An Essay on the coming of spring and the rebirth of life after winter.
I hear those around me flit about like bloated buzzing bees gorging themselves upon the sweet nectar of human interaction. I see the grass grow tall and green feeding upon the dead decaying bodies buried below the earth. I crush beneath my tread buds short bloomed now withered and brown, their falling petals lying upon the ground. I taste the sweat tricking down as the sun beats heavy upon the brow scorching. Life is not as beautiful as it might seem.
My mother died. She, a daisy in full bloom, cruelly plucked by the great gardener, who does his own bidding, caring not for fragrant flowers. Now she lies interred with worm and maggot crunching on her skull and gnawing through her eyes, a sullied skull staring from eyeless sockets into the darkness of the earth. There just below the flowers, the leaves, and the trees, her blood empties into the underground streams flowing into the rivers that feed the growing world. The precious plants feed upon her body, and we rejoicing in their splendor feed upon their life. Life from death. Life snatched away in the blink of an eye. A tiny bird falls from a nest lying broken upon the ground, flapping feathers helplessly until hawks come and pillage. The spring rains cannot wash away the scent of death. They cannot cleanse the memories. There is no sacrifice to rid the world of guilt. Such things are mere creations: futile cremations. Man’s evasion of the one bitter reality: death. The sun’s warming rays cannot cut through the bonds that bind or make amends for the unnatural absence of my mother. While all the world rejoices, I sit under the dying oak covering my head in dust weighed down by sorrow. I mourn but my words fall upon deaf ears. There is no hand of God to ease the pain. No miracle to raise the dead. Lazarus, where art thou? He cannot answer for he is long asleep in his shroud. What is the meaning of all of this if we are only to become dust? God is dead, or if he is alive, he is merely a pathetic old man and I would strike his face and mock him. Beauty is gone, swallowed whole by miserable death. Its fangs sink into us and even the strong cannot escape, wrapped in death’s deep crushing embrace. Death, to you alone do I bow and worship. Snip snip, the gardener lops off the heads at random, and they fall upon the ground and whither. Snip snip here and there, they fall, and the gardener laughs at his doings. All is a game to him. Those who remain tremble, for there is no justice—only death.
I sent my entry in to the competition, never expecting to hear back from anyone but feeling smug that somewhere my essay would startle some reader. Life carried on and weeks turned into months, and then one day there was a letter waiting for me in the post. This was certainly an unusual occurrence. In fact, it was the first letter I could remember addressed specifically to me. Having forgotten about the essay contest, I had no idea what it was about, but with an ambivalent curiosity, I slit the envelope open and pulled out a small typewritten letter. I unfolded the creased white paper and began to read.
Dear Tom,
Thank you for your entry into this year’s all-state writing contest. I am writing to inform you that your piece was not chosen as one of our finalists, but we are grateful for your participation and encourage you to continue writing. This year’s winners will be displayed in the Young American Writer’s Anthology that will be available for purchase.
Sincerely,
Richard Houghner
I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the garbage can. Of course my piece was not chosen. There is no way you could have published my writing along with all the other sentimental vomit you must have received, I thought to myself, the sort of writing old people read so they can drift back to the ‘good old days’ and remember the world adorned with perfection. A book of poems such as mine would never sell, and at the end of the day, that is what is most important. This whole contest was a scam to sell books. Ridiculous.
A week later, I came home and found another letter sitting on the table waiting for me. It was in a small envelope, and the return address was marked “Dr. James Emory.” I could feel the thickness of the paper and the rich ink penmanship was written in an eclectic scrolling hand.
Dear Tom,
I realize that as you are reading this letter you probably have no idea who I am, and I will not take offense at that. My name is James Emory. I am an author and, prior to my retirement, was the English chair at Locklear University. I was one of the judges for this year’s Young American Writers contest and happened across your piece in the midst of my readings. While your writing did not win, as you well know, I personally found your prose to be the most moving of all the entries I read. It is very unusual for one as young as yourself to write in the manner that you do. My wife and I would very much like for you to come and visit us at our home to discuss your writing. I feel that you have great talent, and it would bring me pleasure to help you along in your writing career. I have many connections that could be of use to you as you consider colleges and so forth, but we can discuss such things in more detail when you arrive. My telephone number is 318-555-7153. I am usually home in the evenings and look forward to receiving a call from you.
Sincerely,
Dr. James Emory
I re-read the letter to be sure I had understood its contents correctly and then just stood there stupefied for a minute. This could be my ticket out of this dungeon! I hated this town; everything about this place annoyed me; most of all, I loathed this house. It was a constant reminder of my mother. I had imagined that the pain would just sort of go away and that I would start to forget, but I was cursed with the gift of memory, cursed by the ever-present shadow of my mother. And trapped in that shadow, there was no beauty. I was tired of living in this darkness when most of my life I’d wandered with childlike wonder in the glorious world around me. But I could not shake the shadow and its overpowering effect on me.
My father would barely notice my absence. I think my presence was a daily reminder of his loss, and thus my leaving could only be a good thing. For the first time since mother’s death, I felt a ray of hope. A tiny candle was lit within my soul, and I promised myself I would call Dr. Emory that very night.
