Cara, My Darling

There I was, ten minutes away from selling my car and makeup online so I could make rent next month when the phone rings and a paralegal was asking me if I was my mom’s daughter and setting a day to meet with his boss. The next thing I knew I was walking out of a lawyer’s office with an old black notebook and, more importantly, a check for $20,000.

It all happened so fast that it took three weeks before reality set in and I found myself staring at a fridge full of food that didn’t come from the charity pantry, and a reassuring credit card balance. Naturally, that was when I freaked out. Crap! Don’t you remember hiding every time the doorbell rang, the dreaded pile of bills accumulating in your mailbox? What’s wrong with you?

I was so frantic after I got the money that all I could think about was spending it. I had left disaster and homelessness behind and yet deep down, I feared I was going to wake up one day with the lawyer telling me, “oops sorry, our mistake, this money isn’t for you after all.”

I had no idea who this Guy Otis Lawrence was, which was weird because my mom was a genealogy nut who would‘ve definitely known about him. But I didn’t find his name in the family tree. I couldn’t deal with any of it anymore. After I picked myself up from my kitchen floor I noticed the notebook that came with the check. I flipped through pages yellowed and stained with time and age. They were filled with names, addresses and short references: Paris, Premier night, Chicago, Oceanside Cafe. The names were not alphabetized, which was intriguing, and a crazy idea popped up.

And three weeks later, the first responses started to arrive...

*

My dear girl,

I was stunned to receive your letter. My encounter with Mr. Lawrence was a brief one, yet his departure left a big void. I tried unsuccessfully to contact him after he left, and here you are, bringing him back to me so many years later.

I was part of a group of refugees under his care. On the 25th of March of 1965, another man walked in and told us he was gone for good. What a huge blow! It threatened to stop in its tracks the fragile sense of hope and possibility stirred by his novel ideas. It took some time to realize how far he had gone to help us regain our sense of dignity and courage.

Mr. Lawrence taught me to see ahead without being consumed with dread. “It is a wonder”, he used to say, “how small tweaks in perception can make life turn a corner.” This keeps ringing in my ears, you know. I knew he had a gift since the first time I saw him walking into the classroom dressed in out-of-fashion worn-out clothes and yet silencing the group with his imposing presence.

We were used to overseers who tried to hide their contempt, but it was obvious they were doing the job just for the paycheck. It made for a painful reminder of our loneliness and helplessness. They belittled us. When we could not take it anymore, we lashed out at them. A boldness born from despair and the pouring poison of revenge thrust at those wielding the power that had left us enslaved and merely alive.

The United Nations complaints regarding compliance with humanitarian rights empowered us to unleash all the anger and resentment that long term abuse and indignity brings forth. We felt despised by common citizens and looked down upon by the militia as prisoners of war. “Weaklings” they called us, with neither identity nor possessions; “deserters” who had fled a devastated country instead of fighting or sucking it up.

Mr. Lawrence took it all in silently. Every fiber of his body exuding understanding and compassion. His warm smile and quirk introduction left us speechless! He addressed each one of us by name and without even knowing it, a circle of trust started that day.

I will not say it was all roses! I was terrified, always looking sideways and expecting the next blow. You made me remember our little stage and the characters we role-played. I never imagined those characters would show up in real life! It still makes me smile. How clever he was.

I am sad to hear he passed. I will always remember the teacher who turned helplessness into resilience, and hopelessness into faith. I hope your experience with Mr. Lawrence has left good memories, too. Please do keep in touch.

Warmly,

Carmen

*

It was exhilarating to finally get some insight into this man’s life. My ideas about him were totally off. When I got the second response, I was eager to dig in. It came from one Ma. Victoria Arguelles of Manila, Philippines, through Facebook. She was a literature professor now and surprised that I had reached out to her.

*

...He came to my uncle’s restaurant with a group of American military men, older and important looking. I remember thinking how out of place he looked in his tan and blue pinstriped suit and gold pocket square alongside the drab green uniforms of the officers. Like a sunbird among a flock of mayas.

