The Great Quiet

Basketball – Photo by Stuart Seeger

How a promising athlete chose between two dreams

By W. H. Hinkley

ST. LOUIS (June 3, 2007) — Darius Manley still has a perfect jumpshot.

It’s just before noon on an unusually cool Sunday, and Manley, 32, is putting up shots you only see in dreams. They arc, rotate just enough to find their balance, then fall through the net like stones into water.

On this Monsanto neighborhood court, he can barely be heard. He glides about the asphalt with nothing more than a faint scrape. Even his shots seem to make as little sound as possible.

If you didn’t know anything about him, you’d think he were merely obsessed — a man whose game is nothing less than an art.

“I haven’t missed a shot in three days,” he says, finally stopping.

And yet, he isn’t merely obsessed. Every shot is taken with the enormous weight of a constant reminder — of the life he left behind, of the life he once unapologetically threw away.

The reason? He merely traded one dream for another: the life of a basketball star for the life of a heroin addict.

“Getting high out of my mind seemed more attractive than playing pro ball,” he says, dabbing his forehead with a towel. “So I gave it all up — no questions asked.”

He’s been clean almost five years, but he occasionally still feels a stirring inside, one he’s afraid could bring it all back. The one thing that keeps him straight is his 77-year-old diabetic grandmother, Althea, who relies on him for just about everything.

“Sometimes I’d love to escape from it all,” he says. “But I spent almost 10 years being selfish. I spent way too much of my life escaping. I couldn’t do that to her. I’m all she’s got.”

The same could be said about her. She’s been caring for him since he was 4. That’s when his mother ran off. He’s never known his father, who’s been in and out of prison the last 20 years.

Now rested, Manley takes a shot, this time from far out, and nails it. A few men on the other side of the court are staring. One finally yells, “We need this court.” Manley calmly gets off. “No use in beating a dead horse,” he says, and he’s right. Not even another lifetime of practice could make his shot any better.

▪ ▪ ▪

Sobriety is a blessing, but it takes getting used to. I still find myself getting uneasy. When you’ve been as high as I was for so long, clarity’s a strange thing.

— Darius Manley, recovering heroin addict and once-promising high school basketball star

On the table is a pile of old newspaper clippings. Manley’s been looking through them the last few hours. They’re of his days at Normandy High School, where he starred as a point guard.

“Scored 50 there,” he says, shaking his head. “Nobody scores 50 in high school.”

“Had 38 points and 10 steals that game,” he says, eagerly holding up another yellowed clipping. “I must have been fouled 20 times that game. They couldn’t stop me.”

His junior year, college scouts from the country’s biggest schools started flocking to see him. That happened to be his best year — 33 points, 8 rebounds, 8 assists and 6 steals per contest. That was also the year he dropped 50 on Sumner.

“I still can’t believe how perfect that game was,” he says with a vague smile. “My teammates just kept getting me the ball. I couldn’t miss. I was 20 for 23, 10 for 10 from the line. I made 8 of 9 from the 3-point line. I was 7 for 7 in the fourth quarter. Can you believe that?

“And the best part is, there were at least four major scouts there that day. They came out to see how I’d do against Sumner — a big, bad North St. Louis school.”

He stops for a moment, aware that he’s describing the highlight of his life.

“Can you imagine anyone having anything more going for him?” He scratches his head, then: “Better yet, can you imagine anyone having more to lose?”

The future seemed already written for Manley: assault the record books for one more year in high school; go to a big college, where the large, wild crowds would adore him; enter the pros, where he’d blossom into nothing less than a demigod — worshipped, respected, remembered.

And yet no more than a month later he’d stumble upon what he’d come to believe was a much better dream.

“I was at a party one night — it was after the season had ended — and I went into a room to take a nap,” he says, visibly angry at the memory of it all. “This guy and these two girls were shooting up. I sat down on the bed. I don’t know why. The next thing I know I’m asking them to hook me up.”

He’ll never forget what it felt like.

“Warm,” he says, shaking his head. “The nicest, warmest feeling in the world. Your eyes roll back, and then you just float and settle. Your body seems to just settle to the bottom of some quiet, warm place. And you think it’ll last until you die. You think — I must be dying. But you’re all right with that. It’s good. Dying seems good. You just lie in it and forget the world.

