“While we’re breathing, Tom,” Henry said.
“You have to understand, Tom,” Mary continued, “we’re not abandoning you. We’re just getting you somewhere safer than this. Tom, they could be looking for you right now. God knows what they might do if they found you. I mean, look at what they’ve done already.”
She looked down at her hands, fighting back tears again. Not tears of sadness this time, tears of anger.
For a moment, I wasn’t worried what they might do to me, but what Mary might do to them. Henry spoke next.
“I talked with my sister, Tom. I told her what I know about you, which ain’t much, but enough to understand you need help in a bad way. A real bad way.” He took a sip of beer and swallowed. “She’s a good woman, Tom, a real fine person. Well, I didn’t even finish the story with her, and, well, she knew where I was going and asked when I was bringing you to meet her. That’s just the way she is, Tom.”
“I’ll visit you whenever I can, Tom,” Mary said. “Whenever I can.”
“I know you will, Mary. I know.” She would—we had established a bond that would only become stronger in the distance between us. Somehow, I just understood that Mary would always be with me. She related in a way that was beyond what even some mothers feel for their sons. It was both strange and eternal. I felt the same way towards her. And I never doubted, not even for a second, that she meant what she said.
Mary began to clear the dishes and Henry polished off his beer with a relieved last gulp. I watched both of my new friends and knew everything was going to be fine. If I wanted to stay, I know they would have agreed. Still, I knew leaving was for the best.
Henry gave Mary a warm hug and patted me on the shoulder before leaving. It was the same kind of physical gesture the TV fathers gave their sons.
MARY TUCKED ME IN once more, kissed my forehead and said three words I’d never heard before: “I love you.” I didn’t really understand them then, but my eyes well up as I write them down now. Sleep came fast and easy. I sank into the bed with thoughts of the future and its possibilities: new people, a new city or town, a new house.
And, finally, I wasn’t afraid.
ARRANGEMENTS WERE MADE and new clothes packed. Two days later I was taking my second ride in a car, half-hidden in the backseat by clothes, some other supplies and a cooler. It would be a five-hour drive, Henry said, and we’d stop for a picnic. Mary had prepared some salads, fried chicken and her world-famous pickles.
Driving in broad daylight produced a whole new set of sensations for me, and Henry, the eager tour guide, watched me in the rearview mirror, pointed out sights and vehicles and gave me a lesson in the history of the highway.
“These were only two-lane gravel roads when I was a kid, Tom. Now look at it. Everybody’s in such a rush to get to where they’re goin’ they miss the trip. You see, Tom, getting there is most of the fun. Look at that rig coming up behind us, Tom. Man, he must be going eighty. Lord, I stick to fifty-five miles per hour, Tom. No sir, no ticket for me. And with the price a gas these days, well, fifty-five, that’s the best speed. Here she comes, Tom. Look at that thing.”
As the semi powered by, the car shook. Henry, both hands on the wheel, never skipped a beat. “That’s a transport, Tom. They carry freight from one end of the country to the other. That one’s handling fuel. You’d think he’d be more careful. Boy, if that thing went up there wouldn’t be nothing left of that rig.” He went on like this for hours. Mary tried to quiet him down, but I found the information useful.
We stopped at a rest area, used the washrooms, ate and got back on the road.
“How you feeling, Tom? Nervous?” Mary asked, wanting me to know it would only be normal if I was.
“I’m fine, ma’am. A little nervous, I guess, but fine, thanks.”
“You’ll do just great. Jim and Liz, well, they’ll love you just like we do.”
“They sure will, Tom,” Henry said. “You’re a good lad. You’ll settle in with those folks real well.”
We drove a couple more hours and were nearing the end of the journey when Henry said, “Tom, we’re almost at Jim and Liz’s now. It’s real important you don’t tell no one where you’re from. Remember, you’re a cousin from outta town. Your parents died in a car accident. Don’t tell nobody anything else. The kids don’t know nothing about you, just that you need a place to live. Okay, Jim and Liz, they know, but they won’t say nothing to nobody. You understand, Tom?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t say anything else.”
