We dropped into the cellar and closed the trap door behind us with a gentle thud. The earth was cool and damp. Moving slowly with only the bobbing light of Charles’ torch, we came to the tunnel. Forced to crawl on hands and knees in the cramped quarters, I felt suffocated. Charles kept pushing forward. I could feel my heart pounding, and I tried not to panic. What if the tunnel collapsed? What if we couldn’t get out into the garden? What if Dr. Groves knew about the tunnel and was waiting for us? There was no choice at this point but to keep moving forward. Finally, we stopped. I was drenched in sweat. My clothes were smeared with dirt. All I knew was that for some reason, we had stopped moving forward.
From my position at the back of the line, I could not see exactly what Charles was doing. I heard muffled voices falling back down the tunnel towards me but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Something was wrong. I could feel my pulse beginning to beat faster. I saw Charles’ flashlight moving around, and I heard him cursing up a storm. I couldn’t see what he was doing. I envisioned the tunnel collapsing in on us, burying us alive. We would never be found.
All of a sudden, light filtered into the tunnel, and one by one we escaped from the darkness. We had emerged in the rear of the garden. There were a number of people in the garden, but none were near the ivy-covered wall where we suddenly appeared. Having done our best to brush off dust and dirt and straighten ourselves out, we calmly strolled back to the dorm. Our deed was done, and it was time to go home for the summer.
Charles punched me playfully. “Looks like you were sweating back there. Were you nervous or something?”
“Well, I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t taken your good old time getting the hatch open.”
“The lock was rusty. It wasn’t my fault.”
“Sure.” I rolled my eyes at him. “I wonder if Dr. Groves is still trying to break into the chapel.”
“I don’t know, but we look like you’ve been in a mud fight, and for some reason, I think Groves might be a little suspicious.”
“Are you afraid we might get in trouble?”
“No, sir, I thrive on trouble, but I don’t want you to get your keister kicked out of school. Then I’d have to room with somebody else, and I wouldn’t be able to spread my stuff out all across the room.”
“Yeah, well I might not room with you again unless you promise to keep your junk on your side of the room.”
“Fat chance. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“Well, I guess that’ll just have to do.”
Just then, Julia Stine appeared. Of course, Charles smiled and waved at her while I tried not to blush. She smiled and began walking towards us. Oh boy! Charles nudged me. “Here’s your big chance,” he whispered.
“Chance for what, you dimwit? We’re both covered in dirt. I’m sure she finds that attractive.”
There she was, right in front of us. “Hello, boys.”
“Hi, Julia,” I stammered. Why did she have to be so incredibly attractive?
“You two look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt.”
Charles piped in. “Maybe we have been.”
“Well, that wouldn’t in any way be connected with the mischief that has old Dr. Groves throwing a temper tantrum, does it?”
Charles responded before I could. “Why, of course not. Two upstanding gentlemen like ourselves wouldn’t be involved with such a troublesome group as the Secret Sevens.” I saw him wink at her.
Son of a gun, he was going to blow our cover. Julia raised her eyebrows. “I see, well, I did not mean to insult you gentlemen, and you should know that I am a big fan of the Sevens.”
Having regained my nerve, I jumped in before Charles said anything else revealing. “As are we, Julia. I hope that we’ll have the joy of being in class together again next year.”
I could feel Charles holding his breath. There was what felt like a never-ending pause of silence before she spoke. “I would like that very much.”
As soon as Julia was out of range, I kicked Charles in the shins. “That’s for pretty much telling Julia that we are in the Secret Sevens.”
He yelped. “I never officially admitted anything. Oh, and you’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For putting you back in the game, my friend. She thinks you’re a Seven, and in her book, that’s attractive. Looks like you’re back in the game, you little dirt ball.”
“We both know I don’t have a chance with her, so just drop it.”
“We’ll just have to see about that.” Charles grinned at me, and I knew in his mind this was far from over. There was still hope.
