Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  For me, college was an uneventful four years. I stayed in touch with Mary and Henry, and Liz and Jim and the family.

  I was in my third year when Mary called with the news of Henry’s death.

  At first, all she said was my name, “Tom . . .” and already I knew what had happened. I cried—the only time I had since I escaped the farm.

  At first I tried to swallow it—the lump. My thoughts took me back to the farm—as though it was yesterday. The punches, the kicks, as fresh as the day I left. And then I looked around me: I was in my room, on the phone with the woman I called my mother. . . . Suddenly it was okay to let the lump out.

  We talked for hours, the tears rolling down my cheeks like an August thunderstorm. Ultimately those tears helped us come to terms with the death of the greatest man I’ve ever met.

  He died at the counter, you know. Just like his dad. He would have wanted it that way.

  Mary and I joked that because I was the closest thing to Henry’s son that I should return and run his diner. But finishing my degree, she knew, was too important to me—and Henry would have wanted that too. . . . A restaurant was definitely out of the question.

  Henry left Mary the diner—which she sold—some other property and enough life insurance that she could quit working and spend her last years in lonesome comfort.

  Mary could have moved to a bigger place and still have had money in the bank, but that wasn’t the way she was. She didn’t have to work for the diner’s new owners, but she still did her regular shifts for her regular customers. She was as much a fixture as the counter and the stools. I know how her customers felt: Mary never let me down. If she wasn’t working she was home to answer the phone and listen to my problems. She rarely judged, but I knew when she was reverting to the “sundress” state of mind.

  We spoke every week and she did as well as can be expected without her soulmate. I never asked why they didn’t marry; she never said. It was one of those things I simply accepted as a part of their unconventional relationship. It worked for them and that was all that mattered. I can also tell you that there was never a couple who cared more for one another. If my teachers taught me how to learn, Mary and Henry taught me how to love. And by love I mean unconditionally. They taught me to love the way I love you.

  I don’t expect anything from you, son. Not even love. I would actually understand if you didn’t love me. I love you because I do, because I can’t help it. When I look at you lying in that chair, shadows dancing across you, I almost can’t contain myself. I want to pick you up, feel your small arms around me, your tiny face nuzzled into my neck, your heart beating against mine. But I can’t—I leave you be to finish this. That’s the type of love Henry and Mary had. Neither one loved the other because they had to. They just loved—because they wanted to.

  I wouldn’t say Mary and I got closer after Henry’s death. I’m not sure that was possible, anyway. But we did talk a little more, and about more things. More about her, in particular. I gave advice on certain things and she took it. We never talked about how she and Henry came into my life—it was ancient history, and it didn’t matter. I was her confidant, and she mine. I could tell her anything.

  The only time this was tested was when girls came up. None was good enough in Mary’s eyes. Inadvertently, I’d discovered her only real flaw. Her Tom was very close to perfect—and the girls trying to woo him were not. I think many mothers go through this with their sons. It only proved that, as saintly as she was, Mary was human.

  And I love the human Mary as much, and maybe more, than the saintly Mary. As I’ve told you before, it is often our flaws that make us most endearing. I don’t know why; it just is.

  I GRADUATED COLLEGE and stayed on as a teaching assistant with every intention of getting a Masters and Ph.D. in either history or literature. I worked under several profs and helped teach several classes for a number of years, but mostly I enjoyed a simple life of reading, teaching and being.

  I followed no real timetable, had no strong desire to finish and get out into “the real world,” no need to live beyond my means or waste time chasing down the Joneses. My apartment was simple; my car decent but dented. I had no attachments.

  And then I met her, son. Your mother.

  My life would never be the same. It was good; it was bad; at times it was great. Since the girl in the brown sundress, no woman had affected me this way. There are perfectly stunning women who just don’t captivate you the way others do. There has to be something more, let’s call it charisma, to really entrance you.

  This is not to say your mother wasn’t beautiful; she was. She just wasn’t what you might call a classic beauty. Actually, she was more on the cute side. And for my money? I’d take cute over outwardly beautiful any day of the week.

  Now I’m not knocking beautiful women, but when the beauty fades—and it always does—there had better be that something else. If all you’re going to do is stare at each other, well, that gets old in a hurry. You’d better have more in common.

  Your mother and I had books.

  I spent a lot of my time in the library. I couldn’t afford to buy a new book every couple of days, so I’d go to the public library, sit in a corner and lose myself in the worlds of Steinbeck, Hemingway, Twain and Mitchell.

  I first saw her carefully inspecting sections, looking for the one author or title that would catch her attention. It really was coincidental; normally I wouldn’t have looked up from whatever book I might be devouring. I don’t know what drew my attention, but I looked up just as one of the library’s regulars was making his way towards her.

  He was searching for titles in the same area, hoping to strike up a conversation with the tiny brown-haired bookworm.

  You may find this hard to believe, son, but some men go to the library just to meet women. They even dress the part of the intellectual courtier—hell, if they were allowed, I’m sure they’d smoke a pipe.

