Finding Tom (22 page)
We herded the few remaining stragglers out the door and flipped off the lights. Charles, Dr. Emory, and I stood outside, staring up into clear night sky. There were a million things that could be said, but instead we soaked in the silence for a few precious moments. There had been so many words spoken already. All that was needed now was the presence of friends. Dr. Emory squeezed my shoulder and said softly, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid to say I’m not as young as I used to be, and it’s long past my bedtime. I will not soon forget this evening. And on that note, I bid you good night.”
Back in the room and nestled in bed, I was unable to sleep. There was something unsettling in the back of my mind that I could not quite pinpoint. Tired of gazing at the blank ceiling, I tossed off the tousled sheet and went for a walk. I paced along the lake, watching the waves dance underneath the bright moonlight. The air was filled with a cascading cricket chorus punctuated now and then by a hooting owl or a churning car. On my second lap around the lake, I found the source of my discomfort.
Somewhere in the telling and the hearing of stories, I realized there was a large part of my story waiting for resolution. A critical character continued to wait in the wings, drifting in the dark corners of my existence. It was my father. Of all the things in life I desired, there was none I longed for more than reconciliation with him. The role of the prophet was not just to show the people that things were broken. Most of them knew that already. The prophet came to show them the way out. He came to provide hope. I knew in my heart of hearts there was only one path to healing, and it was leading me home.
In my memories, my father stood tall, dark, and handsome. His hands were strong and coarse like sandpaper. I remembered the smooth contours of his face when he held me as a toddler. But as I turned the pages of my memories, those hands became cracked, and rough stubble appeared on his cheeks. I watched the sad transformation as my father was slowly whittled away before my very eyes, leaving behind a disheveled heap of flesh and bloodshot eyes. I had tried to escape this scary figure. I had hoped to leave him locked away in his small town. But our fates were intertwined. I understood that now. No amount of learning would allow me to forget him. He was a part of me: whiskey, whiskers, withered hands, and all.
CHAPTER 31
Home
I LEFT JULIA A NOTE
telling her we would have to reschedule our dance, but I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I just packed up and left. Some things you can’t explain; you just have to do them. I caught the early morning train and soon found myself standing outside the front door of my house. Father was at work already, and the house was unlocked as always. I stared at the old building with its sagging rafters and peeling paint. Weeds were growing up through the cracks in the front walk, and the fence was missing planks left and right like an old hockey player with missing teeth. The house was but a shell of its former glory. Like so many other things, it had been let go for far too long. While I stood there staring at the front windows, an idea suddenly struck me.
I ran into the garage and began rummaging through dusty boxes all neatly marked with permanent marker describing their contents. I knew the items I sought were in here somewhere. I found them hidden away, tucked under an old folding table, unused ever since Mother’s death. Grabbing two large boxes, I stumbled outside excitedly. It was time. I carted an old ladder around from the back of the house. I only had a couple of hours before Dad came home. It would be nice to have Charles here to help, but I needed to do this on my own. I opened the first box and fished inside to pull out a long string of Christmas lights. I swore I heard my mother’s voice calling to me from inside the house, telling me to wait for her before I started. I’d waited too long already. I blew her a kiss and climbed up the ladder.
After a few hours, I stood back, tired and sweaty, and turned on the lights in the fading afternoon sun. The house lit up, and for a moment, I forgot about the slumping eaves and missing shingles. I saw Mother standing in the front yard with her hands clasped in sheer joy at the sight. Father stood with a little grin at the sight of Mother’s reaction, and I was there in the middle, soaking it all in.
I stood there for a long time as the sun slowly sank beneath the forested hills and the first stars began to appear. I watched and waited for Father. At last, I saw his figure deliberately trudging home, his feet beating their usual path. Then I saw him look up and notice our house glowing. Suddenly, he began to run with hurried, labored strides as he pushed toward me. I stood waiting for him. Before I could say anything, he whispered cautiously into the night as he stared past me, “She always loved putting up the Christmas lights. It was her favorite day of the year.”
I stepped beside him and whispered gently, “I know. The lights are for her.”
Large, heavy tears like raindrops from a spring monsoon slowly began to roll down Father’s cheeks. His shoulders began to shake like an earthquake, and he collapsed to his knees—the great oak falling to the earth after years of standing strong.
I sank beside him, sitting silently at first, and then I too began to sob. There, on a clear October night under the glow of the red and green Christmas lights, we held each other and grieved. When there were no more tears to cry and our eyes were red and our shirtsleeves were wet from wiping, we rose to our feet and stood side by side.
I spoke gently. “So, do you want to have a smoke?”
I saw him smile ever so slightly. “Sure. I guess I owe you one.”
“Good. I have two cigars I’ve been saving for the occasion.”
I spent three days at home with Father. I wish I could say from that moment forward things were perfect, but years of old habits die hard. Like two boxers, we began to feel each other out. We had lived under the same roof for so long, but we were strangers. We both had deep wounds, and they would take time to heal. But we needed to heal together.
That following spring, Father and I stood outside of the house again. I had convinced him to sell the old place and, with a little help from Dr. Emory, move up to Locklear and start a small store. The Christmas lights were still on the house, a final farewell to the woman we both loved.
Before we left, I made one last trek to the woods. Eventually, I found my way to the ancient oak. Leaning against its trunk, I listened to the bubbling of the brook. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun’s rays filter through the leaves and dance across my face. Sitting there bathed in light, I felt peace. In the middle of a chorus of crickets and chirping birds, I looked back on my story and, for the first time, I noticed God’s fingerprints. From the very beginning, He’d been at work, and like a blind man now given sight, I could see. He helped me get out of Greenwood, brought me Charles and Dr. Emory to be my family when I was most alone, and even more miraculously, he’d given me my father back. God was indeed a great mystery, and his ways were far beyond me, but I knew somehow that he was not aloof and silent as I’d long thought. There in the shadow of the ancient oak, I felt the tiny seed of faith, long dormant, begin to grow once again.
P. S. I finally got my dance.
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