Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  There have always been and always will be evil people, monsters preying on the easiest of targets: those who want nothing but their affection, their love. The more my father beat me, the more I wanted to please him. I was very much like a battered wife or, even more instinctually, the beaten dog that keeps coming back to an abusive master. I know how insane this sounds, but I clearly recall how much I wanted to make my father happy. Maybe the beatings would stop. Maybe if he were happy, if he didn’t feel so bad, then he wouldn’t beat me. Maybe the beatings were my fault. Maybe if I acted a little better. . . . Maybe.

  Regardless, that night I felt safe. I could rest, sleep without fearing the ramifications of not waking in time to light a fire. I was exhausted, yes, but I didn’t sleep because I was exhausted, I slept because someone had asked if I wanted to go to sleep. There is a difference between sleep that comes because you need it and the sleep that comes because you want it. The difference is waking when you want to wake, instead of when you’re told to.

  Closing my eyes, I thought not of my father or grandfather, but of Mary. Far away from the farm-house, the abuse, the pain and the torment, I’d like to say I dreamed, but I didn’t. Nothing. That first night in a real bed in a real home I merely slept. Possibly, it was exhaustion, possibly just that I was in a real bed, aboveground, with the bathroom light conveniently left on to throw its warm glow over me. My eyes closed with warm thoughts and did not open again until the sunlight pried them apart the next morning.

  I can’t say I was confused, not really. I’d always needed to be alert, aware of things going on around me when I woke. The room was beginning to fill with the natural light of the day, not fully lit, but bright enough for me to make out where I was. I remembered the events of the past days. Feeling the weight of the quilt, I almost didn’t want to move.

  I suppose you could say I felt guilty about just lying there, warm and comfortable. There was no screaming for me to make breakfast; there were no rats scrambling for shadows to hide in; and my skin wasn’t so incredibly itchy that I wanted to scratch myself raw. Lying there, I just was. And I didn’t know what to do. When you’ve been told what to do for so long, then you’re no longer told, it’s like you’re lost. A convict set free should be happy, right? But what do you do when there are no guards telling you what to do twenty-four hours a day?

  As I tried to figure out what I was supposed to do, my nose told me. I was scared at first. The smell of bacon had become its own scar. But understanding, somehow, that everything here was different I got out of bed and followed the smell to the kitchen.

  The flannel hem of the nightgown I still wore dragged behind me as I made my way.

  I’m not quite sure if Mary had even slept, but I am sure there couldn’t have been a more welcoming sight. She was standing at the stove taking as much care in turning the bacon as she had in tucking me in the night before. I don’t think she noticed me because she went about her business, quietly humming. It was a song I’d never heard.

  The sunlight was climbing the walls, gently, letting us get ready for it. Mary wore a blue housedress covered in white flowers. Around me, I finally took in the furniture of what I would now call a very modest home. A chrome dinette set nestled into the only full wall of the friendly kitchen. A strip of pink wallpapered flowers accented the sunny yellow walls. There were windows in one corner, each facing a different direction, and one above the sink. There was enough natural light coming through them that turning on the ancient fixture hanging above the dinette was unnecessary.

  Moving from the carpeted hall into the kitchen even the transition from the cold peel-and-stick tile was warming. Mary floated, stirring, humming, smiling. I didn’t want to disturb her. Someone that happy should never be disturbed. Even if the house caught fire I am not sure I would have said anything. Was I really as happy seeing her like this? As happy as she seemed? It’s one of those moments that become forever etched in your mind, one that takes over all of your other senses. Tunnel vision. There is no bacon smell filling your nostrils, no cold tile floor under your bare feet; broken ribs don’t scream for attention, hunger pains are silent and all fear is gone. All that remained was this vision: angelic, I guess. Yeah, I know how it sounds: Mary was an angel, sent from God to help me at just this moment. But in some ways I truly believe that from the moment she was born she was meant to be standing in front of that stove making bacon for me. And even if that was all she ever did in her life—and I’m here to tell you that’s not true—she should be canonized. Saint Mary. I write it now because she would never let me say it. Mary, you are a saint. Thank you. Thank God for you.

  She stirred a while longer, then picked up a piece of bacon between the tines of the fork and turned it carefully. And then she shook me out of my stupor by saying, calmly, quietly, “Good morning, Tom.”

  My new name didn’t register immediately, and she turned to me, fork in hand, smiling. “You must be hungry, Tom. Sit down over there.” She pointed to one of the chrome chairs. “I’ll get you some breakfast. It’s almost done.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You found the bathroom all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned back to the bacon and checked the oven for something being kept warm. “Did you have a good sleep?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I slept all night.”

  “That’s great. I’m sure you needed the rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure I did.”

  While she hummed and cooked, I sat and waited. It was awkward for me—to just sit and wait. I was the one who did the cooking; others waited.

  “Tom, how old are you?”

  “Old, ma’am?”

  She hesitated, like she was readjusting, remembering just what she was dealing with.

  “What I mean is, your age. Do you know how many birthdays you’ve had?”