“Good boy.”
With that, the town came into view. It was much smaller than the city we’d left and it sat on the shores of a small lake. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was one of those towns where no one said anything about anyone—but still, everyone knew everything about everyone. There was a quiet acceptance of a boy like me: one who did not share the last name of the people he lived with. As it turned out, I was not the only cast-off living with relatives.
In this place, “nieces and nephews” were raised by grandparents, uncles and aunts or old family friends. It was still typical, in those days, to send a child away when his or her mother was unmarried. There was always an explanation, not unlike mine—and as I said, quiet acceptance. People whispered in low tones while sharing a pot of tea or over a beer, but no one ever came out and asked you. It was the perfect place for me.
We meandered through the quaint streets until we came to a large red-brick home across from the lake. Boats were put up for the winter but you could imagine its summer beauty: people laughing, sitting on their docks in the warm evening; boats bobbing; children splashing at the shore or jumping off rafts.
The house had a large white porch and my new family was seated outside, waiting for their new arrival. As we pulled into the gravel drive, they got up to greet us at the porch steps.
“How are you, Henry?” The men shook hands.
“Oh, Mary, it’s so good to see you!” The women embraced.
Everyone became quiet, then turned to me. Mary broke the silence cautiously. “Jim, Liz, this is Tom. Tom, this is Jim and Liz.”
Jim stuck out his hand. I’d watched the men do this, so I stuck out mine. “It’s real nice to meet you, Tom.”
“It sure is, Tom,” said Liz.
I said it was real nice to meet them too.
It was awkward; I’m not going to lie to you, son. I mean, here I was, a boy none of them knew anything about standing in their driveway, and they were taking me in. Henry, whether intentionally or not, broke the ice in a way only Henry could.
“By God, Jim, it’s been a long drive. I gotta use the head.”
The adults laughed. Mary gave Henry a dis-approving look. Henry responded with one that meant “What’d I say?”
Regardless, I think we were all grateful, and idle chatter began. Jim led Henry inside to the washroom while Mary and Liz began catching up on gossip. Together, we walked towards my new home.
And what a home it was: not extravagant, but impressive. The main floor rooms were large, nicely decorated and friendly. I say friendly because while it was all very nice, a person wouldn’t be afraid to come in and sit on the sofa or at the wooden table in the kitchen. Even though I’d never been there, there was a sense of warm familiarity, an atmosphere that said, “Come in, take your shoes off and sit.” Of course, at that point I don’t think I could articulate this, but the years I spent there, watching people come in and out, taught me to appreciate it.
Liz and Mary took me upstairs to my new room. The second floor was surprisingly large, with rooms shooting off in all directions. Mine was at the end of the hall, next to a second-storey door that led to nothing but a twenty-foot drop. I suppose there was going to be a balconey there at some point, but I don’t know, I never asked. It seemed normal to everyone else, and in time I guess I pretended to know what everyone else knew. Maybe they didn’t know any more than I did. People are strange that way. They will go along with something as long as everyone els
e is.
My room had a bed, a window and a large chest of drawers. There was no closet. The paint on the walls was a faded blue that made the room feel cool regardless of the temperature. We put away my few belongings in the chest. I think we barely filled three of the nine drawers of the old wooden cabinet. The one item that wasn’t put away was the sundress. I kept that folded in my pocket. Mary didn’t ask; I didn’t tell.
Liz showed me the bathroom and the master bedroom she and Jim shared, should I need them. Then we went back downstairs. Henry and Jim were having a beer and talking quietly and intensely.
The creaky old stairs warned of our imminent arrival, and they immediately changed the tone of their discussion.
“Whatta ya think?” Henry asked, smiling to flash the few teeth he had left.
“It’s fine, sir.”