“It feels . . . like the world’s melting.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Manley’s grandmother is sleeping on the couch next to him. He’s looking through more old clippings, trying to find ones that spark especially nice memories.

“Oh, wow, here’s a nice one,” he says. “That’s the day we beat Affton. Triple overtime. I hit a 3-pointer to win it. Best day of my life.”

His face darkens, unable to keep his mind only on good things.

“I haven’t gotten high — haven’t even had a drink — in nearly five years,” he says. “And yet I still feel like I’m swimming out of some dark place.

“Sobriety is a blessing, but it takes getting used to. I still find myself getting uneasy. When you’ve been as high as I was for so long, clarity’s a strange thing.”

His darkest time, without question, was when he started living on the street. He began living with a few other homeless addicts in an abandoned building in West St. Louis. To get the money for their drugs, they often resorted to theft.

“I didn’t think twice about stealing,” he says. “I’d steal anything. All I could think about was the next fix.”

And then one night he made a mistake that would save his life.

“I was out of my mind,” he says, eyes wide. “One night, I was coming down from a high and I got desperate. So I stole a car — no questions asked.”

Luckily for him, he was given two years in Boonville, where drugs were nearly impossible to come by.

“I was willing to do anything for a fix,” he says. “I was willing to offer my body and everything. But no one could score me what I needed.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Manley’s grandmother is now awake. She’s sitting close to him, stroking the back of his head. A few minutes later, he gets up and goes to the back of their small apartment. He returns with her insulin kit.

“Stay still this time,” he says. With what seems like a doctor’s precision, he fills the needle, taps it for a while, and then sticks it in her belly. She winces slightly. When he’s finished, he kisses her on the head. She then gets up and heads to the kitchen to make dinner.

“I’ll be honest,” he says. “It’s always strange when I do that for her. The whole thing is strange, really — where I’ve been, what I’ve done. To think, I once used a needle to kill myself. Now I’m using one to keep alive the only person I’ve ever loved.”

A fireman in Emerald Hills, Mont. – Photo by James Woodcock (Billings Gazette)

How one man fought two fires

By W. H. Hinkley

MISSOULA, Mont. (Aug. 22, 2006) — Gregory Nolan is bouncing his 11-month-old daughter, Stacy, on his knee. She giggles wildly. A few minutes later, Nolan’s wife, Angie, takes Stacy in the back for her nap. When she comes back, she doesn’t look happy. “This is crazy,” she says. “This is the fifth straight day.”

“What am I gonna do — not go?” he says, appalled. “We’re spread thin. I can’t not go.”

In about an hour, Nolan will head to Gash Creek, where he and his fellow firefighters have been trying desperately to keep the flames from moving east.

This isn’t new for Nolan. He’s been fighting fires in western Montana for almost a decade now. Though most years have been eventful, the year he’ll never forget was 2000.

“Terrible,” he says. “Worst I’ve seen. Worst I’ll ever see.”

That year, flames engulfed a sizeable patch of the western part of the state. Nolan worked mostly in the Bitterroot Valley, where fires stretched southward from Missoula to the Idaho border. The fires got so bad they tossed smoke into South Dakota — over 500 miles away.

“Unbelievable,” he says. “At times, the wind was just making fools of us. And forget about rain. We hadn’t had any in so long. Trying to contain fires that have everything going for them is just laughable.”

Angie comes from the kitchen and sits across the living room from Nolan. The two aren’t speaking much these days. She stares out the window. The sky is dark gray with a hint of brown.

▪ ▪ ▪

“They’re still trying to figure out who did this,” Nolan says. He’s all suited up and ready to get to work. “But I’ve been around long enough to know there’s usually some stupid reason for it. Probably some campers who don’t know what they’re doing. . . . Or, worse, some angry teenager.”

Nolan heads out with little hesitation. He seems almost at ease with what he’s doing. Only at home does he appear tense or unsure of himself.

Nolan and his fellow firefighters are close to halting the eastern half of the fire. Those fighting the western half aren’t having as much luck.

