Finding Tom

by Simeon Harrar

  The carving of the names was followed by seven consecutive shots of whiskey for the new initiates. Charles and I raced, but I was no match for him. I plunked down the final empty shot glass and felt the world spinning—not a good sign. Charles was clearly a little woozy himself, and we clung to one another like sailors aboard a heaving ship. Shortly afterward, I crashed on the couch and was out. It had been a long day. Heck, it had been a long couple of weeks, but the craziness was over now. We had made it. We were Secret Sevens.

  I woke up to the early morning with sunshine streaming over my face and looked around. I saw bodies strewn about the cabin floor, huddled under blankets wherever there was space. I tiptoed around them, wrapped in a blanket someone had draped over me in the night. I was the first one up. Stepping outside, I could see my breath in the cold air. The light breaking through the leafless trees pierced the morning mist, which clung stubbornly to the mountainside. The world was silent, biding its time until spring would come again. The cold, scraggly woods were an outward reflection of my own soul as they waited for life to come again. How long must I wait for rebirth?

  Back at school, I looked at the mass of papers spread across my desk and groaned. Their ever-growing presence was a reminder of how far behind I was this semester. I stared at the pile loathingly. So far I had found my education at Locklear to be little more than the memorization and regurgitation of facts. From math to history to literature, there was no room for creativity and real thinking. The system was looking to churn out machines, and I disdained the idea of being a machine. Dr. Remus was the worst offender. He laid out for us exactly how he wanted us to write for his class. There was no margin for individuality, just the mechanical scribbling of information in a uniform style. In my opinion, that was not writing. Anyone could summarize and paraphrase the great thoughts of other thinkers, but it took a real writer to capture new images and phrases and step outside the bounds of common writing. A real writer spoke with his own voice rather than borrowing and editing the voices of those brilliant minds who came before him. I realized that Dr. Remus could not teach his students to write because he himself had never learned. He was mute, save for the voices of others, and he was too proud to admit it; therefore, he muffled every student who walked through his doors rather than blessing them with the gift of speech.

  The students who came here had no interest in wisdom. They came to learn facts, which were quickly forgotten. They came to write miserable essays and get A’s so they could make the dean’s list and someday get a good job. They came because mommy and daddy told them to. They came to find girlfriends and boyfriends and to attend sporting events. They came to get a piece of paper after four years that certified they were smart and accomplished. They came because it was the thing to do for the wealthy. They came, but they never learned. I had hoped to find the great thinkers of my generation here, pushing one another on to even higher heights, but I was sorely disappointed. There was no greatness.

  CHAPTER 21

  Spring Fever

  SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF the piles of books, papers, note cards, and class periods spent staring at the back of Julia Stine wishing I had the guts to talk to her, spring came with all its splendor. Fresh shoots pushed forth from the earth, and tiny buds began to open. The long days of darkness began to recede, and the sun tarried longer and longer in the soft blue sky. The women of Locklear emerged in all their splendor, blowing kisses to enraptured cat-callers and batting their eyelids and looking overly seductive in their pretty spring dresses. Romance was in the air, and I often found couples down amid the library stacks, making up for the lost winter months. I envied them. I remembered back to the dance with Julia and how alive I felt that night, every nerve ending in my body bursting with anticipation. I longed to feel that way again. I wanted to hold a woman in my arms and feel her warmth against me. But with those memories came the sting of rejection and humiliation. I knew I was no match for the boys who strolled around campus with their well-toned bodies and fancy clothes. I could not afford to take a girl out to dinner, and I did not have a fancy car to invite her to jump into for a ride on the weekends. I saw Julia dashing about with what seemed a new suitor each week. They trailed after her like helpless puppies. She was the most sought out prize on campus, but as of yet, no one had won her affections. She had no equal, it seemed. Perhaps she was looking for something more than a flashy car and a fancy tie, but that was unlikely. In this world of extravagance, I was predestined for bachelorhood.

  Charles had caught a bad case of spring fever and was smitten with a cute sophomore named Rachel. I had seen the two of them together on numerous occasions, and once in the library. Let me add that he was checking something out, but it was not a book. Charles and I were like brothers now, so I was fully informed about all the details of their relationship. Knowing Charles, it was just a fling that would pass. He was not the sort to look for something steady. But in the meantime, his constant chatter about her was driving me crazy and remained a constant, painful reminder of my own singleness. Not wanting to douse his excitement, I said nothing about my own feelings but took it upon myself to avoid spending much time in the room. Charles was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice my retreat. He was a train churning forward with his eyes fixed on little Miss Rachel, his hormones raging.

  I spent most of my afternoons catching up on schoolwork or sitting outside writing. After having spent so much time with people during the Secret Sevens initiation, the shift was a seismic shock. I had forgotten what it felt like to be still and quiet. Now, with too much time to think, these long periods of solitude only led to greater turmoil; undistracted by the petty things of life, I was left to delve into the more complicated and difficult things of my existence. Alone, I was forced to deal with my demons. But I was unable to exorcise them, and so they haunted me, taunted me, and branded me as a failure and an outcast, unloved and unlovable. My insecurities rose to the surface, revealing their disfigured heads and thrashing about in the waters of my mind. Thick thunderclouds rolling in, stormed, and thundered, and I feared I might lose myself and begin sinking into the pit of depression that I knew very well.

