Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  These thoughts didn’t consume me, however. The families did. I watched sons come to their fathers with questions about girls, money and school. I was amazed when these men with huge white teeth sat down and treated their boys with dignity, respect and love. They put hands on their shoulders when they spoke with them. They didn’t frown at them, hit them or hold their faces to a hot stove. To me, these fathers seemed unreal. And in truth, they were. But when you consider it truthfully, they were a lot closer to real than my father. It’s not one of those “somewhere in the middle” things; no, he was at one end of the father chart, and they were at the other. I wished I had a dad who was at the other end of the spectrum. Most men are somewhere near it—maybe not all the way, but pretty damn close. Very few are at the same end as my father, thank God, and little man, as I write this to you, I pray that when I am judged, I am placed closer to the TV men.

  I have had some good influences, son, and I believe they’ve helped me be a better father to you. And yes, some of them were actually from TV. As unrealistic as they may have been, they were what I aspired to—I wanted to be the clean, white-shirted, tie-wearing man at the head of the table, telling your mother how good dinner was and listening to your problems, giving advice with the wisdom of my age. Believe me, I’m truly sorry, but I did try.

  Darkness overcame the fall evening quickly and dark hands grabbed the room as well. The only safe thing was the TV. The box lent warmth to the room. Changing scenes made light dance across the walls, furniture and pictures. Every once in a while, there was total blackness—it was always over quickly, but always a little scary. My fears disappeared as soon as some smiley-faced person appeared, telling me to drink this coffee or use that cleaner.

  I watched for hours on end until I finally I lay back on the couch and fell into a deep, restful sleep. I still, on occasion, like to fall asleep in front of the television. There’s something comforting about hearing voices in the background as you sleep. It’s kind of like someone is in the room with you, watching over you. A false sense of security—I know—but a false sense of security is better than no security at all.

  The box, I learned later in life, is the only friend some people have. They rarely interact with others. Maybe they go out to get food, buy the things their smiling “friends” are telling them to buy, but they always return to their own living rooms, to the warm glow and comforting voices coming from their TV. They don’t have drama in their lives, so they lose themselves in the lives of the people they watch. They laugh with them, cry with them, love with them, and some even believe they are them. They waste the time they could be spending living life watching the lives of others.

  Son, are these people all that different than I was in my youth? Are they alive? Do they make choices? Are they not as much a slave to the box as I was to my father? I think, on some level, it’s the same thing. Their jail is just a whole lot more comfortable than mine ever was.

  STATIC HAD FILLED the screen when I woke to hear the squeal of the door’s hinges and realized that Mary was home. The kitchen light was turned on, and it sent a glow down the hallway. I heard the whispers of voices and knew that Henry had returned with Mary.

  They walked down the hall and stood in the doorway to the living room, silhouetted by the kitchen light. They didn’t speak—just two shadows checking to see if I was still there. I stirred so they could see I was awake.

  “Tom, you’re still up?” Mary spoke softly.

  “Yes, ma’am. I did fall asleep though.” Groggy, I got to my feet slowly.

  “How are you, Tom?” Henry asked.

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Do you want to come to the kitchen for a snack? Henry and I were just going to make sandwiches.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  At the kitchen table, Henry eyed me up and smiled.

  “You look like a million bucks, son.”

  Mary beamed at the compliment.

  “A million bucks, sir?”

  “Ah, it means you look great, Tom. Really great. Mary, you fixed him up real good. Real good.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Mary got me some clothes and cut my hair.”

  “I see that, Tom. Well, son, you are a handsome young man. Isn’t he, Mary?”

  She ran her fingers through my hair and said, “He sure is. A real fine young man.”

  I still get chills about that moment as I write this to you. She had a genuine affection for me. Just as I had for her. Henry could see this as well and smiled; pleased, it seemed, he’d convinced Mary to take me home.

  “Tom, are you okay to sit a bit and talk, or did you want to go to bed?” Henry asked.

  “I’m okay. I’m not tired no more.”

