by Og Mandino
Rick finally found his tongue and asked, “Did you really and truly teach my dad when he was only in the first grade?”
“I certainly did. Almost thirty-five years ago.”
“Was he very smart when he was little?”
Miss Wray nodded vigorously. “If I could have promoted him directly into the third grade, I would have done it. That’s how smart he was!”
I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry to break this up for now,” Steve said apologetically, “but everyone is ready to start the program. John, you and Sally and Rick take those three empty seats in the center and we’ll get started.”
First we all stood and sang “The Star Spangled Banner” accompanied by the Boland High School Band in its familiar uniform colors of maroon and white. Then one of the clergy gave a brief invocation followed by a buxom woman with a lovely voice singing the Streisand classic “Memories” while I held my wife and my son’s hands very tightly, thanking God again and again for all my good fortune.
Judge Duffy then rose slowly, walked to the microphone with no introduction, tilted the instrument slightly upward, cleared his throat and said, “Ladies and gentlemen of Boland, this is indeed a special chapter in the history of our old town as we gather here to honor one of our own for all that he has made of his life in such a few short years. I am most proud to say that I was a friend of Priscilla and Leland Harding. I can remember when John was born and how proud his dad was when we met outside the bank and he shoved a cigar into my shirt pocket. Leland’s pride in his son would have multiplied through his later years had he lived. John was an all-star shortstop in the Boland Little League, he was a member of the National Honor Society and he graduated from Boland High with straight A’s. During his senior year he captained both the football and the baseball teams and was an all-state forward in basketball. Also, during his senior year on the baseball team, his batting and fielding were so sensational that he won a scholarship to the college with perhaps the finest baseball program in the nation, Arizona State University. During his senior year at Arizona State, John was batting more than four hundred and had major-league scouts drooling before torn knee cartilages sadly ended his dreams of a big-league career.…”
Main Street had obviously been closed to traffic as soon as the program had commenced, but what amazed me, as I sat and listened to Judge Duffy, was the behavior of the huge crowd. Except for an occasional cry from a baby, everyone was, or seemed to be, hanging on the judge’s every word. I wasn’t sure whether they were captivated by his marvelous oratory or my record.
The judge continued, still without referring to any written notes. “As broken-hearted as John Harding was when his baseball-playing dreams came crashing down, he still graduated near the top of his class in 1971, was recruited by a California high-tech firm and now, in less than twenty years, he has certainly made it to the major leagues in the business world! As most of you know, our beloved young friend was recently selected to become president and chief executive officer of a computer company, perhaps the largest in New England, with annual sales of more than a billion dollars—that’s a thousand million, in case you’ve forgotten your high school arithmetic, folks! The media, from our own Concord Monitor and Manchester Union Leader to the Wall Street Journal, USA Today and Forbes, have all joined the loud chorus singing the praises of John’s managerial style as well as his character. If you have had the pleasure of seeing him on national television recently, you cannot help but like as well as respect this bright young man. However, what makes me most proud is that when John came east to assume leadership of his company, he chose this town as the place where he wanted to settle with his family. Oh, he could have selected many high-fallutin’ communities around Concord, but he picked Boland. He’s home again, right back on the land where he spent so many happy years growing up, back with the people who remember him and still love him!”
While the applause grew louder and louder, Judge Duffy turned toward me, smiling as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew what seemed to be a large bronze medal dangling from a wide red ribbon. “John Harding,” he said in his best courtroom voice, “would you kindly come forward to receive a small token of how these good people feel about you?”
The medal was at least three inches in diameter. The judge held it close to his face and said, “On this medal are the words, ‘To a favorite son, John Harding. Boland is truly proud of you.’ Our town seal is on the other side along with the state’s motto, ‘Live free or die!’ ” He held the medal high above his head as the crowd roared, turned and draped the red ribbon around my neck before embracing me. Then he limped slowly back to his seat.
The people had risen to their feet, applauding and cheering, and the band suddenly began playing “The Impossible Dream.” I turned toward Sally. She was crying, but Rick was standing and applauding. I just stood at the microphone until the music ceased and the crowd quieted down.
“Friends and neighbors,” I began as I tucked the heavy medal inside my sweater to prevent it from banging against the microphone. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this warm and very special gesture of love toward myself and my family. Also, I deeply regret that even though we have lived among you now for almost two months, I have been so busy in Concord, taking over the reins of Millennium, that I still haven’t had time to visit with many old friends from the past, and I beg your forgiveness. I shall correct that omission as soon as possible. Before too long, I promise you, the Hardings will throw the barbecue to end all barbecues at our home, and when we do, all of you are invited!”
I waited until the cheering subsided. “One of the things that has amazed me since my return is how many of you have never left Boland. You were born here, grew up here, went to school here, got married—and now you’re raising your kids here. How wise! You all know a good thing when you see it. I cannot think of a better environment in which to live a happy and peaceful life than right here, in the heart of New Hampshire.
“Like Judge Duffy, I, too, wish my mom and dad could have been here to share this special moment with us but … but … I’m sure they are watching, just as I am certain that I could have accomplished very little without their love and guidance. I thank you all for coming. This day is without doubt the highest point of my life.”
