raced out of its way like wild rabbits, Johnny Clay laughing, and then he pulled me back up on the sidewalk. He said, “Did you know that when a human body falls out of an airplane it takes eight and a half seconds to hit the ground? If you count to four and your regular parachute don’t open, you pull the rip cord on the emergency parachute strapped to your chest. It should open in two seconds—giving you two and a half seconds before you die.”
I said, “Johnny Clay Hart!” I was so upset I could barely walk.
He went on. “I signed my name to papers that said I agreed to jump out of planes and that I knew all the dangers. Then I joined a group of fellas who also signed, and they made us jump on and off a desk over and over. Afterward Sergeant Briggs told us to go home and wait to be called. When I walked out of there, I could feel the weight of my wallet in my back pocket and the picture that was in there—this one here.” He stopped on the sidewalk and opened up his wallet, pulling out a photograph, all bent and creased. “It’s the one I tore out from Life .” The picture showed a paratrooper making a jump and landing standing up. Johnny Clay looked at the picture a good long minute, and then he folded it up and put it back in his wallet. We started walking again. “I’m going to be like the man in that picture. I’m going to be one of those that lands on my feet.”
I said, “When do you go?” My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
He said, “I got to report to training at Toccoa, Georgia, in September.”
I said, “How long are you staying here?”
“A couple weeks. Maybe more. Depends on how long you’ll have me.”
I was suddenly so happy and so sad and so angry and so relieved, all at once. When I could talk again, I said, “Johnny Clay Hart, you’re going to get yourself killed.” By this time we were almost in front of the War Memorial Auditorium, in front of the Opry. I said, “What about me? What about Daddy Hoyt and Granny and the rest of us?”
He said, “Maybe I’ll get myself killed. Maybe I won’t.” I’d never heard his voice so serious. It hit me then that he was a man, not a boy. I thought about me being nineteen years old. That would make Johnny Clay twenty-one. “But at least I’ll know I was doing something good, Velva Jean, something better than sitting around and waiting. Waiting for what? I’m going to die one way or the other one day, and I figure I might as well do some good before I do.” We stopped in front of the Opry, and my brother looked down at me and grinned that wicked grin that hadn’t changed a bit since he was twelve, except that it was maybe a little sad now around the edges. “Better late than never, right?”
Then he turned around and took in the Grand Ole Opry. He placed his hand against the side of it just like I had that very first time. He breathed it in. Then he said, “Tell me straight. What’s going on with your singing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I can’t get an audition to save my life. The only one I got I messed up. Remember Darlon C. Reynolds? The man we met in Waynesville? He told me I needed to learn more about music, different kinds. He told me to go to a juke joint and a honky-tonk. He said I have to go and do that before I come back to see him. I’m thinking I might just join the army myself.”
He had his listening face on, which meant he was staring hard at me and then staring hard at the sky. He still had his hand against the Opry. “You’ll show ’em, Velva Jean,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and I knew he was soaking it up, making a memory. I wanted to cry right then and there because he was so young and beautiful and good, when it came down to it, in spite of it all, and so much like me and so much like himself, and he was the most important person in the world to me and I didn’t want him to ever die.
TEN
J ohnny Clay slept in the empty room across the hall, and during the day he helped out
I said, “Johnny Clay Hart!” I was so upset I could barely walk.
He went on. “I signed my name to papers that said I agreed to jump out of planes and that I knew all the dangers. Then I joined a group of fellas who also signed, and they made us jump on and off a desk over and over. Afterward Sergeant Briggs told us to go home and wait to be called. When I walked out of there, I could feel the weight of my wallet in my back pocket and the picture that was in there—this one here.” He stopped on the sidewalk and opened up his wallet, pulling out a photograph, all bent and creased. “It’s the one I tore out from Life .” The picture showed a paratrooper making a jump and landing standing up. Johnny Clay looked at the picture a good long minute, and then he folded it up and put it back in his wallet. We started walking again. “I’m going to be like the man in that picture. I’m going to be one of those that lands on my feet.”
I said, “When do you go?” My throat was so dry I couldn’t swallow.
He said, “I got to report to training at Toccoa, Georgia, in September.”
I said, “How long are you staying here?”
“A couple weeks. Maybe more. Depends on how long you’ll have me.”
I was suddenly so happy and so sad and so angry and so relieved, all at once. When I could talk again, I said, “Johnny Clay Hart, you’re going to get yourself killed.” By this time we were almost in front of the War Memorial Auditorium, in front of the Opry. I said, “What about me? What about Daddy Hoyt and Granny and the rest of us?”
He said, “Maybe I’ll get myself killed. Maybe I won’t.” I’d never heard his voice so serious. It hit me then that he was a man, not a boy. I thought about me being nineteen years old. That would make Johnny Clay twenty-one. “But at least I’ll know I was doing something good, Velva Jean, something better than sitting around and waiting. Waiting for what? I’m going to die one way or the other one day, and I figure I might as well do some good before I do.” We stopped in front of the Opry, and my brother looked down at me and grinned that wicked grin that hadn’t changed a bit since he was twelve, except that it was maybe a little sad now around the edges. “Better late than never, right?”
Then he turned around and took in the Grand Ole Opry. He placed his hand against the side of it just like I had that very first time. He breathed it in. Then he said, “Tell me straight. What’s going on with your singing?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I can’t get an audition to save my life. The only one I got I messed up. Remember Darlon C. Reynolds? The man we met in Waynesville? He told me I needed to learn more about music, different kinds. He told me to go to a juke joint and a honky-tonk. He said I have to go and do that before I come back to see him. I’m thinking I might just join the army myself.”
He had his listening face on, which meant he was staring hard at me and then staring hard at the sky. He still had his hand against the Opry. “You’ll show ’em, Velva Jean,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and I knew he was soaking it up, making a memory. I wanted to cry right then and there because he was so young and beautiful and good, when it came down to it, in spite of it all, and so much like me and so much like himself, and he was the most important person in the world to me and I didn’t want him to ever die.
TEN
J ohnny Clay slept in the empty room across the hall, and during the day he helped out
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