The Incredibly Human Henson Blayze

Chapter Three

Henson and Menkah jumped down off the tailgate and slammed it shut in unison. They began to help Deacon roll out the angled dump tubs from one of the storage units on the vineyard.
Over the summer, Henson worked from five a.m. to four p.m. for no pay. The Blayze family owned a whopping four hundred acres of land, forty​-five of which were on the vine, which had been passed down for generations. One day, it would be all his, and he was expected to know how to care for it, to nurture it, to work each grain of soil.
But Menkah showed up because Deacon paid him a flat fee of twenty​-five dollars a day, just as long as he stayed for over three hours and put in an honest effort. He kept five and gave the twenty to his mother. She worked at the Moon Lake Water Association in the collections department. Menkah was the eldest of three. His father was a geospatial engineer who served in the army and did a six-​month deployment in Iraq. It was his first trip overseas after earning two degrees at the University of Southern Mississippi and training in Hattiesburg. Two months into his service, he was killed by a homemade IED—​a bomb disguised as a baby carriage—on a dark dirt road outside of Baghdad. That was four years ago. Ever since then, Menkah had played the role of guardian, provider, big-brother–​protector-son to his family, and vineyard employee–​little -brother​-son to Deacon and Henson. He was also a tough-as-nails personal trainer to Henson.
“It’s about that time, big guy. Let’s hit it!” “Coach” Menkah barked. They weren’t really training sessions in the typical sense. Henson and Menkah just tossed the ball back and forth, talking about nothing and everything.
“Where are you men headed?” asked Deacon. “You fellas know that the first day of school is tomorrow, right? You may need to head inside, get cleaned up, and get organized for the morning.”
“My first game is on Wednesday—​it’s the big one!” said Henson. The district was so excited about Henson’s debut, they moved the traditional Friday Night Lights game to the middle of the week. “I just want to pick Menkah’s brain a little. That’s all.”
Deacon Blayze leaned against the truck, one boot in the dirt, one propped up against the back bumper. His arms were folded tight, a five-inch chewstick dangled from his teeth, and his lucky camel-colored wool felt Stetson was tipped up above his eyebrows. His clothes were also muddy and speckled different shades of purple from amethyst to magenta, but he did not look a mess. He looked like a man who was in charge; the kind that occasionally got involved with the heavy or grimy work that others would deem beneath a man of such high position. He did it to make sure that his workers understood how things should be done properly.
As Henson and Menkah continued to gush over their excitement surrounding the last football training session of the summer, Henson could also sense his father’s discontent. Athletics, in Deacon’s mind, had never been of grave importance. But Henson did not share the same belief. Football was his world, and the next day would possibly be the beginning of a long and glorious career in the making.
“Priorities, men. Priorities,” said Deacon.
“We won’t be long, Mr. Deacon. Promise,” Menkah said while looking up at Henson, grinning, and squinting with the sun in his eyes, face all smudgy.
“Yeah, Dad. Just for a little while,” added Henson, anxiously awaiting his father’s reply.
Deacon rubbed the three-day stubble sprouting from his cleft chin and nodded slowly. “Don’t forget about supper, son. You know I retire early. Got some business in Tutwiler in the morning. I just wanted to sit down with you. Talk to you for a spell, you know?” Henson knew he was talking about their annual ritual—Deacon always fixed Henson his favorite meal on the Sunday before the first day of school.
For Deacon Blayze, supper meant more than just a meal. It was a chance to check in, to talk about the goals for the week, reminisce about old times . . . when there were three of them sitting at the kitchen table. But before they take a seat, before the table is even set, the music plays. Deacon had albums, vintage records from Willie Brown to Tommy McClennan, Howlin’ Wolf to Ishman Bracey, John Lee Hooker to Geeshie Wiley. The Delta’s finest. His vinyl collection was all rare, collector’s items.
When that needle touches down gently on a record and settles in those grooves, there is a crackle, a hiss, and tiny pops oozing out of the speakers. The room becomes packed with basic twelve bars, rich and simplistic three chords, sliding guitars, harmonicas, and wailing souls. That’s the backdrop for supper in the Blayze household, one that heads of state would drool over: golden fried catfish, okra nestled in a pot of black​-eyed peas, collard greens, buttery hot water cornbread, and smoked turkey legs, all washed down with a clear pitcher of sweet tea. But those days are less about the meals than they are about the conversation—still, slow moments that cannot be duplicated or repeated. Deacon valued time more than anything.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back. Promise, Dad,” said Henson.
Deacon looked up at his boy and smiled, tipped his hat, got in his truck, and headed back toward the house. Menkah snatched the football from Henson’s hands, pointed toward the empty field, and said to Henson, “Alright, champ—​let’s go be great!”