  “Well, that’s great, son. Are you hungry, Tom? I’m starved. You’d think running a diner I’d always be full, but no sir, I don’t hardly get time to have a smoke, let alone sit and eat a meal. Mary, get the boy a sandwich. You like sandwiches, Tom? How ’bout pickles, Mary, and milk? Grab the boy a glass of milk. Everyone knows a growing boy needs milk. You like milk, Tom? What kinda meat you like? Ham? Beef? I think I brought Mary some turkey last week. Mary, you got any turkey?”

  “Take a breath, Henry, and let Tom answer—you’re prattling on like a schoolgirl.”

  “I just want to be sure the boy gets some food, that’s all. He needs to get some meat on his bones. That all, Mary. That’s all.”

  “I know, Henry, I know. You’re a sweet man.” She leaned in and kissed him on the top of his forehead.

  “Not in front of Tom, Mary, please.”

  “Oh, Henry . . .” she said, winked, and then walked to the fridge.

  By this time, Mary understood the limits of my experience and offered to let me taste both the mustard and the mayo before putting them on my sandwich. I liked the mustard—it woke up my mouth. She piled meat on homemade bread, cut it in half, placed it on a plate with a pickle and dropped it in front of me. She did the same for Henry and then herself. I waited for her because Henry waited for her. She finally sat after pouring a glass of beer for Henry, and milk for me and for herself.

  “Go ahead, Tom. You can eat now,” Henry said while he crunched on a dill. “Mary, you make the best pickles. Wow, this is good.”

  “Henry, please don’t talk while you’re chewing. I’m trying to teach this young man some manners and you’re going to undo it all in one meal.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary. Tom . . . but you know, on your feet all day . . . and these pickles . . . Go ahead, Tom. Try that pickle. Best you’ll ever eat. If only I could get her to make ’em for the diner, well, sir, I’d be rich. She won’t, though. No, sir. She won’t. Doesn’t want to turn pickling into a job. Says she likes it too much. Doesn’t want to ruin it for herself—that’s something, isn’t it, Tom? She loves it so much she doesn’t want to do it. That’s a good one!”

  A sideways glance from Mary changed Henry’s course.

  “Look at me, Tom, doing all the talking. And about pickles. You don’t care about pickles, do you? Of course you don’t. You’ve had quite a couple of days, haven’t you? So what do you think, Tom? Are you okay? Feeling better?”

  He finally stopped to take a bite of his sandwich and wash it down with a gulp of golden beer.

  “So, Tom, tell me.” He paused. “How are you?”

  I waited, not sure if Henry was going to let me answer before firing another question at me.

  “I’m fine, sir,” I finally said. “Mary’s been real nice. She showed me the toilet. It’s not gold, you know. Let me take a shower. And gave me a warm dress to sleep in.”

  I’m not sure if it was the gold toilet or the warm dress that caused Henry to start coughing, but cough he did. Mary and I watched as he covered his mouth with one hand and held up the other. A chubby index finger pointed to the sky as he regained his composure, took a sip of beer and said, “What? Gold? Dress?”

  I tried to speak, but Mary beat me to it.

  “Shush, Henry. I explained the to
ilet to him and he had to sleep in something so I gave him one of my flannel nightgowns. He didn’t mind.”

  “Well, he didn’t mind being called Boy either, but that don’t make it right. A boy, I mean, a young man, don’t sleep in no nightgown. Mary, you gotta get this . . . lad some proper pajamas, something suitable for a young man . . .”

  “It’s already done, Henry. You can relax. Here, I’ll get you another beer. You poor thing, I thought you were going to choke to death.”

  “I almost did. You shouldn’t do that to a man, shock him half to death.”

  “Oh, you’ll live,” she said, patting his back and placing a full glass of beer in front of him.

  “Thank you, Mary. You’re a good woman.”

  “It’s nice to hear you say it in front of somebody else for a change.”

  “Please don’t start, Mary. Not in front of Tom.”

  “I’m just playing with you, Henry. Just playing.”

