Finding Tom Page 4

  “Calhoun, go take his things up to the guest room and bring us something to drink and some of those cookies that I fancy so much.”

  Calhoun grabbed my bags and huffed upstairs. As Calhoun disappeared, Dr. Emory motioned me to walk with him.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s go grab a seat in the sun room. Best place in the whole house to sit and chat, as far as I’m concerned. No need for you to be nervous. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s people who are nervous. Nervous people are no good for conversation.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “You better. I didn’t invite you to come out here so we could sit in silence. I get enough silence as it is already.”

  We sat down in the sun room in two wicker chairs facing each other. The room was bathed in sunlight streaming through large paneled windows. Outside I could see a well-tended garden with manicured hedges and large oak trees.

  Dr. Emory leaned back in his wicker chair and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be very straightforward if you don’t mind. I read your writings, Tom, and they are good. Your spelling and grammar are atrocious, but those sorts of things can be fixed with time. Your writings are very dark, inexplicably dark, in fact, for a man of your age. It’s as if you are probing the darkness, looking for answers that are still beyond your years. So I must ask you, why do you write in such a dismally dark manner?”

  I was surprised by his forwardness, but for some reason I sensed that I could trust him. This time I was the one to clear my throat. Dr. Emory leaned forward, as if slightly hard of hearing, preparing to receive my response. “I write about what I know, sir,” I replied. “While everyone around me seems content to drift through life in a hyper-religious coma, I cannot join them. I wish my life could be that simple. I wish I could live blindly, but I have seen too much pain for that. I must ask the questions burning inside of me. There is no one to share them with, so I write them down. Writing is my escape. I don’t write for fun. I write to survive.”

  He leaned back, and there was a moment of silence while he stroked his mustache before he spoke. “I am surprised, but I am thankful for your honesty. I too am a writer, you know. Well, you probably wouldn’t. I never made much of a name for myself … too many politics these days. It’s all about making money and all that sort of nonsense, but we can discuss that another time. I consider myself a seeker of beauty, so in some senses, we are at opposite extremes, but perhaps that will be good for us both. I would like to help you with your writing. There is no obligation, of course. If you choose never to write me, I will completely understand. I am just an old stranger to you, and writing is an intensely personal thing. It is a glimpse into the soul of the author, which is a very scary and revealing thing for all of us who choose to write … well, for those of us who choose to write honestly.” Dr. Emory got very animated at this point and again leaned forward in his chair. “There’s too much dishonest, frivolous writing these days, and people are voraciously consuming it. It’s all a pile of rubbish. We’ve lost the art of good writing. We’ve lost our voice.” I saw his eyes get fiery, and he gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white. He was indeed an intriguing character, sitting there looking like a miniature walrus.

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, “it would bring me great joy to have you send me your writings so I can give you some guidance. I will not press you any further. I also know that this coming year will find you finished with high school. I have my share of connections at the college and could possibly help you get a scholarship if you decide you would like to continue your education. Of course, there is no guarantee, just a possibility.”

  I sat there stunned. Looking at the creases on Dr. Emory’s face, I noticed his fingers twirling the ends of his mustache. His eyes were full of life, and his hands never stopped moving. I was not sure how old he was, but I could tell he was a young man in an old man’s body, and I was drawn to this feature of his character. Dr. Emory was not like the people at Greenwood. He was different. Was this what education could do to a man? I did not want to work at the store with my father. I did not want to live in that dump of a town for the rest of my life. I did not want to be reminded of my mother wherever I went. I did not want to get married and have kids. I wanted to leave, to run away and never come back. My father wouldn’t even notice I was gone. I wanted to learn and to see things. More than anything, I wanted to feel joy again. I wanted to wake up and experience beauty. I was tired of the darkness, tired of remembering and hurting and going through the motions.

  I spoke up. “Thank you, Dr. Emory. It would be an honor to share my work with you, as long as you can put up with my terrible handwriting and punctuation.” We both laughed. It was a strange sensation, as if my body had forgotten how to laugh. It had been far too long. But I was drawn back to the conversation at hand. “As for college, I must admit that I’ve never really given it much thought. My lack of application at school hasn’t put me in a good position to receive any scholarships, and my family can’t afford to send me. If somehow you could help me, I would be forever indebted to you.”

  “Well, I can’t promise any miracles,” Dr. Emory said, “but having worked at the school for about forty years does give me a little clout.”

  At that moment, Mr. Calhoun made his way into the room, all elbows and knees, with his shirt billowing about him, looking like a ship carrying a cargo of cookies and a small pitcher of sweet tea. I thought how unfitting it would have been for Dr. Emory to have an overly serious assistant, which made the two of them a perfect fit.

  Conversation drifted on as we laid into the platter of cookies. I deeply enjoyed the remainder of my stay, but the rest of the trip is of little significance in the grand scheme of things, so I will spare you the details. The next day I boarded the train and headed home to Greenwood with a vision.

