I know You’re here. You whispered to the blind man. Come in, Jesus.”

  Jesus didn’t answer.

  Jimmy stopped turning. He pointed his fingers skyward, then closed his eyes tight. “Jesus, please make Mom and Dad happy. I pray this in Your name, Amen.”

  He listened for the Lord’s voice, but all he could hear was the swoosh of blood in his head. All he could feel was the stage rocking under him, trying to make him fall.

  He opened his eyes. He was alone on the stage. He had been too late.

  Jesus was gone.

  Jimmy knew that he had to get back to the lunchroom. He called “Jesus?” once more to make sure, then parted his hands and let his arms drop. Maybe Jesus had gone to the lunchroom with the blind man. Maybe, Jimmy thought, he should have spoken his prayer there instead. But then everyone would have heard.

  His dizziness subsided. He walked back through the split in the curtain, into whiter light. The empty seats were spread out before him. He raised his right hand and stepped forward, toward the edge of the stage. His footsteps were as loud as a giant’s. He imagined the gasps and the fear. Would he know when to stop? Would he fall? Would Jesus save him?

  Something crackled under his foot. He both felt and heard it. He stopped and looked down.

  His toes were four inches from the edge. He was standing on a long strip of brown paper tape that was stuck to the stage. It was almost invisible against the wood. It lay parallel to the edge of the stage.

  Jimmy put his other foot on it too. It crackled again. The tape had ridges and air bubbles.

  He stepped off the tape and squatted at one end of it. The end had curled a little. He grasped the curl and stood, pulling. The tape came up with a sucking sound. Jimmy wadded it into a ball and then compressed it in his hands as hard as he could. Sharp corners of tape jabbed him. After he stuffed the ball into a pants pocket, his palms were red and sticky.

  He hurried down the stage steps and out of the auditorium. The doors banged shut behind him. As he passed the office, he saw Mr. Sturner and the blind man talking inside.

  Jimmy made it back to the lunchroom before the bell rang. He’d had more time than Mrs. Porter had said. He sat in his place at the table and stared down at a spot of ketchup so he wouldn’t have to look at anyone else. All he could hear was his own breath. All he could feel was the ball of tape in his pocket, biting into his leg.

  * * *

  When the bell rang, Mrs. Porter marched the class back to her room single file. As the children settled into their desks, the bell rang again. That meant that the fifth through eighth graders were going to lunch. They would have twenty minutes to eat. Then, Jimmy knew, they would have an assembly to hear the blind man speak.

  He sneaked glances at the clock all through the reading lesson. The twenty minutes lasted what seemed like hours. When the bell finally rang to signal the end of the older children’s lunch period, Jimmy forced himself to wait five more minutes before raising his hand.

  “What is it, Jimmy?” Mrs. Porter asked. Her voice was angry.

  Jimmy didn’t let it stop him. He couldn’t. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I have to go to the rest room again.”

  Several of his classmates giggled. Jimmy ignored them.

  Mrs. Porter’s face reddened. “Jimmy, you just went to the rest room not half an hour ago.”

  “I know, ma’am, I’m sorry, but—” Jimmy weighed humiliation against success, and chose success. “—but this time it’s Number Two.”

  The class erupted in laughter. Mrs. Porter slammed her hand on her desk and glared at the entire class. “That will be enough!” she said, almost shouting. “There’s nothing funny going on in this classroom.” Her eyes shifted to Jimmy. She looked disgusted. “You may go, Jimmy. If you aren’t back in ten minutes, I’ll call Mr. Sturner on the intercom and have him check on you.”

  Jimmy hurried out of the room, walking in a half waddle for authenticity. His classmates snickered, and Mrs. Porter yelled at them again. Jimmy was glad. If she was mad at them, maybe she would forget that she was mad at him.

  He strode alone down the cool, empty hall. The ball of tape pressed into his thigh. He passed the rest room and went straight to the auditorium.

  One half of the center double door was propped open with its metal foot. Jimmy slipped inside and stood against a concrete pillar embedded in the wall. If he remained still and quiet, he wouldn’t be noticed. Everyone was looking the other way.

  Principal Sturner came down from the stage. The curtains parted. The older kids murmured.

  The blind man stood alone at the back of the stage. As before, he put down his cane before stepping forward. As before, he strode without hesitation, without fear. He was courageous in his faith.

  Jimmy didn’t watch the blind man’s feet. He concentrated on the face. The smile. The ears. The sunglasses, shining with twin spots of light.

