Your mother, well, she was bleeding badly. It started during your birth and became worse after the rush of the procedure. Half of the nurses were trying to get you stabilized; the other half were trying to stabilize your mother.
As it turned out, the half that worked with you were more qualified. The others could not find a way to make your mother’s bleeding stop. Suzane bled to death, not four feet from the both of us. There you were, new, bloody, beautiful, mine. And there she was: tired, bloody, beautiful—and then dead.
For the second time since I escaped the farm, I started to weep. I’m not sure I’ve stopped since.
Mary rescued me once more. I was a mess—honestly, I wasn’t sure how I could go on. Within hours, Mary was there, supporting, instructing and advising. Thankfully she never gave me the chance to fall down. If I had fallen, I’m not sure I would’ve gotten up.
She never allowed me to feel weak, not Mary. Okay, she seemed to be saying, what next? How are you going to make this happen? How about that?
She would have made a great marine.
I’m not trying to paint Mary as cold; she was practical. Your mother had died and there wasn’t anything I could do but grieve.
And the truth is, Mary loved your mother as much as I did. But she wouldn’t allow herself to grieve as openly as I did. Did she do that that for me, or is that just how women of her generation were? I don’t know. What I do know is that Mary never allowed me to make this tragedy about me.
She constantly reminded me about you and Suzane. She let me know, over and over again, that Suzane would have wanted you to be the one to survive if only one of you could live. She would also have wanted me to go on, pick myself up and raise our baby. Yes, our baby. Even though Suzane was gone, you were ours. A child born of love, nothing else. The fact that one of the people wasn’t there anymore shouldn’t change that.
Ultimately, it didn’t.
I’m ashamed to admit that I’m glad, son, your mother isn’t around tonight. I am positive she wouldn’t have survived this.
As I’ve said, I never spoke to her about where I came from and she never asked. I was who I was. She was who she was. She may have had an incredible, terrible past too. But I never asked. And she never told.
I don’t know if my nightmares ever woke her, or if she ignored them, meaning to ask about them “someday.”
If she learned anything about my past during our many nights together, I suspect she died with that knowledge buried deep inside. It’s probably just as well. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t have completely understood the fact that I still dreamed about a girl, now a woman, in a brown sundress.
That a girl maybe haunted me.
I don’t know, or care.
What happened, happened—and I did nothing.
I was ten or maybe twelve, slack-jawed as I watched her be led away. I suppose—no, I’ve never supposed, I know—she was led to her death. What I didn’t and couldn’t know were the circumstances of her murder. I don’t think I can be faulted for that. I was just a boy, barely that.
I had no power to stop anything, but why, why didn’t I try?
THAT, MY SON, is really what has haunted me. Common sense might say that I was frozen by fear. Terrified about another beating—a life-threatening beating. But then I got one for not even trying to interfere anyway. No, son, I wasn’t afraid of being punched or kicked. Beatings were nothing new to me.
But I honestly never knew what was going on in the mill. Honestly, I didn’t.
At least not until this week.
Of course I guess I always suspected what the old men were doing. When I looked back at it. But I never really looked back. I spent years trying to put that life behind me after I met Henry and Mary, trying to pretend it never happened.
Does it make me as guilty as my pa and my grandpa for everything that has happened since?
I suppose. I’m not sure.
Do I have the blood of girls they took after I escaped on my hands? I burned down the mill, but left them the house.
I will say, to those girls, if were others: I am sorry. I will also say: tonight, you are avenged. There will be no more blood.
WHAT CHANGED? I did, son. I changed.
I’d been a widower for over five years, never enjoying the company of a woman since your mother. Never needed to—only focusing on you, your well-being, your needs and wants. I can’t say whether it was pent-up desire or just plain old circumstance that brought us here tonight, but I can tell you, son, good or bad, I am glad for it.
Not two days ago, just after dropping you off at day care, I was driving my car down a street I’d driven a thousand times before. And that’s when I saw her: blonde, brown-eyed and beautiful. She was about twelve, carrying a backpack, on her way to school without a care in the world.
I don’t know what drew my attention other than I had nothing else on my mind. There she was—reminding me so much of the girl in the brown sundress that I almost believed it was her.
I circled the block, not sure what I was doing—knowing only that I had to talk to her. This should have been my first warning signal. In a few short moments, I had developed an obsession.
I needed to speak with this young girl.
Why did I? I don’t know.
How would I? I didn’t know that either.
I grew more excited as I drove, almost aroused as I saw her again. I slowed the car, pulling closer and closer to her walking along the sidewalk. I couldn’t help myself. From behind her profile excited me as much as when I saw her from the front. Slight hips, hair falling to the middle of her back and floating in the breeze . . . just like the girl in the brown sundress.
I was sweating, thinking of what I would say—because I was going to approach her.
She was beautiful. For what reason, I don’t know, but I knew I had to have her. I wanted to stroke her blonde locks; I wanted to hear her talk, feel her next to me.
I pulled up and rolled down the passenger side window.
