Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  “Come here and eat.”

  I began to wolf down the meal. A hamburger and fries: it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.

  “Whoa, slow down, son. You’ll choke.”

  “Sorry, sir,” I managed while shoveling in one fry after another.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.” I could just make out what he looked like, and I’m sure he could kind of see me. He lit another cigarette and sized me up, no doubt trying to come to terms with who or what I was.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Sir?”

  “Yeah, what do they call you?”

  “Stupid sonofabitch, mostly. Sometimes just boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “Yes, sir, boy.”

  “Shit, that’s not a name, that’s what you are. You’re a boy.” He looked at his feet and whispered to himself: “Nothing but a boy . . . Boy . . . Jesus. Boy.”

  “You can call me Boy, sir . . . if you like.”

  “No. I don’t like. No, I don’t. A boy’s gotta have a name.” He took off his white cap, mopped his forehead and threw the cigarette to the ground. “How about we call you Tom? You like that for a name? Christ, you look like Tom Sawyer anyway, just a ragamuffin. Is that okay with you? Tom?”

  “That’s fine, sir. You can call me Tom if you like.”

  “Okay, Tom. My name is Henry. I own this place and I live upstairs. Can you tell me where you live?”

  I hesitated. Would telling him mean I’d have to go back?

  “You can tell me, Tom. Did you run away from home?” His voice was kind. “Did someone there hurt you?”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes, Tom?”

  “I don’t know where I came from—but I ain’t going back. I did run away, I guess, and if you make me go back I’ll just run again.”

  He drew a heavy breath, rubbed the back of his head with a chubby hand and said, “I won’t ever make you go back. Jesus, Tom, if I did I’d be as guilty as the man who did this to you.”

  “Guilty, sir?”

  “Don’t worry about it, son,” he said. There was a quiet pause before he continued.

  “Look, Tom, I can’t take you to stay with me—and I am not sure that I want to take you to the cops. I think we need to get you cleaned up, get you some clothes and get you out of here. Have you spoken to anyone else since you got here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Now listen to me, you just sit here nice and quiet. And don’t let anyone see you. I’m closing up in a bit. I’ll ask my friend Mary to take you in for the night. At least till we can figure out what to do with you.” Sensing my fear, I guess, he put his hand on my shoulder and continued, “Tom, no one’s gonna hurt you again. Not as long as you are around me, that is.”

  I’d never known affection; it felt good.

  Even in the faintest of light, there was nothing there but compassion in his brown eyes. This wasn’t a trick. I wasn’t going to get a kick in the ribs for trusting him. This man was not my father. He left me to the darkness and I sat myself down on an old wooden crate until the light coming from the front of the building went out. Moments later I could hear Henry speaking with someone in a hushed tone. I could only imagine it was the friend he called Mary.

  “Henry, I don’t need this right now.”

  “You gotta do this, Mary. I mean, for christsakes, he’s a mess. Just have a look. You know I can’t take him. One room over a diner ain’t no place for a boy. You just gotta, Mary. It’ll break your heart.”

  “Damn you, Henry. All right, let me see him.”

  The door opened, light again chasing away the darkness. And there stood Mary.

  She was a stout woman, curly red hair framing a full round face. Her big brown eyes filled with tears the second she saw me. Henry stood beside her and I think there were tears in his eyes as well. He swallowed hard.

  “Mary, this is Tom. Tom, this is Mary.”

  She moved closer, looked from my scraggly hair to my dirty feet and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Tom.”

  I honestly didn’t know what she was doing, and I tried to ignore her hand. Getting up from my crate I said it was nice to meet her.

  “Tom, would you like to come to my house for a couple of nights? You could have a nice warm bath, get all cleaned up and sleep in my spare room.” Her words were broken, but not forced. It wasn’t like she was reluctant to have me, just that she could not believe what she was seeing.

  I didn’t know what to say. I really didn’t. It had nothing to do with being overcome with emotion—I just didn’t know what a spare room was and couldn’t understand the concept of getting clean.

  “Tom,” she said, softly, intuiting my confusion. “Please let me take you home. . . . At least for one night. You can get some rest and maybe tomorrow we can talk about just how long you can stay.”

  She took me by the hand and for the second time I felt true affection. Our eyes locked then, just briefly. Hers pleading, mine questioning.

  “It’s okay, Tom. Really, it’s okay. Let’s go home.”

  Her hand was so soft, so warm, so caring and so safe—there was no way I could refuse. I knew I would be safe with Mary.

  “Come on, my car’s right over here.” She pulled me down the alley towards an older four-door.

  “Tom,” Henry called after us. “I’ll see you tomor-row and we can all talk then. Mary’ll take real good care of you. Things will be a little clearer in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “And Tom,” Henry said, “I won’t make you go back. Ever. I promise.”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t go back. Ever.”

