Finding Tom (18 page)

“Well, I’ll do my best to remedy that, don’t you worry. Okay! Let’s get moving lickety-split out of here. I’m starved.” I laughed. Some things never changed. Together we headed for the town diner. There’s nothing like greasy burgers and fries washed down with thick shakes to curb the appetite.

It was strange walking into the house with Charles. For so long this had been my secret, and now I was letting him in on it. He, of course, was oblivious to the meaning of the moment and barged in chattering away. It had been many years since loud conversation bounced off the walls. This was a house of hushed tones and pervading silence. We marched upstairs, and I showed Charles into the old sewing room. His quick glance gave away his impression: Not much to look at, but it would do.

We stepped out back onto the porch, and Charles whistled. “Now this is a view. No manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and rose gardens like at my place. This is the real thing. Did you play in the woods much growing up?”

“No … I
lived
in the woods,” I told him. “As long as there was sunlight, and sometimes after sunset, I was outside. I couldn’t stand being stuck in the stuffy house with its cramped hallways and myriad of things not to be touched for fear I would break them.”

“Yes, I know that feeling. I can’t tell you how many times I was scolded for touching the vases and paintings on the walls. I swear mother got a nurse just to follow me around and rap my knuckles if I so much as stepped out of line.”

I pulled out a cigarette. “Care for one?”

“I thought you quit.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, it’s just like they say, idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

“Here’s to idle hands then. Pass one over here.” We stood there sucking smoke into our lungs. It was good to not be alone.

Flicking his cigarette butt into a wild blackberry bush, Charles sprang to his feet. “Come on, Tom, let’s go for a walk!”

It was late afternoon as we set out. The well-worn path was wide enough for just one of us, so Charles followed in my wake as we snaked through tall grass and scrub brush. It was strange to hear the rhythmic stomping of two sets of feet. This was my sacred space. Usually, only my feet traced these trails. The forest beckoned to us, and at last in its embrace, we caught our breath under the sun’s slanting rays. The wind sang through the gullies and danced around the trees. We pressed onward into the woods, keenly aware of its tune. We trudged underneath the giant oaks with splotches of golden light dripping down upon us, the scent of summer filling the air and decaying leaves soft under foot.

At last, we came to the inner sanctuary where the grandfather oak stood with long strings of moss hanging from its giant branches like a wispy beard. This was the holy of holies. We leaned against its rough trunk. Charles spoke quietly. “Wow, this place is cool. Almost magical, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I used to dream this tree was a mystical portal to another land. In spite of my best efforts, I never figured out how to open it.”

“I know what you mean. There used to be this gnarled, hunchbacked willow tree that sat at the edge of our property. Whenever I stepped inside its curtain of leaves, I thought I would cross over to an unknown world.”

We sat in silence, remembering our daydreams—the worlds conjured up in our imaginations with dragons and goblins and all sorts of fascinating creatures only young children can come up with. There we were, two men too old for such notions of magic. The dragons had gone dry, and the goblins had been gobbled up by logic and the worries of life. Swords had turned back into sticks and mountain fortresses had melted into cardboard boxes.

Some doors were closed forever, but new ones opened in their place. The sense of mystery was gone, but as I looked about, I was still struck by the sheer beauty. I noticed the many shades of green and the way the light filtered through certain leaves and turned them into a soft, buttery yellow. There were new delights to be enjoyed, but unlike children to whom every stick is a sword, we realized they were difficult to find. The pursuit of beauty required trained eyes and a still heart. In this pursuit, I was just an amateur starting the journey.

We marched home under starry skies, laughing and talking. It was not good for man to be alone. I felt the warmth of Charles’ camaraderie and the strength of our brotherhood. This strength gave me hope to face Father and the misery of my home that awaited our arrival.

As usual, Father was in his study with whiskey in hand as we entered. He glanced up from his stupor, staring at the pair of us with glazed eyes.

“Hello, Father. I would like you to meet my roommate, Charles. He will be staying with us for the week.”