And then, only two weeks after the celebration, my life plummeted from its peak to the utmost depths of anguish and despair. Sally and Rick were on the Everett Turnpike, going south to Manchester to do some shopping, when an old Ford pickup truck, heading north, suffered a blowout of its left front tire, careened across the center strip of grass and struck Sally’s station wagon head-on. Both Sally and Rick were killed on impact.…
… I don’t remember how long I had been staring out the rain-streaked window in my den before I turned back to the desk and the Colt .45. I opened the lower-right desk drawer again, removed the box of cartridges and placed it next to the weapon. Then I tipped the container until several ugly-looking brass cartridges rolled toward me. This was it. I wanted to die. Very much. I wanted the pain in my heart to stop, and there was no medicine available anywhere that could relieve my agony. Living without Sally and Rick was a punishment I did not have to endure a moment longer. I removed the empty cartridge magazine from the pistol and began stuffing bullets into it. Easy. Finally I was ready. I shoved the magazine back into the gun. Hurry! Don’t think about it! Just do it! I raised the gun to my forehead.
“Dear God,” I sobbed, “please forgive me!”
And then an angel—yes, an angel—saved my life!
III
At first it sounded like distant thunder. When it persisted, in an almost rhythmic beat, I realized that the thumping sounds were being made by someone pounding on the rear of the house clapboards. Then I heard footsteps on the deck and a voice shouting, “John … John … are you in there? Answer me, please. Open the door, any door … even a window! John, it’s Bill West. Can you hear me, old buddy?”
Bill West? Could it
be? He had been my closest friend during all the growing-up years in Boland, as close as any blood brother could have been—from that first day of kindergarten when two frightened little boys shared the same seat in an old yellow school bus to our double-dating in his dad’s green Buick for our high school senior prom. Bill West? Bill West? My comrade, teammate, fellow Boy Scout, confidant and alter ego. Was that really Billy’s voice calling me from my deck? Even before Sally and I began our house hunting around Boland, I had tried in vain to make contact with him. Eventually I had learned that although he still lived in town with his wife and two sons, he was in Santa Fe, on a three-month sick leave from his company, recuperating from a triple-bypass operation that had almost killed him.
The sound of pounding grew nearer and louder. Quickly I jerked open the desk’s right-bottom drawer, dropped the pistol and cartridge box on top of the phone book and seed catalogs and slammed the drawer shut. I certainly didn’t need any witnesses to my suicide, especially my oldest and dearest friend.
Suddenly there he was, peering in my picture window, his hands shielding his eyes, yelling, “John … it’s Billy West … answer me, please. John!”
I stood and moved close to the window. Bill staggered back several paces before he recovered his composure, grinned and pointed at me. “Hey, old buddy. Finally found you! It’s me, John.… Bill … Bill West!”
I forced a smile and then motioned for him to come closer to the window so that he could hear me. “There’s a door down at the end of the deck,” I yelled, pointing to my right. “Go on down there and I’ll unlock it for you!”
We embraced for several minutes and then stepped back but not so far that we released our hold on each other. The palms of Bill’s two hands were patting my cheeks while my fingers were locked tightly behind his neck. We were both crying.
Bill spoke first after removing a handkerchief and blowing his nose. “Hell of a reunion, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, John.”
I tried to answer but couldn’t. Bill placed his hands on my shoulders and said hoarsely, “I had read all about your big move up to Millennium. Aunt Jessie phoned us in New Mexico to give us the news about Boland’s planned welcome-home celebration, but my doctor insisted that if I truly loved my family, I should just lie around in a hammock in Santa Fe for another couple of months before coming back. He said I could celebrate with my old friend later. But when Jessie called again with the terrible news about Sally and Rick, I couldn’t stay out there.”
“Bill,” I said softly, “you should have listened to your doctor. Thanks for caring, but there’s really nothing that anyone can do for me, I’m afraid. Hey, let’s not stand out here. It’s a lot more comfortable in the living room.”
We sat in silence until Bill finally said haltingly, “It’s a … a … lovely room, John.”
I stared down at the antique Heriz carpet and shook my head. “Sally kept promising me that by Christmas she’d have it looking just the way we wanted. I think I’ve only come in here once since the accident, and even then I could only stay a couple of minutes. My pretty lady is everywhere I look. I can remember the afternoon we bought that Queen Anne armchair and walnut slant-front desk in Conway and the rainy Saturday morning when we were shopping for vacation clothes and came home with this Chippendale sofa instead.”
Bill looked around the room slowly, pausing to study the oil painting of clipper ships sailing in Portsmouth harbor, the Shaker rocking chair with woven-tape seat, the oversize fireplace with its carved walnut mantelpiece and flintlock rifle hanging above its shelf and the eight-foot-tall grandfather clock in the corner nearest to us.
“Magnificent,” he sighed just as the clock chimed the quarter hour.
I nodded. “Sally’s favorite … of all the furniture.”
Bill forced a smile. “How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?”