  CHAPTER 6

  A Twinkle of Hope

  AT HOME, I WAS QUICKLY reminded of the grim state of affairs that defined my life. I was greeted by a silent home smelling faintly of stale air and rotting fruit. I stepped out onto the back porch and lit up a cigarette—at last. I stood there a long time, mulling over and replaying the events of the past two days in my head. Spurred on by hunger, I rummaged through the fridge for food. The milk was sour, and an old chicken carcass stared out at me from a platter. I cut off a few chunks of chicken, brushing aside congealed fat and once golden-brown, now slimy skin. Cold chicken and tap water made for a less than spectacular feast, but it was enough.

  Hours later, Father came in. He hung up his jacket like always and then walked down the long hall to the kitchen. I stared up at him as he walked in. He stared back, looking tired, before sitting down at the table. “Well, son, it looks like you made it back all right.”

  “Yes, I did. Everything went according to plan.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now be good and get me something to eat.” The words were said in a way that made it clear that our conversation was complete. I cut off a large hunk of chicken for him. He set it on a plate and disappeared into his study to drink the night away. I was alone again.

  I filled my time with writing and sent a good deal of it off to Dr. Emory to review. He, in turn, would send the writing back, over-written with his responses, corrections, and criticisms. One day as I looked through the mail, I found a letter from him.

  Dear Tom,

  I know that in our previous meeting we discussed briefly the idea of you attending university here in Locklear. I wanted to remind you to apply, and when you do, be sure to list me as your primary reference. I believe with a little convincing we can get you in, but I would encourage you to put some effort into your final semester at school. And, for all that is sacred, do spend some time on improving your grammar and punctuation. I have known first grade students with better penmanship and spelling than you have, dear boy. Please let me know once you have sent in your application so I will know when I can be expecting to hear from the university on your behalf.

  Sincerely,<
br />
  Dr. James Emory

  As he requested, I mailed away my application and waited impatiently to see if Dr. Emory would be able to work his magic. It was a number of weeks before I heard back from the university on official letterhead.

  Dear Mr. Weston:

  Thank you for your application to Locklear University. Based on the merits of your previous academic achievements, we do not see fit to accept you into our institution, but based on the merits of Dr. Emory’s adamant lobbying on your behalf, we are willing to make a special concession in your case. You will be admitted to university on academic probation, and your ability to continue on at Locklear will be based completely on your academic achievement in your first semester. We are requiring you to maintain a B average in all of your classes. Below you will find a list of important dates and information that you will find helpful as you prepare for university.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Groves

  Dean of Students

  I held the paper in my hand, spellbound. I could hardly believe what I’d just read. Somehow, Dr. Emory had pulled it off. I was going to be going to Locklear University, the most prestigious university in the region! I immediately ran to the telephone to call Dr. Emory.

  “Dr. Emory, please,” I almost yelled with excitement.

  “Just a second,” a voice replied.

  “Dr. Emory here. Who is this?”

  “Dr. Emory, it’s Tom. I’ve been accepted! You must have pulled quite a few strings. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Ha-ha! Yes, my boy, I certainly did. It helps that the dean and I were schoolboys together. While we rarely see eye to eye on anything, I persuaded him to see things my way on this one. Now please don’t waste my efforts.”

  “You know I won’t, sir,” I promised. “I will be the most studious pupil ever to walk through the great arch at Locklear Universi—”

  He cut me off. “Now, now, Tom, don’t go saying things we both know to be untrue. Anyway, there are far too many priggish and overly devoted automatons who walk through that arch every semester and do nothing but study and yet know nothing of the real world and its workings. You need not be one of them. Just work hard and do what needs to be done. You will want to begin considering your major. It will be helpful for you as you start to prepare your class schedule.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will most assuredly be a diligent student,” I guaranteed him. “I must be honest with you now, though, that I have no clue what I should pursue for a major.”

  “Well, if that is the case, then you and I have much to discuss,” he informed me. “I have found that much of the merit of an education is in the teacher more so than in the subject being taught. Since I am well acquainted with the entire staff, I would recommend that you steer away from journalism and take literary criticism. You will have plenty of opportunity to write for your courses, and you already have the makings of a good writer. You need to expand your knowledge of other writers and glean wisdom from their works. Then and only then will you be able to hone your skills. But we can discuss these things more in depth when you arrive in the fall.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied gratefully. “I am looking forward to that. Thank you again for your help.”

  “You are very welcome. Make nothing of it. Just help disprove Dr. Grove’s original opinion that there is no way someone with your anemic academic record can ever survive at Locklear. I look forward to seeing him eat his words. Oh yes, that will be a brilliant moment. The two of us have a long, cantankerous history, as I mentioned before, and much of it is because we are both stubborn as mules and as opposite as can be. My less-than-traditional views and ideas have always placed me somewhat on the fringes, while he has achieved success at every step of our journey together. But again, that is a story for another day. I believe I hear Mr. Calhoun coming with afternoon tea, so I must be going. Take care, Tom.”

  With that, the conversation was over, and I was left to ponder the curious relationship between Dr. Emory and the dean of students. I wondered if I might be a pawn stepping into a long-standing game of chess. But this was not an opportunity I could pass up. Father got home, and I told him the good news. He looked at me and tried to smile but only managed to make his mouth into a straight line rather than a drooping frown.