* * *
Back in the room, our things were already packed except for a spare change of clothes. Charles’ butler would be by soon to pick him up. I, on the other hand, would have to hurry to catch the next train. It was hard to believe a whole year had gone by. I could tell Charles was thinking the same thing.
He broke the silence. “Well, Tom, we’ve certainly had a heck of a year. I don’t know what I would have done without you, you old codger. Who would have thought you and me would be Secret Sevens? Somehow, that makes this place seem not quite so bad, even with the likes of Groves and Remus.”
“I agree, Charles,” I said. “It’s been quite an adventure thus far. It’s difficult to imagine what mischief we’ll get ourselves into next year. Be sure to write me a letter or two over the summer. I’ll do the same.”
“Of course, and if you ever get too bored in Greenwood, you should come and spend a week with me while my father is away. That would be a splendid break from the misery I’m sure awaits at home.”
“Yes, that would be fun. Okay, well, the train isn’t going to wait for me.”
Before I could dart out, Charles grabbed me in a big hug. “You didn’t think you’d get off that easily, did you? You and me, we’re brothers now.”
He let me go, and I walked out the door. “Brothers.” I liked the sound of that word.
CHAPTER 24
Summer Days
I WAS A MAN AT war with myself on the train ride home. Memories of Julia Stine and her alluring lips faded away as the old sense of depression threatened to overwhelm me at the thought of a summer back in Greenwood with the ghosts of my past lurking at every corner. For the first time, I decided to look my ghosts square in the face. There would be no meek surrender. In the assured silence and awkwardness with my father, there was still hope for redemption. There was hope for renewal, but it would not come if I brooded and waited for him to awake from his stupor. I would have to fight the past for the both of us.
I felt almost as if I were on a sacred pilgrimage as I walked toward home, down the winding, unchanged streets I knew so well. My mind was filled with zealous thoughts of how things would be different. I wanted so desperately to believe them.
Father was home, sitting in his study and sipping whiskey. The room was illuminated by a single lamp that cast shadows across his bearded face. “Hello, Father,” I ventured as I drew near to him.
“Hello, Tom. It seems you finally made it.”
“Yes, Father. I had responsibilities to attend to this morning before I could catch the train.” He stared at me blankly, and I felt the old cold wall begin to rise. He didn’t care.
“Very good. Carry on and put your things away. We will leave for the store at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Father. I will do that.” I turned to go but refused to give in so easily. Turning back around, I said, “Would you care to have a smoke once I’m unpacked? I need to break in the pipe you got me for Christmas.” This was an unexpected move, and I waited anxiously for his response.
A look of surprise flickered across his face and was gone before you could blink. “Not tonight, Tom. I’m rather tired. Perhaps another time.”
I walked away with a smile. He had left the door cracked, and I would continue to pester him until it opened.
I looked inside the fridge and immediately missed the lavish dining hall
at Locklear. Here an old cold ham stared at me along with some abominable-looking egg salad. I sliced a few strips of ham and stepped outside for some fresh air. It was a clear sky, and I watched between bites of salty ham as the stars began to appear. I went to smoke my pipe but decided against it. I wasn’t in the mood.
Alas, 5:30 a.m. came far too quickly. I dressed hurriedly as the first rays of light began to brighten the dark sky. A splash of frigid water from the faucet slapped my sleepiness away. Somewhere, Charles was fast asleep. Father was already downstairs buttering a piece of toast in his work attire. I followed suit. Day one had begun.
Even as we walked to the store, I could feel the heat setting in. Hours later, with my white-collared shirt itching at my neck underneath my red and white striped apron, the heat was an oppressive force. The ceiling fans did little but lazily swirl the hot air around. The customers all came in looking flushed and glistening with sweat. It was just one of those days. I longed to go lie in the stream behind our house and feel its wet cooling embrace, but it was not even lunchtime yet.