After a few hours, Nolan takes a short break. He’s sweating like crazy. Rick Holtz, another veteran firefighter, stands next to him. The two are chugging water. To no one in particular, Nolan says: “We’ve got this one.” Holtz nods.

Smoke streams about the valley. It’s hard to imagine what the valley looked like before the fires started. Like in most of this part of the state, the ground is rocky, though plenty still grows here. Grasses and pines have provided a hearty meal for the fires.

Later, after nearly nine hours of work, Nolan gets out of his gear and heads home. As usual, he’s stayed longer than requested. He’s beat, though happy with himself.

“We’ve got this side under control,” he says. “Too bad they’re having issues out west.”

Before getting in his truck, Nolan speaks to Holtz, who tells him he’s heading over to the other side in about an hour. “They need help real bad,” he says. Nolan tells him he promised Angie he’d be home on time. He’s already late.

Driving out, Nolan looks at his fellow firefighters. Already he seems anxious to get back to work. He has tomorrow off, which makes things worse.

“I never get tired of this job . . . and it’s not because of the risk,” he says. “Most people don’t realize how safe this job really is, especially when you’ve pretty much got things under control. When things are contained, you get a thrill out of being able to stare right into the face of something so awesome.

“If you think about it, it’s the fire’s job to make our knees buckle. . . . Of course, it’s our job to make the fire buckle.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Angie is irritable, as usual. Stacy is crying. Both mother and daughter haven’t been feeling well lately. The air might have something to do with it.

“We may want to think about moving,” she says, handing Stacy to her father.

“I don’t wanna get into that,” Nolan says.

“This is getting old,” she says, then takes Stacy into the bedroom. Nolan follows her. “I wanna hold her,” he says.

“Just go,” she says, almost inaudibly.

Nolan heads back to the living room. “Unbelievable,” he says. From the feel of it, one would think tomorrow was a workday.

▪ ▪ ▪

Angie and the baby are asleep. Nolan is out driving. He’s not going anywhere in particular, just getting some air. The windows are down and the smell of smoke is heavy in the air. It’s a smell he’s come to love.

“I’ve always liked the smell of smoke,” he says. “No offense to those who’ve lost their homes, but I thrive on this. Fire’s my thing, you know.”

Up on the mountains, an eerie glow dominates. Flames that seem part of some hellish sunset can just barely be seen above the trees.

Nolan drives, and keeps on driving. He doesn’t know where he’ll go tonight. Maybe he’ll stop by Ben Clemmons’ house. Clemmons is also a firefighter. When he isn’t at work, Nolan likes being around those who “get” him.

And if the fire inside of him tonight grows a little hotter, he might even head back to Gash Creek, and help out the only way he knows how.

Steamer’s Lane – Photo by Mike Nockleby

How one surfer got pulled from the water

By W. H. Hinkley

SANTA CRUZ, Calif. (Jul 10, 2003) — Jimmy St. Croix can still feel the teeth that stole his leg.

Sitting on his bed next to his girlfriend Tammy, he speaks of what happened with little emotion. “Like a truck hitting you, only faster,” he says.

The shark that attacked St. Croix almost two years ago was a 13-foot Great White, big enough to have split him in half with one bite. Luckily for him, after getting a taste of St. Croix’s left leg and surfboard, the shark darted off, no longer interested.

“It’s hard to explain the feeling of it,” he says, rubbing what remains of his leg. “For most of it, I was in a daze. I can’t tell you much about it. But I do remember that sudden pain in my leg. It was a sharp, cold pain — like electricity.”

The attack happened at Santa Cruz’s famed Pleasure Point, where multimillion-dollar homes have been popping up like mushrooms in recent years. One of St. Croix’s buddies, Hal Wilson, was there with him. He’s the one who saved St. Croix’s life.

“He was bleeding pretty bad,” Wilson says, beer in hand. “I pulled him out and tied my rash guard around his leg. But there was so much blood. I didn’t know how much he’d lost.”

St. Croix can remember a few moments from the ambulance ride, and he swears he heard the surgeons talking while he was under.

Every ride lasted forever. And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.