  The older children and their teachers gasped as the blind man came close to the edge of the stage. The blind man raised a hand in greeting, and his smile broadened, revealing his teeth. Then he stepped off, and fell, and landed on his face on the cement.

  Girls screamed. Boys yelped. Teachers rose from their seats.

  The blind man twitched. He raised his head. His sunglasses hung from one ear. Jimmy saw his milky, blank eyes.

  Mr. Sturner rushed to the blind man and tried to help him up. But the blind man was big, and Mr. Sturner couldn’t do it. His feet slipped, and he fell too, landing on his bottom beside the blind man. Somebody laughed. Everyone else screamed or yelped again.

  The upper-grade boys’ P.E. teacher ran down a side aisle. By the time he reached the apron, Mr. Sturner had picked himself up. Together, they pulled up the blind man. The blind man stood, but swayed as if he would fall if the other men let go. His mouth was open. He was making sounds that were almost words. Jimmy could see blood under his nose and inside his mouth. Spit gleamed on his chin.

  Mr. Sturner adjusted the blind man’s sunglasses so that they covered his eyes again. Then Mr. Sturner and the P.E. teacher helped the blind man up the center aisle. The blind man moved his feet, but they weren’t helping. The other men were dragging him.

  “Let’s get him to the nurse’s office,” Mr. Sturner said. Then he looked around at the staring, murmuring children and their teachers. “Everybody back to class! There’s been an accident!”

  When the three men reached the center doors beside Jimmy, the principal and the P.E. teacher jostled to get through the one open door. While they jostled, the blind man pulled a hand free and reached out, grasping air.

  “My cane,” he said. His voice was slurred. Jimmy could see his tongue. It looked chewed. “I need my cane.”

  Mr. Sturner ran to get the cane. The blind man and the P.E. teacher waited. The murmur in the auditorium began to subside as teachers told their classes to be quiet or else.

  Jimmy stepped away from the pillar and went to the blind man. He could feel the P.E. teacher staring at him, but he didn’t care. He was looking through the blind man’s sunglasses. Now that they had fallen once, he knew what was behind them.

  He touched the blind man’s clenched hand, and it opened. Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out the ball of brown tape. It was covered with pocket lint. But its points were still sharp.

  “Jesus says hi,” Jimmy said, and pressed the ball into the blind man’s soft palm.

  He returned to the pillar. The P.E. teacher was still staring at him.

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bsp; The blind man trembled. His hand closed over the ball of tape and formed a fist. His mouth opened wide, as if he were about to yell, or scream. Then it closed without making a sound. The blind man opened his fist, but the ball of tape didn’t fall. It was stuck.

  Mr. Sturner returned with the cane then, and he and the P.E. teacher took the blind man away. The teachers began telling their classes to stand up. Jimmy slipped out before they started up the aisles.

  The hall was empty. The blind man was gone. Jimmy pushed his inside-out pocket back inside and headed for Mrs. Porter’s classroom. He stopped at the boys’ rest room on the way. This time, he really had to go.

  VICTIM NUMBER FOUR

  The amps thundered, and a white strobe froze the jumping bodies with each flash. The club was a roofed-over alley with walls of spray-painted brick. It was like dancing in a pizza oven. Blackburn liked the place. His ears throbbed. The girl he was dancing with kept bumping into him. He liked that too. She laughed every time she did it. He couldn’t hear her over the roar of the band, but he could see her teeth and eyes flash with the strobe. She was happy. He would have to find out her name.

  The band played on a plywood stage at the back of the alley. They weren’t good, but they were loud. Two electric guitars, bass, and a mismatched drum kit. The beat was fast, the feedback painful. Disco, Blackburn had discovered, was anathema in Austin. That was fine with him. He had tried on one of those white suits with the black polyester shirts a few months ago, and his chest and back had broken out in boils. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a LET’S GET SMALL T-shirt. The girl he was dancing with was dressed as he was, except that her T-shirt depicted a Harley-Davidson eagle. He didn’t think she was wearing a bra. He couldn’t tell for sure, because her long hair kept flying around and hiding her chest.

  The band called itself the Dead Gilmores. Their leader, a short-haired guitar player in black jeans and a tuxedo jacket, had introduced them. Every word after that had been unintelligible, dissolved in amplification. Blackburn rather enjoyed that. He thought that any band that believed its lyrics were crucial was kidding itself. Kids out on Saturday night wanted to drink, dance, yell “Wooooooo!” and have sex with somebody. They didn’t want to hear a bad poet bare the angst in his tortured and immature soul. They could go to college for that shit.