Ancient History

Not Gleason. Of all the times he'd decide he was hungry, it had to be as we were approaching the exit for Gleason. I was looking forward to enjoying a beautiful day at the lake, but now he's turned toward the town I've avoided for eight years. I feel a knot of dread grow in the pit of my stomach as we drive beneath the old train bridge that, as a girl, signified I was returning home. It's been an eternity since I've laid eyes on it.

"I hope they have some place to eat. You used to live out here, no? What do they have in town?"

"Yeah, I'm not sure."

"You're not sure you used to live here?"

"I did live here. I meant I'm not sure what they'd have anymore. It's a poor town and things change, you know? I haven't been here in ages."

"Well, we'll just have to wait and see. Maybe you'll have a good time visiting your old haunts."

"Yeah..."

The Old Gleason Highway is a long, curvy road that is decorated by spaces of woods, bridges over muddy creeks, and green fields of soybeans, corn or tobacco. With the window down, I can smell the fresh air, the same smell I enjoyed as a child. Then it was an escape; now it's a reminder of a time when I needed such an escape. The sky is cloudless with a bright, happy sun kissing the earth, illuminating the shadows, making the outside appear so inviting. It would be the perfect day if we weren't in Gleason and fast approaching the first big hill. I'm feeling uneasy; I know what's on the other side.

We top the hill, and I see it. On the right in the bottom between two large hills is the trailer park. Ten old singlewide trailers yellowed with age line a gravel driveway that allows the tenants to enter and exit the place. It looks as if Ron Harrison, the owner, hadn't done much to improve the park since I left; the trailers were in such a state of disrepair then, and they look to be the same ones exactly. I wonder, for a moment, if he still gathers up all the trash in his truck and illegally dumps it in the Obion River to avoid paying fees for garbage pickup.

You wouldn't know it by looking at me now, but that is where I grew up. I lived with my mother in Lot 5. Those were the days when the winter was too cold; the summer was too hot, but we were happy just to have a roof over our heads. If we needed heat, mother turned the oven on leaving the door open to let its warmth diffuse throughout the house. If we needed air conditioning, we'd go to the Superette in town or jump in the creek nearby. Some days we didn't have food. Sometimes we didn't make the electric bill. My hair was kept short because I kept getting lice from neighbor kids. Our clothes were bought at Wal-Mart or given to us by the church. This was once my reality.

Gail was my best friend, in the same boat as I. We both resided in this awful place doing our best to justify what we had to endure. We told each other it's better living this way because we weren't spoiled like the other kids at school. We often had to fend for ourselves, make sacrifices and do without any luxuries. Life isn't easy. Most children are sheltered, but not us. We had to be tough, be strong. We'd said one day those like us would reap the rewards, but I don't believe that anymore. I've since learned that many fall into addiction, get pregnant too early or never continue their education. Poverty is a sad cycle.

I did escape, however. Somehow I managed to make good enough grades in school to earn a scholarship and go off to college. It was there I learned that life for most people wasn't a poverty-plagued trailer park in Gleason, Tennessee. The other students couldn't relate to my experiences and we're put off when I spoke of them, so I learned to keep my mouth shut, act like the rest. I began to despise my hidden past, viewing it as embarrassing and ugly. But now, looking at the trailer park from behind the tinted window of my fiancé's Jaguar, I feel I betrayed my teenage self and my friend.

"This road will take us straight into town?"

"Yes, we're almost there."

Soon we're in the town center. There is not much to it. It's a square of brick buildings all facing a central parking lot. There are a few shops still in business, but the majority stands empty. I point out the Superette, a tiny grocery, and tell him to park so we can go inside, grab some fruit and drinks and leave quickly. Though a few of the stores that were operating here when I left have since gone out of business, for the most part, Gleason hasn't changed except for a new Coke machine outside the grocery.

I get out of the car. The smell of greasy French fries hits my nose. The Corner Café is still in business. Gail had an older sister that worked there. We'd come in during the afternoon sometimes to see if we could convince her to sneak us some of those fries. She usually would if the boss wasn't around. If she couldn't, we'd go to the Superette to pocket candy bars and cigarettes when the old man who ran the shop was distracted. Still, we preferred the days when we got the fries.

I walk by store front windows, catching my reflection as I pass. In a high-end yellow sun dress, fashionable sandals, designer sunglasses topped off with long, healthy blonde hair, minimal makeup and manicured fingernails; I'm a far cry from the trailer trash teen whose idea of fashion was a pair of denim shorts cut from outgrown jeans, a white tank top and too much makeup.

I go inside. The same old man is there behind the counter. I try to avoid eye contact, but he doesn't seem to recognize me at all. I have changed quite a bit. Still, to be on the safe side, I remain toward the back of the store. It's a very small grocery, so it doesn't seem too suspicious.

My fiancé has gathered some nice looking apples, oranges and grapes for our lunch. I ask if he'd grab some drinks because I wanted to look at something outside. He says he would, so I make my escape hoping the old man wouldn't identify me. I exit undetected, so I go to the stairs that climb the side of the building to look and reminisce.

Gail and I used to sit for hours on these stairs and talk. I'd entertain her with stories and poetry. She'd tell me I'd someday write books and be rich and famous. We'd cry together on these stairs one day, dress trampy and flirt with the clay miners who came up here for lunch the next. We didn't care that they were grown men while we were merely fourteen. We were bored, attention-craving teenagers.

It was on these stairs that Gail, then sixteen, confessed to me that the preacher from the church she attended had been molesting her. I tried to convince her to tell someone, but she didn't think anyone would believe her. I held her while she cried, cursing God for allowing that monster to do this to her and get away with it in his name. Sexual abuse wasn't unfamiliar to those who lived lives like ours, but it was never easy to hear about. It was much worse coming from your best friend.

We both felt helpless. Her mom continued sending her to visit that man. I did as she asked and said nothing. She was right, after all. No one ever took the word of kids like us over that of men like him. Every good Christian will tell you that the devil can quote the scriptures by heart, so watch out for false prophets, but nobody wants to believe the devil is in their own backyard.

Eventually Gail seemed to stop smiling altogether. I'd come over for a visit, but she would always be tired or get angry with me. She didn't want me around anymore; I couldn't understand why though in retrospect it's all so obvious.

It was a school night when she overdosed on some pain medicine she'd stolen from her cousin. In her note she apologized to everyone for some imaginary wrongdoing she never committed. Why we blame ourselves for the terrible actions of others, I'll never know. All I know is the world lost a beautiful person that night, and I could have helped her if I'd just said something. I'll never forgive myself.

Emotions turn my stomach and weaken my knees, so I get back in the car. Soon my fiancé comes out with the groceries.

"Quaint little town. You want to eat here, or find a place somewhere else for a picnic before we head on to the lake?"

"A picnic sounds nice."

"Want to go hit up that coke machine for a couple more drinks for the road?"

"No. Let's just get out of here."