  I SUPPOSE, TO ANYONE else, the ride to Mary’s house was uneventful. But son, it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. From the roar of the engine, to the music coming from the radio, to the dash lights, to all the sights and sounds on the way: it was new. Things that most people take for granted, that would, in fact, be more shocking if they weren’t there—cars, stores, lights, buildings, people. . . . Hell, even the traffic lights amazed me. I was a newborn in a ten- or twelve-year-old body: remember, son, I had no idea how old I was.

  I remember making myself small in my seat as Mary asked. I guess she and Henry had decided that someone might be looking for me, hunting me down. I must have seemed so broken that even two complete strangers couldn’t bear to give me up to my pursuers.

  We didn’t talk. She seemed focused on driving, while I focused on everything else. Bright store lights gave way to tall lighted posts again, and then trees appeared as we turned onto a darker street—one with much smaller houses than I had seen before. Some were dark.

  “Now, Tom, you gotta be quiet when we pull into my driveway. We really don’t want the neighbors to know you’re here, okay, honey?”

  “Yes, Mary, I won’t say nothin’.”

  “That’s good, Tom. Don’t say nothin’.”

  The car turned onto a short road beside a small one-storey house. It was dark as we pulled up, almost to the back. A cedar hedge meant we were pretty well hidden.

  Once she shut off the engine, Mary got out of the car and waited patiently. What she could not have known is that I had no idea how to open the door—I’d seen Pa and Grandpa use the outside handles to get into the truck, but I’d never been in it myself. Finally she walked to my door and let me out.

  “Come on, Tom. Let’s get you inside.”

  I followed her to the back door; she fumbled for a key in the dark. When she found the right one I walked into my first home.

  Mary was careful, selecting lamps in the corners of rooms that would throw just enough light to let us see where we were going. She was smart that way, and kind. Somehow she just knew that I didn’t want to be seen like this, revealed in the glare of a bright light. Or, maybe, it was because she really didn’t want to see me in this state. I can’t be sure.

  “So, Tom
would you like to have a shower and get cleaned up?”

  “Shower?”

  “Yes, Tom. You know what a shower is, don’t you?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, sir. Sir.”

  There was nothing at all contrived in what came next: it was quite possibly the most loving smile I will ever see. “Tom, I am a woman.”

  “Yes, sir, a woman.”

  Her hand covering her mouth, she tried not to laugh. “You don’t call a woman sir, Tom. You can call a woman ma’am if you want.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, Tom. Ma’am . . . Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you never seen a woman before?”

  “No, ma’am.” The word was becoming more comfortable to me.

  “How is that possible? I mean how could you live your whole life and not see a woman? You must have a mother. Don’t you?”

  “Mother, ma’am?”

  “You know, Tom, a mother and a father?”

  “I got a father.”

  “No mother?” She looked at me, again, strangely. It wasn’t her disbelief of earlier and it wasn’t pity, but there was something about it that said, “Let me teach you something.”

  “Well, Tom, the mother is the woman version of a father. A lady father. The ma’am to the father’s sir. Do you understand?”

  “I think so, ma’am. And, no, I ain’t got no mother.”

  “No, Tom, I’m pretty sure you ain’t got no mother,” she repeated and then looked away.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Well, Tom, you’re in awful shape, you know that?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m in awful shape.”

  “How did you get this way, Tom?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I just always been in awful shape I guess.”

  “No, Tom, little boys like you aren’t always in awful shape. Someone, something, has to do this to them. Who put you in this shape, Tom?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Was it your father?”

  I thought for a bit, then decided to trust her with the truth. “Yes, ma’am, it was my father.”

  MARY LED ME through the house towards a room.

  “This is where you will be sleeping. Is it okay?”

  My God, “the spare room” had a bed, a cupboard I later learned was a dresser, curtained windows and a warm carpet on the floor.

  “Yes, ma’am, it sure is.”

  She smiled and asked me to follow her. When we got to the bathroom she turned on the light and showed me the sink, shower and the toilet.

  “You know what a toilet is, don’t you, Tom?”

  “It’s for shitting in, ma’am.”

  She smiled again.

  “Ah, yes, Tom, but we don’t say that. We say it is for going to the bathroom in.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t we shit in the toilet?”

  “Well, yes, but please just say ‘go to the bathroom.’ ‘Shitting’ is just not a very nice word, okay, Tom?”

  “Ma’am?” I had to ask. “Is this here toilet gold?”

  She finally laughed—a real genuine laugh—the kind you couldn’t contain if you tried, big white teeth dancing behind her soft lips.

  “Why no, why would you ever think such a thing?”

  I was embarrassed. Looking down at the fuzzy carpet I was standing on, staring at my black feet, I wanted to cry.

  “It’s all right, Tom.” She knelt and put her arms around me and pulled me in close. She smelled like flowers. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me for laughing. I’m not so good with kids and I’m not sure I always know what to say.”

  I felt so good in her arms. So secure. I never wanted her to stop, but I also knew she felt bad and now I wanted to make her feel better.

  “My father.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes. He told me that if we ran away to the city we could shit in a gold toilet just like Loretta Lynn.”

  She pushed back a little—not all the way—and stared deep into my eyes.

