Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  I was no stranger to nightmares, but this really shook me. I woke clutching the sundress even tighter and longed for Mary’s return. I was sweating and warm, but shivered at the thought of the girl.

  Son, I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with this—and the rest of my life—but what’s the point? If we’re honest with ourselves everything else pretty much takes care of itself.

  “Do you know why you’re overweight, son?”

  “I eat too much.”

  Truthful answer.

  “Ma’am, do you know why you stole the car?”

  “I wanted it.”

  “And you, sir, can you search your feelings and tell me why you killed your father and grandfather tonight?”

  “Of course. I hated them.”

  So yes, son, I do have an idea of what that dream meant, but there’s no need to go into it in this letter. That’s one thing I’ll leave between the grave and me.

  I WAS STILL IN BED, somewhere between being awake and asleep, when Mary returned. She never had to worry about me after all: I never left the bed, except to get the dress. I was fully drawn back to the conscious world when I heard a car pull up to the house. I tucked the dress under the covers.

  Mary came to check on me, and stood in the open doorway without making a sound. I could feel her presence and lay still, with my eyes closed, hoping she would come to me with a gentle touch. She lingered, but then quietly closed the door.

  I resisted as long as I could, but the room was constricting and the thought of the new clothes forced me up. Making my way down the hallway again, I was anxious. I checked the kitchen first, but did not find Mary, so I began to wander the house. Now, I’d never had the freedom to roam like this, so every step into new territory was something of an event for me. To a lesser magnitude, I suppose, it was like man taking his first steps on the moon—each footfall new, exciting and somewhat terrifying. I wasn’t sure if I should keep going, but like most explorers the need to know propelled me.

  The house was not large. I did not have to venture far to find a very content Mary, seated on a plush lime green couch in a small cluttered room. She was sifting through bags of clothing, picking up items, turning them front to back and smiling to no one but herself. In her own world, I think she was imagining how the clothes would look on me. Any apprehension I had about the state of our relationship was gone.

  As she inspected clothes, unnoticed, I inspected the room. A large window overlooking the front lawn gave me my first daytime view of a neighborhood. From my vantage point I could see other small houses across the paved street. Almost every one seemed neat and tidy, with trimmed hedges and here and there the evidence of dying gardens. Cars, like Mary’s, would slowly drive by, paying no attention to what was going on in any of the rooms in any of the houses. If any of the drivers knew enough to peer in this particular window they would have discovered true beauty: a woman, far past her childbearing years, carefully inspecting the clothes she was about to put on her newborn. It’s a shame, really, because she wore such a proud, excited expression: she should have been seen. She knew she was doing something extraordinary, and it showed. If only someone else could have shared the moment. Still, son, I don’t think anyone other than Mary would have appreciated the magnitude. How could they? And frankly, as excited as Mary was, I’m not sure even she could.

  The window itself was framed by blue velvet drapes, which fell onto an equally blue carpet. The walls were a dingy off-white, but they did not for a second take away from the room’s brightness. How much of the light was created by Mary and how much by the afternoon sun, I do not know. I do know I would put Mary up against the afternoon sun any day of the week. A number of leafy green plants were scattered about, and they too seemed to enjoy both Mary’s and the sun’s brightness. Actually, they were more than a little out of control.

  Two worn wingback chairs were placed in corners of the room. The pattern of the fabric did not match the green of the sofa, but in my estimation that didn’t matter at all to Mary. Next to one of the chairs was a small, wooden, book-covered table. A reading lamp stood behind it. The walls were decorated with pictures, forest scenes mostly: deer, majestic and free; ducks landing on a reed-filled marsh, with black dogs pointing to the unlucky ones that did not land of their own free will.

  After a while I felt odd just standing, taking it all in, so I made a bit of a noise—nothing loud enough to startle her, just enough to let her know I was there.

  “Oh, Tom, you’re up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you have a good rest? You were out for quite some time.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. Thank you.”

  “Well, I have some clothes for you here. Did you want to have a look?”

  I sure did—but I just didn’t know how to respond. This was the moment I had been looking forward to ever since I had hope burned into my flesh.

  I began carefully: “If I could, ma’am.”

  “Come on over here then, Tom. I was able to get you some new shirts, pants, and look at these . . .” She opened a brown box and held up a pair of white shoes—almost as white as the ones from my dreams. I stared, unable to speak.

  “Try them on, Tom. Do you like them?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I like them very much.”

  As it turned out, Mary was very good at measuring. She handed me an armload of clothes, placing what she called “briefs” on top.

  “Now, these go on before your pants. They’re also called underwear or shorts.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure what the thin, white material was for, but I did as I was told, carrying the clothes to the spare room. I closed the door and did my own inspection: there were a couple of pairs of briefs, short-sleeved shirts with no buttons or collar, long pants with no bib or suspenders, long-sleeved pullover shirts and some socks. If I knew what Christmas was, I would have thought that’s what day it was. The clothes were soft and clean: I didn’t feel worthy. Lord, who was I to wear such beautiful things?