  He sat back in his chair, pushed his now empty plate away and said, “I know you are, Mary. I know. And you are a good woman.”

  She smiled again, but only at Henry.

  There was more to this moment than I could have known, son. But when I look back at it, it’s a very clear window into what was an unconventional, but loving, relationship. I was glad they shared it with me; as uncomfortable as it may have been for them, it taught me how to love them even more. While I thought Mary was perfect, I could sense that even she was somehow flawed. What the flaw was, I didn’t know—but it still made her seem more human, more real . . . more perfect.

  You see, son, it’s the people who are not afraid to show their flaws who are often the most loveable. It’s those, like the people in the TV families, who seem to have no flaws, or warts or whatever you want to call them, who may not even be likeable. Mary and Henry showed me it’s okay to be flawed, and even more okay to let people know you are flawed. When you display your warts or scars, you don’t have to spend much time covering them up—you can actually spend your time doing more important things, like laughing and loving. I really believe this, son, and so should you. Life is a lot easier when you’re not hiding who are. I suppose this is one of the reasons I am writing you this letter—I want you to see my flaws. I want you to know who I really am. I am a man of many, many warts. Ugly ones.

  “TOM,” HENRY CONTINUED, “we have to talk to you. You know, about what we are going to do . . . with you.”

  I straightened up in my chair the way a child does when they are included in a serious conversation.

  “This is a very strange situation we find ourselves in, Tom. Odd, if you will. I mean, who would’ve imagined, two days ago, you wandering into our lives. All I was doing was taking a break and having a smoke, and there you were. My God, you were a mess. . . .”

  “Henry!”

  “I’m just sayin’, he was a mess, Mary. He knows he was a mess. I’m not saying anything he don’t know. Anyways, there you were, a scared little rabbit: and here you are now, all cleaned up and, you know, Tom, thank God I took my break when I did, because who knows what woulda happened. Who knows where you’d be if we didn’t find you? God, I hate to even think about it. It can be a mean city out there, Tom. Mean and cold.”

  He stopped.

  “Thank God, sir,” I mimicked.

  “Well, Tom, we did find you, and you’re safe. With us . . . with Mary. Yes, sir, she took real good care of you. Real good. As good as any mother would her own son.”

  He looked at Mary as though he’d said something he shouldn’t have. She looked away.

  He took a drink of beer and continued. “The thing is, Tom, what do we do? We can’t go to the law, Mary’s explained that. You won’t go? ’Course you won’t, and I don’t blame you. Half the cops in this damn town are worse than the criminals. No, we can’t go to the cops. So, me and Mary here, well, we’re just simple people. Busy lives and all. And we ain’t sure just how to solve this problem. Not that you’re a problem, Tom, ’cause you ain’t. No, you just present a problem. One that’s gotta be solved real quick. I mean, me and Mary, we can’t be running around town buying boys’ clothes and such. People, well, people know us. We’ve been here our whole lives. They know we don’t got kids. How do we explain that? How do we explain Mary buying twice as much food? And what about you, Tom? You gotta go outside at some point. A man needs sunlight. Otherwise he turns yellow. No, you gotta be able to go out, run, play, get some exercise. You’re a young man. A young man has to exercise. He’d get all flabby like me if he don’t. I never got no exercise—always working at the diner with my dad, since I was younger than you. Then my dad—well, one day he drops dead in the diner, right at the lunch rush. . . . They wheel him out and I keep putting orders on the counter. I closed up for two hours the day of the funeral and made it back for the dinner rush. But that’s nothing to you, Tom. Just letting you know, you gotta get outside, burn the flab off.”

  He rubbed his belly lightly overtop of his shirt, then continued, “Not that you got any flab, but you would if you were stuck in a diner eighteen hours a day. So anyways, Tom, see, Mary and me, we got this problem, and we wanted to talk to you about it before we made a decision. You know, get your thoughts on this thing. See what were gonna do. But with your help.”

