I’m afraid to go in but I’m more afraid not to.
The church is a small
chapel, the kind you’d find in a small town like Belmont, North Carolina. I try
to pull the wooden door open but it’s heavy, maybe that’s a sign. Yep. Not
going in. I turn around and head for my car. People are staring, but I don’t
care. They don’t know me. Last time I was here it was a month ago and it wasn’t
a Sunday and I’m pretty sure none of them were there.
The stone path leads
through some trees and shrubbery and into the parking lot. I lean against my
old Honda and rummage through my purse, trying to find my keys. Where are they?
“Can I help you, Miss?”
I don’t look up. “No
thank you,” I say. “I’m fine.”
My purse falls out of my
hands and onto the ground. My life scatters across the parking lot. Bending
down, I notice an older gentleman with white silk hair out of the corner of my
eye.
He walks over and hands
me my car keys. “Is everything okay?”
Our eyes meet and I say
nothing.
Once I’m home, I kick my
shoes off and walk into the kitchen. The house is still, quiet. I should be
used to it, but I’m not. I stare at the large stack of mail that I’ve shoved
into the corner of the bar, knowing responsibility calls, but I’d rather close
my eyes and pretend it’s not there. Bills, bills, and more bills. Scanning each
envelope before I see one that’s addressed to my mother. I’m not sure I can
open it. My hands tremble as I slide my finger underneath the seal and start to
read:
Dear Ellen,
How does one start
a letter like this one?
It has taken me
sixty-five years to write this. I have started this letter many times but could
never finish it. How could I? Because of me, you have suffered.
There are some
things I remember and some I’ve tried to forget. When one lies for so long as I
have, it starts to feel like the truth. But I know better.
I’m not the man I
want to be. Nor have I been for some time. The darkness festers within me and
eats at my soul. I want to be a better man, like the man I once was before the
accident.
Even now, it is
hard to speak the truth, but I cannot go on with this burden anymore. It has
weighed me down, sinking me into waters, deep waters. And though I was not
prosecuted by the law of government, I was prosecuted by the laws of life.
Soon after the
accident, I started drinking. One drink leads into another, then another. I was
hopelessly seeking refuge, but it never came in a bottle. My preacher told me that
refuge only comes when one faces the truth, and until now I could never do
that. I was too weak. I’m old and have not much more time on this earth. I need
peace.
I will be at
Riverside Park a month from now on May 4, 2000. Please let me confess what I
have done.
Sincerely,
Joe
Sitting
at my computer, the lamp light flickers on and off. I know you are here, Daddy.
I can feel you beside me. I have so much to say to you, though I cannot. It
hurts too much, and the memories now have faded with time. How can I bring them
back to life again? I thought I had closed this chapter in my life but now it
has reared its head and opened a wound that had never really healed.
Joe,
The woman you have
written to is no longer with us. My mother passed away one month ago to this
day.
Peace is what you
want, but I cannot offer such a thing. You see because of your actions my
family had to learn to go on without a husband, a father. Because of you, I had
to move in with my grandmother who was a wretched woman. I had to make a new
life for myself, one that was stripped of love. My mother was never the same
after the accident. Her warm hugs turned into icy stares that looked past me.
That day, I not only lost a father but a mother too.
I’ve tried to
forget that day. The memories come to me in flashes as I was only four years
old. I remember the heat that morning. The sun had torn its way through the clouds
and had climbed above my head. I was sitting in the driveway, playing dolls,
when a police officer pulled up in front of my house. They tried to make small
talk with me, but I remember running inside, looking for my mommy. When the
officer entered my house, he took off his hat and held it to his heart, and
said, “sorry ma’am.” My mamma dropped to her knees, screaming. I didn’t
understand why at the time, but I started crying too. I tried to hug my mamma,
but she pushed me away. It was something she would do from that day on.