“See, what’d I tell ya, Mary? The boy’ll be fine. It’s a real nice place ya got here, Jim. A real nice place.” He took a swig of beer, but didn’t leave enough room for anyone else to speak. “Why, a man’d give his right arm to live in a place like this. Big house, lotsa yard out back, a lake out front. Yes, sir, I might move in with you next. A real nice home. Definitely. Real nice.”
I don’t know who he was trying to convince: me, Mary or himself.
If I’ve learned anything about Henry over the years, it’s that dropping me off with his sister was as hard on him as it was on Mary. It’s just that men of that era weren’t allowed to show their emotions. Mary, of course, tried to explain, but even she couldn’t have gotten into Henry’s head at that very moment. Sitting here, writing to you, I think I understand. I just wish I understood sooner.
Liz finally took over. “Tom, we are sure you will be very happy here, too. And thank you, Henry, we like to think it is a very nice home.” She looked at me as she spoke, and concentrated on Mary. I really think Mary needed more assurance than I did; I mean, she’d met me not even a week earlier, and here she was dropping me off for someone else to raise. Despite the fact that I was not her flesh and blood, I believe that in those few days, those precious moments, we became mother and child. She felt it; I felt it. And to this day I still feel it. When people ask, “Who is your mother?” I always answer the same way: “Her name is Mary.”
“You know, Tom,” Jim said, “we need to talk about our situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was more formal than Henry, more like the fathers I had seen on TV. He chose his sparing words carefully.
“Let’s sit,” he said. And we did.
We reviewed the story they’d given people; I was reminded that this was a small town and that people liked to talk. There will be questions, I was told; I must have answers. They had spoken briefly to their kids, who were intentionally sent out prior to my arrival, and they too knew what to say. They were told precious little, actually, to prevent them from being tripped up by curious neighbors—you can’t tell a lie if you don’t know you’re lying. As far as the kids knew, I really was a distant cousin whose parents had been killed in a car wreck.
I am the only one that knows the real story. And now, I am telling it to you, son. Sometimes things need to come to a boil before they spill out completely. Tonight, things came to a boil.
I GUESS YOU’D SAY I adapted well to living with Jim and Liz. Besides, what option did I have? There was a tearful goodbye when Mary and Henry finally left that day, mostly on Mary’s part—but not completely. I felt sad myself, but I didn’t cry.
Jim and Liz had three daughters and a son. The boy, Zach, was the oldest. He was leaving for college in a year and eventually proved to be a great role model for me. In fact, it was probably Zach’s influence that’s allowed me to write this letter. He was the one who took the time to teach me to read and to write. Liz and Jim couldn’t send to me school that first year. The story was that I was too sick to attend—that I would enroll the next fall. The truth was, I had much to learn before I could even dream of going to school.
That first winter, Zach sat with me for hours on end, teaching me. In fact, he taught me to the point that I could read and write better than most of the kids in my grade.
The girls—Theresa, Sarah and Stephanie—well, they simply doted on me. Sure, they helped with my schooling too, but they were so motherly you’d swear I was their child.
Normally, the “new kid in town” novelty wears off pretty quick and then people begin to treat you like everyone else. Well, that wasn’t the case with those girls and me. I can’t tell for sure if they saw a lifetime’s pain on my face, in my eyes, or whatever, but they never stopped fawning. God help kids who even thought about teasing me in the schoolyard. I’ll tell you, son, kids in small towns can be just as tough and mean as kids in large towns or cities. And a lot of the kids around there earned rock-hard muscles baling hay, feeding cattle and slaughtering hogs. And yes, my little man, if a boy like that wanted a piece of you, he took it.
I rarely felt the bullies’ wrath, mostly because the girls would have none of it. But when one or more of them did challenge me, they never could hurt me: as strong as they were, none could hit as hard as my father.
My reputation grew. I was a quiet boy who never fought back, but I also never showed I could be hurt. After a while, they rarely challenged me, leaving me alone to read, eat my lunch or whatever else.