  I took off my old clothes for the last time and began to dress, starting with the underwear. Looking down my body at these new clothes, the feeling was better than my father ever could have described: it felt real; it felt pure. Purity was something my father could not express.

  When I reappeared before Mary, she looked like a woman waiting to hear the results of a child’s surgery. Leaning forward on the green couch, hands on her knees, eyes wide and agonizing, she was dying for something to look at. Well . . . I was something to look at.

  Her eyes became crescents and her hands rose to her cherubic face: thank God, neither my past nor my lie had ruined that smile.

  “Oh, Tom, you look wonderful. . . .”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “No, don’t thank me, Tom. It’s my pleasure.”

  And I could tell that it was. There was nothing fake about Mary; she couldn’t hide an emotion if she tried. Happy, sad, angry—you knew it; she was who she was.

  “Turn around, Tom. Let me have a look at you.”

  I did as I was asked, not quite sure what was going on. She murmured, seemingly in approval.

  “The pants may be a bit long, but I can hem them. The shirts look nice. How does the neck feel? Tom, is it too tight?”

  “No, ma’am.” I wouldn’t have told her if I was choking, but it really was fine.

  She stood, eyeing me from head to toe: smiling at times, frowning at others. Overall, she seemed satisfied with her choices. After I tried on a few more sets of clothes, Mary seemed more pleased and told me to wear what I felt comfortable in. I dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt with some lettering on the front. She told me I looked good and asked me to come into the kitchen with her.

  I immediately noticed a pair of scissors, a cape and what I learned later was a mirror, sitting on the table.

  “Tom, would you mind if I cut your hair?”

  Now, my grandpa insisted that my father cut my hair once in a while, so I knew what she meant. I just hoped i
t didn’t involve the pulling, the tugging, the tearing his barbering meant.

  I guess she could tell I was reluctant, and she reassured me: “Tom, it won’t hurt. I just want to trim it a bit. You can stop me anytime you want.”

  Because I’d put all my trust in Mary, I told her she could. She sat me in one of the chrome chairs, covered me with the cape and set the oval mirror in front of me. Other than noticing my reflection in the pane of glass, I had never really looked at myself before.

  I’m not sure what Mary saw when she looked at me, but I know what I did.

  Thick, straw-colored hair hung almost to my shoulders. My ears were barely visible, just poking through at the sides. A thin neck supported my square-shaped head. My eyes were set back slightly, evenly spaced, and greenish-yellow—like my father’s. They actually kind of scared me at first, because they were so similar to his. What other traits did I share with that monster?

  Son, I think that’s the moment I realized that no matter how far away I ran, he would always be as close to me as the nearest mirror.

  Once I got over that initial shock of similarity, I noticed the greatest difference: there, on my right cheek. It was burned into my flesh—the night my father gave me the strength to flee. The reddish scar was not hideous, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was clearly visible. You could see the circles of the cast iron stove covers if you knew what to look for.

  Mary stood quietly behind me as I took inventory of myself. It was as though she was waiting for me to discover the mark. What she couldn’t have known was that it was the very reason I was sitting in her kitchen.

  She leaned so I could see her face behind mine in the mirror, and began to touch my hair. She asked how short I wanted it cut; I told her it didn’t matter, so she offered suggestions, using her fingers to show me different lengths. Whatever she thought best would be fine with me, I said.

  She used a bottle of water with a spray nozzle to dampen my hair. Cut dry, I suppose it may have floated around the kitchen for weeks. A cut here, a snip there and she was quickly done. The whole event was completely painless—in fact, I actually found it pleasurable. I loved the way she touched me, so gentle. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when she cut it. There’s always been something about having my neck touched. Son, you love it too.

  There are nights when you can’t sleep, and I let you lie on my lap or crawl into bed with me. If I’m not rubbing the smooth skin of your bare back, I’m playing with your hair. When I do this, you fall asleep almost instantly. I’m resisting the urge to do this right now. I have to be focused, finish this so we both can rest.

  When my hair was mostly dry and set where Mary thought it should be parted, she asked, “What do you think, Tom? Do you like it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

  In the small mirror I saw someone almost human and hoped that maybe I’d be able to fit in with the clean people I saw in the diner. What a difference a day makes. I watched myself smile, then automatically lifted my hand to the right side of my face and ran my fingers over my scar.

  “Tom, I’ve been waiting to ask you . . . you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’d like to know.”

  I turned to her, still wearing the cape, feeling self-conscious about my self-exploratory trance. I couldn’t see the scar now, but I could tell Mary was looking at it.

  She drew me close and removed the cape. As she did, she held me in her arms—not long enough to make me uncomfortable, but long enough to let me know she cared. With her left hand she delicately touched my cheek, running her fingers running over each ring.

