Hawthorne Street

I turned the rented Toyota onto Hawthorne Street.

This was my first visit in over forty years.

I thought it odd how the neighborhood had never changed. I expected it would either be run down on its way to becoming a slum; or gentrified, showing the gaudy signs of prosperity exhibited by the nouvo rich. But it was none of those. It looked pretty much as it had when I left. The street had been widened and the stately elms had been replaced by maples. But it was like a journey back in time.

I stopped in front of 128, my house. A two-story frame with a full width front porch about four feet above the lawn. Back when Tommy and I were eight we used this as our clubhouse. We were the Hawthorne Heroes, bravest third graders in our town. Besides being the bravest, we were also the best of friends back then.

That all changed when we were sophomores and Barbara moved into our neighborhood. I met her on the day the moving van pulled up on our street. She was the cutest girl I ever talked to. Her name was Barbara Marie Sparks, she was moving here from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, her dad was a lawyer, she was a sophomore, and English was her favorite subject. I was afraid to tell her I hated English because I was instantly and madly in love.

I slowed in front of 157, Tommy’s house. I parked the car, turned off the engine, and rolled down the windows. Smells are never forgotten and now, even after forty years and new trees, the familiar neighborhood smell still brought back memories of home. A tear rolled down my cheek. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. . . why did this have to happen?”

I remembered how Tommy had outsmarted me back then. When Tommy met Barbara, he told her English was his favorite subject too. Before long they were a couple and I was a left-out loser, smoking dope under the porch. I tried to stay friends with Tommy, but every time I asked him to do something with me his standard answer was, “I gotta check with Barbara, see if she wants me to do anything with her.”

I drove up the street to 188, Barbara’s house. I again parked the car and sat looking at the house, wondering why I’d come back. What happened seemed just like yesterday.

When I was fifteen, I would hide under the front porch, hoping no one would smell the joint I was smoking.

From under the porch, I could see the whole block. I saw Tommy and Barbara coming out from between the houses, she in her green and gold sweater from Baton Rouge High School and Tommy in his well-worn World War Two bomber jacket, dirty jeans, and worn-out sneakers. What did she see in him anyway?

All of a sudden, I heard hollering from down the street, in front of Barbara’s house. I couldn’t hear what was being said but I knew it wasn’t good. Next thing I knew Barbara shoved Tommy and he stumbled over the broken concrete sidewalk and fell backward onto the ground. In a flash she was on top of him, screaming and flailing him with her fists.
Good, I thought, they’re fighting. Tommy will be history. Maybe now Barbara will notice me.

Next, Barbara’s up, yelling, “My hand, my hand!” So loud I could hear it clearly. Apparently, with all her blind punching she’d hit something hard under Tommy’s jacket and hurt her hand. I snickered because I knew Tommy’s chest wasn’t even as hard as mine.

Then Tommy’s up, unzipping his jacket. He pulled something out of his jacket. Crap! I thought, where’d he get the gun?
Barbara resumed yelling, shoving Tommy, and slapping his face. I was not liking what I was seeing at all.
Next thing I know there’s a gunshot, and Tommy falls again. This time he fell toward Barbara, but she lurched away, and Tommy hit the ground, face first.

I tried to remember what Barbara looked like back then. Forty years had blurred my memories and dreams. Twenty years behind bars for second degree murder, a crime I didn’t commit; because back then I was a doper, and Barbara’s father was a lawyer; and then twenty more years starting over.

I saw a woman come out of the house and walked to her car, she looked about my age, was it Barbara?

Like smells, some people never change. Blonde was now gray, 120 pounds was now 200, but just by the way she walked; her mean and angry persona, told me this was Barbara.

I started the Toyota, shaking my head, wondering why I ever wanted to come back.