— Hal Wilson, on fellow surfer and friend Jimmy St. Croix

“One of them said: ‘Very clean bite. Must have happened very quickly,’” he says, his hand stroking Tammy’s hair. He shakes his head, then: “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure what the surgeon said makes me feel any better about what happened.”

▪ ▪ ▪

The last two years have been tough for St. Croix, now 25. His father got him a job working for an insurance company. At work, he sits behind a desk, mostly on the phone. The job isn’t bad. Except for all the sitting.

“It’s so far from what I was doing two years ago,” he says. “I never would have pictured myself behind a desk. Two years ago, I was surfing at least twice a day. I wasn’t a big fan of sitting, as you can imagine.”

Like a lot of young men and women in Santa Cruz, St. Croix’s dream was to be a pro surfer, a dream that almost came true. The months leading up to the attack, he was surfing “lights out,” he says. Wilson, who’s sitting on a beanbag chair, nods vigorously.

“Every ride lasted forever,” Wilson says. “And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.” Wilson laughs, then: “I often caught myself watching instead of surfing.”

About a month before the attack, someone from the boardwear company Rip Curl talked about being interested in signing St. Croix. He was “stoked.”

“I was, like, are you serious?” he says, smiling for the first time. The subject itself seems to melt the past away. “I couldn’t believe it. All the hard work was gonna pay off.”

▪ ▪ ▪

The next morning, St. Croix gets up early and puts on his prosthetic leg with little trouble. It’s a foam-covered prosthesis, with an aluminum pylon in the center and a soft socket that reaches to about mid-thigh. He then calls in sick to work. In about an hour, he’ll head to Steamer’s Lane to watch some of his buddies surf.

St. Croix goes to the corner of his bedroom and picks up his surfboard, the one he was on during the attack. He examines the board as though seeing it for the first time, running a finger along where the shark left its accidental calling card. He lets out a deep breath, then: “I don’t hate sharks. I think they’re neat animals.”

The ride to Steamer’s Lane is quiet. The sun, mostly orange with a splash of yellow, is half above the horizon. The air has started to warm some. As usual for this time of year, the weather should be perfect today: no clouds — just a pale blue sky and a blanket of sunshine.

When he arrives, St. Croix is greeted by a group of friends. They take turns hugging him, then lead him to a spot on the beach where they’ve got breakfast. St. Croix sits to the side and takes off his prosthesis. Everyone pretends not to notice.

St. Croix’s buddy Hal Wilson is out on the water, as is Greg Lucas, a surfer from northern California who’s made a living in colder waters as far north as Alaska. He’s also surfed big waves in Oregon and Washington State. The waves this morning are a little over head-high and breaking far off shore.

St. Croix studies Lucas intensely, nodding when he sees something he finds impressive. After Lucas pulls a few fancy tricks, St. Croix says: “I can do that.” He then looks at what’s left of his leg. His face darkens. For a moment, it seemed as though he’d forgotten.

When Wilson and Lucas start for shore, St. Croix puts his prosthesis back on and heads down to meet them. When the three come together, Lucas says something and offers his hand to St. Croix, who eagerly shakes it.

Heading towards the beach, St. Croix starts lagging behind.

▪ ▪ ▪

That night, St. Croix and Wilson are watching old videos. Some are of famous surfers. One sequence consists of jaw-dropping aerial maneuvers. The two are transfixed. “That’s just sick,” Wilson says. St. Croix nods vaguely, his mouth slightly open. Tammy’s half-asleep against his chest.

They watch videos well past midnight. Not for a moment do they lose interest.

Later, Wilson comes back from the kitchen with two beers and, instead of returning to his seat across the living room, sits down next to St. Croix. He hands St. Croix a beer, his eyes on the TV.

“Imagine being able to do that for a living,” St. Croix says after a few minutes. It’s as if the thought of being a pro surfer were new to him.

“You know there’s a guy in northern California who surfs with one leg,” Wilson says without looking at his friend. St. Croix gives him a blank look. Wilson looks at St. Croix, then: “Seriously.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

St. Croix considers this for a moment. He seems unsure of what his friend has told him. “Well, is he any good?”

