The Writings of Don Havis

That Day

By Don Havis

“Remember that day when Joey Cashman and Billy Walters came into the classroom and...”
“Yes, yes; sure I do. I was there, remember?” I usually respond.

Of course I know that the half finished question is only rhetorical and serves simply to begin the old story again, the story that has so often been retold whenever and wherever any of the old classmates meet. After so many years, some of us have wandered far from that tranquil place and time: Albany, Georgia, 1946.

It has often struck me as strange that in each retelling, there is no attempt to exaggerate or alter any of the fine points. It is as if there is a collective mind which focuses on every small scrap of color and line in each class member’s account of what happened that day in an attempt to re-verify and sharpen each detail.

“It was Joey and Billy for sure. No doubt about it. I saw Joey’s mole on his left check,” Robert Farwell would say. I don’t believe that in all these years any of us have written the story down. Since I was, perhaps, the closest to Joey and Billy of anyone in that upper elementary class, I feel it is up to me to make this attempt. The class was a sort of sixth, seventh, and eighth grade combination—small by present day standards, only fifteen us, six girls and nine boys, as I recall. Oglethorpe School had only four classes. Our class ranged in age from about eleven to thirteen. Billy, Joey, and I were thirteen, anyway. That was really about the only factor that bound me, however tenuously, to those two inseparable comrades. In most other ways we were quite dissimilar. For one thing, I had a mom and a dad. Dad was an insurance salesman and though times were sometimes rough, I could never claim the badge of poverty that Joey and Billy could.

Neither Joey nor Billy had a father; at least none that any of us knew about. Both their mothers lived on what would now be called welfare. Joey’s mother was, to put it bluntly, a drunkard. I don’t think she knew where Joey was most of the time, nor where she was, for that matter. Billy’s mom wasn’t much better. She didn’t drink a lot, I suppose, but she wasn’t exactly the stay-at-home type, if you know what I mean. All I know is that the grownups whispered about her a lot. Both boys grew up with about as much care and attention as the stray dogs that used to hang around the school yard in the hope of an occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich or an apple core.

Miss Moore was out teacher. No, she wasn’t the typical old lady with the pulled up grey bun, but you knew she had been at it a long time. She knew just how to handle boys like Joey and Billy. They had figured some kind of way of sneaking into the school building late at night. One day when we arrived, the fish bowl contained a large gooey mass of tadpole eggs, when the day before it had held a couple of ordinary goldfish. Miss Moor did not react well to what we thought was a greatly improved science exhibit. Joey and Billy spent quite a long time in the cloakroom that day under separate grilling, complete with a number of loud cracks of the paddle. Of course, we all knew that Miss Moore’s efforts to break them were futile from the outset. Poor, unhappy Miss Moore; she never had any idea of the incredible strength of will those two had, nor the power of the bond between them.

Throughout the year we managed to live with Miss Moore’s sharp, tight voice and within her narrow expectations until we felt as though the walls of that classroom would surely crush us before summer vacation. One great anticipation kept us going until early June. The one joy that even Miss Moore didn’t dare stand in the way of was the traditional, annual sprint “Game Day”—a day devoted entirely to picnicking, swimming, and games at Oglethorpe Park.

When that day finally arrived—well, I can feel the slightly moist heat, and even the smell of it. There is something about the warmth and honeysuckle smell of a late spring day in central Georgia. The dogwood trees in the park, our own exuberant bodies, the brick red clay riverbanks, all seemed to contribute to the special character of the heat waves that rose from the cool water’s surface into the still air.

We had planned the day carefully. First, there were the games: softball, a wheelbarrow race, and a sack race. I managed to get one leg in a potato sack with Maggie Southerland. Most of the games were played by our clearly male dominated class as a means of showing off for the girls. Swimming followed the games, and we planned the picnic to follow as usual, with each class member assigned to bring some goodies to contribute. Robert Farwell, our one rich kid, was asked to bring some meat. Bob showed up that morning with a whole ham. But, the carefully planned picnic was never to happen.

Just below the swimming area, along the riverbank, low-growing laurel bushes served as a perfect cover for those of us who didn’t wear swimming trunks under our clothes, to change into our swim suits. We ran like cottontail rabbits in and out of the thicket, pulling at drawstrings, yelling, tumbling and splashing into the cool, shallow water which formed a quiet eddy behind the big bend in the Flint River, safely out of the current.

