I think his name was Nolan, but I'm not sure. It was decades ago when such things were plainly ignored. But what from the mind fades, in the heart stays. No matter who you are. Some old scabby wound that we can't remember is there rips open and we feel the warmth of our own blood caught in our human throats, choking us to purple. We should be able to control these emotions, but they hit us with full force and drain us of all energy until we're pushed under. And then just like that, it's over.
Just imagine going through this everyday. Standing in the middle of the rushing, free flowing Niagara Falls and just being too overwhelmed to do anything. I think that was what it was like for Nolan everyday. Not only was he voiceless and overpowered, even if he did have the strength, who would help him? Like I said, in those days, things were overlooked. The man of the family controlled everything, and well, if there was no man there were disapproving whispers. Whispers helped nobody.
Nolan's mother was a cruel character and you could tell it even by the way she moved and talked. The swift, choppy actions and speech of a murder suspect; like she had something to hide. The children of the town saw her as The Wicked Witch like in the stories told by their mothers. I probably wasn't the only little girl warned by my mother to stay away from Angelina Simmons. Some even said that her eyes acted as a form of hypnosis or some type of dark magic. One look into murky lake green and you were hers.
However, despite the many warnings and rumors many people, especially older men, were drawn to the shallow widow Simmons. It was probably the deceiving beauty that enticed them. The silky hazelnut colored hair cascading and extending forever down her back and slim, womanly figure along with a pair of perfect breasts. The reputation of a public sexual life and notorious drinking and gambling gave every man exactly what he wanted. Angelina Simmons was the perfect sexual object. No matter how jealous the other women in town were.
Nolan, if I remember correctly, was about a year younger than me. As I was twelve he was eleven though he may have been 8 or 9 the way he looked. Frail, bony arms with a sunken almost hollow looking face and the saddest black eyes I'd ever seen. His trousers were much too short on him and his shirt, if he wore one, was filthy and laden with holes. Although these were the times just shortly after the war, he looked like he could have just come out of some cruel working camp.
At school, he was like a less fortunate Lucky Luke with his apparently calm persona, but underneath thoughts bubbled. He was just too afraid to voice them. I never spoke to him much. When he was there, he was almost nearly silent. A lone, traveling cowboy who never knew nor expected what life would bring him. I hope that wherever he is now, Nolan Simmons has found the place he wants to be and isn't alone anymore.
Sometimes after he returned from days of being God knows where, he had new, fresh cuts searing across the pale white flesh of his back, face and arms. At first, Ms. Hanlon would ask where they came from but after continued replies of “I fell off my bicycle Miss,” when we all clearly knew the real reason, she gave up.
The older boys would add Nolan's permanent scars of yellow, blue and red often by harassing him during recess when he sat alone. They only did that to fill their boredom or to impress some girls. I hated it. I wanted to defend Nolan, I wanted to go talk to him, I really did but all I kept thinking was “Will this be accepted by my friends and family?” I knew the answer was an immediate no so I just continued on in my simple, childish, frolicking. Then one time they broke his nose and after they were through, Nolan Simmons was unrecognizable.
I think that was around the time Nolan stopped attending school. I can't help but feel that if I had done something, if I had interfered I wouldn't have seen the ghastly sight that I saw that day. The scene that keeps mirroring in my subconscious every time I think of him today. The thing my conscious mind remembers not.
Out of the blue after another day of seemingly endless school, I chose to walk the mile home from our old schoolyard. It wasn't that I didn't feel like riding the bus with my friends. It was just some weird intuitive feeling that told me to walk home in the fog and rain of the New England streets. It was the perfect day to be lonely.
I stared at my feet mostly the entire time and I have no idea as to what my adolescent mind thought about that during the slow shuffle pace I maintained. Nor do I remember how I ended up at Jones street, the shadiest part of town. I guess it's just where my feet took me. It's like it was destiny.
As I lifted my head up, I caught sight of a boy running quickly but cautiously, hopping through puddles to my right. I recognized the dark, matted hair and skinny frame moving like a bunny. I hesitated for a few seconds as if arguing with myself inside but then for some reason I chased after him.
I called his name. I shouted and waved. I knew he saw me because every few seconds he kept looking over his shoulder. I felt like a police officer running after a burglar not far from the scene of the crime. That day, I ran faster than I ever have in my life compelled by both bravery and wonder. I knew I'd be regretting that the next day but my body would not let me stop. I needed to help Nolan.
As fast as I ran, I still didn't catch up. When Nolan turned the corner my body responded in a sharp jerk, stopping me and keeping me hidden behind the corner of the poor run-down shack Nolan called home. Another involuntary muscle movement.
