Finding Tom (21 page)

It took everything in me not to shout out loud. Julia Stine kissed me. I could still feel the warmth of her lips against my cheek. I sprinted back to the men’s dorm, basket in tow, praying that Charles would be in the room.

I skidded into the room, breathless. Charles took one look at me and jumped up from his chair. “What are you doing with my picnic basket and beach towel on a Friday night?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Nothing! Don’t you dare try and keep this from me. You went on a date with Julia Stine! I know it! What happened?”

“This happened.” I pointed to my cheek where there was a small lipstick imprint.

“Miracles do happen.” He came over and touched the lipstick like Thomas sticking his hand in Jesus’ side to be sure he was real. “The sweetest lips known to man rested here. Oh, what that must have been like.”

“Okay, Charles, that’s enough. You’re starting to creep me out a little bit. It’s just a little lipstick.”

“Just a little lipstick! That lipstick was on the lips of Julia Stine. You have accomplished what no man before you has ever done. You must have been quite the charmer.”

“Not really. I just sort of listened.”

“Hmm, is that what women want? Perhaps I should try it sometime.”

I grinned. “I’m guessing that the candles, the sunset over the lake, the picnic basket, and the star-gazing didn’t hurt.”

“Okay, Okay, that’s enough, Romeo. I don’t want to hear about it. It looks like I owe you a story.”

“I expect to have it on my desk tomorrow afternoon.”

“Not a chance. This is not an assignment for Remus.”

I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. I wrote until my eyes finally began to sting and I could feel fatigue creeping into my shoulders. I lay down and stared up at the ceiling. The lipstick was still on my cheek.

It took Charles a week to write his story. He was right when he said it wouldn’t be poetic. That wasn’t his style. His style was awkward and halting. It was painful to read, not because of the wording, but because of the pain that crept out. Ideas and stories long buried were finally being dragged into the light. I put it down and stared at Charles. “This is good. People need to read this.”

“Hey, that’s what I said about yours.”

“I know, and the same goes for you,” I said. “I’m your best friend, and I didn’t know half this stuff.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the sort of stuff you go shouting on the street corner.”

“Actually, that is precisely what we are going to do. Patrick is in charge of the paper, and he already agreed to print copies. We are going to put them all around school and then invite people to add their own stories and give them to us to collect.”

“You are out of your mind,” said Charles. “There’s no way people are going to give us their stories.”

“Oh ye of little faith. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

CHAPTER 29

Story Time

OUR STORIES WENT OUT LATER
that week anonymously and caused quite a scandal. People just didn’t do this sort of thing at Locklear. On the bottom of each story was a brief note to the reader:

We invite you to join us by sharing your story. There is power in the telling. Please drop off a copy in box 325, and we will see that it gets shared.

The following week, Patrick ran an article about our endeavor in the school newspaper to garner more interest.

I waited a couple of days before going to check the mailbox. I didn’t know exactly what to expect as I turned the combination lock. When I got it open, the box was filled with letters! I could hardly believe it. I stuffed them in my bag and ran back to the room, looking for Charles.

We sat down on the floor and began to open the letters! Some were written in perfect penmanship, while others were barely legible scribbling. I was overwhelmed by the responses. Some sent thank you letters for our bravery. Others shared their own stories. Some wrote to commiserate with the stories we’d shared. Through them all, there was a beautiful chord of humanity that seemed to bind us all together. We were all wounded people struggling to make sense of our place in life. We were struggling to be adults and live up to expectations. We were struggling to deal with absent and abusive fathers and mothers. We were all fighting to find our voices in the midst of the chaos, and somehow Charles and I had provided a place of safety and refuge for those discussions to surface. It was remarkable. The power of the prophet is found not only in his ability to speak but also in his ability to hear and to listen.

I looked at the letters in my hand and thought about all the secrets finally being told. I thought about the healing taking place. I looked through bleary eyes and saw Charles with tears running down his face. I had never seen him cry. Crying was a sign of weakness and defeat. This was the boy who refused to cry while his father whipped him mercilessly. I watched as he wept over the words of his comrades. At last, when we had read all the letters and wiped away our tears, we stared at each other, not knowing what to say.