  I desperately wanted not to be so stupid, but I had no idea what she was talking about. And I’m sure she realized this, because she jumped in before I could answer, trying to figure out a way to put it so I’d understand.

  “Do you know what winter is, Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay, Tom, how many winters can you remember?”

  I thought hard—I could count from the work I had to do on the farm, and I wanted to be as right as I could. I recalled everything that had happened, every spring, summer, fall and winter, all the beatings, non-beatings, good crops and bad crops. I figured I could remember maybe eight or nine years with confidence.

  She did the math quietly and said, “I guess that makes you around eleven or twelve, depending on how good your memory is. And you know what, Tom, from the size of you that seems about right. Twelve it is.”

  “Twelve?”

  “Yes, Tom, you are twelve years old.”

  I think she knew that I really couldn’t grasp the concept, left it alone and announced that breakfast was ready. She opened the oven door and took out a few tin plates. They were full of eggs, toast and pancakes, and with the bacon she piled some of everything high on a glass plate in front of me. The steam was rising as I sat staring.

  “It’s okay, Tom, go ahead and eat. I’ll be right over here.”

  Now, the boils from the last time I’d had hot bacon had healed, but the scars in my mind had not. Mary stood waiting, so I felt like I had to eat. I started with what was most familiar. The white toast was crispy and buttery. It was warm, not soggy and half-chewed. I almost felt human, eating something that hadn’t already been in someone else’s mouth.

  Mary smiled, tousled my hair and went to get herself a plate. She sat down across from me and began to enjoy her hard work as well.

  I did my best to copy her movements, using a fork for the eggs, a knife to cut the pancakes. And dipping them in maple syrup . . . It was such a simple, surprising joy. Maple syrup! I wanted more but was too shy. I would have licked that plate clean if she hadn’t added more food. I ate until I couldn’t eat anything else. When I was
finally done my stomach was so bloated I felt sick.

  Even that felt great.

  MARY TOOK MY plate away and I thanked her for the food.

  “I’ve washed your clothes and mended them as best I could. They won’t last long, but they’ll do until I can go to get you some new things.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Tom, I . . .” She paused, eyes not on me but somewhere in the distance, searching. “I found something in your pocket. . . .”

  I guess I knew what she was trying to ask, but I was just as lost for words. What could I say about the sundress? I mean, truthfully, how could I explain a girl I never knew, tortured and likely murdered by my father and grandfather? Would I be blamed for her death—like I’d been blamed for so many other things?

  The truth might make Mary try to find them. And what then? What would they do to Mary? I thought of what I endured after catching just a glimpse of the girl. I couldn’t risk them knowing anyone else knew, especially not this woman.

  So I did what I thought was best: I lied to Mary.

  “The dress, Tom—where did you get it?”

  “I found it.”

  “Found it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why did you keep it, Tom?”

  “I guess I liked it. It’s soft.”

  She looked at me with a skepticism I now understand this way: it was the look a parent gives to a child they want to believe. The look of someone who knows she is being lied to, but who doesn’t have the courage to confront the liar. More parents need to know how to put that look into words. Who knows how many kids would be alive today if a parent had just said, “No, I don’t believe you. I’ll drive you home from the party.” Son, too many times these are the last conversations parents never have with their child. If only. If only that questioning look became a real question.

  Son, I looked at Mary and told her what I had to.

  “I’d like to keep it—if I can.”

  Mary wanted to say something, but held back. Finally the words came: “I put it and your clothes back in your room while you were sleeping, Tom. They are on the dresser.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  There was no “You’re welcome” now. We sat silent for a moment, Mary unsatisfied, and me sick with guilt.

  “Go get yourself dressed and I’ll clean up this mess, Tom.”

  She forced a smile and I went to my room to find the clothes and sundress, just as she’d said, neatly folded on the dresser.

  In my familiar clothes I sat on the bed and held the fabric. The scent of the girl who wore it washed away, down the same drain as the dirt from my clothes—from me. Why was it still so important to keep it close? And why did I still feel so dirty?

  When I wandered back to the kitchen, Mary was still finishing up the dishes. She was no longer hum-ming, just going about a job as though it was a job.

  “I’m just about done here, Tom. Then we can talk a bit more,” she said and sighed.

  I felt even worse about the lie I’d told her—but not bad enough to offer the truth. When you’re trying to survive, there’s no telling what you’re capable of, my son. When a man—a boy, in my case—is backed up against a wall, he makes rational decisions that seem completely irrational to someone not backed up against that very same wall. Sitting with your morning coffee, reading about some incredible event in the morning paper, it’s too easy to say, “How could he?” But if you’ve never been backed into a corner before, never had to take a chance or risk a difficult decision that disrupts your comfortable life, how can you really know? I’ve learned that often the people quickest to judge have never faced this type of decision.

  You’ll hear it too, son: some men are born into greatness; others have greatness thrust upon them. In my case—our case—something very far from greatness was thrust upon us. Actually, when I think about it, the situation I was in, that I am in—that we’re in now—is more of a “born into” kind of thing.

  No one walked up to me and said, “You look like you’d handle torture really well, so why don’t you go live with these two sadistic bastards. . . .” No, I won that lottery all on my own. One minute I wasn’t; the next I was.

