Finding Tom (15 page)

CHAPTER 20

At Long Last

FINALLY, AFTER WHAT SEEMED TO
us an unending month of trying to prove our worthiness to be Secret Sevens, our last night of initiation arrived. Dropped off in the middle of the woods with only a compass and a map to guide us, Charles and I wound our way through the forest, heading toward an unknown destination with Jack and David right behind. Here, I was grateful for the years I had spent exploring the outdoors. I had a keen sense of direction, and as we traveled hour after hour, stopping now and then to drink and rest, I was sure we were heading the right way. The sun began to set, and the sky looked as if a painter had brushed the horizon with huge strokes of brilliant purple and orange and yellow. It was a breathtaking sight. There were no cars or buildings to get in the way, just nature at its finest. I stood in awe, amazed by the grandeur of what I beheld. There was a time when such a sight would have led me to worship, but now I tasted only bitterness. The God capable of such raw beauty, whose existence seemed so tangible in moments like these, was equally cruel in his absence.

I looked back at the map and the compass. It was time to move. We still had a long way to go according to my calculations, and I wanted to get there before dark if possible. I assumed that we must be somewhere in the mountains behind Locklear. Thankfully, there were a few markers here with 7s carved into trees to let us know that we were heading in the right direction. I remembered when I used to run through the woods all day and still not be tired; those days of endless energy were long gone. My nasty habit of smoking certainly hadn’t helped. My tar-coated lungs were wheezing and whining at me. Charles, however, seemed unfazed by all the hiking. He continued to be upbeat and peppy—too peppy, really. I wanted to make him shut his yapper, but I knew there was no point in trying.

Then, as the light began to fade, we spotted an old cabin with what looked like a kerosene lantern blazing in the window. We figured this must be our final destination. As we drew closer, we could make out familiar voices. I knocked on the front door, and Patrick immediately opened it and greeted us.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Glad you could join us. You made surprisingly good time. We didn’t expect you for at least another hour or two. The year I was initiated, our group got so turned around that we didn’t make it to the cabin until three or four o’clock in the morning. If they hadn’t made a large campfire outside to guide us in, we never would have found it, but that’s neither here nor there. Come on inside.”

We stepped through the door, and all the Secret Sevens were seated playing cards. There were no more masks to wear or tasks to accomplish. We were a part of the family. I looked at Charles and realized for the first time that we were brothers. On the back wall of the cabin, the names of all the members who had come before us were carved into the logs, along with the year they joined the Secret Sevens. I scoured the wall, looking for a specific name. At last, there it was, tucked in among all the others: Dr. Emory. It was a special moment as we carved our own names beside all of theirs, joining in the history of this mysterious family reaching back in time.

The carving of the names was followed by seven consecutive shots of whiskey for the new initiates. Charles and I raced, but I was no match for him. I plunked down the final empty shot glass and felt the world spinning—not a good sign. Charles was clearly a little woozy himself, and we clung to one another like sailors aboard a heaving ship. Shortly afterward, I crashed on the couch and was out. It had been a long day. Heck, it had been a long couple of weeks, but the craziness was over now. We had made it. We were Secret Sevens.

I woke up to the early morning with sunshine streaming over my face and looked around. I saw bodies strewn about the cabin floor, huddled under blankets wherever there was space. I tiptoed around them, wrapped in a blanket someone had draped over me in the night. I was the first one up. Stepping outside, I could see my breath in the cold air. The light breaking through the leafless trees pierced the morning mist, which clung stubbornly to the mountainside. The world was silent, biding its time until spring would come again. The cold, scraggly woods were an outward reflection of my own soul as they waited for life to come again. How long must I wait for rebirth?

Back at school, I looked at the mass of papers spread across my desk and groaned. Their ever-growing presence was a reminder of how far behind I was this semester. I stared at the pile loathingly. So far I had found my education at Locklear to be little more than the memorization and regurgitation of facts. From math to history to literature, there was no room for creativity and real thinking. The system was looking to churn out machines, and I disdained the idea of being a machine. Dr. Remus was the worst offender. He laid out for us exactly how he wanted us to write for his class. There was no margin for individuality, just the mechanical scribbling of information in a uniform style. In my opinion, that was not writing. Anyone could summarize and paraphrase the great thoughts of other thinkers, but it took a real writer to capture new images and phrases and step outside the bounds of common writing. A real writer spoke with his own voice rather than borrowing and editing the voices of those brilliant minds who came before him. I realized that Dr. Remus could not teach his students to write because he himself had never learned. He was mute, save for the voices of others, and he was too proud to admit it; therefore, he muffled every student who walked through his doors rather than blessing them with the gift of speech.