“Greg saw him surf about a month ago in Oregon. He said he’s just as good as before he lost the leg.”

“How long did it take him to get back?”

“I don’t know. Not long. He practices a ton, though.”

About an hour later, Wilson says goodbye and quietly goes through the front door, trying not to wake Tammy.

A few moments later Tammy wakes, kisses St. Croix and heads off to bed. But St. Croix’s eyes are too glued to the TV for him to notice.

Golden Gate Bridge (North Tower) – Photo by Niall Kennedy

How one man’s job brought him to his father’s place of death

By W. H. Hinkley

SAN FRANCISCO (May 3, 2003) — No one knows more about heights than Ricardo Suarez.

His father, Ignacio, died in 1975 while painting the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. Ignacio was part of a program started in the mid-60s to assess advancing corrosion on the bridge. It was his job, along with other gutsy painters and ironworkers, to remove the original paint and replace it with an inorganic zinc silicate primer and acrylic emulsion topcoat, a combination that would temper the effects of the bay’s harsh, salty winds.

“I remember how proud my father was of his job,” Suarez recalls. “He would come home exhausted, but always with a smile on his face. He thought he was doing something big . . . and no one could argue with him on that.”

Suarez, now 36, is following in his father’s footsteps. He’s one of 55 men (17 ironworkers and 38 painters) whose job it is to regularly beautify the bridge. Like his father, Suarez is a painter.

Suarez sits in his Richmond District apartment, sipping coffee. It’s an off day. The sky is clear. An orange sunlight has just begun to stream through his kitchen window.

Suarez doesn’t get emotional when he talks about his father. He mostly speaks of him with a quiet reverence. Like his father, he’s proud to be doing something others consider with amazement.

“People who know about what we do up there think of us as rough types,” he says. “And I guess we are. Most of the guys have beards and gruff voices. But I think people respect us. I mean, most people wouldn’t want my job in a million years.”

When Suarez graduated from San Francisco State University 11 years ago, he wasn’t sure what kind of job he wanted. His major was in business, but he hadn’t networked at all. He ended up doing construction, mostly grunt work, for the next eight years. Then a co-worker told him that there was a notice calling for workers to repaint the Golden Gate Bridge.

He wasn’t sure at first. He’d never given much thought to such work. His impulse was to brush it off and stick with what he was doing.

“To be honest, I thought it seemed like a crazy job,” he says. “I mean, yeah, the rigging up there is good, and one of my co-workers said it wasn’t all that dangerous a thing to do. But the idea was so far out there that I didn’t give it much thought.”

After speaking with his mother, he changed his mind.

“This is going to sound crazy, but my mother convinced me to do it,” he says with a shake of his head. “I still can’t believe the woman who raised me — the woman who lost her husband up there — encouraged me to do something like this. I still kid with her about it. But she’s the strongest person I’ve ever been around. It made sense to her.”

Suarez’ mother, Maria, now remarried and living in Tenderloin, told him that she’d long been over her husband’s death. She said she knew he was in a better place, and that she’d loved him too much to not move on. She added that it would be good for her son to gain a little perspective, especially since he was still so young when his father died.

“She really made me curious,” he says. “She put a little spark in me. After that, I wanted badly to know what it was like up there.”

▪ ▪ ▪

It turns out the only reason Suarez got the job was because someone noticed his name on an application. It was an old buddy of his father’s. The man told Suarez that he’d give him a shot, but that the training, not to mention the job, would be grueling. He needed to be a fast learner if he wanted a spot on the team.

It was like I was seeing it as it had happened. And his face was frozen, like he’d been turned to ice. He just fell. Everything was so slow. He just kept falling and falling until I couldn’t see him anymore. In my mind, I didn’t even see a splash.

— Ricardo Suarez, on imagining for the first time his father’s fatal fall while working on the Golden Gate Bridge

Suarez’ first day on the job was almost his last. He kept bumping into one of the veterans while working low on one of the suspension cables. A couple of the men complained. They said they couldn’t imagine how Suarez had gotten hired in the first place. The man who’d been friends with Suarez’ father explained the situation to the men. Some softened on Suarez, but others didn’t. They felt it was an unfair hire.