After dinner and a quick smoke, with the house silent save for a few creaking boards here and there, I found myself sitting in the living room. With a deep breath, I picked up our rarely used telephone and dialed Dr. Emory.
The phone rang once … twice … three times, and I felt myself begin to grow nervous. When it rang the fourth time … I was about to hang up when a woman’s faint voice tumbled out of the earpiece.
“Dr. Emory’s residence. How can I help you?”
“Hello,” I stammered, fighting back the nerves that threatened to overwhelm me. “I would like to speak to Dr. Emory … please.” I managed to throw in the “please” at the end, which was obviously an afterthought and a testament to my poor manners. There was a brief silence.
“May I ask who is calling?”
“My name is Tom. Dr. Emory sent a letter asking me to call him. It’s about my writing.”
“Dr. Emory is in his study. Would you mind holding while I see if he is available to take a call?”
“Not at all … thank you.”
There was the obvious sound of the receiver being put down, a shuffling of feet, and then there was silence. It felt like I waited for hours while I fumbled awkwardly with my hands. I wanted a smoke, but I knew better than to smoke in the house and certainly not in the living room. Mother would be appalled that I’d taken up the habit. She had always referred to it as a sinful and disgusting habit.
At last, the telephone was picked up, and a lively voice broke through: “Hello, Tom. This is Dr. Emory. How do you do?”
I swallowed hard, hoping he couldn’t detect my nerves. “I’m doing well, sir. I received your letter in the mail this afternoon and telephoned you straightaway.”
“Excellent. I had hoped you would call, but one never knows these days. Young people are fickle. Nevertheless, … my wife and I would like to have you over for dinner—but of course, I’ve already said that in my letter. You must f
orgive me—I tend to ramble sometimes. Just one of my many bad habits, I suppose. My wife is constantly reminding me of them, and according to her, there is quite a long list. Anyway, so what do you say?”
“Well, sir, it would be a real privilege,” I responded.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Now according to your mailing address, you live in Greenwood, which is probably about a two-hour train ride from Locklear. I’d recommend you take the train, and I’ll have someone meet you when you arrive at the station. I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy for the next few weeks, but how about we schedule a meeting for a month from this Saturday? That’ll give Margaret plenty of time to prepare. You know how women are. They tend to fuss about such things; all fuss and no work. It is rather an odd sort of thing when you think about it. But I mustn’t give you the wrong idea about Margaret. She is a dear soul, and I’m lucky to have her. I wasn’t the only boy pursuing her back in the day. Oh yes, she had a string of suitors lining up outside her front door. It is indeed a good thing I found my way to the back door and let myself in. It has always been my style to do things rather differently than the rest. Shock and awe, my boy, mixed with a dab of romance and dollop of wittiness. Put all of those ingredients together, throw in a charming smile, and the ladies will swoon. But a smart lad like yourself has probably figured all that out by now. Okay then, back to business. How does a month from Saturday sound?”
“That sounds excellent,” I said a little more boldly than before. I had envisioned someone stern and almost cold, like a typical professor. But I could tell already that I’d pegged Dr. Emory incorrectly. Little did I know just how far off I was. The conversation wound down to a natural close, and we hung up.
I felt like I was on the verge of something great. Standing there, I felt a surge of excitement much like a strong wind rushing up over me, and I was momentarily engulfed in a foreign feeling: Joy! Warm and robust, it sprouted up through my toes, wrapping around my spine, and climbing out to the farthest tendrils of my matted hair. I was alive again. Just for a moment. For a second I remembered what it was like before mother died, when I ran through the forest laughing at the brook and the trees and the clouds, marveling as only a child can at the mysterious splendor set before me. I longed to feel that way again. I longed to be free, and in that moment, it was as if something was calling me out of my depressed misery. But the voice was gone all too quickly, its words melting in my mind before I could catch their meaning. The only thing left was a scent, like the wafting aroma of fresh baked bread upon the air. And grasp after it as much as I tried, it would not be had. I was left with a sense of something supernatural, something outside my present experience that began to gnaw at me.
I spent the next few weeks in the tedious act of waiting. Each day gave birth to another just as long and as dull as its predecessor. Each day was a torment that had to be endured. My writing from those weeks was filled with sporadic thoughts. Unable to focus for long, I felt as if my ideas darted hither and thither like jackrabbits. I would make lists in my head of what to bring, what to wear, and what to say upon my first encounter with Dr. Emory—foolish things really, things of no consequence—but I could not stop obsessing over them. There was no need to worry, but the worrying kept me occupied. It passed the time. I smoked like a chimney from sunrise to sundown. I even snuck out of class to smoke. It was a terrible habit. I knew it, but I relished the rebelliousness of it. I determined not to smoke while I met with Dr. Emory. He might be highly opposed to the habit. So on the day of my departure, I smoked one last succulent cigarette before walking to the train station.