The students who came here had no interest in wisdom. They came to learn facts, which were quickly forgotten. They came to write miserable essays and get A’s so they could make the dean’s list and someday get a good job. They came because mommy and daddy told them to. They came to find girlfriends and boyfriends and to attend sporting events. They came to get a piece of paper after four years that certified they were smart and accomplished. They came because it was the thing to do for the wealthy. They came, but they never learned. I had hoped to find the great thinkers of my generation here, pushing one another on to even higher heights, but I was sorely disappointed. There was no greatness.

CHAPTER 21

Spring Fever

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF
the piles of books, papers, note cards, and class periods spent staring at the back of Julia Stine wishing I had the guts to talk to her, spring came with all its splendor. Fresh shoots pushed forth from the earth, and tiny buds began to open. The long days of darkness began to recede, and the sun tarried longer and longer in the soft blue sky. The women of Locklear emerged in all their splendor, blowing kisses to enraptured cat-callers and batting their eyelids and looking overly seductive in their pretty spring dresses. Romance was in the air, and I often found couples down amid the library stacks, making up for the lost winter months. I envied them. I remembered back to the dance with Julia and how alive I felt that night, every nerve ending in my body bursting with anticipation. I longed to feel that way again. I wanted to hold a woman in my arms and feel her warmth against me. But with those memories came the sting of rejection and humiliation. I knew I was no match for the boys who strolled around campus with their well-toned bodies and fancy clothes. I could not afford to take a girl out to dinner, and I did not have a fancy car to invite her to jump into for a ride on the weekends. I saw Julia dashing about with what seemed a new suitor each week. They trailed after her like helpless puppies. She was the most sought out prize on campus, but as of yet, no one had won her affections. She had no equal, it seemed. Perhaps she was looking for something more than a flashy car and a fancy tie, but that was unlikely. In this world of extravagance, I was predestined for bachelorhood.

Charles had caught a bad case of spring fever and was smitten with a cute sophomore named Rachel. I had seen the two of them together on numerous occasions, and once in the library. Let me add that he was checking something out, but it was not a book. Charles and I were like brothers now, so I was fully informed about all the details of their relationship. Knowing Charles, it was just a fling that would pass. He was not the sort to look for something steady. But in the meantime, his constant chatter about her was driving me crazy and remained a constant, painful reminder of my own singleness. Not wanting to douse his excitement, I said nothing about my own feelings but took it upon myself to avoid spending much time in the room. Charles was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice my retreat. He was a train churning forward with his eyes fixed on little Miss Rachel, his hormones raging.

I spent most of my afternoons catching up on schoolwork or sitting outside writing. After having spent so much time with people during the Secret Sevens initiation, the shift was a seismic shock. I had forgotten what it felt like to be still and quiet. Now, with too much time to think, these long periods of solitude only led to greater turmoil; undistracted by the petty things of life, I was left to delve into the more complicated and difficult things of my existence. Alone, I was forced to deal with my demons. But I was unable to exorcise them, and so they haunted me, taunted me, and branded me as a failure and an outcast, unloved and unlovable. My insecurities rose to the surface, revealing their disfigured heads and thrashing about in the waters of my mind. Thick thunderclouds rolling in, stormed, and thundered, and I feared I might lose myself and begin sinking into the pit of depression that I knew very well.

Had it not been for dear Dr. Emory, I fear I would have succumbed to my demons and descended back into the godless realm of my mother’s death and my own disappointments and shortcomings.

He and I were sitting out on the porch in the rockers when, for some reason, it all came gushing out of me. “Dr. Emory, I really can’t take this place any more. If I have to write one more stupid essay for Dr. Remus, only to have it come back covered in red pen, I’m going to strangle him. It’s all just so mundane, and I’m not actually learning anything of lasting value. And if I have to put up with the self-absorbed egomaniacs with their golf shirts and khakis and designer sunglasses trying to get girls, I’m going to go crazy. People here are so—”

“So boring,” he interjected.