Finally, Charles spoke up. “What do we do next, Tom?”

“I’m not sure, really. I have to be honest. I didn’t expect such a big response, but people need to hear these stories. I’m sure Dr. Emory will have some ideas.”

“You won’t tell anyone about what just happened, right?” Charles pleaded.

“You mean how you cried like a little girl?”

“I most certainly did not. I shed a few tears on behalf of those who are hurting. You can’t fault a gentleman for that.”

“Of course not. I spilled a few tears myself, so we’ll call it even.”

“Sounds good.”

I slipped Julia a note in class. “Looks like you still owe me a dance. How about Saturday night in the library at 8?”

That afternoon, Dr. Emory was out back on the porch as was his custom this time of year. A few leaves here and there were just beginning to turn color, but we were still waiting for our first onset of cold to sweep through.

Sitting by his side, I handed him a few of the letters and explained the whole project. For a long while, he stroked his mustache, said nothing, and just read.

At last he spoke. “Tom, I cannot tell you how proud I am right now. You have stumbled onto something wonderful, and from the sound of it, you are really just at the beginning. I recommend you create an anthology of all the responses and then publish them. You could also prepare an evening where people can share one another’s stories. There is power in the spoken word.”

I loved the idea of a communal reading. “Dr. Emory, would you host the event? I want you to be a part of it.”

“I would be honored to, Tom.”

CHAPTER 30

Finding My Voice

JULIA SLIPPED ME A NOTE
later that week. “Saturday sounds good. Bring your dancing shoes.” I read the letter and couldn’t contain my smile, so I put my head in my hands. It looked like the first date wasn’t just a pity date.

I worked closely with Dr. Emory to figure out all the details of the event. We secured the recital hall, which had a small stage for performers and a seating arrangement made for a cozy intimate environment. In spite of all the posters we’d hung and the mailings put into student boxes, I was worried the event was going to be a flop. I really wanted to hear the different voices of the community, but it was a lot to ask people to stand up in front of their peers and share their stories. I was asking people to be vulnerable. Thankfully, Charles was a shameless advertiser and took every opportunity to tell people about the event, encouraging them to come. There was no question that people knew about the event; the question was whether or not they would show up.

Soon, the big night arrived. All that day I had felt sick to my stomach, nervous that showing up would be just Charles, Dr. Emory, and myself—the three stooges. I was sure the event would be a failure. The event was scheduled to begin at 7:30 p.m. We opened the doors at 7:00 p.m., and nobody was around. I stared at the empty courtyard. All of this effort was wasted. Nobody was going to come.

At 7:25 p.m., I was sitting in the front row with my head in my hands. The lonely microphone dangled above me like a hangman’s noose. Charles and Dr. Emory were standing in the back, waiting to welcome the masses.

I looked up as the clock struck 7:30, and just as it did, the first people walked in. Slowly, ever so slowly, they began to trickle in, a tiny stream struggling forward into the unknown. I watched spellbound as they dribbled in, filling up the chairs. Near the end, I saw Julia slip in. She gave me a quick wave and took a seat with a couple of her friends. By the time Dr. Emory took the stage, we had quite a crowd. He stood behind the mic, calm and quirky.

“Good evening, students. As longtime chair of the English department and a lover of storytelling, it is a joy for me to be here hosting this event. I welcome you not only to listen but also to take part. I hope that some of you have brought your own stories to share. For those feeling bold, some of your fellow students have written anonymous pieces, which we would love to have read, and we invite you to speak on their behalf. Tonight is about you. Tonight is about growing up and finding your voice. Tonight is about being human and all that entails. Without further ado, I would like to welcome to the stage a very good friend of mine: Tom Weston.”

