The Valentine

I hate people. I’ve been made fun of and picked on my whole life. And why? Because I look different, that’s why.

           I was born with some defects. None of them were life-threatening, just imperfections in the way I look. But those imperfections were enough to cause me pain for the rest of my life.

My skull narrows at the top, and my forehead slopes back. My right ear sticks straight out, and I’m deaf in it. My mouth was too small for all the teeth I would have, and so they grew snarled and protruded. Because of my misshapen mouth, I have trouble controlling my saliva. I spit when pronouncing words with th’s and s’s. I haven’t much of a neck, so it appears as though my head rests directly on my shoulders. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, my back is slightly hunched, so there is little wonder I was given the nickname “Quassy.” My name is Avis Thornton.

When I was about three or four years old, if a mother saw her child playing with me, she’d quickly snatch them away, saying things like, “Don’t play with him!, or “Can’t you see there is something wrong with him!?!” Actually, the only thing wrong with me was my appearance. I was tested once and was found to possess an IQ of 130. I aced every grade in school, but when it came time to name the valedictorian, I was passed over.  Don’t tell me that decision wasn’t based on my looks.

All through school, I never had a friend. I was never invited to a birthday party or spoken kindly to. All I ever received was teasing and torment.

After graduation, I applied for and received a scholarship from MIT in aerospace engineering. College wasn’t nearly as bad as high school when it came to being harassed. I was, for the most part, ignored. If I was required to work with a team, the others seemed to avoid making eye contact as much as possible. However, they would tell me that working with me was an experience due to my vast knowledge, but I still wasn’t invited to go out for a beer. I was never asked to participate in any college activity that wasn’t study related. Not that it mattered anymore, for I had grown used to being alone and preferred it that way.

After eight years of intense studying, I graduated with a doctorate in aerospace engineering and was immediately hired by NASA.

It was the perfect job for me. I had my own little space to work where I didn’t have to interact with others on a personal level. I showed up, did my job, and went home.

 I lived with my mother until she died. Because she was so fastidious about keeping everything neat and clean, I felt compelled to do the same.  That’s when I began to have a problem with the kids in the neighborhood. They think nothing of cutting across my lawn with their bikes to get from one sidewalk to the other. I live in a corner lot and have a beautiful Granny Smith apple tree near the edge of the property. Children will jump up to steal my apples, breaking off limbs in the process.  I run onto the porch and yell at them, but they just laugh and run away. And the teenagers! Those bastards come by at night and throw bottles and cans into my yard while honking their horns. The next day while I’m out picking up their trash, they come driving by slowly, shouting, “Nice yard you have there, Quassy!” I give them the finger, and they go away, hooting and hollering. I copy their number plates and tell the police. They tell me they can’t do anything unless they see them littering. Bullshit! And who do you think gets called the troublemaker of the street? Me! It’s all my fault because I’m not nice. Tell me, what do I have to be nice about?

I’ve been retired for a few years and spend most of my time keeping the house and yard clean. When not doing that, I like to sit in my rocking chair on the porch, reading the newspaper or science journals. I have a next door neighbor, a widow by the name of Mrs. Anderson. She’ll bring me snacks or food leftover from a family gathering, trying to be nice. I thank her, and later I scrape the food into the trash. I wash the dishes and return them early the next day, leaving them on her porch with a note of thanks. Like I said, she is just trying to be nice, but I’m over that. I just want to be left alone to die. I’m eighty-four and don’t know why I’ve had to live this long. Hell, I don’t even know why I was born to live this horrible life in the first place. I guess God doesn’t like me, either.

My mother was a great collector of things. I remembered she had an old fashion orange juicer in the attic and went up there to look for it, thinking it would be nice to have fresh orange juice. While rummaging around the plastic containers and boxes, I find a cardboard box in the corner of the eaves with Avis written on it. Curious, I drag it downstairs and out onto the porch. Sitting in my rocker, I open the box. My poor, loving mother saved everything about me in this box. A photo at Grandma’s cottage by the lake with me playing in the sand. Bronzed baby shoes, my old security blanket, and news articles of when I won the school science contest. My father is nothing more than a shadow in all the photos of me and my mother. He was the same way in real life. He was ashamed and embarrassed that his son had to look so hideous. He eventually left Mother and me to get by on our own.

Mother had saved a few other items, like my acceptance letter from MIT and my graduation cap and sash when I received my doctorate. Something in the corner catches my eye. It’s a stuffed animal that I don’t recall ever having owned. Digging it out, I look at it and see it’s a teddy bear with a banner across its chest reading. “Will you be my Valentine?”

Like a flash of light, a forgotten memory from years ago rushes to my mind. The freckled nose and cheeks of Amy Patterson handing me this teddy. I scowled at her, “Did somebody put you up to this for a great laugh? Ask Quassy to be your Valentine. It will be a real hoot!”  I remember seeing her eyebrows knit together as she pleads, “No! Not at all! I asked you because I saw you helping a baby squirrel that had just fallen from its nest the other day. You were so kind and gentle, and I thought you looked sweet. That’s why, Avis. I just want to be your friend. That’s the truth.” Like a fool, I stood there without saying anything until Amy turned and walked away.

A burning pain pierces my heart. She was the only person in my life who said she wanted to be my friend, and I let her walk away without saying a word. This was in February, and Amy died of scarlet fever by April. An overwhelming sense of loss overtakes me, and I start wailing—people on the sidewalk hearing me stop to stare. When I notice them, I jump up in a rage, “You’ve seen the sideshow freak cry. Now go home! Leave me alone!” I race inside my house and slam the door.

                                                                …

A week later, Mrs. Anderson calls the police to say that she hasn’t seen Mr. Thornton for some time now, and that’s not like him. She tells them she has knocked on his door but no one answers. She asks if they would drive there to see if he’s alright because she is worried.

                                                              …

The police report in the newspaper states that on the morning of June 6^th, the police entered the home of Avis Thornton to find him dead in the upstairs bedroom. The coroner says that Mr. Thornton died of natural causes. He was also clutching a small brown teddy bear at the time of his death. Mr. Thornton has no known relatives.

Somewhere in the hereafter, Avis wakes up to see the smiling face of Amy Patterson. “Oh, Avis. I’m so glad your here.” She takes his hand, and together they walk into the light.