Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  You never want them to experience pain or suf-fering, yet you expect them to survive the trials and tribulations you have, and to be stronger than you. You want this child to be healthy and happy without going through what you have. It’s crazy, isn’t it? When I write it down I know it’s impossible. Only through hard work are calluses born; muscles are built by lifting heavy burdens. Why should the mind be any different? Difficult times must fortify the spirit, not crush it.

  As parents we do unusual things to protect the ones we love. But is it ever enough? Have I killed you with kindness? If I water the prized plant too much do I drown the very thing that makes me so proud? Have I fed the goldfish too much—so much that its stomach bursts?

  The world is full of demanding, spoiled children. Full of mothers and fathers without the heart, the resolve, to punish them. Little Donna will learn to hate us and young Billy will throw a tantrum if we refuse them more candy. But who is accountable for the twelve-year-old who is thirty pounds overweight? Isn’t that another kind of abuse?

  Isn’t there some civic obligation to protect the health and well-being of children? And what of moral obligations? How many make the time to take their children to a place of worship? It doesn’t matter which faith, any will do. A place that teaches some sort of dedication to something; a place where a person can make peace with him- or herself. A place where a person can reconcile, understand the sins of their past. A place where a person can say, “I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry for what I have or haven’t done.” A place where one can ask for forgiveness—for being human.

  That, my son, is what we are lacking: the ability to realize that we are, in fact, merely human. We are prone to make mistakes. Some make them over and over again. Is it lack of guidance? Intelligence? Or have we, with all of our great wisdom, simply begun to think of ourselves as gods?

  With all the crime, decadence, waste, selfishness—choices, all—have we stumbled upon the realization that we control our destiny?

  We alter our bodies to suit our vanity with drugs or surgery; we make life or death decisions to fit schedules, our “plan” for our lives.

  Are we not playing God?

  Did I not, tonight, myself act the part of a deity?

  I write to you with bloodstained hands, instruments of a mind that chose, godlike, to end not one, but two lives. The question is, how far will I go?

  In writing, I think I can forgive myself. Not every temple is a place of worship; not every place of worship, a temple. Sometimes a man finds peace and reconciliation in the most ungodly of places.

  I pray you can do the same.

  IF MY TORMENTORS EVER caught sight of the hope I’d discovered, they would have gone to any length to beat it out of me. The burn became a badge of honor. Alone in the fields, I displayed it proudly—to the crows, cows and other animals.

  For the first few years of my life I was dumb, a common mule. I woke, ate what was shoveled at me, worked when told, sat and slept where and when allowed. I made no choice, looked forward to nothing. A mirror, I am sure, would have shown me the mule’s blank stare: darkness, lifelessness, no hint of anticipation.

  I had to be careful. The mule that resists too often is taken out back and shot. Yes, my son, this mark was hope. And each night I would run my fingers over it before succumbing to sleep because it was given to me at a time of awakening. No longer praying for death, I rejected the life of a captive. I could and would get out.

  While around my father and grandfather, I behaved even more respectfully, more downtrodden. I was never late getting the fire started and even quicker with every “Yes, sir.” I would not, under any circumstance, look either of them in the eyes. My reasoning was simple. They were dominant males.

  Looking someone in the eye should be a sign of respect, but these men saw it as a challenge to their authority. In averting my gaze I was letting them know I was not their equal, nothing but a slave to a master, beaten, hopeless. . . . Or so I wanted them to believe.

  Which takes me to the next evolution of my newly found resolve. As I’ve told you, even the slightest outward display of independence led to a beating. Clenched fists, a puffed-out chest, extended jaw, to them, were clear signs of defiance. I could not afford to have them sense my newborn self-awareness because I had a plan—one that would get me the hell out. Where to, I did not know, or care. As long as it was away.

  I actually began sleeping. My mind, while still not completely my own, allowed me dreams instead of nightmares. Visions of blood-soaked men beating me with chains as they set me on fire were replaced with images of houses with running water, soft beds and golden toilets. One night I dreamed of taking the paper money—and buying shoes. Store-bought, with laces and everything. And a clean, button-up shirt. And new overalls. I dressed and found a full-length mirror. I was so pleased with how clean I looked. My hair was cut and combed; the buckles of the overalls shone. The shoes blazed so white you could barely look at them. And then, as I was admiring myself, the girl from the mill walked up from behind and placed her hand on my shoulder. For some reason I wasn’t surprised—it was as though I was expecting her. Her eyes were as dark as I remembered, but her hair was even more blond and sun-kissed. She did not say a word, just smiled. It was so revealing—so pure, so honest, it must have melted her father’s heart a million times. She was happy to see me. Full of confidence, full of promise.

  Finally, even if it was just a dream, I smiled back at someone.

  Son, I was becoming human.

  I HAD A PLAN It was not a great plan—it was in fact a very, very simple plan—but it was a plan of my own devising. And no, son, clearly, I am not a great person; your father is a simple man, just as, back then, I was a simple boy. I wasn’t about to concoct a great, complicated course of action—I’m not a philosopher, visionary, or liberator. And because I’m no Plato, Einstein or Lincoln, my plan was as common as the boy I was.