My uncle, who had never seen an opportunity he didn’t take advantage of, personally greeted them and introduced me in such an ingratiating, exuberant way that I was deeply mortified all the while I was taking their orders. He wanted me to catch at least one of the men’s attention, of course, for they were rich, with pockets full of dollars, and perhaps would even become so fond of me that he would take me with him to the United States.

I had no such aspirations. It was 1982 and I had graduated from college in the midst of martial law, and my heart was full only of revolutionary fervor. So I slouched my way through their meal and pretended I did not understand many English words and even spilled Coke on one of the officers’ laps.

Oh how Tito Manny scolded and pinched me after! But I did not care, and could only think about how the well-dressed man had caught my eye as the party paid their bill, and smiled a secret smile as if he knew what I had done.

He came back the next day, in another sharp suit that made me think of Cary Grant or Fred Astaire, and asked me to sit with him while he ate his lunch. Tito was delighted. I was appalled. The man was at least sixty!

But Mr. Lawrence did not want anything from me other than conversation.

For two weeks he let me talk and talk. And I had a lot to talk about in those days. I was so angry, you see. Angry at my parents who exiled me to my uncle’s house “for my own safety,” angry about my country, my friends who I haven’t heard from in months, who I wasn’t sure were all still safe, or alive. I was incautious with my words, daring to be overheard, but no police or military men ever came to take me away.

Sometimes he would tell a story of his own, but I’m sorry to say I don’t remember any of them now. I was very young and very selfish, self-centered. To this day I wish I paid more attention, so that I can remember more than the kindness in his eyes, the gentleness in his voice.

We never said goodbye. One day, he just stopped coming to the restaurant, and that was it. I always felt a bit of regret that I was not able to say goodbye…

Thank you for letting me do so now, in a way, through you.

*

What a character he was! What a life! Who was he? And then this letter arrived...

*

That’s Guy! Grandma wrote about him in her little black book, and I’ve read this story like a million times. I practically have it memorized. I can definitely see him leaving money to someone like you. Unfortunately, I’m really sorry to tell you Grandma passed away last year. I miss her so much...

Let me share my favorite story of hers:

The gold lobby and gorgeous grand staircase of the sparkling new Chicago Theatre took my breath away. Women wore dresses the color of jewels and orchids while they sipped champagne.

But all I could think about was Guy.

As he gently slid my coat off, his fingers brushed along my neck, and I shivered. I leaned back ever so slightly where his right hand rested on the small of my back. I remember when those same strong hands had rescued my painting last month.

I’d been rushing to capture the setting sun as it melted into the dusky lake, when a sudden burst of wind blew it off its easel. Out of the blue, a handsome dark-haired man reached past me, and caught it.

“Gorgeous,” he said, still holding the painting, but looking deep into my eyes.

“You really think so?

“I’d take it home in a heartbeat.”

In that moment I thought, what would Father and William say? In the next, I decided I didn’t care.

“Are you a collector?” I asked

“No, but I know beauty when I see it." Then he asked which artists I admired the most, whom I thought Mona Lisa was really smiling at, and I blushed as he reached for my face and said, “that speck of blue paint on your ear looks so adorable, like a sapphire earring.

And tonight, he smiled at the sapphires hanging from my ears. As the music from the orchestra pit rose around us, I placed my hand on my chest, imagining it was his, soft and warm.

I didn’t know if this was the last night we would spend together or if it would be the first night of the rest of our lives.

And here the page in Grandma’s little book is torn in half. She refused to tell me what happened after the show, and I’d spent my childhood making up stories. Now I’m so curious about the little black book that you possess.

I’m so thrilled you reached out, so let’s please, please stay in touch, and let me know what you learn about our Guy!

Your new friend,

Ruby

*

I’m so glad I sent these letters! I have found such kindred spirits and a new faith in miracles. How could I have ever imagined that a call could bring forth so many enriching experiences? This black notebook has given me the gift of a lifetime. Mr. Lawrence might have not foreseen what his spare recollection of memories could bring about. I, on the other hand, already feel in my bones I am at the threshold of an incredible adventure.

***