It was strange seeing Father in this environment. As soon as customers walked into the store, he became a different man. He smiled and chitchatted about the weather and other small-town news, but as soon as people left, his shoulders slumped and his eyes went dead. It was as if every last ounce of his humanity was given toward those brief encounters, leaving him exhausted behind his facade of health and happiness. It was difficult to believe that this same man who came alive with his customers was my own father who collapsed into his chair every evening, a mere stoic shell of himself. His stubborn pride didn’t allow him to admit his woundedness, so he lived a lie.
There was no place for vulnerability in his world. Vulnerability and emotion were weakness, and Father saw it as his calling to be strong. So he kept up the walls and ramparts while the interior of the castle lay in ruins. I tried to convince myself that there must be some way to free the soul hiding behind those walls. There must be a way to rebuild one small stone at a time.
I put out the “CLOSED” sign and turned off the lights. Day one of work was done. “Tom, go ahead home. I’m going to double-check the register and check the receipts.”
It’s okay, Father; I’ll wait for you.” I could tell that my presence was throwing off his routine, but this was my one real chance to talk with him. I hoped that these few minutes caught between work and home would somehow provide the opening I needed.
Once the aprons were hung up and the door was firmly locked, we meandered home. My legs ached from standing all day, and I was ready to collapse into a chair. “Would you care to join me for a smoke out on the porch, Father?”
“Not today, Tom; I’m too tired.”
That was the end of discussion, and we walked home in silence. Every day I asked him the same question. A week turned into a month, and every day the answer was the same: “Not today, Tom; I’m too tired.” Like water running across a stone, I swore I would slowly wear him down. He could not avoid me forever.
In the evenings, I took to walking in the woods. There I was free from the oppression of home and work. I often smoked my pipe as I walked about, surrounded by a sweet-smelling cloud of tobacco smoke. At first, I felt like a stranger in those woods. It was like seeing an old friend whom you have lost touch with; there is that uncomfortable feeling-out process. But I found the forest to be forgiving, in spite of my long abandonment. The trees and hills called to me, beckoning me to find peace in the embrace of their branches and grassy knolls once more. I began to find my ear again, and I could hear the rhythms of life that had long eluded me, melodies that had been drowned out by my own preoccupations.
It was as if I puffed on my pipe and was whisked away to an imaginary land. There, amid the bearded moss and creeping vines, I soon began again to feel the harmony I so deeply desired. Inspired by beauty, I would return home to write late into the night, long after the ashes of my pipe had gone cold, and this too was part of my healing. Eventually, even the long days in the store with my father became bearable because of these sweet times of escape into the land.
The cycle of waking, working, and walking was interrupted one afternoon by the arrival of a letter from Charles.
Dear Tom,
I hope you are enjoying your summer as much as it is possible when one is with family. I think that after a few more weeks with my brothers and father, I will pull my hair out. I cannot fully express to you just how much they grate on my nerves. They treat me like a small child. I was hoping you would be able to come and visit for a week to help alleviate my suffering. I know this is probably quite rude, but if you feel you cannot leave, perhaps you would be willing to have me come stay at your place. For the sake of my rapidly disappearing sanity, please respond with due haste.
Sincerely,
Charles
Charles certainly had a flair for the dramatic. I could imagine his agitated state as he penned the letter. The continual pecking of his brothers and father seemed to be getting the best of him. I supposed his brief taste of freedom at Locklear now only served to make his near imprisonment all the more unbearable. It made more sense to have Charles come to my home so he could get away from everything.
I walked into the study to petition my father. “I received a letter today from my roommate, and I was wondering if he would be able to come spend a week with us later this month.”
“I don’t think so, Tom,” was his flat reply. “The house is not fit for guests.”
“Charles won’t care about the house, Father. I’ll be sure to tidy up before he comes.”
“I don’t know, Tom.” He looked at me with those tired eyes. I could tell he wasn’t too keen on the idea, but he also wasn’t going to fight me.
“How about this: I’ll tell him he should plan to come up for two days, and if he isn’t too much of a bother, he can stay longer.”
“Okay.” Father leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Three sentences, and he was all talked out.
