Compass

It was a rainy and dismal night. The lights of the local donut shop were but a blur and nothing could be heard but the thunderous roar of the sky.

Umbrella in hand and bookbag upon my back, I sought shelter underneath the roof of a dilapidated old building which stood adjacent to the donut shop. In faded lettering read the words GOLDEN DIM SUM.

I curled myself in a ball to defend against the cold--reminiscing about the warmth I once used to know. Through my foggy glasses, I saw the approach of a broad-shouldered man and braced for the worst. I had learned that there is no safe place to be alone in the middle of the night, man or woman, adult or child.

My stomach roared in protest as I watched the man’s peculiar behavior. He seemed to be searching for something in the midst of the rain. Perhaps he had lost something, or, perhaps, he was drunk.

The man seemed to approach, walking closer and closer to where I sat. I was ready to run, like a hare in the presence of a great predator. I had known the feeling of blood pouring down my lips--the feeling of being forced silent and still, as a stranger, wrapping his arm too tightly around my waist, welcomed himself to an experience I had never wanted him to know.

To my relief, the man had walked into the donut shop. I took a deep breath, then turned my attention to the feeling of soggy socks on my feet. I took off my shoes and socks. There was no need for trench feet.

As I waited for my feet to dry, I took out the bundle in my bookbag--a small can of peanut butter, a long pink scarf, a small pouch of feminine products, a pen, a notepad, and some other miscellaneous things. Wrapped up carefully within the scarf and old newspapers was a torn, worn-out copy of Little Women, which was found sitting idly in a trash can on some forgotten street. I wrapped the scarf about me like a blanket and opened the book to read: CHAPTER 15- CASTLES IN THE AIR. The book was a good distraction from the times. I read it nine times over already. Yet, hunger panged my stomach.

With the little money I had obtained from selling some old essays via the library computer--a mere $15, I had fed myself over the last two weeks. Some peanut butter, many packets of mama noodles and two cans of soups consumed cold was what I had. The greatest expense, however, was the $8 worth of feminine products. And choosing to have enough dignity to sit in the library, I chose hunger.

I stared at the book but did little reading. The first time I read this novel, I was a college-bound student, praised for my many acceptances. When I was a girl, I stayed wide awake each night studying and putting in the extra effort. I had saved all my Chinese New Year money. I had applied to every scholarship I could. How...how did that girl become this woman--isolated, hungry, in pain and in filth? The recession? The miscarried pregnancy out of wedlock? The withdrawal of parental support for college tuition? How did it all go spiraling down with no way up from age 18 to 23?

I was sick of these thoughts. I was sick of my circumstances. Sleep tugged at my eyelids, as the sounds of the bells on the donuts shop door jingled loudly. The man was approaching.

I quickly grabbed ahold of my pocketknife.

Yet, as the man approached even closer, holding out his phone as a flashlight, there was a sort of familiarity about him--a sort of warmth about his shoulders.

“Hi. Would you like a donut, and some coffee, ma’am?”

I looked up to see a pair of warm hazel eyes looking down at me. The rough voice sounded most familiar...and, tempted by the taste of sugar, I nodded.

When the man sat down right next to me, it became obvious that he too deemed me a familiar subject. As he positioned his phone vertically, the light illuminating on his face showed a middle-aged man with slowly graying black hair. We saw each other immediately, despite the dirt upon my face and the aging upon his.

“Emma.”

“Mr. Beaumont.”

---

Seven years ago, I walked into Mr. Beaumont’s classroom for the last time. It was senior checkout and I had promised to give him a goodbye. The room always smelled of coffee and, regardless of the weather, was always safe and warm.

He was my English teacher for 3 years. He had me as a student for Honors English, AP Language and Composition and AP English Literature. Most importantly, however, he taught me lessons from the University of Life and hoped I would graduate with honors there too.

“AH! Here’s my aspiring young author!” he said warmly.

Bashfully, I looked towards the pile of yearbook inserts on his desk.

Following my glance, he said “Oh, of course! Your insert.” and then handed me the sheet, which was covered completely in blue, hardly legible cursive. We exchanged some words I have since forgotten, and some tears. Yet, I never could forget his last words to me:

“I aim to be a compass for my students, yet, in your writing and actions, you have become a compass for me” and so he gave me the last and final hug -- our last and final goodbye for some period of time.

Mr. Beaumont did not speak much to me. Rather, he simply instructed me to pack my things and follow him to his car.

“Thank goodness I found my car keys in my backpack. I thought I had lost them”.

To see the old grey backpack, which he had bought to class every day for years, was a peculiar comfort.

It was a long drive to his little home, which looked quite like a cabin from the exterior. I was hesitant, ashamed to enter if I were honest. Mr. Beaumont made the fire, brewed a cup of warm Earl Grey Tea for me, and handed over a box of large chocolate chip cookies. I thanked him, and after a period of silence in front of the fireplace, he pursed his lips and said: “Give me a moment”.

He walked down the hall into another room and bought into view the leather-bound book which I had made for him in Junior year. Within the book was an anthology of poems and stories I had written for him, and a poetic thank you note.

Stroking the cover of the book with my dirty hands, I felt a knot in my throat.

“You kept it all these years?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I would like it cremated with me when I die!”

Then, sitting down on the floor beside me, with a chocolate chip cookie in his hand, he asked: “So what is your story?”

I stifled a cry and began my story of disownment, of academic failure, of breakdown, of physical and sexual assault, of hunger and of homelessness. And, for the first time in a long time, a kindle of fire ignited in my heart--a desire to be once again the girl I once knew. I was going to try again, to climb the ladder my younger self sought to climb so hungrily before I had fallen. I decided at that moment that it was time to let the past go. That I needed to find a way to recover my lost and stolen identity, to recover the lost documents needed for a job. I decided I would write my own way there. And though I smiled silently as I had these thoughts, Mr. Beaumont, always the observant mind-reader, smiled too.

“I had always said that you would be the bigger person and asked you not to forget me once you made it big. Stay here until you get back on your feet. I shall pay for all that you need in order to get a job, for shelter, and for food. I know, with certainty, that this will be temporary, and that you will be able to pay me back later. Even now, I believe in you, more than I believe in me.”

So, as on the last day of senior checkout, I hugged him tightly and cried.