“I was so close to quitting that first week,” he says. “I never realized how afraid of heights I was till then. It was embarrassing. But my father’s friend sat me down and told me he thought it would be a real waste if I gave up. He told me the men would forget about my being green if I shaped up and got my shit together.”

A month went by, and Suarez was now good friends with some of his team members. He wasn’t overwhelmingly nervous anymore, just a bit excitable. He knew his way around, and rarely needed help or criticism.

“My teammates started to rib me a little, but not like before,” he says with a laugh. “Before they were making fun, but now they were being what you might call affectionate.”

One of his teammates, an ex-Navy Seal, nicknamed him “Gonzalez,” after Israel Gonzalez, the Mexican tightrope walker, because he often relished working high on the suspension cables.

“Even with the rigging we have up there, it is sort of like a big tightrope,” he says. “I guess the height can sometimes make the suspension cables seem awful thin. As for the nickname, I don’t mind it, really. My teammates are good guys. They love to have fun.”

Suarez’ biggest challenge was yet to come, though. He still hadn’t spent any time on the north tower, something he was dreading.

“I don’t know why I was scared to go up there,” he says, stirring a third cup of coffee. “I mean, I’d been working high up on the suspension cables for days. I guess it was just the idea of it. It was all in my head, you know. Something I would have normally considered so routine was eating at me. The idea was just gnawing into me.”

The night before he was to work up on the north tower, he couldn’t sleep. His mind was humming with images of the tower, the Pacific glaring just beyond it. He imagined for the first time his father falling, his support having failed him. Until now, Suarez had never once imagined the fall itself, only the idea of it. He was horrified by what he saw.

“It was like I was seeing it as it had happened,” he says, visibly emotional for the first time. “And his face was frozen, like he’d been turned to ice. He just fell. Everything was so slow. He just kept falling and falling until I couldn’t see him anymore. In my mind, I didn’t even see a splash.”

The next day, exhausted but still on edge, Suarez worked his way up the north tower. When he was about halfway up, he stopped and looked out at the bay, struck by how relatively calm the weather was.

“I didn’t look down for even a second,” he says confidently. “I mean, anyone who’s worked up there knows that there are always moments of shakiness, when you suddenly realize where you are and have to ground yourself a little. But I didn’t feel that at all.

“Everything up there was almost too beautiful to describe. The weather usually tricks you quite a bit up there — some heaven, some hell — but that day it was almost perfect. The water was calm. Even the traffic below was unusually pleasant. It was like my father once described it: big and small, all at the same time. I could just about touch it, you know.”

Ku Klux Klan members march down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C. in 1928.

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How one woman dealt with a family history of hate

By W. H. Hinkley

ATHENS, Ga. (Aug. 4, 2005) — Mary Talbot knows a little something about bigotry.

Her twin brothers, James and Luke, joined the Ku Klux Klan when she was only eight, about a year after their father died. Her mother, a prominent figure in Athens during the 20s and 30s, spoke often in public about the blacks in her community — “those animals among us,” she often called them.

“My mother was a very frightening person,” Talbot recalls with a glazed expression. “She was a thin woman with small hands, but she carried herself like a giant. She was always stern about everything, especially after my father died. I can remember one of her speeches like it was yesterday. It was one of a number of speeches she gave during the summer of 1925 about the need to relocate blacks from Athens. I’ll never forget this one line: ‘Each day they dirty our streets and our air, and no amount of water can wash us clean.’”

Talbot, now 89, is the only one of her family left. Her brother Luke died last year, “a raving bigot till the end.”

Talbot says she hadn’t spoken to any of her family members in nearly 15 years. She tried, about 10 years ago, to get a hold of Luke, who had been aging poorly, but he wouldn’t return her calls. Then one day he sent a brief letter written in an unsteady script:

“Dear Traitor,” Talbot reads matter-of-factly, “I heard you’re giving away money to niggers. Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself. Great grandfather’s probably rolling over in his grave. The message you left me made me sick to my stomach. You were always a coward, feeling sorry for the niggers. DON’T EVER CALL MY HOME AGAIN.”