  Had it not been for dear Dr. Emory, I fear I would have succumbed to my demons and descended back into the godless realm of my mother’s death and my own disappointments and shortcomings.

  He and I were sitting out on the porch in the rockers when, for some reason, it all came gushing out of me. “Dr. Emory, I really can’t take this place any more. If I have to write one more stupid essay for Dr. Remus, only to have it come back covered in red pen, I’m going to strangle him. It’s all just so mundane, and I’m not actually learning anything of lasting value. And if I have to put up with the self-absorbed egomaniacs with their golf shirts and khakis and designer sunglasses trying to get girls, I’m going to go crazy. People here are so—”

  “So boring,” he interjected.

  “Yes, that’s part of it. They are just so caught up in their perfect little lives—it’s amazing they have time to attend class.”

  “And that is precisely why they need you, Tom,” Dr. Emory declared. “They need somebody who sees the world differently than they do. They need someone to push them and challenge them, and sadly, Dr. Remus will voluntarily give up his tenure before he ever does that. The world needs people like you. But that doesn’t mean they will like you. Nobody likes to be told his or her life is superficial or wasteful. All throughout history, humans have killed the prophets, from the Israelites to modern day regimes. The voice that cries out in the desert will always have enemies. You are right in recognizing that you do not belong here, but it is not because you are inferior. It is because you are one of the few with vision.”

  “I’m not a prophet,” I scoffed. “I’m just a poor boy who likes to write.”

  “I disagree. You are so much more than that, if you will just let yourself be,” Dr. Emory insisted. “Tom, all of your writing is for nothing if you never share it. Your long journey to find your voi
ce has been wasted if you remain silent. And if you withhold your words from those who need them most, then you are even more selfish and cowardly than they are. Don’t just sit there and complain if you aren’t willing to do something.”

  I trudged home as muddy streets sucked at my shoes. Dr. Emory’s words rang in my ears, but I fought them. I was not a prophet. I did not deserve such a title. I was an outcast who lurked in the shadows playing childish games. I was a coward. A silent observer, I cast stones at the world around me, and in the safety of my own thoughts, I berated my peers for their folly. I abhorred their cookie-cutter lives and vanity. My inner voice was hoarse from raging against everything, yet I had said nothing. I wanted desperately to speak, but I was afraid.

  After a few weeks of mulling over what he said, I finally had to admit that Dr. Emory was right. I told myself I must find the self that existed outside of my loss. I must find the bound prophet waiting to be heard. I must stop running and face my demons; but oh, how they loomed large, clinging to me like thirsty leaches.

  The days were running out, and I was beginning to realize that being a part of the Secret Sevens was not going to wipe away all of my insecurities and wounds. They were a source of community and identity, but they could not replace my soul’s yearning for family. Unfairly and unwisely, I had hoped to be adopted into this new family and be empowered to leave behind my old insecurities and wounds, but of course such a thing was impossible. Deep wounds require careful attention and time to heal. The Secret Sevens were part of the healing process, but they could not be expected to do the work on their own.

  CHAPTER 22

  A Passing

  LATER THAT WEEK I RECEIVED my very first letter from my father. Inside a plain white envelope was a plain white piece of paper with a few scribbled lines.

  Dear Tom,

  I am sorry to interrupt your classes, but I wanted to inform you that Reverend Evans has passed away, and there will be a funeral service for him this weekend. It would be good for you to attend. I have included money to pay for your train fare.

  Sincerely,

  Your Father

  Memories of Reverend Evans flooded over me. I could see him slowly hobbling up to the pulpit and clutching at it with all his might as he preached. I could see the tired gray eyes and remember the touch of his leathery palm as he shook my hand. Everyone would come to the funeral, and I knew Father was right; it would be good to join them.

  Dressed in all black, the whole town squeezed into the church as if to hear the reverend give one last sermon. Women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs, while men stood solemn and stone-faced as if to remind us that death was not a laughing matter. Tears were shed, stories were told, and memories were re-lived. And all the while, Reverend Evans lay dead before us in a simple pine casket. When all had been said and the traditional hymns had been sung, we snaked to the rear of the church to the small cemetery surrounded by a rickety, rusty fence. A few gravestones poked up above the ground, almost covered in weeds. The air was muggy, and the gnats swarmed angrily around our furrowed brows. We gathered around the freshly dug grave, staring into that hungry mouth awaiting its prey. After he was laid to rest, large clods of red dirt thumped against the casket, piling up one shovelful at a time, until he was totally covered by the dry ground, he the sad sower who never reaped a harvest. All around him, fanning themselves and swatting at gnats, stood the uninspired people, the barren soil he’d tilled and sown seed into for all those years. Slowly they departed, disappearing down the hill with stony hearts, returning to their unchanged lives. Ashamed, I followed in their footsteps. We were all hypocrites playing religion like a game. We neither knew nor loved God.