  That day I saw this cute, petite woman browsing, trying to sidestep the would-be Romeo. He wasn’t taking the hint and made the near-fatal mistake of brushing up against her, not once, but three times in the span of about two minutes.

  After the third “accident” she began a tirade that would’ve made a sailor blush. There weren’t enough librarians in the whole county to silence her—and I couldn’t turn away.

  It was the first time a woman other than Mary or the girl in the sundress had my complete attention.

  I don’t remember much of what was said, but I admired the way this woman turned a grown man into a little boy. Her voice and demeanor let him know she was not backing down—that she was not beneath shoving one of the library’s many books into a very uncomfortable place. He offered a meager apology and skulked away.

  I was hiding behind a book when her still smoldering eyes found mine. She’d caught me now, too, but I couldn’t look away. Hand on hips, she glared; I thought for sure I was next. Like an adolescent Peeping Tom, I was mesmerized and terrified at what might come at me.

  I know it’s a cliché, but time really did stand still. She had me there and then. There was no tirade, no explosion of books coming my way—just a smile, a nod and quick a turn down the aisle to head off in the same direction as her would-be suitor.

  There are those who say love at first sight is a myth, that it just doesn’t happen. Well, I loved your mother from that moment onward. She had a presence, something that demanded I get close, understand and, yes, love her. I’m probably not doing the best job of explaining, but I am not sure anyone else could do much better. Maybe that’s why Mary never really said much about her and Henry—she couldn’t. It was just one of those things. Why people are right for each other is sometimes just a mystery. Maybe it should remain that way.

  Anyway, son, I was never the same. I sat in the library feeling elated and sad at the same time. I needed to see this woman again and speak with her, too, and didn’t know if I ever would. What if she was a tourist or just passing through town visiting relati
ves? What if she never returned to my library again? How would I reconcile my feelings? I already had one ghostly girlfriend to contend with. I didn’t think I could manage another.

  For all I had been through, I’d never experienced anything like this. Mixed emotions were completely foreign to me. I was either happy or sad, sick or well, loving or hating. Now? Well, I was just plain confused. How could someone be so strong and aggressive and then three seconds later smile like that? I wasn’t sure I’d ever know.

  I tried to clear my mind and get back to my book, but it was no use. I kept coming back to the image of her smiling and then turning away; it was as if she was seeping into the pages I was trying to read. Thankfully, one of the librarians I knew quite well rescued me from my temporary purgatory.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes, Sandra?”

  “This is a bit awkward for me, but I have a question for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you see a young lady here a few minutes ago? Short, dark curly hair, dark eyes. . . .”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, she saw you. . . . And now, I’m no matchmaker, but I told her I’d give you her number and name, should you be interested.”

  “Number?” I sputtered.

  “Well, yes, Tom. That’s what young women of this generation do when they are interested. . . .”

  No doubt she noticed me begin to blush.

  “I see you here all the time, alone, reading, passing the days. Don’t you think it’s about time you found someone? Just take the number and think about calling.” Sandra laughed, put a card down on the table in front of me and walked away.

  It sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally I picked it up, turned it over and read the name.

  Suzane. One n. Interesting, I thought.

  I SUPPOSED I’D looked at that card a hundred times before I got home. Images of Suzane began evolving into imagined conversations. I paced around the apartment, rehearsing words, staring at the phone, looking out windows, searching for something that would either stop me from making the call or force me into finally dialing.

  The whole thing was ridiculous. I knew I was going to call. How could I not?

  She was adorable, and seemed to have the type of character I admire. I wasn’t sure I had a “type” of woman—but if I did, she was definitely it. I do believe nature plays a big role in real attraction. I’m not talking about being attracted to nice clothes or a fancy car—that’s not part of our real nature. Okay, sure, in today’s society, it may be natural, but let’s put it this way: it’s not how God expected us to become attracted to one another.

  No, we’re supposed to be attracted to compatible partners. This isn’t about race or religion, but when we were made we were programmed, somehow, to be attracted to those with the same fundamental values and beliefs. This is how we’re supposed to keep the human race moving forward.

  Actually, maybe a guy who is so interested in having a nice car attracting a woman who only likes guys with nice cars isn’t really all that strange.

  For me, son, it wasn’t that I wanted to speak with this Suzane with one n—I needed to. I didn’t have a choice: something in my genetic makeup forced my hand.

  I probably dialed the number incorrectly the first three times. I dialed and didn’t wait for an answer before I hung up. Then I realized that I was either leaving her—if I had dialed correctly—or some complete stranger extremely frustrated.

  The fourth time, I hung in and let your mother answer. Each ring was agonizing. My heart pounded in my ears, I began to sweat and my tongue felt thick.

  I wasn’t sure I would even be able to speak to whoever picked up. I’m not sure what I was expecting when my call was finally answered, but there was a soft, gentle voice at the other end of the line. Maybe it was the library tirade, but when she answered, I was surprised by her friendly “Hello?”