I told her about their laughter. I wasn’t trying to upset her with the details. I just told her what I remembered. So I told her that they were happy about what had happened, that they were smiling the next morning, like boys who’ve just had their first kill.

— Mary Talbot, on her brother’s knowledge of the 1925 lynching of Bo Washington

Talbot tears the letter up and places it in a wastebasket by her chair. Her expression is almost emotionless. She suddenly smiles. “He hadn’t changed a bit,” she says. “Imagine being an 87-year-old man who thinks like a boy. Imagine being so full of hate, so full of confusion, that the only way to express yourself is through blind hatred. That was Luke — full of hate . . . a boy with nothing to say.”

She pauses, seemingly startled by what she’s just said, then: “I guess some people stay children forever.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Talbot’s great grandfather, James, was known in whispers as “Talbot the Terrible.” Few historians discuss his reign of terror in Athens, but stories still circulate among descendents of his slaves. One, Regina Baker, drove all the way from Toledo, Ohio, about four years ago to speak with Talbot.

“This woman had been researching her family history, and she came across my family’s name,” Talbot says, pouring a cup of tea with her terribly arthritic hands. “She called me one day to ask if she could speak with me in person. I guess she was curious to know if I had any information for her. I said I didn’t really know too much, but that I’d be more than glad to speak with her. She sounded so relieved.” Talbot laughs heartily. “I think she fully expected me to slam the phone on her.”

The two women talked about many things. Talbot gave any insight where she could. She talked about her mother’s lustful speeches. She talked about her brothers, who both joined the Klan when they were 16, how they often woke her with their boastful whispers at all hours of the night. She told of one time when she heard them talking about Bo Washington, a black teenager who was lynched just outside of Athens in the spring of 1925.

“I told her about their laughter,” Talbot says, tearing up. “I wasn’t trying to upset her with the details. I just told her what I remembered. So I told her that they were happy about what had happened, that they were smiling the next morning, like boys who’ve just had their first kill.”

Talbot told the woman what she knew about her grandfather, filling in gaps where she could. A few times the woman mentioned things Talbot either didn’t know or wasn’t sure about. The woman mentioned that her great grandfather, one of Talbot’s great grandfather’s slaves, had recorded in a diary a few years after being emancipated some of his slave owner’s cruelties, one of which included burning his slaves’ genitals for trying to run away.

“I told her I didn’t know anything about that,” Talbot recalls. “I told her, though, that it wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, just look at his granddaughter, my mother, and my brothers. They were absolutely terrible. Who’s to say my great grandfather wasn’t considerably worse?”

The two women exchanged goodbyes, but the woman from Toledo seemed to be holding something back. Talbot prodded her. The woman squeaked out an answer. “She asked me why I wasn’t like the rest of my family,” Talbot says, her eyes red and glassy. “I thought for a moment. I wasn’t sure what to say. Then I just said the first thing that came to me: ‘I guess I was just one of the lucky ones.’”

▪ ▪ ▪

Despite Talbot’s fussing, James Fielder, the 15-year-old boy who mows her lawn, insists on $10. “It’s not nearly enough,” Talbot says to him from the front porch. And it’s over 90 degrees out here. An acre for $10? You’ll get twice that, and like it!”

Talbot has only known James about a month, but she’s already babying him. They first met when he and two of his buddies decided to knock over her and her neighbor’s trashcans while coasting on their bikes.

“I saw them joyriding down my street, kicking trashcans as they went,” Talbot says, half-smiling. “Then James came to my trashcan. Let’s just say my trashcan won.”

James was tossed from his bike and fell awkwardly on his shoulder, separating it. The other boys kept going, quickly looking back only once. James writhed in pain while his buddies disappeared down the street. Talbot stood over him. She says she remembers the look of humiliation on his face.

“He had this look like, despite all his pain, he knew better,” she says. “And what’s more, I could tell he wasn’t like his friends. He seemed out of place. He seemed ashamed, as if he were somewhere he didn’t expect to be.”

Talbot, a nurse during WWII, took care of James herself. He pleaded with her not to tell his mother, and she agreed, on one condition: He had to do chores around her house free of charge. He happily agreed. After two weeks, Talbot broke down and started paying James, in part because she knew James could use the money to explain where he’d been going after school.