THE YEARS FLEW BY quickly, living with Liz and Jim. I grew and I matured most like every other boy in town. It turned out I was a pretty good student—I could comprehend almost anything they threw at me. Parched for so long, I had a thirst for knowledge and enjoyed learning anything new. I read every book I could get my hands on, and while I was quiet, I was not shy about asking questions in the classroom. I felt that if the teacher was there to teach, I might as well stay on a subject until I completely understood it. Some teachers liked me for that—others clearly wanted to get home to their backyard and a martini.
I suppose the other kids had little use for my questions, but I wasn’t there for them. And hell, the truth is half of them probably wanted to ask the same questions anyway. The other half? Well, they probably couldn’t formulate a question if their lives depended on it.
From grade school to high school this continued. And ultimately, it was the same in college.
No, I wasn’t the most popular kid, but then again, I really wasn’t the most unpopular. I bet if I didn’t ask so many questions, the other students wouldn’t have even known I existed. At times, mostly outside of the classroom, I was invisible. And that was fine with me—I didn’t crave attention like some kids do. I was pretty comfortable with who I was, and as a result, I didn’t feel the need to act like a jackass. When you think about where I came from, it’s hard to believe: I was probably better adjusted than many of the other students.
Son, I don’t want you to think I was one of those lonely, brooding artist types who intentionally become different—the kind that seem to want to be left alone, but do it in such a way that it seems like they want everyone to watch them be different and alone. Those guys are really just screaming for attention, criticizing mainstream culture, turning up their noses at everyone outside their own sub-society.
That wasn’t me; I just was. I went about my business, had few friends and even fewer girlfriends. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to girls or them to me. It’s just that I felt awkward. Somehow I always wanted them to be the perfect combination of Mary and the girl in the brown sundress.
Yes, I still thought and dreamed about her often.
The dreams became less violent and more loving. She grew up in my fantasy as I grew up in real life. Amazingly, as I became a man, she became a woman. I fell in love with her over and over again. I could feel her touch, smell her hair, enjoy her embrace, but never hear her speak. She had been silenced long ago and no dream could bring that back. She’d been muted, forever. Until tonight, that is.
Girls fascinated me as much as I did them. They were a challenge to most of the boys in school, while I was a challeng
e of a different sort. They were used to snapping their fingers and any number of guys would come running. Me? I couldn’t be bothered. This was unacceptable, unbelievable to most of them. Some tried to lure me, others looked at me in disgust—as though I were some sort of an alien for not knowing how special they were. And when someone’s told they’re special their whole life . . . well, it’s not good.
Honestly, we are all special to someone. But we’re not special to everyone. You are special to me, but the six billion others on the planet are not likely to be as amazed with your smile as I am.
I was special to Mary, but to the other kids at school, I was just another guy in jeans and a T-shirt. These girls, however, and some of the guys, thought everyone else on the planet should treat them just like their mommy or daddy—and a storm blew through if they didn’t. They had no time for anyone who didn’t kiss their butts when, in truth, those were the only people they should have been listening to.
Time is the great equalizer. I’ve seen the beauty queen of ninth grade at twenty-nine: she should have chosen her friends more carefully. The star high school football quarterback has lost his hair, squeezes himself into extra-large shirts and sorts nuts and bolts in a factory. If I can give some advice—and that’s what I am doing tonight—remember, you are an adult a lot longer than you’re a teen. High school is a four-year popularity contest. Life is life.
I finished college with an honors degree in history and a minor in literature. As I’ve told you, I loved books growing up, son, and those two subjects meant a lot of reading.
Maybe someday, if a forensic psychologist reads this, they’ll write, “He used books as an escape from the pain of his early childhood.” Many others will agree—and honestly, so would I. I was constantly losing myself in someone else’s life. I think we all do it, at one time or another. Reading, we escape to a place no one has ever really been, or can ever go to again. I majored in that in college, and that’s okay. Because while I was escaping, I was learning. Too many others were escaping and not getting a damn thing out of it.
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