  The details are what they are: we spoke at length—it must have been two hours—about everything and nothing. We never ran out of something else to say. There were no awkward pauses, no voids to fill. I had been on dates before, but now I had had my first intellectual, meaningful conversation with a woman I wanted to be with.

  She was wonderful: funny, open and caring. We laughed at the tweed-jacketed library Casanova and wondered about the economy all within the first ten minutes.

  She was as bright as she was adorable. Smart and sassy. I knew from the beginning this girl was approachable, but no pushover. No, son, your mother would be a challenge.

  I was not only up to it, I welcomed the test. We had many dates: walking and talking in parks, going to the movies, dinners and yes, even a little dancing. And with each moment we spent together I fell deeper and deeper in love.

  She was invitingly complicated. Soft, sweet and strong-willed at the same time, both vulnerable and stoic. She was alluringly awkward and magnificently imperfect.

  That’s why I loved her, son. She was flawed, wonderfully human.

  She was like me. Like us.

  We dated for a couple of months before I worked up the courage to take her to meet Mary. I had brought girls home before and it hadn’t gone well. It never mattered all that much because I really didn’t have anything invested in them. But Suzane—well, I was in love with her, and I’d told her as much. Truly loving someone other than Mary was strange and risky. I mean, how far would we get before she started asking questions about where I came from? About why Mary was so much older than a mother of someone my age should be?

  But you know what, son? She never asked. That was another part of your mother’s beauty. Suzane accepted me for me. Where I came from or how I got there didn’t seem to matter. The only thing that was important to her was that I was there. We were there. Together.

  We arrived at Mary’s place on the same kind of fall weekend as when I first saw the lights of a city—cold, damp and, to most, depressing.

  I didn’t have the energy to think about it then, though. I was too nervous. I worried about Mary and I worried for Suzane. I should have known Suzane would hold her own. And really, I was the only one I needed to be nervous for: I was about to introduce the two strongest, most significant and amazing women I would ever know.

  Well, my little man, I can tell you that all my apprehension was unfounded.

  Mary immediately saw in Suzane what I saw in Suzane: strength, independence and true, meaningful beauty. I’m not sure if women have some kind of sixth sense about each other, but Mary loved your mother from the moment she sat at the very same chrome kitchen set where I’d had my first real haircut.

  Mary’s eyes were brighter, more alive than I’d seen in years; she drank in Suzane just as I first did. Your mother had a comfortableness that most people only dream about. A lot of folks actually pretend to have this type of energy—they hug you when they see you, they smile . . . but the moment you’re gone, they’re focusing on the negative. There was none of this, ever, son, in your mother or Mary. Good or bad, they told you. Hiding or holding in emotions was not a strong suit of either woman.

  They recognized it as a common bond, I think. They talked endlessly in that kitchen, about this, that and other things I’m honestly not sure either one of them was really interested in. It didn’t matter—they just enjoyed each other’s company.

  With that bridge crossed, son, your mother and I furthered our relationship. Like any couple, we had our differences, but by and large we were on the same page.

  Again, this letter isn’t for all the details, son, but I can assure you that your mother and I shared a loving relationship—one that was true and pure. And this, ultimately, led to your birth.

  We spent four years together before she became pregnant. Four amazing, trying, wonderful years.

  When we found out about you we were both ecstatic. Our love was growing beyond the two of us. We felt it even when you were in the womb, from the sound of your first heartbeat. We went to prenatal classes together and began mapping out our lives. W
e kept your ultrasound picture on the fridge until the day I drove your mother to the hospital.

  I was going to stay on as a professor at the university—I was finally up for tenure—and your mother was going to stay home and raise our new family.

  We got married very soon after we learned about the pregnancy. Mary was one of the few attendees; she smiled throughout.

  Suzane was radiant. There’s never been a more beautiful bride. Maybe I am biased, but why shouldn’t I be?

  My God, I loved her. She never quit. That is what made her so amazing. Her energy was eternal, like her smile, her spirit, her soul. Ongoing. Forever pleasing.

  We were so excited about you. We decorated your nursery together, choosing neutral colors, decorations for either sex. We did not want to know which you were until the moment you were born.

  There were sleepers and outfits neatly folded in drawers, diapers on hand, bottles in endless supply. We were armed and ready for you, little man. What we weren’t ready for was your actual birth. You were early. Not real early, but early.

  Not too early for us, certainly, but too early for the doctors. For some reason our doctor wasn’t on call; there was an intern who had never delivered a child before on hand when I brought your mother in.

  I don’t know why they didn’t call in a real doctor, but they didn’t. Everything seemed fine: you mother glowing, your heart rate normal. I watched the news on the TV in the room.

  Everything changed, utterly, in a flurry, son. Your heart rate dropped as you were ready to emerge. The moment changed from one of excitement to one of horror in the blink of an eye.

  Your mother was screaming, nurses were scrambling, moving me out of the way and prepping your mother for the kind of birth I’m sure the intern wasn’t qualified to perform.

  Still, they did what they thought was right and got you out while your tiny heart was still beating.