Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [157]
I must have realized, on some level, that Gary was living in a world of horror, but I never admitted it to myself. I simply wasn’t there for my brother during this time. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I was too busy planning my own escape.
DURING MY LAST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL, I BECAME GOOD friends with my Creative Writing teacher, a woman named Grace McGinnis. Grace had befriended me and had become my champion—and in the obtuse political climate that prevailed at Milwaukie High School in the late 1960s, this wasn’t exactly a riskless effort. Milwaukie was a conservative town—in 1968, we had seen a lot of GEORGE WALLACE FOR PRESIDENT bumper stickers around our parts—and as youth culture grew more radical and daring, and more outlandish, the community and the school reacted with anger and fear. The school passed dress codes— dictating how long we could wear our hair, and prohibiting short skirts and flamboyant dress of any sort—and I and a handful of other students defied these regulations. As our punishment, the school’s officials decided we could not take part in extracurricular activities, like sports or drama or band. I was a member of a high school discussion group that debated national and international affairs on local television, and Milwaukie’s vice-principal thought I should quit the team unless I cut my hair. Otherwise, I was dishonoring the school and our town with such an unsavory appearance. Grace went to bat for me with the faculty. She made an impassioned speech to them about what she saw as their bigotry, and she lashed out at those teachers who called the longhaired students sissies and who basically treated us as the enemy. As a result of Grace’s efforts, I was able to continue with the debate group.
I later learned that Grace’s interest in me had in part been stirred by something we shared in common: her maiden name had been Gilmore— her father, in fact, had been a man named Frank Gilmore. As far as I can tell, we were never really any relation, but we used to make a lot of jokes about somehow sharing the same father.
In the winter of my senior year, my mother’s financial condition became precarious. She had been keeping up the house’s mortgage payments, but she had been unable to keep the property taxes current, and the state was making noises about seizing the property. The total debt came to around $1200, which seemed like a fortune in those days. Frank—who still lived with us—renewed his campaign for the family to move into a smaller place, and my mother resumed her resistance. We sold the piano and much of the fine furniture, but that wasn’t enough. I wanted to take a job so that I could help, but my mother refused. She thought it was important that I should keep investing my time and efforts in my education; she had dreams that I might win a scholarship to college, since she could not afford to send me. She had never had a son who completed high school and went on to college, and she wanted me to be that son.
After school one day, I visited Grace in her classroom to talk about my mother’s dilemma. Grace was a compassionate and smart person, and I wanted her advice. She asked if she could come over to the house and talk with my mother, so she could make a better assessment of the situation. My mother was reluctant to have visitors, but I talked her into a meeting. Grace and my mother talked for hours and they became good friends. Grace started coming over regularly, and also visited my mother at the restaurant where she worked.
In addition to everything else, Grace was an adept psychic—probably more the real article than Fay ever was. “I don’t mean to alarm you,” she told me one day, “but I get a bad feeling when I am in your house. I think the place may be haunted, and I’m not sure anything good can come for your mother and your family while she continues to live there.” I appreciated Grace’s concern, but I told her she wasn’t saying anything I didn