Sudden intuition told me to stay put and keep quiet so that's what I did. Either that, or I was terrified I'd be caught by Nolan's mother and wind up cooked in a stew or some other childish nightmare fed by adult stories to keep the kids out of trouble. I waited and watched as Nolan rapped timidly on the door. I wanted to intervene because of my famous impatience and known curiosity but didn't. Again, my mind disciplined me and told me no. After a good 5 minutes, the door swung open. I couldn't see the widow but I felt her tantalizing presence.
“Where have you been??” She shrieked as the boy suddenly shrunk back about 2 feet. It was as if he morphed into a poor, abused kitty cat.
“You are 5 ENTIRE minutes late!! I need more wine, you filthy little scum! Next time, when I say be back in a quarter hour you return in a quarter HOUR!” The witch bellowed, stealing a flask out of the boy's hand that I had hadn't recognized previously and smacking him gruffly across the back of his neck with a blunt object. I actually think it might have been an umbrella. She continued to beat him relentlessly and I heard heart shattering cracking coming from parts in the boy's defenseless body. No one passed to witness the atrocity except for myself. A young yellow haired girl who barely understood it at all. I worried she might kill him, but the woman knew not to. Murder even if accidental, would be noticed by the court, even if child abuse wasn't. She then abruptly stopped, turned and added muttering under her breath, “If there is a next time...”
In one swift motion I heard the door bang shut and it was apparent the presence near me became heavier. At this point I will relate to her as a hag because what she did to that little boy then makes my hands and knees shake still today. I wanted to tear out all her hair and damn her to hell. My mother always taught me a gentle manner but this woman did not deserve it.
“Mama, where are you going?” Nolan spoke in his timid way, petrified she would discipline him for being nosy.
“I'm leaving, Nolan. To find my fortune in bigger and better things. I suppose someone will come see to you soon. Do NOT go inside the house, it's not ours anymore, haha,” she cackled and went off taking 2 bags and leaving the poor, shabby street empty except for one confused little boy.
I suppose that was the last time Nolan ever saw his mother, if she even qualified as that anymore.
The boy sat on the front steps of the house and weeped. I knew he had seen this coming, knew it was going to happen, and knew he had to sit down and accept it. He hated her, yet he missed her. I had never seen tears so heavier in my entire life. They always say blood is thicker than water but they never mentioned tears. I think that the tears of a true heart suffering win hands down.
Suddenly, it was as if any invisible barrier had broken. I revealed myself to Nolan and just stood there, searching for hope in blackened brown eyes. He looked up, in the same shy as a hare way that I wished I could change, with eyes red and puffy from crying and cheeks stained from the same, thick tears.
“Come with me,” I reached down over and hugged him. Protecting him from any further hurt in this world, I took him home. I had no brothers and sisters. After much careful consideration and more and more whispers around town, Nolan became a part of our family, and my new brother.
The rest of our childhood was spent in endless summers and finally, at school Nolan was excepted. He made friends quickly, and recovered from much of his hurt. But I swear, sometimes as we got older and his toothpick arms were replaced with beautiful, bulging muscles and his hollow cheeks bones filled with meat, he still wore the same expression as on the day his mother left him. He never wanted to open up about it fully and so he never explained. Number one reason why I wish I had a time machine....
On his eighteenth birthday Nolan packed up all his things and left. My poor, broken, beautiful, adopted brother left this note which I sincerely know he wrote out of great appreciation, admiration and love:
Dear Mama, Papa and dearest Sophie,
I can't even begin to describe my thanks for allowing me to stay here. You took me in where I was a mere boy who didn't have anything. The love I have received over these years has been numerous, but it is time for me to go now. I must pave my own way. The things you have taught me will always stay in my mind. I will think of you everyday. And I promise that one day I will return to you.
Love always, Nolan
Last week my daughter Anne in whose home I reside, told me there was a package for me. I assumed it was some new drug the doctor had prescribed as I am very old and quite sick. I am fading fast, that is obvious. Sometimes it seems like I am only clinging by a thread, waiting for one thing.
I always believed Nolan had forgotten his promise. No one heard from him or saw him after the note. Immediately when I received the parcel I knew there was something special about it. I felt his presence just like I had felt it all those years ago. I still remember the image clearly in my mind. A tear soaked, shirtless, undernourished shrunken boy alone on a gray street scene mourning a mother he never had. I ripped open the package, despite arthritic fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Dear Mrs Sophia Elizabeth Evanston,
THE LAST WILL & TESTAMENT OF
MR NOLAN ALEXANDER SIMMONS EVANSTON:
To My Dearest Sophie: I leave this poem and all my love
Smile, as you did one drizzly September day
As you found a boy
Shrinking
away
From certain things he did not understand
Wishing the world was dead
Wondering if perhaps it was something he said
See I remembered?
You saved me.
I must thank you for posting on my “Will Review for Food” thread. I feel honored 
hehe