  As I returned to Locklear, the reverend’s freshly planted body reminded me of my first funeral as a boy. I was swept back to that horrid day when the whole town gathered to gawk at my mother’s stiff body and bid their farewells. Someday, it would be my father buried beneath the earth, but in my heart, he was already dead. His soul lay buried beside my mother; we had only to put his body there to keep her company.

  I determined in my soul that I would not become like my father and miss out on living.

  I was not ready to be buried in the red clay. I was not ready to give up the fight. I resolved to keep fighting for life, to keep pushing forward. But, as always, the zeal of youth is forced to be patient, and those who diligently endure the tests of life are the ones who receive the prize. My time of testing was upon me.

  There was a Secret Sevens meeting that evening. Leaning against the dusty stacks, I daydreamed of Julia while we discussed our final event of the year. There was to be one last act of mischief. When I looked at the seniors, I could tell they were beginning to realize that their term was up. This season of their life was rapidly coming to its conclusion, and now that it was upon them, they were not quite ready to go. They wanted to go out with a bang, go out with one final act of daring before the terrible world of adult boredom enveloped them in an endless embrace. Dr. Groves would be on the prowl, knowing we were bound to attempt one last rebellious act. After much discussion, the seniors hammered out the details of their grand farewell.

  The prank preparations helped draw me out of my funk, along with the fact that Charles and Rachel were no longer seeing each other. Charles confessed to me that when Rachel mentioned her desire to “go steady,” he ran for the nearest exit at full speed. So the two of us were back in business as bachelors. I did not realize how much I had missed Charles during the few weeks when he was preoccupied with Rachel. In spite of our differences, Charles and I had become best friends. I knew I would miss him a great deal when we were apart over the long summer months at home.

  We weathered the storm of finals. And all the while, I continued to ponder Dr. Emory’s challenging words to me: I am a prophet. I must find a way to speak out rather than harbor my own bitterness until it ruined me. I must face my fears. I must seize life.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Big Bang

  AT LAST, GRADUATION WAS UPON us, and we watched from our positions as families arrived. The university spared no expense preparing for the big day. Locklear had been pruned and swept and mulched, and fresh flowers had been planted. There in the thick of the masquerade was Dr. Groves, orchestrating the final touches. The rich and influential had set up large tents lined with tables of Tupperware filled with deviled eggs, chicken salad, and baked pies, all lovingly made by the house help. Sporting the summer’s finest attire, they sashayed about greeting old and new faces, all united under the historic towers of Locklear. The graduates bustled around hugging aunts, uncles, and grandparents before darting off in their caps and gowns. Charles and I watched all of this from high up in the bell tower, eagerly awaiting our moment.

  The crowd settled down in folding chairs as Dr. Groves slid across the stage in his usual slimy way. The sight of him was enough to make me gag. I licked my lips, looking at the mountain of fireworks we had lined up waiting to be lit. I toyed with the matchbox in my pocket. “Patience,” I said to myself. “Just a few more moments.”

  Dr. Groves cleared his throat—and that was our cue! I looked at Charles, and he grinned. “Let the fun begin.” We stuffed wads of cotton in our ears and hunkered down. Two floors below us, our compatriots began to ring the bells. The clanging sound drowned out Dr. Groves, who turned red as a beet. But there was nothing he could do; we had locked and bolted the chapel. After a full minute of ringing, the bells died down, and I could see the crowd snickering while Dr. Groves looked ready to explode. I cannot express the joy that sight brought to me. He continued his speech, completely unprepared for what was yet to come. Finished, he went slinking off the stage.

  The president then took the stage to speak. That was our next cue. “Welcome, friends, family, and students.” The rest of his sentence was obliterated by our first round of fireworks, which exploded into the air like cannons. There was a round of nervous laughter, and then the president, obviously unnerved, continued. “We are grate
ful to have you here with us today to join us for this momentous occasion.” Charles lit the next round, smiling like a devious imp. There were more explosions and gales of laughter from the students. I looked down and saw security guards trying to get into the building, to no avail.

  More speeches meant more fireworks and bell ringing. We let the names of the students be called out without interruption, and as the final students crossed the stage, we set off our grand finale. All out of fireworks, we had one last trick to play. As the president took the stage for the last hoorah, we sent piles of paper confetti raining down on the stage, each marked with a small 7 to let the world know who was responsible. It was brilliant. The confetti caught a gust of wind and drifted out over the audience, and before the president could give his farewell address, people evacuated their seats and ran for cover. The graduates threw their caps high into the air under a shower of confetti. The bells started ringing again, and we darted down out of the tower, away from the deafening din.

  We all congregated briefly in the creaky choir loft before Charles led the way down to the basement with a flashlight. Deep in the bowels of the church, we arrived at our escape: an ancient-looking, padlocked trapdoor sunk into the floor and covered with a thick layer of dust. Patrick had shown us to this spot earlier in the week, explaining there was an old dirt cellar dug beneath the cement foundations. There was a narrow tunnel leading to an exterior exit in the cathedral garden. Patrick had handed Charles a key to the lock and assured us that the Secret Sevens had been using this tunnel for decades.