  “I guess that means you won’t be staying to help me in the shop,” he said.

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “This is something I have to do. I just can’t stay here. This house holds too many memories.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “There are plenty of those, but we can’t all up and leave, now can we?”

  I thought that was going to be the end of the conversation, as he seemed to strangely retreat into himself, back into a world of memories before mother died. I prepared for him to turn around and walk back to his whiskey. But he looked directly at me, and for a tiny second the sadness disappeared from his eyes, and there was once again that powerful penetrating gaze.

  “Your mother would be proud of you, Tom. Do well for her sake.” That was it. For one instant my father stuck his head out from all his misery and pain and remembered that I was his son, and then he fled back to his inner cave.

  He was right. Mother would have been proud, but I wasn’t going to do this for her. I was going to do this for me. Unlike my father’s world, my world was moving on from the moment of her death. I couldn’t live in the past. Yes, I still felt the sting of her absence, but it no longer controlled me. I was slowly rising out of the mire. But as I rose up, I realized just how deeply entrapped my father was. And I did not know how to pull him out. So I left him to wallow.

  For fear that you think you are missing any significant details of my life, please know that nothing of importance took place from that day all the way through the summer when I worked at the general store, except for the fact that I tried to wean myself off of smoking—with mild success—and I ate enough black licorice that I temporarily feared that my teeth would be stained black. The summer could not have gone by any more slowly. The long, humid days under the slow-spinning fan of the store dragged on at an unbearably cruel pace.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Strange New World

  AT LAST, THE DAY ARRIVED for me to depart. Throwing all of my worldly belongings into two worn leather suitcases, I was ready to go. My father had refused to take the day off to see me go, so I swung by the store to say goodbye. We both stood awkwardly before I went to give him a hug. He stuck out his hand instead. His cold, crushing grip swallowed my hand. “Be safe now, and don’t get into trouble.” I looked at him and saw a man drowning in whiskey and sorrows. Paralyzed by his pain and inability to address his emotions, he stood there stiff and tall. There were no exchanges of “I love you” or any pleasant farewells—just silence and a crushing grip. A customer came into the store, and we dropped hands. I picked up my bags and walked out the door. There was no looking back.

  When I arrived at Locklear, I followed the swarms of students and parents, brothers and sisters, and nephews and nieces all moving toward the campus. The world was a giant hullabaloo of conversations and cars honking and people slowly trudging along sidewalks with overstuffed suitcases and all sorts of odds and ends. Coming to college was a true family affair, but there, in the middle of the chaos, I walked alone with my bags in hand.

  As I came around a corner, Locklear University rose before me, situated elegantly on a hill overlooking the quaint town. A large stone arch stood at the entrance to the lower grounds, while cobblestone walkways wound their way up the hill, converging at an enormous chapel. Oh, that chapel, that breathtaking bastion of gray hewn stone rising into the sky, seemed to rest just beneath the clouds. Its drab walls were covered in stained glass that appeared to light up as if on fire when struck by the sun. The rest of the crowd shoved past me as I stared in awe like a gawking tourist. Climbing the steps up the hill, I passed between more gray buildings covered in the most elegant fashion by strings of green ivy. Ancient oak trees towered above, covering
the campus in cool shade. This was a place of history and society.

  Hopelessly unprepared and unsure of myself, I followed the people wandering around looking for the right building, wherever that might be. Snobbish-looking students with badges seemed to be directing the flow of newcomers. At last, I was given a packet of information and pointed in the direction of the freshman dormitory, where I checked in at the front door. An old, rather miserable-looking fellow was handing out room assignments. He seemed to size me up, looking at my pathetic clothing and then shaking his head as if in dismay over the fact that anybody could get into Locklear these days. “Room 221,” he barked, and I plowed ahead before he could say anything else.

  Before me stood a large, open room with two sets of stone steps curving upwards. The floor was covered with a thick carpet, and a gaudy chandelier hung from the ceiling. Along the walls sat heavy upholstered furniture with carved ebony feet. The grotesque extravagance made me feel uncomfortable as I climbed up to my room. I entered a long corridor with doors spaced evenly on both sides, each with a shiny brass number. Navigating my way through the people and their piles of luggage, I arrived at a room marked by a bright, burnished number 221.

  I barged through the door and immediately saw that I was the latecomer. One side of the room was already decorated very handsomely. A writing desk was fully furnished with pens, paper, and even a typewriter, while the bed was made up without a wrinkle or crease to be seen. Suit coats and jackets were hung with precision alongside pressed pants. My side looked shabby and bare by comparison. The room was rather small, despite the extravagant makings of the building itself. I placed my suitcases on my mattress and flipped open the lid. I stared at the few paltry items lying listlessly inside. One set of worn sheets, no pillow, two sets of slacks, one pair of jeans, a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts, holey socks, one brown and one black pair of shoes, and a pile of yellow pencils rubber banded together. The other suitcase carried in it a random assortment of secondhand books and a few paper notebooks of my writings. The books fit neatly above my bed, and I tried to spread out the pencils to take up space.