Charles stepped forward, extending his hand in an overly zealous motion. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Thank you very much for allowing me to come visit.”

Father put his whiskey glass down and stretched out his hand with much less zeal. “Think nothing of it.”

He turned to me. “Tom, grab yourselves some dinner; then fix me a plate to eat.” That was all.

I ushered Charles out as quickly as possible. “Well, that went well,” I said jokingly.

“Ha. You’re old man’s not much of a talker.”

“You could say that again. He pretty much keeps to himself ever since my mom passed away.”

“Well we should invite him to have a smoke with us. It would do him some good. I will ask him myself.”

“Oh, don’t do that. He won’t want to join. Nothing against you or anything. He’s so tired when he gets home that he usually falls dead asleep right after dinner.”

“Hmm.” I could tell that Charles was pondering whether or not to take me at my word and let the whole thing rest. “Well, if the right moment arises, I will extend the invitation. That is that.”

The next afternoon at the store, apparently the “right moment” arrived. We stopped by in the afternoon to help father. I don’t believe Charles had ever worked a day in his life, because he was unnaturally excited about the prospect of helping out. Charles looked like a child in a candy store when he slipped on his white apron and stood behind the counter. As expected, Charles wasn’t much help at all, but he tagged along, grabbing a few things here and there and talking to the customers. Father, of course, had his public appearance on. It was difficult to believe he was the same man we found last night slumped across the chair. Charles noticed Father’s brightened spirit and began to prattle away with him, assuming this was his natural state of being. If Charles had his way, the two of them would be friends long before the week was over. Unfortunately for Charles, my father was not going to be won over easily. I’d mostly given up years before.

After a long afternoon, we strolled home together. It was a perfectly mild evening, the sort of night just right for sitting outside and enjoying a cigar. Charles had absconded with a number of his father’s expensive imports, and we were eager to try the stolen stogies. Charles looked at me and winked, and I knew what was coming. “Mr. Weston, would you care to have a cigar with us out on the porch? It’s a beautiful night for a smoke, if I do say so myself.”

“Thank you, Charles,” he replied, “but I think I will go inside and have a rest.”

Charles and I sat on the back porch. Our sweet cigar smoke drifted toward the upstairs window where father lay. Charles attempted to blow a smoke ring before speaking up. “If these cigars weren’t so good, I might just have to apologize for stealing them.”

“Maybe if you’d kept them all to yourself, but since you’re sharing them, I certainly don’t mind,” I assured him, “and your father certainly won’t notice.”

“I hope not. Heaven knows I’d be the first one to be blamed if he did.”

“Do you think there could be a reason for that?” I asked mischievously.

“Perhaps. I did have a brief spell as a child where things seemed to stick to my fingers,” Charles admitted. “Thankfully, it doesn’t happen nearly so often these days. It’s amazing how a good beating or two will cure you of a thing like that.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I was mostly sent to my room as punishment. I would have preferred a quick smack and then back off to my playing.”

“Yes, well, when my father got the switch out, there was no such thing as a swift smack. I could hear my brothers in the room next door listening as he laid into me, but I would refuse to cry. There were a number of times he whipped my backside until it bled, over minor offenses. He wouldn’t dare hit me now, though. If he ever tried, I’d hit him right back. No more, ‘drop your drawers and bend over, son!’”

I could just imagine young Charles grabbing his ankles, trying to hold back tears with every new strike. The image infuriated me. I wondered which was worse, the outright cruelty of a disappointed father or the slow pain of an emotionally absent father. We smoked those cigars down to their stubs, relishing every second. We were survivors, the two of us, and survivors learn early on to make the most of the good moments in life because they don’t come very often.

We did more than just survive the next couple of days. We slept in late and worked in the afternoon. Charles kept whittling away at Father, making small talk and trying to work his charm, but to no avail. We re-visited the woods and one evening did a long hike down to the big river to fish. We fished until the last rays of light disappeared behind the hills and walked home along the highway with two fish worthy of cooking for dinner.