  It was barely rehearsed and completely untested. I’d have but one chance, and my plan had to work the first time. If my grandfather or father caught even the slightest hint, the consequences would have been fatal.

  This was nothing like teenage rebellion. I was in no position to argue over a curfew; I was not borrowing Dad’s Chevy, bringing it back a half an hour late with a scuffed fender. The gas tank of this vehicle could never be an eighth low; the odometer never a quarter mile over the distance I said I was going to drive. No, son, this car had to return in pristine, exact, condition. Otherwise . . . well, I would not be writing this today. I had to guard my plan with my life, for my life.

  Because I am writing, the way the story ends has already been revealed. Unfortunately, because I am writing, there is more I must tell. Son, if you are to fully understand where I sit at this very moment you will need to know exactly how I got here—and where I am going.

  But to be honest, sometimes I’m not quite sure. Maybe it is for you that I write—and maybe for myself. I suppose someday somebody will call it therapy. Better than psychoanalysis? I’m not sure, but damn, it feels good to finally tell someone—almost as if the wounds are beginning to disappear, the shattered bones mending, new skin replacing the scar tissue. Each and every cell of my body is responding, as if the bruises never were.

  Night terrors will never again make me wake in a cold sweat, clutching pillow, blanket or whatever the hell else I can get my hands on. The death-pit images—me, hunting for the tiniest sliver of light—have faded. After tonight I will never again rise in a dark room, fumbling at the nightstand, praying that I find the lamp. There was a time, son, when these hands worked more like eyes. When, in the darkness, a block of wood, a stump, were markers, guideposts.

  I’ve learned, son, God made precious few places devoid of some sort of light. Even in the deepest seas there are luminescent creatures. It’s been put a thousand different ways. “The light at the end of the tunnel; you are a ray of sunshine.” The Bible speaks of Jesus like this, too. The way and the truth.

  Whether it’s the
crisscrossing spots of a movie premiere reaching far into a foggy night or the neon magnets of Broadway, we seek the light, mothlike. Human nature, maybe. We are born when we finally escape the darkness of our mother’s womb, to move on our own, no longer physically connected to darkness. That original dependence? The center of our universe, where we eat, sleep, breathe and live. It is incredible, isn’t it? What gives us life is what we most desperately strive to escape. We cannot run fast enough to stake our own claim, to establish who we are.

  How fragile we are, from conception to birth. Christ, we’re vulnerable. But the chemistry, the bio-logy or, hell, the machinery of it all means I can write what needs to be written.

  I sit here at my grandpa’s table—a table where I have never before taken a seat—and I wonder. I ponder all of these things, looking at you, looking at the lamp.

  One is life, one is light. But which is which?

  In you I see light, but I also see life. And in the light?

  I can illuminate a room and not create life. But I can create life and not light up a room. A man can be in a perfectly lit room, but not alive. A man can live in a damp dark crawlspace and . . . still not be alive.

  Life can be very cruel, son. And painful. What kind of God ties such great pain to such a great gift? I’ve spent a long time wondering how many forms pain can take. There are obvious, merely physical answers. Pain is stubbing your toe when you get up in the middle of the night. Pain is when you fall from your bike for the first time and skin your knee. Pain is when your twelve-year-old flesh is held against a glowing hot wood stove until the smell of the melting skin makes you pass out.

  Is there a threshold, more physical pain than a person can endure? Sure. This perfect human machine was built with safety switches: other systems shut down when pain exceeds our tolerance, rendering us unconscious. That’s why people with head injuries, terrible burns and severely broken limbs go into shock: protection of the entity. Protecting this thing that the system serves. If the entity experienced more, what would happen? Madness, surely.

  And that’s the other type of pain. The perplexing thing about psychological trauma is there’s not quite the same mechanism in place to protect us, to shut the entity down.

  People go mad every day: catatonic, mute, speech-less. They may stare into a void for days, weeks, months and, yes, even years. So why do the safety valves kick in for some and not others? Are some just stronger?

  Why is it that when one man is faced with a crisis he maintains, does not waver from his daily routine, while another man faced with the same circumstances takes to living on the street, collecting other people’s trash, eating scraps or sermonizing to anyone with ears? I wonder: who is better off?

  While the “stronger” man perseveres, every day he is consumed. It’s Moby Dick, ever elusive, but ever present. The scar tissue builds. Not forever, mind you. Eventually the scars of the mind scab up and heal over. It takes as long as it takes: however long our God has allotted for us to either forget or forgive and move on.

  Is this the same God that creates men so evil that they will beat and humiliate their own flesh and blood? How does He allow it? Why does He? Is God so cruel, or wise, that he would in fact sacrifice his own Son for the greater good? And is this the same God who allows us to experience joy? The joy of seeing my child wake in the morning, voice raspy, hair tousled, unsteady on his feet.

  He allows these same pain-carrying neurons to also carry the gentle touch of a mother, father or child. As you sleep, I touch your face, your neck and run my fingers through your curly hair. You don’t wake, but you smile at the caress.

  It is pain and loss, son, that allow us to fully appreciate this moment—comfort and love.