I said something. She paused. She looked at me—a father, widower and son—and ran in horror. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes—it was what I should have seen when the girl in the brown sundress was being led to the mill.
I sat there in my car, motionless, almost as horrified as she was. I remember looking in the rearview to see if anyone had watched this unfold. There was no one, but what I did see disgusted, terrified me.
The crazed green-yellow eyes I stared into did not belong to me. Son, they belonged to your grandfather. Just like that, I’d been transformed. In an instant I’d gone from a stable, productive member of society to an abomination.
I had become a monster.
My face was livid with rage, sweat dripped from my brow, my features contorted, demented. I pulled out; the girl, safely away, only a memory. As I weaved through traffic, I struggled to keep control of the car. I was trembling at the thought of what I had almost done, what I’d become.
I wasn’t like them. I’d never known this urge before.
What if the girl had not run away? And what if she had gotten into my car?
How far would I have gone? In a few minutes I went from being horror-struck to fantasizing about having her next to me. About driving to some unknown destination. About some old mill, maybe?
Jesus, how could these thoughts ever enter my head?
I wasn’t my father, my grandfather. I couldn’t bear the thought of harming another human being, let alone a little girl.
But what would happen if she did go with me?
Would she keep our encounter quiet, or would she tell? God, if she told anyone, I would lose everything—my job, our home, you. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.
No, if she was going to tell someone, well, I would have had to find a way to silence her.
Silence her?
She’s a little girl, for Christ’s sake. Of course she’ll talk.
You have to know that going in.
You’d have to know it the minute you pulle
d up.
You’d have to be committed to silencing her from the start.
I had to pull over before I hit something. My own thoughts were driving me mad. I kept telling myself I was a good person. I wouldn’t hurt her. But the truth was, I knew: if she had gotten into my car, she would never see her family again. I knew that if she had come with me, my mind would lock her away in the same cell as the girl in the brown sundress.
And as horrible as this was, my little man, there was a piece of me that thought it might have been . . . acceptable.
I know it’s crazy; I hadn’t been around those men for twenty-five years. They had no more power over me. So what in God’s name made me do what I’d just done?
If I was going to find out, I realized, I was going to have to go to the source. I was going to have to return to the farm.
I STILL HAD A PRETTY good idea where the place was. Google Earth helped me locate it fairly quickly. It was desolate, son. Always had been. Perfect for the type of activities they were involved in.
The road up to the house was almost a mile long. Tree-lined, it sheltered their lair from the outside world. Just off the highway that led to the city where I first met Henry and Mary, the farm was surprisingly close to civilization, yet completely isolated.
It was no more than a five- or six-hour drive from where I had settled with Suzane; for two days I prepared for my return.
Did I have a plan?
Not exactly—but as with my escape, I had a rough outline.
Did I know I was going to kill them?
Not really.
Was it out of the question?
No.
Anyway, it’s all of this that brought us here, now, to this old table. It’s why I’m writing this letter, explaining to my only son what I’ve done.
And you know what it all boils down to? I did what had to be done. Son, that’s really all there is to it.
I PACKED THE CAR early this morning and we hit the road, you and I. You were full of questions.
“Where are we going? Look at that big truck! Why are we going? What’s that?”
The world is a wondrous thing in the eyes of a child.
Did you experience the same awe I felt on my first big road trip? You slept a little, but more often than not you were a great co-pilot. Maybe you wouldn’t have been if you knew who we were looking for.
I was nervous and I’m sure it was obvious. You kept asking, “What’s wrong?” Kids are intuitive. . . . Whenever I felt like turning back, I would look over at you. And I knew that I had to keep driving.
I have to say—you’re so beautiful, so innocent, that it was tough to keep my mind on the road. Maybe it’s because you look so much like your mother; maybe it’s just because you’re you.
About an hour before we were going to arrive, I stopped and gave you some dinner. I wanted to be sure you weren’t awake to witness this, so I added something to your juice to help you sleep.
You complained about the taste, but you drank anyway. We headed back out on the road and you fell asleep quickly. Before you did you reached across the seat to me and said, “I love you, Daddy.”
I can’t explain to you what that meant to me, son. Fighting another lump I grabbed your hand and said, “I love you, too, little man.”
And I do, son. More that anything. I would protect you from anything. I would give my life for you.
It was early in the evening when we got to the long driveway. There was a gate, a rusty lock and a fading sign that read, “No Trespassing.”
I came prepared. I got out of the car and went to the trunk for the bolt cutters and the gun. With the lock cut and the sawed-off on my lap, I drove the longest mile, blinking to keep focus.
Part of me, sure, wanted to turn around and pretend none of it had happened. But I’d gone too far. Nothing could prevent what was going to happen from happening—there was no safety net under this high-wire.
The sun was just setting on the farmhouse and the empty lot where the old mill had stood so many years before.
The house was in utter disrepair. In the last light, the windows seemed to shine like an evil neon. There was no sign of life—and I think I feared they were both dead, that I would never get the answers I needed. I also had enough anger in my heart to understand that if they were dead, I wanted to be a part of the glorious process.