  The same is true for you, my little man. You never asked for this—you just are. I guess I’m sorry—for bringing you into it. For having you? I’m not. You bring me more joy than you can imagine. God, I love you. And what about you? Well, the word misery barely covers what I bring to our relationship.

  I know I’m not totally at fault, but I have made choices over the course of my life, and your life, and in fact tonight, that tie our fates. Good or bad, the die has been cast and we will both have to face this together.

  From that first lie to everything that’s transpired tonight, I will not apologize. Could I have done things differently? Certainly. But would the outcome change? Likely not.

  Wisdom is something you only get in retrospect—by living through certain things. Yes, sometimes a man can learn from the wisdom of others. But for me, for us, who was there to turn to? Who else had ever been in my shoes? No one I knew. Jesus, at that point in my life I’d spoken with only four people. And two of them I never wanted to face again.

  Lying to one of the two I wanted to trust me was not a great way to start, but tell me, son, what other option did I have? If I told Mary the truth I might have lost her forever. Back against the wall, something primal took over. Not a great moment in my history. Did I hurt Mary? Likely. But would I have hurt Mary more by telling the truth? Maybe. And that I was not willing to risk.

  God, Mary, I’m sorry. You were so open with me and I lied. But even after all these years, faced with the same situation, I’d do it all over again. Sometimes you have to lie to protect what you love most. And at that point, you were what I loved, Mary. . . .

  But tonight is for confession. Tonight, my son, is for the truth.

  THE DISHES WASHED and dried and put in their place, the dishrag and towel carefully folded and left on the sink to dry. Mary patted the front of her dress and turned to me. Something about her face changed: I think she had just resolved an internal debate—the heart of which was the sundress—and at precisely that moment put it to rest.

  “Okay, Tom, we need to get you some clothes. How would you like that?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  Finally, she smiled again—and began sizing me up. It wasn’t like the night before, when she hardly could believe the state I was in, but it was a look of acceptance, a measuring from the distance created by the brown sundress.

  “Well, this won’t do,” she murmured, and then left the room. Returning with a rolled-up piece of plastic, she immediately went to work running flexible tape down my arms, legs and feet. She was writing things down and whispering to herself as she did this. Of course I had no idea what she was doing, but I complied with her every command: to stand straight, move here, look there. I enjoyed the attention for some reason. But I guess that’s not so hard to understand. I enjoyed the physical connection. And I was fascinated, watching her run this thing over my body, wrinkle her brow, write, stand back, pause and write some more. The whole exercise was pleasurable, entertaining. When Mary was working on something she was fun to watch. She was fun to be around—just to be with.

  I suppose she had enough of measuring me, and I think I’d had enough of being measured, when she said, “Tom, I’m going to go get you some clothes. Do you think you will be okay here alone until I get back?”

  Okay? I’d been left with barely enough bread and water, in a crawlspace of a house, for days on end. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be okay. But ma’am?”

  “Yes, Tom?”

  I was reluctant to ask, because I had never done this before. “Do you think I could rest for a while . . . when you’re gone?”

  She looked concerned. “Of course, Tom. You poor thing, you must be worn out. Of course you can go back to bed.”

  It was such a strange moment for me. The sun was still
shining and I hadn’t done a single chore and she was telling me it was okay to go back to bed. Well, the truth is, I needed it. And Mary and I made my way back to the spare room where she pulled back the covers, got me underneath and tucked me in as carefully as she had the night before.

  When I lay back and looked at her she smiled and told me to have sweet dreams and that she would be back before I knew it.

  I floated there until I heard her leave, lock the door, start the car and drive off. And then I got out of the bed and retrieved the sundress. I got back under the covers and clutched that dress as though it was the most important thing in my life.

  Some people do not remember their dreams, but fortunately, and unfortunately, I do. I have to live, or more accurately, sleep with that.

  At that particular moment I dreamed of great things and horrible things and, well, just things. But what I dreamed the most was the girl. The little girl, taken from her parents, her life and, oddly, me. I say she was taken from me because even though I never knew her, she was mine the moment I saw her.

  The only remembrance I had was the dress I clutched while I dreamed of her cooking bacon on Mary’s stove. Mary sat at the table with me and smiled as the girl turned the bacon. Just like Mary, she did it lovingly, as though each strip was as important as a child. Her large, dark eyes watched each spatter of grease jump from the pan to the counter, careful to remember so she’d know what to clean and make Mary happy. The girl smiled at me and at Mary then.

  But quickly her smile changed to an expression of pain. The bacon began to spatter so ferociously she couldn’t contain it. She was swatting at it with one of Mary’s dish towels, but it was no use. Bacon grease hit her on the arm, her neck and then her face. She screamed as she tried her best to stop the attack. Mary and I could do nothing. We were paralyzed, glued to those chrome chairs as we watched the horror unfold. The girl I loved was melting right in front of us. Her skin was liquefying, like the wax of a candle. I was helpless, powerless. She became little more than a puddle on Mary’s kitchen floor, nothing left but the sundress.