“High school reunion. Our tenth, wasn’t it? I only came for that one. Then I got too busy.”
Bill shook his head. “That’s a dozen years ago! Where the hell is the time going?”
“Old buddy, I don’t know … and I really don’t care.”
“They tell me that no one has seen you around town since the funeral. Have you been locked up in this house all that time?”
“No. Every night after dark I walk down the driveway and clean out my mailbox. I don’t have any other reason for going outside. The freezer is pretty full, and there’s still some wine in the cellar.”
“What about your company? I know they’ve had plenty of problems during the past few years and I would think that they probably need their new leader at the tiller almost every moment to guide them out of their troubled waters.”
I hesitated. The words were tough to say. “Bill, two days after the funeral I wrote to my best friend on Millennium’s board and tendered my resignation, stating that the company certainly deserved more, far more, than I felt I was able to offer them, since it had become a terrible struggle for me just to get out of bed in the morning. It didn’t even hurt to write that letter, which gave me a good idea of my state of mind. I had truly buried all my hopes and dreams with Rick and Sally. A couple of weeks have now passed, and I still feel the same way.”
“That’s a rough, tough board of directors who sit around Millennium’s oval table. Six years ago, John, I used up a lot of sweat and tears putting together their pension plan. I’ve got thirty years of experience in insurance and pension plans, but they made me earn every cent of my commission, and then some. So what kind of response did you get to your letter?”
“One I never expected. They would not accept my resignation. Gave me a four-month leave of absence, with pay, and suggested that I meet with them sometime soon after Labor Day. In my letter I had suggested the names of two vice presidents, both recruited by me, either of which I believed would do well as my successor. The board did name one of them acting president and chief executive officer for four months.”
“So … you’ll be back on the job in September?”
I said nothing.
“John?”
What could I tell him? That I never expected to serve another day as Millennium’s president? That I didn’t even want to live another day … and as soon as he departed, I was going to finish what he had interrupted and kill myself?
“John? John, I’m so sorry. It’s much too early for you to begin thinking about going back to work. How inconsiderate of me even to ask. I just came by to offer you my love and my sympathy and to find out if there was anything I could do to make your load a little lighter. Like the old days, remember?”
I patted his knee and mumbled, “Thanks.”
Bill rose to his feet, frowning and looking down at me. “I also came for another reason. I need a favor, a favor that no one I know can handle better than you.”
“Just ask.”
“My station wagon is parked in your driveway. Will you please come for a ride with me?”
“What?”
“A ride. I’d like to take you for a short ride. Won’t even leave town, and I promise to have you back here in thirty minutes. I swear!”
Thirty minutes. Such a tiny morsel of time. Time. The world’s most precious commodity and increasing in value every day. Franklin had called it the stuff from which life is made, and here was my oldest friend asking me now for just thirty minutes, with no idea that if he had come pounding on my window thirty minutes later, he would have found my dead body.
I shook my head. “Sorry, old friend, but I don’t think I’d make much of a riding companion, even for that short a time. The last automobile I rode in was a long black Cadillac behind a hearse.”
“Humor me, John. You don’t have to be a good riding companion. Don’t say a damn word if you like. Just come with me, please. Please.”
I went.
Neither of us spoke until we had reached Main Street, but when we passed the common and bandstand, Bill said, “They tell me this old town gave you quite a coming-home celebration.” Immedi
ately he made a wry face, pounded on his steering wheel and said angrily. “I’m sorry, John!”
I didn’t reply. Bill turned right after passing the Baptist church, drove over a small covered bridge and by the time we had passed the old town cemetery, with its leaning thin headstones of slate, I knew where he was taking me. Within minutes we had pulled into a paved parking lot whose far side was guarded by a chain-link fence at least twelve feet tall, on which hung a long blue-and-gold wooden sign proclaiming, in Old English lettering, that we were at BOLAND LITTLE LEAGUE PARK … as if I needed a sign to tell me.
I could feel my heart pounding as I followed Bill through the opening on the right-field side of the park between the end of the wire fencing and wooden outfield wall, which curved in a gentle arc from the foul line in right to a deeper point in center to the foul line in left. The number 202, in vivid yellow, was freshly painted at the very edge of the fence in both right and left field, indicating the footage down the foul lines. I remembered hitting a home run over the fence in dead center field, during my last year of Little League, and on the following day my uncle had measured where the drive had cleared the fence—247 feet!
When Bill and I arrived in center field, he stopped, extended his hand to me and said warmly, “John, now you are really home.”
I inhaled deeply and turned slowly to my right until I had completed a full 360-degree circle. Then I turned and did the same thing in the opposite direction before I said, almost in a whisper, “Amazing, truly amazing. The park looks exactly as it did thirty years ago! Lots of fresh paint, new wood, neat fencing and a much better parking lot, but it’s still our old field! Look, Billy, they still have those small billboard-type ads plastered along the outfield fence in right and center … and some of those companies were advertising back when we were playing. And then in left field the wall is just painted green—no ads—exactly like the left-field wall in Boston’s Fenway Park that we’ve always called the ‘Green Monster.’ ”