Chapter Four
“Is everything everything?” Henson asked as he threw the ball to his little buddy. That was his way of checking in on Menkah. He could tell when he was troubled. Menkah hadn’t asked a question the whole walk over to the field. That just wasn’t like him.
“Yeah, everything is everything . . .” Menkah said before he dropped a catch. The ball bounced off the tips of his muddied boots. He scooped it up and cradled it with both hands against his stomach.
“You sure?”
“Well, it’s just that I’ve never been in the fifth grade before. I don’t know what to suspect tomorrow, that’s all.” Menkah’s shoulders slumped.
“Expect. You mean expect, right?” Henson chuckled.
Menkah huffed, and then threw a high and tight spiral over Henson’s head. With an effortless leap, he snagged the rock easily with one of his unusually large hands. Still chuckling, he tossed back a soft, underhanded pass. Menkah caught it and then just dropped the ball again, putting the back and forth to a halt.
“You know what I mean. C’mon, now, Henson. I’m worried, and you know I don’t worry ’bout a thing,” Menkah replied.
“Well, most of the kids from your fourth​-grade class will be there, right?”
“Most of ’em. Yeah. I guess so. But I’m just scared about the work. Might be too much. Might be some hard stuff that I ain’t ready for, Henson.” Menkah nudged the ball with the side of his heel and continued on his rant. “What kind of science do they do in the fifth grade? I don’t know! And what about all that crazy math with letters and stuff? What if my new teacher doesn’t like how I carry myself? What about the big hairy bullies? And the biggest thing of all—​it’ll be my last year in grade school! NO MORE RECESS AFTER THIS, MAN!” He gave the ball a booming kick, dropped to his knees, covered his face with both hands, and whimpered pitifully.
Henson came over and lifted him off the ground like he was a little bag of apples. “Stop it, Menk! I’m going to the eighth grade tomorrow and I ain’t never been in the eighth grade. It’ll be my last year in middle school.” Henson tried to empathize, still holding Menkah midair. “Plus, at the end of the school day, I gotta go over to the high school and practice against kids that are three and four years older than I am. You think I’m not scared?”
“Psssh . . . I know you ain’t scared. You?” said Menkah. “You’re Henson Blayze. Everybody knows who you are. They’ve been waiting on you. The whole town, the whole state of Mississippi has been waiting on you . . . Ain’t nobody been waitin’ on me. I can tell you that.”
“I’m still nervous. I ain’t never played high school football before. It’s been a dream of mine—​and now it’s here,” said Henson. He paused for a second, and then looked off into the haze of tangerine that had settled as a backdrop for the top of the trees behind the field.
“I’ll be ready for tomorrow, and you’re going to be ready too. You know why?” Henson asked as he slowly lowered Menkah back to the ground.
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Because everybody will want you around. I always want you around. You’re funny, you’re helpful, you’re smart, and you’re just one of those kids who make others feel good.”
“Wow, you really feel that way ’bout me, Henson? For real?” Menkah’s eyebrows raised right along with the edges of his mouth. “You’re just trying to get me all choked up.”
Henson wrapped an arm around Menkah’s shoulder, engulfing him completely. “Just. Be. You. My dad always tells me to take ‘me’ wherever I go. One thing will be certain . . . you’ll be the only ‘you’ there, and that’s always a good thing.”
“Take me wherever I go . . . I thought I was already doing that, but I guess I had it all wrong,” Menkah repeated, feigning deep thought. “I guess I’ve been taking somebody else wherever I went. But who, Henson? Who?” The boys laughed so loud, their voices raced across the field and sifted through the trees. A flock of mockingbirds came out of hiding and slowly ascended into a handful of purple clouds that hovered near the highest branches.
Menkah looked up at Henson like he was something brighter than the sun. He grinned a mighty wide grin that shamelessly displayed the gap between his two front teeth. His big brown eyes reflected a newfound confidence in whatever the next day might bring. Just as long as he was in that space, standing in that field, on that early Sunday evening, there was no other place in the universe he would’ve rather been.
The cicadas had begun their orchestra. Coyotes could faintly be heard yelping in the woods. The outline of the moon was now visible behind the skyline’s curtain. And sometimes, fireflies are generous by showing up earlier than they’re supposed to.
“MEN​-KAAAAAH! MEN-KAAAAAH!” A blaring, golden tenor sang out from on high, seemingly from miles away, but close enough to cover the entire field. It was Menkah’s mother,who came out to the edge of the field with a flashlight in hand.
“Hey, Henson, baby!” she yelled as she waved. “Hope you have a great day at school tomorrow, honey. Come on, Menkah!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jupiter!” Henson shouted and waved back.
“Well, gotta go,” said Menkah, and then gave Henson one last quick hug. He spun around and took off in a clumsy dash toward his mother.
“Shoot—​supper!” gasped Henson. It was three minutes after seven. “Dang it! I missed it.” He hightailed it up the hill toward his house and vanished in a blur beneath the beaming Delta sturgeon moon.