There was a polite round of applause as I climbed the stairs to the stage. I felt my legs shaking. After all, I was not a speaker; I was a writer. There were so many things that I lacked, but all of those inadequacies had led me to this very moment. Together they had dragged me to this stage to stand in front of my peers, ready to wet myself with nerves. All of these things were true, but I pushed them aside. Courage is not the absence of fear but the ability to proceed in spite of it. I cleared my throat of amphibians and glanced at my script.

“Hi. My name is Tom, and this is my story.” I took a deep breath, pushing back the frogs and continued. “I was born in a small town and spent my days playing outside in the great outdoors. When I was thirteen, my mother died …” I lost myself in the rhythm of the words and the cadence of the story. I began to weave with words, spinning a tapestry of captured moments and feelings and senses. I left my body standing there on stage and drifted to days gone by. I re-visited the winding woods and stared at myself weeping over my mother’s cold corpse. Everything passed before my eyes as if I were in a trance. I invited the crowd to peer into the window of my soul and experience my life. It was not a story of triumph or intrigue. It was not meant to win the pity or the wonder of the crowd. It was merely simple and humble. It was human. Finally, I returned to the stage through snapshots of laughter and tears and boredom, and again felt my fingers and toes, remembering that I existed in the present. I took a deep breath, then spoke softly into the mic. “My name is Tom, and this is my story.”

My last words drifted up toward the ceiling, leaving in their wake a deep silence. Visions and spirits breathed to life and summoned through story now floated in the air. We watched them whirl among us until, at last, they too drifted up into the night sky, leaving behind a rough somberness. Silently, I folded my paper and stepped down. Three long minutes slipped by, and the stage remained barren. The empty mic hung there, alone, bathed in a pool of dim light.

Then, a slender girl took the stage and stood up, tall and awkward. She pulled from her pocket a well-worn piece of paper. She looked out at us and smiled with thin lips and wavy black hair. “My name is Laura, and this is my story …”

After Laura, there were no more pauses. There was an opening and an awakening as, one after the other, people rose to share. Some had scripts, while others spoke off the cuff. Some told their own stories, inviting us to gaze into their windows, while others gently read the anonymous tales of our classmates. Each story was a distinct kind of gift. Each story was uniquely beautiful. Many were heartbreaking. We mourned with those who mourned, and we rejoiced with those who rejoiced. There was a time for everything under the sun. By the end of the night, the air was filled with visions dancing like the northern lights. They melded together, blending and swirling about. We breathed them in until they got into our blood and coursed through our veins. We gorged ourselves on story, hungry for more.

When the air seemed as if it would explode from the fullness of our tales, Dr. Emory arose from his seat. The wise sage with the walrus mustache stood before us. “All good things must come to an end, and so our evening has disappeared in the blink of an eye. But I hope that the stories shared here in this sacred space will long remain burned into our memories. I am an old man, and my story is in its final chapters, but I look out at all of you and know that most of yours are just beginning. You have so many more stories to make and so much more life left to live. As you go out from here tonight, remember that in the midst of all its peaks and valleys, life is a precious gift. Don’t waste that gift. May God bless you all. Good night.”

I watched the people flow out just like they flowed in. Julia squeezed my hand as she flitted away. Small groups of friends disappeared into the night, but I knew they were not the same people who had walked through the doors just hours earlier. We were all different. I could see it in people’s faces when they looked at each other and in the hugs between old friends. For just a night, we had peeled back the layers of lies to find the beautiful, disgruntled humanity underneath. We stared at each other naked and raw, and we loved each other—scars and all. It was truly an amazing thing.

I felt like I was walking away from my first real church service. There in a hall with a group of strangers and an old mentor to lead us, we had worshipped. There in the most unlikely of places, God showed up—not through stuffy rituals or the off-key singing of a sweaty, red-robed choir; not through the browbeating or mechanical mumbling of an ordained minister; not with our fancy clothes and freshly polished shoes, but in our brokenness and in our pain. In our questions and in our wanderings, God descended upon us, reminding us that we were not alone, and that life was worth the living. It was nothing short of a miracle.