As we were just getting used to the water, as most of us remember, Miss More called out from the shore and suggested another game.

“Let’s see which one of you can hold your breath the longest underwater—a whole dollar to the winner.”

“A whole dollar,” an astonished half-whispered refrain went up from us in unison.

“That will be a cinch for me,” Called Robert. Not to be outdone by Miss Moore’s unusually generous incentive, Robert said that he would match the pot with a dollar of his own to anyone who might, by some quirk of chance, outlast him. We had no reason to doubt that he would win. Though not the tallest of oldest among us, he was easily the sturdiest built, a barrel-chested kid with all the health and vigor that seemed the natural consequence of his easy lifestyle. Everything seemed to come easily to Robert including academic success. We were sure that Miss Moore figured on the probable outcome of the contest and saw this as a way to bestow a kind of end-of-the-year bonus on her pet. Of course, it would also serve to underline a lesson which we understood even then—those who were not winners were failures.

For that reason, my own will to win was steeled to the ultimate. I knew if I absolutely dedicated every ounce of strength and determination I could muster, I would have at least an outside chance of beating my softer-living chief opponent. I could see in the faces of Joey and Billy, however, the same fierce dedication turning their lips into a tight near grimace. It wasn’t so much Robert we were determined to conquer. Somehow I knew the almost mystic group was united in purpose. For once, at least, Miss Moore must lose!

In a foolish moment of pride and anger, I shouted out that I would add fifty cents to the pot—a whole month’s allowance. Within seconds, an unexpected fever of additional wagers sprang from the girls, now standing barefoot at the water’s edge. Maggie Southerland gave me a knowing wink, I thought, and pledged twenty-five cents. Some of the other girls ventured a dime on Joey, five cents on Robert, another dime on me. Even little Nathan Smith was favored with a nickel wager. Before the tumult had died down—all of this happening within one ecstatic minute—the prize had grown to a monumental three dollars and eighty-five cents—enough to keep a person in food, candy, and unimagined pleasures for weeks.

“One, two, three go,” called out Miss Moore. In that last, half-second I sucked in what I’m sure was the largest quantity of air I have ever inhaled before or since. My hand against my face, thumb and forefinger tightly clamped on my nose, I plunged my head under water.

I swear with each retelling of the story that in that desperate effort to fill my body with air, I sucked in one of the little river gnats commonly found just above the water’s surface. In what was probably no more than three seconds—though it seemed at least a minute—I came bursting, sputtering and gasping to the surface; humiliatingly, the first one up.

“Damned river gnats,” I shouted loud enough to be sure Maggie Heard. “I got one in my lungs and it bounced around in there like a ping pong ball,” I complained.

All eyes turned again to the water’s quiet surface. The whole field of battle was no more than ten feet wide this side of the current and maybe twenty feel long, so it could be easily seen by all the spectators. Nate Smith was the next to tear through the tight lid that still held the major combatants under pressure.

“One minute,” called the strident voice of the referee. No one is sure in what order the other minor players were eliminated from the competition.
All that was now certain was that the great prize would be captured by Joey Cashman, Billy Walters, or Robert Farwell.

“Two minutes,” Miss Moore now nearly screamed, her voice already showing a thin edge of panic. Then the tension was broken again as Robert leaped straight up out of the water, his chest thrust up into the air, his red face thrown back, mouth agape, as if speared in the back by a catapulting ghostly tackler. Cheers went up from the crowd since a kind of victory, more important than the final outcome, had already been won.

All eyes scanned in wider and even more intense arcs, but save for the occasional bobbing of a June bug, the sheet of water covering the scene of former struggle would lay gently undisturbed for the remainder of the day.

Maggie Southerland still claims she saw two heads bob up in the current down by the river bend; but the consensus of opinion was that she had only seen a couple of whitecaps break over the near surface rocks which extended from the large outcropping of granite marking the outermost point before the river’s course changed sharply.

The sheriff and his handful of deputies searched the river-banks late that afternoon and into the early evening. A half-hearted attempt to drag the river bottom was launched the next day but no sign of either boy was ever found.