  The same hand I am stroking your hair with has spanked you when you’ve misbehaved. One hand; different sensations. We choose what we do with these hands. We create life, or take it.

  I am writing to you to better explain the choices I’ve made—that I’m going to make.

  As much as I have tried to keep you from the horrors of my past, I can no longer.

  Did I have a choice? Maybe. Maybe not.

  You will learn, son, that sometimes your choice is no choice at all.

  I DID MY BEST TO DO what was asked of me, but the beatings continued. My grandfather left for a few days every month or so and, as always, went directly to the old mill when he returned. An even more careful watch on me was kept in the days following a return, and I never again ventured near during that time. Cowardly? Yes. Self-preservation? Yes, too.

  I was locked up early in the evening for a week after Grandpa returned. While I once dreaded being down there, I now welcomed the solitude. I had the opportunity to work on my plan. I began to crawl around, exploring my dirt-floored jail, and got to know the underside of this house as well as they knew the rooms above. I would make my way to the area below my father’s room silently and wait for him to stumble to bed. Although it was dark I would put a picture together in my mind, a map of where everything was. I knew the exact spot where he threw his heavy boots each night, and the borders of the creaky bed into which he flung himself. The groan of its frame also meant that his snoring would begin momentarily.

  I paid particular attention to my grandfather’s movements—especially when he would lift the floor-boards to retrieve his treasure chest.

  After some time I could make my way around the foundation beams quickly and inaudibly. I could get to their rooms as quickly as they could.

  Every night I would practice, snaking my way through vegetables, rats and spiders trying to beat the old man to his room. I became very good at this game. I played at becoming one of the silent, running rats. The vermin that once terrified me now studied—and perhaps even accepted—me as I infiltrated their world. I began to think of myself as one of them and I think that they thought the same of me. Soon, they gave way to the largest of their kind. They gave way to me: the King of the Rats.

  Offering them scraps of food made them trust me. I no longer tried to scare them off the vegetables, which, I suspect, was the main reason I was allowed my crawlspace bedroom at all. No longer setting the traps given to me by my father, I let the rats roam free in my world. And they let me roam free in theirs.

  I stretched out under the floorboards of my grandfather’s room for so many nights that I soon knew exactly where he kept the paper money. It, of course, was the key to the success of my plan. If I could get the paper money I could get the hell out—of hell.

  Because the treasure chest rested between a set of floor joists and sat low enough so the floorboards could be replaced without giving any hint to what was hidden below to anyone searching from above, it also meant the box itself was relatively easy to find from below—and take apart.

  Once I figured out how to do this I could remove the treasure chest. While I couldn’t see anything, I could take inventory with my touch. I knew what each item was from the first viewing I had with my father, and buried in among hair ribbons, pendants and rings was the paper rolled tightly with a rubber band. There was a significant girth to it, about the diameter of my fist.

  I was careful to replace the treasure chest’s contents precisely after my explorations, because even though I knew I could get the treasure, I still had to figure out how and when I was going to leave.

  It had to be at a time when there was enough paper money for me to get the food and clothes I needed, and at a time when my grandfather and father were preoccupied to the point that they either would not or could not chase after me immediately.

  Their behaviors were predictable, but only to a point. Every six weeks Grandpa would leave with a load of vegetables and return with more paper money and another item for his strongbox—and then hole up for three or four days. Now I must confess I suspected terrible things were happening in that old mill—things I could not imagine then, nor do I want to now. What I did know was that regardless of what was going on I had to make my break while it was happening.

 
Typically, when Grandpa returned I was directed into the crawlspace as soon as my father heard the engine of that old truck coming down the road. I suspect my grandfather drove especially slow to give him the time to lock me away.

  I was left with enough water, bread and sometimes cheese for two days—though the lockup might last as long as five. A rusty pail served as my toilet, and I still had to chase my friends the rats away from it.

  I kept careful watch on the inventory of the vegetables in the cellar, waiting and hoping for the piles to grow to the point where Grandpa would have to leave. If he put off the trip, the stench of decomposing vegetables would waft through the floorboards until it was so bad that even the old man couldn’t tolerate it.

  The next part of my escape plan was necessarily more complicated. Once I accessed and emptied the strongbox, then what? There could be no unsuccessful prison break—I would not get thirty days in the hole since I was already in the hole. . . . The only other punishment left was death, and I was not prepared to submit to that now. I had longed for it, once, as I lay with my face weeping pus and covered with dirt. I would lie for hours on end, face burning, legs, ribs, back all aching from any number of beatings, wishing I was dead. There were times, I am ashamed to say, I asked the rats to kill me. I would cover myself in vegetables, hoping they would see me as more of a meal. Jesus, can you imagine how desperate I had become? I wanted the rats to eat me alive.

  But my desperation ended the night my father told me about the “others.” About cities, clothes and indoor toilets.

  From then on I wanted to live. To be alive. To experience things I couldn’t even comprehend. I had to see it all for myself—water that ran when you turned a knob instead of pumping a handle. I knew I had to persevere if I was going to get out. One slip-up and I would never piss in a gold toilet.