James smiles from the yard as he empties the contents of the mower into a clear lawn bag. Talbot smiles back. In some unspoken way, the two seem to understand each other. That Talbot’s white, or that James is black, seems irrelevant.

“He’s such a good kid,” Talbot says, smiling. “And so smart. We read together all the time.” A tear rolls down Talbot’s powdery-white cheek. “I don’t know why, but I already love him like a son. Imagine that — I’ve only known him a month, and already I’m crying over the boy.”

James hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy struggling to tie the bag he’s overfilled. He shakes his head, upset with himself. A few minutes later he finally gets a double knot on the bag. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“He’s always so determined to do everything right,” Talbot says, drying her right eye. “Sometimes he gets frustrated about the small things. He tells me he feels like the world expects so little of him. I just tell him to keep his head pointed where he wants to go.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Talbot isn’t sure why things turned out the way they did. She likes to think she was just lucky. But she does remember the first time she began to see the world from the other side.

“I must have been about six at the time,” she says. Her eyes close for a moment. “I was with my mother at one of the local playgrounds. There was this black girl about my age. For some reason she was by herself. She was at the top of one of the slides, getting ready to slide down. She seemed scared. All of a sudden these three white girls came out of nowhere, and one of them climbed up the ladder of the slide and shoved the girl down. The girl tumbled, end over end, down the slide. It was horrific. She was crying so hard. She was bleeding from her head. My mother looked at the crying girl for a moment, then looked away. It didn’t seem to bother her at all. But I was so horrified. The girl just screamed and screamed. I’ll never forget how I felt: It was the first time I felt how universal pain really is. And I’ve seen so many examples of it since — that pain that isn’t specific to any one person or group. It’s just pain — good old-fashioned human pain.”

I don’t know. I guess the name is a reminder. After my father died, my mother started using the name again. She did it to bring attention to her grandfather and his persona. . . . But for me, it represents everything I’m not. In a way, I guess I wear it as a badge — as a symbol of what I’ve become, despite where I came from.

— Mary Talbot, on why after her husband’s death she started using her maiden name again

Talbot rubs her hands, trying to keep herself from getting too emotional. “It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be the only one in your family who gets it,” she says, now looking at her feet. “I guess for a time I felt superior in some way, as if I knew something they didn’t and could hold it over them. But I came to realize that I was so out of place, and so alone. It was painful. There were times when I wished I didn’t get it. Even in college I envied those who went home for the holidays to see their families. I wanted what they had. I almost wished I could give it all up to be with my family.”

Talbot left home when she was 16, the year she finished high school. Her family cut her off financially soon after, so she paid for college by working in a dress shop. After college she married Harold Hill, an exceedingly wealthy businessman from Atlanta. He died of a heart attack only 10 years later. That’s when she decided to start using her maiden name again.

“I don’t know. I guess the name is a reminder,” she says. “After my father died, my mother started using the name again. She did it to bring attention to her grandfather and his persona. . . . But for me, it represents everything I’m not. In a way, I guess I wear it as a badge — as a symbol of what I’ve become, despite where I came from.”

▪ ▪ ▪

James has finished mowing the lawn and now sits on the porch, dabbing his face with a towel. He then smiles broadly at Talbot, satisfied with his work. James has a smile that could melt glass.

“Look at that smile,” Talbot says. “Have you ever seen such a big smile?” Their interactions are mostly playful these days. They sometimes even rib each other. James enjoys doing things for her before she gets a chance to do them herself. It’s his way of babying her for babying him.

The two of them sit silently for a while, occasionally exchanging smiles. Talbot then tells James to go make some lemonade — with extra ice.

“I’m leaving it all to him,” she says. She seems relieved to be telling her secret. “I’ve already worked out the details. He’ll get an allowance.” Her revelation seems overwhelming to her. She takes a tissue from her pocket and dabs her eyes. “He said he wants to go to college. I’ll get him the help he needs to do that.” She seems unable to say anything more. After a few moments, she continues, smiling: “He told me the other day he was lucky to have met me. . . . Well, he just got a whole lot luckier.”