All too quickly, it was Charles’ last day, and I thought how wary I was to share this part of my life with him just a week ago. Now, everything would seem empty without him. In his own nonchalant sort of way, Charles had made this place seem a little bit like home again. I even sensed this in Father. His eyes did not look quite as tired, and his shoulders seemed to droop a little less. It was like the first batch of medicine after a long sickness. We would need a lot more, but it made me think that maybe, just maybe, Father could get better.

At the train station, Charles gave me a large hug. “Let’s not have any tears and all that nonsense,” he teased. “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks back at Locklear. Next summer, you are going to come stay at my place.”

“That would be great,” I accepted eagerly and offered, “If your family drives you crazy, you are welcome back any time.”

“Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

Charles reached into his pocket for his ticket. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “I nearly forgot. This is for you. No questions. Open it when you get home.”

As his train disappeared, I knew the next few weeks would be long without him. I felt the small package and wondered what was inside.

Back at home, I ripped off the paper. Inside were two fresh cigars and a short note.

One of these is for you, and the other one is for your father. Make sure you smoke them together. If I find out you smoked them both by yourself, you greedy little bugger, you will regret it. See you in a few weeks.

Charles

I grinned. Charles was a good egg.

But soon, like air rushing out of a burst balloon, the joy of the past week disappeared with Charles, and my sense of Divine closeness left with him. Dr. Emory had invited me to come and join him for a couple of days the week before school, and I was quick to take him up on the offer. The two cigars still sat unsmoked in my room.

CHAPTER 26

Sophomores

IT WAS WITH GREAT RELIEF
that I found myself standing at the door to the Emory mansion. Dr. Emory was out back gardening. There he was, his face smeared with dirt, on his hands and knees pulling weeds with a vengeance. There was a green leaf clipping stuck in his mustache.

“Aha, you’ve arrived at last, Tom. I thought I’d have to weed the whole garden by myself. Come on now. Give me a hand.” He motioned me to come down to his level.

I rolled up my pants and sleeves and knelt down beside him. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener, Dr. Emory,” I confessed.

“That’s all right. Don’t tell my wife this, but neither am I,” he whispered. “I just putz around here enough to make her think I am. More than anything, I enjoy the peace and quiet.”

“I can understand that. At home, the same thing draws me out into the woods.”

“Yes, when I was your age I loved to hike, but now I’m resigned to gardening as my experience of the great outdoors. Old age is an ugly wretch that comes for us all. It spares no one.”

We spent a lot of time in the garden over the next few days. It was refreshing to be with Dr. Emory. He filled my need for deep conversation. I loved Charles, but he was not exactly a prodigious intellectual specimen. Dr. Emory, on the other hand, would often leave me scrambling to keep up with his thoughts as he plunged forward. I enjoyed the challenge and after a week realized just how much more I still had to learn from this man. He may have been getting old, but his mind was sharp as a butcher’s knife. Someday I hoped to be like him—minus the walrus mustache, that is. Some things I would never understand.

Charles and I learned we would be rooming together again in a different dorm. The largeness of the new room only accentuated the fact that I owned nearly nothing. Charles, of course, would roll in with more than enough stuff for the both of us, and before you knew it, his things would be spread out across every available surface. It was almost a religious conviction of his never to put things in their appropriate place.

I heard Charles long before I saw him, but that was not unusual. He was knocking on doors as he came down the hall, peeking his head into the neighboring rooms to see who was living where. It still struck me as odd that the two of us had been put together with our polar opposite backgrounds. Fate was indeed a strange and fickle thing. Charles waltzed in with parents closely behind carrying more things. I avoided his father but chipped in as best I could. By the time we were done, we had made three trips to the car. Charles looked at me guiltily and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “What can you do?” Amid the items, I noticed a new guitar and groaned.

“Charles, where did you get that thing?” I asked.

“You mean my new lady magnet?” He picked up the guitar and strummed a glaringly wrong chord. “This is going to be my new little hobby.”