My dad loved
trains. He used to bring out his toy train every Christmas and put it around
the Christmas tree. He would tell us stories about the trains that used to pass
his house when he was a little boy. He walked that way to work every morning,
so that he could see the train. He knew the schedule by heart which is why I
don’t understand how it could have happened. I knew two lanes of the track went
into one lane over the river and they said that’s where he was, but that couldn’t
be true, he would never have walked that way until he knew the train had
passed.
Meeting you is out
of the question. I cannot face the man who killed my father. I’m not sure what
good answers will do at this point anyway.
Tallulah
Dear Tallulah,
I understand why
you wouldn’t want to see my face. But please if not face-to-face, let me
explain. I wish I never would have had to make that choice that rainy November
night in 1957. It was never really a choice at all. Death was inevitable.
I was a young
Father with three little girls. Mary had just been born right before the
accident. We had many sleepless nights back then. This I remember was one of
them. I had slept on the floor, next to her crib, pacifying her with my words
as father’s often do. The hours of the night slid by me. When I awoke, I was
late for my shift.
I remember my wife
kissing me goodbye and I didn’t want to leave her as she also was tired and
needed my help. My eyelids were heavy, but I could not miss another night of
work. The road foreman had already given me one too many chances.
The route was as
familiar to me as the back of my hand. I knew every stop, every crossing, and
landmark.
It was a cold
rain, one that felt like winter was coming soon. The passengers had already boarded
the train and my crew had put the run switch in the start position. I could hear
the engine turning over and smelled the exhaust.
Fifty miles in, the
headlamp was glowing, bugs were flying in the fog, rain spit from the sides. In
the distance, I saw movement on the track, a man with a hat, but the train was
going too fast, I was trying to make up time. I blew the horn, I did. But the
man looked as though he had frozen and couldn’t move. I wanted to stop the
train, but I knew it would wreck, and possibly all who were on it would die.
That night, I went
numb.
The police
questioned me, and I knew what I was saying but couldn’t believe I was saying
it. I should have told the officer that I was speeding, trying to make up time
because I was one hour late to work, and when he asked me several times if I
saw him, I should have told him yes, I saw him. That night and many other nights
before, standing on Eagle Street waving his hat in the air, smiling like a
young schoolboy.
The officer handed
me a blue and white striped hat, one that a conductor like myself would wear. I
should have given it back. But instead, I stood there, speechless, taking the
hat and putting it on my head as though it belonged to me, but it did not. It
felt as though my soul had left my body.
Words matter, this
I know and knew then, but at the time I didn’t know what to say. I could have
told the truth, should have, but I thought about my three little girls and my
loving wife, and words left me.
Sincerely,
Joe
I
stare at the letter for hours.
Sunday
morning, I put on my coat and try again. I feel drawn to going back. This time
more than ever. Trying not to be seen, I sit on the back row and keep my head
lowered as I read the church bulletin in my hands and listen to the sermon
which today is about choices and the freedom to make them.
I
hear crying. I try not to look up, because all I want to do is cry too.
After
the sermon is over, crowds of people head into the aisle, pushing and shoving. I
glance over and notice the same older gentleman from the other day stumbling
and looking side to side. I grab his arm and help him out of the church.
“I’m
sorry,” he says. “I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Me
neither,” I say. “Maybe we could walk together.” We start walking toward the
parking lot. “I’m Tallulah, and you are?”
He
turns toward me. His eyes are full of tears. “I have something that belongs to
you.”
I
do not understand but I follow him to be polite.
He
reaches into the backseat of his car and hands me my father’s hat. “I cannot ask
for your forgiveness because I feel I do not deserve it. I’m sorry. I should
have said that a long time ago. I know those words are not enough. Nothing will
be enough. I’ve earned this pain and will carry it with me for the rest of my
life.”
I
can’t speak, I just nod. I have pretended that I am a soldier going into
battle. But I am no soldier and the only battle I am in—I’ve already lost.
Brought
together by such tragedy. There is only one way to overcome.
I
smile at him, this man who killed my father. I should be broken as I have spent
my years for way too long but instead, I am somehow saved. Because of him, his
letters, his honesty, I know what matters, and it is not what I have lost, it
is what I have found, peace. “I forgive you.”