To See The Dragons

e^3 To See The Dragons o^> by Patricia L. Hudson_l Jessie came out ofthe house wearing her "new" sweater. It was someone else's discard, part of a bag of Salvation Army clothes, but she wore it with such pride she made it seem new. I like to remember her as she looked that evening, shy in her good clothes, her blonde, baby-fine hair limp as usual, but her eyes sparkling, excited over a chance to go to the "picture-show." This outing had not been easy for us to arrange. Jessie, at twenty-three, was twice a mother and expecting her third. She had never been married. She lived with her father, step-mother, half-brothers and sister, as well as several cousins, in a tiny four room shack on the outskirts of town. Twelve people ranging in age from several months to sixty called the place home. I was Jessie's tutor in my community's adult reading program but I learned much more than I taught. I had been assigned to Jessie because we were the same age. When I had gone to the social services office to volunteer, the reading counselor had pulled a file marked "Newman," looked at it a moment, and then handed it to me with a "what's the difference" shrug. "You're her fourth tutor," she said snapping her chewing gum. "Her last tutor didn't last a week." Jessie's file indicated she couldn't drive, so the counselor made arrangements for me to meet with Jessie at her home. "It's pretty rough," she said uncertainly, as if debating how much to say. I imagined all sorts of horrors, but I never imagined the truth. When the evening of our first lesson arrived I was more than a little apprehensive . The Newmans' dilapidated house was surrounded by vine-choked underbrush, and their nearest neighbor lived over a quarter mile away. It was the sort of place one usually passed with the car windows shut and the doors carefully locked. When I pulled into the muddy, junk-filled yard, I saw several teenage boys lounging on the cluttered front porch, watching me silently. In the twilight I saw the occasional glow of a cigarette. As I picked my way through the yard towards the house no one moved or spoke. I shifted the books I was carrying and cleared my throat. "I'm looking for Jessie Newman." Silence. "I'm her new tutor. We're supposed to have a lesson tonight." After several seconds one of the figures casually waved me toward the door. I had to watch my step as I crossed the porch, littered with everything from tires 17 to broken toys. Timidly I pushed the door open. I was met by a wave of heat. The moist, steamy air spoke of many people in a small place. With it came the heavy smell ofpotatoes cooking. The door just barely swung past a bed, jammed into the corner of the tiny room. On it sat a little boy with a dirt-smudged nose and baggy diapers. At the sight ofmy unfamiliar face he began to wail. A woman with deep wrinkles and gray hair hurried into the room carrying a huge bowl of partially peeled potatoes and a paring knife. "Jist hush, little Jim. I've told you I'd whup you ifI heard one more squall out ofyou." Catching sight of me standing dumbly in the doorway, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'm Jessie's new reading teacher," I stammered, well aware of the three greasy teenagers behind me in addition to the knife-wielding woman I now faced. "Jessie," she hollered, still staring at me, "that teacher ofyour'n is here." A moment later Jessie sidled into the room, a small, pale figure with downcast eyes. A pretty little girl clung to one of her legs. Before Jessie or I could speak, the child gave me a big smile and began to bubble with questions. 'Tm Michelle...what's your name? Watch'a carrying there? Ain't you gonna sit down?" I had to laugh. Michelle delightedly joined in, and when Jessie smiled, the...