  “Can you tell me about this, Tom? Can you tell me how it happened?” she asked. Her eyes welled. I know she couldn’t comprehend this type of injury to a child; I also knew she knew I didn’t do it to myself.

  “I guess I can, ma’am.”

  “Did your father do this to you, Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But . . . how? I mean, what kind of a monster . . . to a beautiful little . . .”

  Her words trailed as she turned away and put her hand to her mouth. She was trying to compose herself in the way so many women of her generation did. Her shoulders started to heave slightly and I knew she was fighting a lump in her throat, just like I had so many times myself. When the lump gets out, tears follow.

  I did something then I didn’t know I was capable of—I stood, extended a scrawny arm and put it on her shoulder.

  “Ma’am, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “No . . . it’s not okay. . . . None of this is . . .”

  If I didn’t really mean it, I may have started crying as well. But I raised my head and looked her straight in the eyes and said, “I am okay, ma’am. Everything is okay. Now.”

  I EXPLAINED AS BEST I could: how, in a fit of anger, my father held my face to a glowing hot stove as a reminder that I was always going to be his property. Mary made hot tea and she listened. She barely interrupted, letting me explain why I could never go back to the farm.

  “Tom, we need to tell someone about this. This type of thing isn’t done. It’s against the law. . . .”

  “Law, ma’am?”

  “Yes, Tom. We have laws to protect people. We have policemen, authorities who are supposed to protect people like you. If we go to the law, they can lock your father away so he can never hurt you again.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will that mean they know where I am?”

  “I guess, Tom, but you will be protected from them.”

  “I feel protected now. And they don’t know where I am.”

  She looked like someone trying to figure out a riddle.

  “But Tom, don’t you want them to be punished for what they did to you?”

  I thought a moment. “No, ma’am,” I said. “Not for what they did to me.”

  Of course I had no idea what the justice system was or what it may or may not have done for me. I was just happy to be away. I was pretty sure that as long as Mary was by my side, no one would ever hurt me again.

  “Are you sure, Tom? I mean, he did some pretty awful things to you. Terrible things. Things that a man should be punished for.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sure. I won’t go back. I don’t want to see him again, ever.”

  She sipped her tea, then paused over my scar before saying, “Okay, Tom. I won’t make you.” Her brown eyes were strong and full of resolve. “And Tom?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You are safe. I promise, no one will ever hurt you again.”

  “No, ma’am. They won’t.”

  IT WAS LATE IN THE day when Mary explained she had to go to work at Henry’s diner. She knew I’d be fine without her, she said, and took me to the living room to show me the “TV.” It was what I’d seen in one of the windows when I first got to the city: moving miniature people inside a box. Mary explained how to change the channels and adjust the volume, and served me dinner before she left for her shift. She also said that while she was at work she and Henry would talk about what to do with me, and that if I was still awake when she returned, we’d discuss it then.

  I was sitting on that green couch watching men in suits talk and talk and talk as she turned the key in the front door’s lock. While I had been locked up before, I don’t think I knew what lonely was until I actually had someone to miss. And I missed Mary the second she left the room.

  Television, however, offered some comfort. Those suited, talking men sat at desks and filled my small brain with information: an entire world of information that had been kept from me for so long. I was entranced by the small box, by all of it.

  The miniature people spoke of wars, men killing each other over land, and showed images of children running half-naked through streets that didn’t look like streets, terror in their eyes, pain on their faces, tiny bodies wracked with deformities only war can inflict. You know, son, for all I’d been through, I felt sorry
for them. I still had the ability to feel for someone I’d never met. And this was something my own kin could never do—I’m pretty sure that when Grandpa was pinned under that truck my father never felt sorry for him. No, he was just angry about the interruption to his own schedule. He had things he wanted to get done—and taking his father to the doctor wasn’t one of them. There was nothing in it for him. He felt only for himself.

  Thankfully empathy was attached to a gene my father did not pass on to me. When I saw those children run, I felt for them. I didn’t know why, but I wished they weren’t suffering. I suppose, like Mary, I really couldn’t understand how people could do this kind of thing to children.

  The news was interrupted from time to time by other people trying to tell me to spend money on cars, soap and bigger, better TVs. These people smiled a lot, and honestly, they did make me want to buy their soap and cars.

  Later, I watched several shows that seemed to be about what life was like with “normal” families. In those worlds fathers wore clean white shirts and ties at dinner and their children ate with them at the same table. On some shows the families had three boys; on some a girl and a boy; and on others, three girls and three boys. One thing was constant in these families: they all had a mother, and she was always well-dressed, pretty and caring. She always listened to whatever problems the kids had.

  Now understand, son, I had no idea what TV really was or that these were not real families. In all seriousness, I believed I was watching real families in real situations. How could I know that these “problems” had been some writer’s creation? How could I know that no family is ever as perfect as those I watched? There was a point in the evening where I wondered if they could see me. Or worse, whether someone out there was watching my life unfold in a tiny box in their living room.