  “Tom, there’s no such thing as a gold toilet, but I can tell you this: Loretta Lynn shits, I mean, goes to the bathroom, in the exact same kind of toilet you are looking at right there.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling me about toilets.”

  When she stood and started the shower, I was again amazed. Water came from the spout at the turn of a handle. And it was warm and clear.

  That night I took my first shower. The water running around my feet as black as the dirt floor of the family mill—I was washing everything away. Cleansing. I was finally becoming clean.

  Mary never actually left me alone, but she was also careful to respect my privacy. That really wasn’t necessary because I knew no shame. She handed me soap and told me how to use it. The dirt reluctantly left my body, exposing scars and bruises I never even knew I had. After a while it seemed I could actually become as clean as those people I’d watched eating at Henry’s.

  Without looking at me she reached in and turned off the water. She handed me a large warm towel and told me to dry myself. I did as she said and wrapped the towel around me. Mary asked me to stay where I was while she went to get me something to sleep in.

  “This is one of my old nightgowns, but it should be okay for you to sleep in.” She handed it to me and turned again.

  I looked at the pathetic pile of my old clothes and knew that I would never put them on again. What I didn’t know was how to put on the nightgown.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for the nightgown.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “How does it work?”

  Her dark eyes were dancing in the bathroom light as she rolled up the nightgown and put it over my head. She told me I could let go of the towel.

  Son, I suppose you must be wondering why I am going into such detail. I guess it’s because that what may seem like small events, to me, were life-changing. As I said earlier, I was like a newborn trapped in a boy’s body. The kindnesses that Mary and Henry showed me helped shape who I am—and who you are—today. If I’d had the misfortune of running into less caring souls, I might not be writing you this letter. I feel it’s important—for you to fully understand me, my mindset and the decisions I have made tonight. And to do that, you need to know, at least a little bit, about the people, places and events that made me.

  Mary apologized that she had nothing more appropriate for a boy to sleep in. I told her it was warm, soft and smelled like spring. I couldn’t have been happier or more comfortable.

  When she looked at my old clothes, she said, “I’ll try to wash them, Tom, but I expect it’ll be better to just go get you some new ones.”

  “I got paper money, ma’am, for new ones. My father told me I could get clothes and shoes with the paper money.” I reached down and took out the roll from my pocket.

  It was Mary’s turn to be surprised. “Where in the world did you get that, Tom?”

  “Will it get me clothes and shoes?”

  “Yes, Tom. Yes, it will. But tell me, where did you get this?”

  “I took it.”

  “Took it? From who?”

  I hesitated, thinking I’d done something wrong, but felt safe enough to respond.

  “From my grandfather. My father showed it to me one night and told me that if we took it we could buy clothes and shoes. So when I left, I took it.” I handed her the roll. “Do you think you could get me some clothes and shoes with this?”

  It’s quite possible she’d never seen so much money at once. “Yes, Tom, lots of clothes . . . and lots of shoes.”

  She released the bills from the rubber band and inspected the pile carefully. “There has to be three thousand dollars here, did you know that?”
<
br />   “Is that enough?”

  “More than enough.”

  “I wanted the shiny money, but my father told me that it might be prettier than the paper money, but it ain’t worth as much. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I’m thankful he told me that.”

  “Yes, Tom, I’m sure you are. Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you mind if I hold onto your money for you?”

  Without hesitation I told her I did not. Then I asked her if she would take me to get some clothes and shoes. She said she would and we stood there quietly for a few minutes. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was ready to go to bed. I told her I was and she led me back to the spare room. She rolled back the covers, fluffed the pillows and told me to climb in.

  There’s really no way to describe what that bed felt like. But think about when you lay down in a really good bed. Maybe it was in a hotel, or a rich friend’s house—it felt just like that, multiplied by a thousand. My body sank while Mary covered me with the blankets. The top one, a heavy quilt, felt restricting and comforting at the same time. She told me to rest my head on the pillows. It was the one sensation I didn’t like. She must have sensed it and asked me if I was okay. I told her I had never had a pillow, so she took them away. Just like that—no comment about me being ungrateful, stupid or anything. One minute they were there, the next, they were gone. And I was floating, like some sort of king, in a heaven-sent bed.

  Mary looked at me the way a mother looks at a son. The way I look at you now as you sleep on that chair. She bent down and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Good night, Tom.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond but followed her lead. “Good night, Mary,” I said.

  THE BEST SLEEP COMES when you’re totally safe and completely exhausted. I was covered on both counts. I had never been so secure, had never known affection before that night. I’d never known a gentle touch; hands didn’t caress, they punched you in the mouth. It’s crazy for even me to think, as I write you, son, of a grown man punching a child in the mouth. But it does happen. Did happen. Every couple of weeks I read of a baby being shaken to death or starved, of a daughter murdered by a father. The same man who, just hours earlier, was pleading to the world on CNN for her safe return, knew she was lying, with a friend, cold and lifeless, in an unmarked grave in some goddamned field.