I walked back to the kitchen table and wrote Charles a brief response. He would be coming next week, which meant I had just a few days to clean up the clutter that had collected since Mother’s death.
I’m not entirely sure why we didn’t move things at first. Mother’s little sewing room remained untouched all these years later, like a silent shrine to her passed spirit. The door was unlocked, but neither of us ever ventured inside. The upstairs hall was littered with items just as they’d been on that fateful day. It was as if we had expected her to return from a long holiday and wanted things to be exactly the same when she arrived. Her clothes remained in her dresser drawers, and even her toiletries remained in the bathroom cupboard. Father was still waiting for her.
I walked around upstairs, looking at the chaos that had become so normal to me. I dared to step into the sewing room. Like a trespasser, I tread carefully on the dusty floor and stared at the bed in the corner and the desk, still covered in once bright colored cloths, now coated with grime. The shades were pulled over the window, making everything look dark and depressing. I flipped the wall switch, and the light sputtered to life. In the light, I looked at the room as if with new eyes. It was time to break the spell of mother’s presence in this place. In fact, it was long overdue.
I returned to the room with broom and brush in hand, ready to do battle. I stared down the enemy and began to fight. I attacked cobwebs and dust, and I placed piles of objects in a large box as prisoners of war. I shook out the quilt, which fought back by leaving me sneezing and coughing with dust in my lungs and in my hair. I placed pins and needles and spools of thread into an oversized sewing basket, along with scraps of cloth and clothing patterns—shrapnel. I remade the bed and mopped the floors for good measure. It was long past midnight before my cleaning frenzy ended. Standing back, I looked at the room. It was as if it had been re-born, cleansed of its filth and sadness. I wondered what Father would say.
The next night, I tackled the hallway and bathroom. I picked up
the vase filled with dead flowers—freshly cut the day my mother died. There were boxes and other miscellaneous items, most of which I threw away. In the bathroom, I carefully lifted mother’s toothbrush from its spot on the sink and gently tossed it into the trash. Then I noticed her old perfume bottle sitting on the shelf. Unable to stop myself, I sprayed it into the air. The smell triggered my memory so violently that I was forced to sit down. Tears streamed down my face as I remembered Mother in her beauty and her zest for living. Moments long gone kept running though my head as I thought of our warm summer days playing together while laughing and loving. Oh, how I missed her. There was no stopping the flood of tears and memories that ran together, streaming in splashes of color and sadness. Finally, the flashbacks faded away, my heaving shoulders stopped shaking, and my breathing began to slow. The smell lingered as if she’d just been in this room. But I knew better. She was gone.
I told myself I had to keep going as I tore down the moldy shower curtain and began to vigorously scrub the tub. Suddenly, Father was standing in the doorway with a stern look on his face. “Tom, what are you doing?”
I stared up at him with a tear-streaked face and knuckles white from my iron grip on the scrubber. I did not know what to say, so I knelt before him in silence. Father looked past me at the empty slot where mother’s toothbrush always hung and caught a whiff of her perfume. I could see his neck tense as he fought to maintain his composure. His words came out with a cold edge. They were dangerous and teetering. “You have no right to come in here and start changing things. Everything is fine the way it is. This is my house! Do you understand that?”
I stood up and looked him square in the eye. I had been silent long enough. “It’s my house too. We can’t live this way any more.”
“Silence!” he roared. “Do not talk back to me, son!”
I screamed back, “She’s gone, Father! When are you ever going to admit that? She’s not coming back. She’s dead!”
In the blink of an eye, my father’s hand cut through the air and struck me across the cheek with such force that it caused my neck to snap back, and instantly I could feel my face begin to swell. Never in all my years had my father hit me. I saw a look of terror in his eyes at what he had done; it was the look of a man who realizes he is completely out of control and has no answers. The color drained from his face, making him look old and ghostly. Unsure what to do, he turned and fled down the hall. I watched his retreat until he disappeared down the steps. The man I saw fleeing was not my father.
Finding Tom Page 13