CHAPTER 5
The Emory Residence
I PURCHASED MY TICKET AND waited on a long wooden bench. Dressed in my Sunday best, I began to sweat. My thick suit pants were soon sticking to my legs, and I quickly shed my suit coat. Droplets of sweat formed on my forehead and neck. The sun seemed ungodly hot for this time of day. Abandoning the bench, I stood underneath the shade of a shallow overhang and continued to wait and sweat and wish for another cigarette. A few minutes after ten o’clock, the train pulled into the station with whistles blaring and clouds of hot steam billowing onto the platform. A man shaped like an apple seemed to fall from the train. His black conductor’s hat and silver pocket watch let everyone know that this was his train. The sweaty passengers climbed on board and shuffled around, looking for open seats. Near the back of the car, I saw an opening and slipped into a window seat. Clutching my small travel bags, I leaned forward, resting my head against the green seat in front of me, and closed my eyes. The train began to move jerkily along the steel tracks. People waved good-bye to the few remaining stragglers at the station. I did not bother. I did not care. I just wanted a cigarette to calm my nerves.
I stared blankly out the window, my trance only briefly interrupted by a man walking through the cabin punching tickets. I nervously continued my observation of the surrounding landscape as the world rolled by in waves of trees and fields and small towns. The sun was high overhead and beating down oppressively. The oppressive Georgia heat was nearly unbearable. Two small ceiling fans revolved in slow motion, doing nothing but push the scalding air into the flushed faces of the passengers. Everywhere people were stripping down to the bare minimum of attire while remaining decent. I undid the top button of my shirt and loosened the black tie that threatened to strangle me.
At long last, the train puffed into the Locklear station, and I disembarked onto the wooden platform where an odd assortment of people milled about in a large crowd. I stood anxiously gazing around the platform, unsure what to do next. After a few minutes, a thick man waddled out of the crowd. He was wearing a tan suit with a pocket watch chain dangling from its vest pocket and was furiously dabbing at his forehead with a wrinkled handkerchief in need of washing. His thinning hair was combed perfectly in an attempt to conceal the demise of his hairline, and he wore small, round glasses pushed halfway down his nose. His cheeks were a vibrant shade of red, and he looked somewhat disgruntled but nonetheless kind. He waved in my direction, beckoning me toward him.
“Well, lad, I’m guessing that you are Tom. Mr. Emory is expecting you. My name is Jim Calhoun. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He stuck out his short, skinny arm, and I awkwardly shifted my things so I could return his exaggerated handshake. “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun. I greatly appreciate you coming to pick me up.”
As I shook his hand, my nerves threatened to get the best of me. What was I doing here in this big town? I’d never been anywhere, let alone hitching the train to the big city of Locklear to meet an important university professor. I felt like a fool.
Mr. Calhoun quickly extinguished my fears with his jovial, bumbling personality. He was certainly not a big city slicker. In fact, he seemed like he would have fit in much better in Greenwood. I took another look at his attire and suppressed a laugh. He wore scuffed loafers and patched pants with a faint checked pattern. His white button-down shirt billowed about him like a sail, while the collar seemed to choke him because he seemed to be constantly pulling at it. I detected what I thought to be a strawberry jam stain on his breast pocket, most likely from breakfast. It had obviously been dabbed at to no avail. His tie hung down, a colorful collage of patterns and wrinkles. I wondered how he’d made his way to work with Dr. Emory here in Locklear. Mr. Calhoun insisted on carrying one of my bags, and, upon relieving me of it, cleared a path through the people while he dabbed at his face and prattled on about who knows what. His chatter was interspersed with continual apologies as he clumsily pummeled people with my suitcase. I was too busy looking around, trying not to become separated from him in the crowd as he plunged forward, to make sense of his stream of speech.
We emerged from the crowd and piled into a large parked car waiting for us. Before I knew it, we pulled up in front of a large stand-alone house on a quiet street shaded underneath giant oak trees. The house was beautifully made of rich red bricks with an assortment of large windows facing out to the street, all
tucked neatly under a dark slate roof. The front yard was adorned with bushes and small flower gardens. While not excessive, the house was clearly the home of someone with money. Upon entering the front door, I stood inside a polished room with large black and white tile floors and an elegant staircase spiraling up to the second story. The walls were carefully adorned with bright oil and pastel paintings, while well-lacquered wooden cabinets held glass vases and fine china.
I stood there gazing about me as Mr. Calhoun disappeared behind a dark door and left me momentarily on my own. I cracked my knuckles and stood awkwardly, recognizing how far from home I was. I reached instinctively for a cigarette but found nothing. I considered bolting out the front door and making my way back to the train station, back to my miserable, familiar world. I felt foolish standing there. I didn’t belong.
I heard a door creak and quickly stood at attention. A short, older gentleman emerged from the end of the hall. Dressed in a tweed jacket with a perfect checked bow tie in place, he slowly walked my way. He had bright blue eyes guarded by unruly, bushy eyebrows. His gray hair was beginning to thin, but what caught my attention was the giant handlebar mustache, carefully groomed and waxed to perfection, adorning his face. The whole combination was rather funny. I stifled a laugh and waited for him to make his way toward me with Mr. Calhoun tarrying in his wake. The two of them made a rather comical pair if ever there was one.
“Welcome, Tom. I’m so glad that you’ve come to visit.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Finding Tom Page 3