“Yes, that’s part of it. They are just so caught up in their perfect little lives—it’s amazing they have time to attend class.”

“And that is precisely why they need you, Tom,” Dr. Emory declared. “They need somebody who sees the world differently than they do. They need someone to push them and challenge them, and sadly, Dr. Remus will voluntarily give up his tenure before he ever does that. The world needs people like you. But that doesn’t mean they will
like
you. Nobody likes to be told his or her life is superficial or wasteful. All throughout history, humans have killed the prophets, from the Israelites to modern day regimes. The voice that cries out in the desert will always have enemies. You are right in recognizing that you do not belong here, but it is not because you are inferior. It is because you are one of the few with vision.”

“I’m not a prophet,” I scoffed. “I’m just a poor boy who likes to write.”

“I disagree. You are so much more than that, if you will just let yourself be,” Dr. Emory insisted. “Tom, all of your writing is for nothing if you never share it. Your long journey to find your voice has been wasted if you remain silent. And if you withhold your words from those who need them most, then you are even more selfish and cowardly than they are. Don’t just sit there and complain if you aren’t willing to do something.”

I trudged home as muddy streets sucked at my shoes. Dr. Emory’s words rang in my ears, but I fought them. I was not a prophet. I did not deserve such a title. I was an outcast who lurked in the shadows playing childish games. I was a coward. A silent observer, I cast stones at the world around me, and in the safety of my own thoughts, I berated my peers for their folly. I abhorred their cookie-cutter lives and vanity. My inner voice was hoarse from raging against everything, yet I had said nothing. I wanted desperately to speak, but I was afraid.

After a few weeks of mulling over what he said, I finally had to admit that Dr. Emory was right. I told myself I must find the self that existed outside of my loss. I must find the bound prophet waiting to be heard. I must stop running and face my demons; but oh, how they loomed large, clinging to me like thirsty leaches.

The days were running out, and I was beginning to realize that being a part of the Secret Sevens was not going to wipe away all of my insecurities and wounds. They were a source of community and identity, but they could not replace my soul’s yearning for family. Unfairly and unwisely, I had hoped to be adopted into this new family and be empowered to leave behind my old insecurities and wounds, but of course such a thing was impossible. Deep wounds require careful attention and time to heal. The Secret Sevens were part of the healing process, but they could not be expected to do the work on their own.

CHAPTER 22

A Passing

LATER THAT WEEK I RECEIVED
my very first letter from my father. Inside a plain white envelope was a plain white piece of paper with a few scribbled lines.

Dear Tom,

I am sorry to interrupt your classes, but I wanted to inform you that Reverend Evans has passed away, and there will be a funeral service for him this weekend. It would be good for you to attend. I have included money to pay for your train fare.

Sincerely,

Your Father

Memories of Reverend Evans flooded over me. I could see him slowly hobbling up to the pulpit and clutching at it with all his might as he preached. I could see the tired gray eyes and remember the touch of his leathery palm as he shook my hand. Everyone would come to the funeral, and I knew Father was right; it would be good to join them.

Dressed in all black, the whole town squeezed into the church as if to hear the reverend give one last sermon. Women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs, while men stood solemn and stone-faced as if to remind us that death was not a laughing matter. Tears were shed, stories were told, and memories were re-lived. And all the while, Reverend Evans lay dead before us in a simple pine casket. When all had been said and the traditional hymns had been sung, we snaked to the rear of the church to the small cemetery surrounded by a rickety, rusty fence. A few gravestones poked up above the ground, almost covered in weeds. The air was muggy, and the gnats swarmed angrily around our furrowed brows. We gathered around the freshly dug grave, staring into that hungry mouth awaiting its prey. After he was laid to rest, large clods of red dirt thumped against the casket, piling up one shovelful at a time, until he was totally covered by the dry ground, he the sad sower who never reaped a harvest. All around him, fanning themselves and swatting at gnats, stood the uninspired people, the barren soil he’d tilled and sown seed into for all those years. Slowly they departed, disappearing down the hill with stony hearts, returning to their unchanged lives. Ashamed, I followed in their footsteps. We were all hypocrites playing religion like a game. We neither knew nor loved God.