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.
You could tell someone had shattered her house of glass long ago and never picked up the pieces 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, 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. 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 eight or nine 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 belonged to Hitler.
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, he later told me. I never spoke to him much then. 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 wandering 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 foolish schoolgirls. 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.
He had been sitting in the field making necklace chains out of dandelions, humming a song he'd written to himself.
"Hmmmm Hmmm, Hm, Hm, Hm, Hmmmm."
"Well, well, well, what do we have here? Little baby Simmons playing alone on the grassy hill of dandelions. Making a necklace for your blood-sucking mommy? You know she doesn't like flowers. They burn her zombie skin," mocked a burly boy in a sing-song tone.
It was Tommy Tucker, unquestionably the biggest boy in the fifth grade. Nolan slowly looked up from the patch of green peace he sat on. He swallowed as Tommy's goons behind him who'd also come to terrorize Nolan began to act as zombies for a laugh. Nolan didn't cry. He didn't shout at first. He took the beating with dignity. At least until he saw and felt the warm, thick blood drip down his face.
At that point he screamed, "MAMA!!"
The bullies went away snorting like the pigs that they were.
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 doesn't want to remember.
Out of the blue after another day of seemingly endless school, I chose to walk the mile home from our old gravel schoolyard. It wasn't that I didn't feel like riding the bus with my friends. It was just some queer 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 during that 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 hopping slyly as a fox. But not quite with intentions as sinister as a fox's, so let's brand him a bunny for now. He moved like a bunny in that instant. 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 expecting me to have stopped. I felt like a police officer running after a dirty 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 in whatever quest he was venturing in.
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 dazing nightmare fed by adults to keep the children proper. I waited and watched as Nolan rapped timidly on the door. I wanted to intervene because of my famous impatience and known curiosity but I didn't. Again, my mind disciplined me and told me no. After a good five 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 two feet. It was as if he morphed into a battered, abused kitty cat rather than the swift, innocent bunny.
“You are five 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 hadn't recognized previously and smacking him gruffly across the back of his neck with a blunt object.
She turned in the other direction, a glass nearly slipping out of her hand, and took a softer tone. "Today a man came by. He said I have to leave. It's all your fault. Make me pay for all your burdens, there's no money to pay taxes.." The woman took a swig from the flask, ignoring the cup and nearly downed half of the beverage. She drank so fast much stained her lips and dribbled down her chest to her fine silk shirt. In her drunken rage, she didn't appear to notice that she looked truly like young Tommy Tucker's description, a blood-sucker.
At this point, a mixture of thoughts went through the young mother's mind. How could this be her life? She had had much more wonderful plans than this. Her and Steven were supposed to have had a perfect life.. age sixteen.. he said he'd loved her. Then, he happened. She turned again to face her bastard son. She was unstoppable now. Oddly, the mother risked beating her son in public. Or perhaps, she just didn't care at all. We were after all, still outside in broad daylight. Anyone could have seen. A kind-hearted valiant young fellow could have observed and said, "Oi, that isn't right! M'am, get off that boy!". He could have saved Nolan so I didn't have too. And all these past few years could have been different, less troublesome. Ma and Pa could've had that early retirement they'd wanted. I heard bone crunching and a familiar ring at the last blow.
"MAMA!!"
The same scream escaped his lungs. No one passed to witness the atrocity except for myself. A silly sun haired girl who barely understood it at all. I was worried that 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 tremble relentlessly 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.
“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," she laughed fleetingly and went off taking two bags and leaving the poor, shabby street empty except for one confused little boy.
The boy sat on the front steps of the house and wept. 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 an invisible barrier had been broken. I revealed myself to Nolan and just stood there, searching for hope in blackened brown eyes. He looked up, in the same shy 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.
I remember him once telling me and these are almost the exact words;
"The first time I walked into my new home I smelled two things: pine, the smell of home and Ma's home baked apple pie, the smell of dinner! And I knew, that from the smilin' looks on your faces, that I was goin' to like it here."
The rest of our childhood was spent in endless summers and finally, at school Nolan was excepted. He made friends quickly, eventually even with Tommy Tucker. Why, they used to go fishin' down at our swim pool every summer! People just liked him better now that he'd grown and could stand up for himself. They also knew that I'd never let 'em say an unkind word to my Nolan. He recovered from much of his hurt with beautiful, brilliant art. One birthday, Ma and Pap bought him an art set. He didn't put it down for a week. But I swear, sometimes as we got older and his toothpick arms were replaced with masculine 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. He always was an explorer. My poor, broken, beautiful, adopted brother left this note which I sincerely know he wrote out of great appreciation, admiration and love:
Dear Ma, Pap and dearest Sophie,
I can't even begin to describe my thanks for allowing me to stay here. You took me in when 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. I've taken enough of your time. The things you have taught me will stay in my mind forever. I will think of you everyday. And I promise that one day I will return to you.
Love always, Nolan
I like to think the last part was written especially for me. Ma and Pa never did hear from him again. I'd know. I cared for them until they were both on their deathbeds.
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 the old Angel to come and take me.
I always believed Nolan had forgotten his promise. No one heard from him or saw him after the note. 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 though I wish there was so much more
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.