  I sat motionless, desperately wanting to understand just what Henry was really saying. I kind of understood that I posed a problem, but I’d never really thought about what would happen next. My great plan never jumped that far ahead. I had to get away; I did that. What came next—well, that never crossed my mind. It was pretty clear to me now that I probably wasn’t going to shit in a gold toilet and that I probably could not survive long in a cold, mean city without help.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Tom.”

  “I don’t want to cause problems. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no, Tom,” Mary said, “you’re not a problem.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, giving Henry a stern look. “It’s the situation that is the problem. Not you. You didn’t cause this, Tom. Don’t ever feel that way. Don’t ever feel you’re a problem.”

  “Oh sure, Tom, heck no. You’re not the problem. It is the situation. You see, eighteen hours a day in a diner don’t give a man much time to learn how to explain himself real well. You see, Tom, it would be easy for Mary and me just to call the cops or child services and hand you over. Well, then, we’d never have to see you again and we could go on with our lives like you were never here. But Tom . . .” He became very serious then, staring into my eyes. “Me an’ Mary, well, we ain’t like that. We wouldn’t throw you to the curb like an old bag a trash. ’Cause you ain’t, Tom, you ain’t trash. No sir. You’re a human being. And human beings, well, most ain’t trash. And you definitely ain’t trash. No, sir, me and Mary, well, we want to figure this thing out. One way or another, we, the three of us, sitting here, we are going to figure this out. And not just what’s best for Mary and me, but what’s best for you, Tom. You understand that? Tom, do you understand we want what’s best for you? To protect you?”

  “Yes, sir. I think I do.”

  And I think I did. I could tell they cared for me, even though they had known me for less than two days. And I cared for both of them now too—Mary for the way she touched my hand at just the right moment, and Henry for the way that he struggled to explain he cared. It was awkward, but beautiful.

  “You see, Tom, and I don’t mean to scare you, but Mary and me, well, we can’t, well, you can’t . . .” He struggled for words.

  Mary put her hand on Henry’s—he was fighting the lump.

  “Tom, son, what Henry is trying to say is that we can’t keep you here long,” Mary said quietly. “It’s not that we don’t want you here. God knows the past two days, looking after you, well, it’s been . . . well, it’s been just wonderful. You see, Tom, Henry and I, we’ve never had kids of our own, and having you here, well it’s been just like having a son of my . . . of our own. It really is special, Tom. You�
�re special.”

  I suppose I must have looked emotionless; I just sat quiet and listened, not needing or wanting to say a word. For a while, the only sound in the room was the hum of the old refrigerator.

  “Tom, I got a sister. A real good woman. A good woman like Mary here. And her husband, well, there ain’t never been a better man in the whole world. Well, Tom, I called them today. You see, they got kids and they’re real good with kids. They know all about them, and their clothes, and their music, and school and stuff. And well, Tom, they got this big ol’ house, and room and well . . .”

  It was like when someone is trying to tell you they’ve got cancer and they’re dying, but that you will be fine without them. They don’t believe it any more than you do, but you both pretend.

  “I spoke with her too, Tom,” Mary picked up. “You see, we are too close to where you grew up. If someone starts asking questions, well, they could end up here and none of us wants that. We want to protect you, Tom. Keep you safe.”

  Her large dark eyes searched for my approval, something, anything to indicate that I understood and wasn’t hurt by them trying to pass me on to someone else. The thing is, as much as I loved them both and would have spent the rest of my life with them, I understood. I really did. My desire to distance myself from my grandfather and father—as far as possible—was greater than my desire to stay with Mary and Henry.

  “I understand,” I said. “I want to be far away, too. And if you think I’m not far enough, I need to keep going.”

  Their surprise was palpable. It seemed convincing me hadn’t been as difficult as they feared.

  “You’ve both been so good to me. ’Specially you, Mary. But I don’t want them to find me. Ever.” I stopped for a moment, then wondered aloud: “Do you think your sister’ll help me, sir? I don’t want to be no bother to no one. I could go on my own if I had to.”

  “Tom,” Mary said, “you will never have to go on your own again. Least not while I’m breathing.”