If that were all that had happened, the story would have more readily faded in our collective memories. However, that early June day was not the one we all speak of; was not the one just described. It was what happened on the following day that still sends tiny pricks of apprehension up every now aging spine of those who recall that strange moment.

Out of habit, we gathered the next morning at the schoolhouse and assembled in Miss Moore’s room. Even though the late bell had already run, the now devastated Miss Moore sat in stooped silence at her desk. No one had said a word. None of us, who thought we were so wise, had ever dealt with death so closely. Maybe a distant aunt or an aged grandparent had slipped, at a discreet distance, from life; but never had death dare come so close to our innocence. Despised as she was, we knew Miss Moore must be the one to break the silence, to tell us everything would be all right. She must relieve the guilt we somehow felt, the guilt we thought should have been solely her burden to bear.

This is now what happened. This is what happened on that fateful day…we’re sure. We heard the un-oiled hinges of the rear door of the classroom creak. All heads turned at once. Two slight, gaunt figures strode into the room and in a moment stood facing Miss Moor’s desk at the front of the room. Miss Moore looked up. Her eyes seemed glazed, her face a pale off-white. They wore what appeared to be torn potato sacks over the top of their thin bodies. Their arms must have been poking through holes in the side of the sacks. A slit near one bottom corner allowed their faces to appear out of a kind of hooded cape which hung straight down over their bodies. Their soggy torn-off pants, which had served as bathing suits, could be seen through the loosely woven material.

I can testify to the fact that the two were Joey and Billy. I had an aisle seat near the front of the room and was positioned right near to Billy who stood silently at Joey’s right. Bob Farwell sat across the aisle and swears to this day that Joey stood beside his desk. Their skin was as white as our paste pots, and their eyes appeared sunken and hollow. Though they seemed to be soaking wet, and must have been cold, Billy’s arm did not show a single goose bump or blemish of any kind.

Joey spoke. He was always the spokesman for the pair. Honed by cutting through more bitter experience in his young life than even Billy had survived, he was the more brazen of the two.

“We want our money,” he said. “We won the game.” Seemingly oblivious to the demand, Miss Moore responded, “Do you know that your mothers are worried sick about you two?” At least Miss Moore felt this was the right thing to say.

“We want our money,” Joey repeated.

“How could you pull such a terrible stunt?” Miss Moore continued.

“We want our money,” Joey’s thin voice cracked.

“I can’t give you the money,” Miss Moore finally responded. “I gave what little I collected to Robert Farwell’s dad last evening down by the river. He said that he would add to it and turn it over to your mothers to help cover the cost of your….Oh my God! How could you do such an awful thing?” she shouted, regaining some of her color.

The two stood there a second longer. There was no further reply. Both turned at once and glided, it seemed, down the center aisle and out the red door. Again, we sat dumbfounded. I remember glancing down at the spot where they had just stood and thinking how strange it was there was not one drop of water on the floor. No one moved or spoke for perhaps as long as half a minute.

Nate Smith claims that he jumped up first and raced out the back door. As if cued as to the appropriate action, we scrambled after him. Some of us ran out the door near the front of the room, and headed up the hallway. Robert and I headed out the back door. We spread out across the closely mowed green field, running and shouting their magic names. The gardener’s shed, behind the backstop; every part of the grounds was thoroughly searched. Inside the school, even the bathrooms were checked. No one reported having seen them anywhere. They had simply vanished, never to be seen again.

A handful of students in our class, who didn’t come to school that morning, claim that we just made up the whole thing; but that’s not true. Sometimes, one or the other of us get a report from a former student who were in one of the other classes at Oglethorpe School who claim that either Joey or Billy had been spotted working in various southeastern towns. We have generally discounted those stories. Most of the students following us hadn’t known Joey or Billy the way we had, and probably would not have been able to recognize them if they came up and shook their hand.

Some of us have theorized that they could have hidden in the Janitor’s closet that we may have forgotten to search. They could have waited there until school was out. They may have had some secret way in and out of the school as evidenced by the tadpole incident. They could have somehow gotten hold of some clothes that fit, maybe from the lost and found box. They could have slipped out of town at night without anyone having seen them. And, they could have run away, and they could have, and they could have...

Well, it’s all too fantastic to believe said the grownups. But, just ask any one of us that were present on that day. We know what really happened on that soft, warm spring morning so long ago. We know... We know.

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