I didn’t hate them for what they had done to me, son, but for what they’d passed on to me. And a part of me hated them, too, for not killing me when they had the chance.
I pulled the car up and waited for one or both of them to appear.
It was only a few moments before the old wooden door swung inward. A barely recognizable old man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the porch by an equally changed old man.
My grandfather had aged significantly in the two and a half decades since the truck fell onto him. He looked to be in his eighties and sat almost motionless, a blanket covering his lap.
The anger in his eyes was made impotent by the haggardness of his face. I could see that he desperately wanted to get up and teach a lesson to whoever the trespasser was. His body, however, was never going to allow it to happen. Time, son, time is the great equalizer. I hoped his last years had been as miserable as he appeared to be.
The old man behind him? The yellow-green eyes confirmed what a lack of hair and his frailty could not: this was my father.
No longer a powerful, drunken, forty-year-old bully, he’d become a pathetic, slouching, sixty-something has-been.
They waited, both staring at the car.
I covered you with a blanket, son. They were not good enough to lay eyes on someone so fine.
I got out, shotgun under my coat, and stood with just the air between them and me. I didn’t say a word; I wanted them to do the talking, wanted to know if they could figure out who I was—and why I was there.
The old man spoke, barely audible: “How the fuck you get in here?”
I didn’t answer.
My father stepped from behind the wheelchair. “He said, ‘How the fuck you get in here?’ Cain’t you read? Sign says no trespassing.”
I don’t know where the courage came from, but I smiled.
“The fuck you want? And whatta you smiling at?”
I rubbed the side of my face where, many years earlier, my father had burned hope into me.
He squinted to get a better look, then shook his head in disbelief and stepped back to whisper something to the old man.
“Whatta ya mean, he’s back?”
Louder now, not taking his eyes off me, my father leaned in again and told my grandfather that I had returned to the farm. From his wheelchair the old man mouthed “Motherfucker.”
My father, straightening himself to look stronger, adjusted his belt and glared.
The old man looked simply confused.
“What the fuck you want, boy?” my father asked.
I hadn’t been called “boy” in a long time. I didn’t know enough back then to be insulted.
“The name is Tom,” I said.
“Tom?” the old man said.
“Tom?” My father spat.
“Yes, Tom.” I was assertive, but calm.
“Whatever. You got no business here, Tom. You ran away. Remember? We weren’t good enough for you. So get the fuck out afore I give you another beating.”
My father’s fists were clenched. He was hoping I’d back down just like I had so many times before. He was in no shape to give anyone a beating, and he knew it.
“You’re wrong. I’m not going anywhere and I’ve got lots of business here. Unfinished business.”
The old man sat nodding in his wheelchair, and I actually think he was mildly amused. He wouldn’t be for long.
“I’ve got some questions for you, father.”
“Questions? What kinda questions?”
“You already know. And you’re going to answer me. I want to know how a father keeps his own son hostage, living like a slave. How he allows his
own father to beat the shit out of his flesh and blood.” I was on the verge of yelling, finger on the trigger of the shotgun under my coat. It’s amazing I hadn’t already pulled the trigger.
“Slave. Jeezus. You hear that, Pa? Boy says we kept him like a slave. Ya hear that? Fool came way out here to know why we beat him. Boy, you are ’bout as dumb as the day you left. Shitferbrains.” He spat again.
“You don’t know why we beat you? You don’t, do ya? Fuck me. You were and still are one useless piece a shit. Only thing you understood was my boot in yer ribs. Slavery? We fuckin’ fed you, gave you a bed; what else you deserve? Fucking crawlspace was too good—and don’t think I didn’t know you was stealing vegetables. I knew it the whole time. ’Course, I never told Pa—he’d a wanted to kick the shit outta ya. I didn’t give a fuck. If you was too hurt you was no good to no one. No, boy, I fuckin’ protected you. The only reason you was able to leave was because I let you, boy.”
“You got one thing right,” I said. “You helped me escape. Of course you have no idea how. But I do owe it all to you.”
He looked puzzled, then mumbled, “That it, boy? Okay, we beat you. That what you want to hear? You said your piece. Now fuck off.”
It was clear he wasn’t sure why I was really there, and it was also clear he didn’t really want to know.
“And what about the girls?”
I said it before I could think it through properly.
“Girls?”
“The girls. The girls you and the old man took to the mill. What about them?”
“Whatta ya mean whattabout them?”
“You know goddamned well what I mean.” My father was finally staring into his own rage-filled yellow-green eyes—and he was scared.
He shifted his weight and leaned on the porch post.
“Why did you do it? How many were there?”
“Why? Where you goin’ with this, boy? Just where the fuck you goin’?”
Then the old man moved the blanket and revealed the small gun he’d had nestled on his lap.
I saw the muzzle flash and heard the bullet whiz past my head as I dove behind the car’s fender.
Hope Burned Page 12
